Laird of the Wind (14 page)

"He's quiet," Isobel said. "Is he tamed?"

"Hardly. He's just tired, and hurting, and only reluctantly willing to accept me."

"Ah," she said. "Like me."

He flashed a glance at her, and gave a grudging laugh. Then the goshawk bated again, flinging himself off the fist to dangle head down, flapping his wings.

"What is it?" Isobel asked, sounding alarmed.

"A bate. 'Tis just temper. He wants us to know he does not like this. Hawks—particularly gosses—can throw fits over and over, like a spoiled infant. A falconer needs a good deal of patience to deal with a goshawk." He cocked a brow at the bird. "And this one looks as if he will need that, and more."

The tiercel beat his wings in a fury, then hung motionless. James placed a hand on the breast and gently lifted him back to his fist. The narrow toed feet clenched fierce as iron through the unpadded protection of the bowguard, and James bit back a wince. The bird roused his chest feathers and hissed.

"Soft, you," James murmured. He went to the bow that he had stuck in the ground and lowered his arm. The tiercel took to the perch with scarce urging, and James quickly secured the leather thongs to the bow.

"He is quite temperamental," Isobel noted, watching.

"Short-winged hawks are of high temper by nature, and more of a challenge to train than long-winged falcons." James shook his head. "Poor bird. He was manned, and lost, and has gone feral again, and now he's had the shock of being trapped and taken. Aye, he's temperamental, and likely to stay that way."

"Mayhap you should let him go," Isobel said. "You should not keep a creature who wants to be free." Her eyes sparked with meaning. James returned a somber gaze, though his heart pounded inside until she glanced away.

He raked his fingers through his tangled hair and suddenly felt the chill air over his bare chest and back. He retrieved his woolen tunic from the ground—his linen shirt was soiled with the bird's mutes—and pulled it over his head. While he laced his leather hauberk over the tunic and relatched his belt, he frowned in thought.

The unexpected responsibility of the goshawk would truly throw his plans into chaos. So far, nothing had gone the way he wanted. The sun would be high before they left the glade, and each daylight hour along the forest path brought the risk of being seen. He had no men to fight at his back if they met soldiers. He sighed impatiently and looked at Isobel.

"Are you hungry?" he asked abruptly. She nodded. "We must leave soon," he went on. "But first I want to look after your wounds and find you some food. The gos ate the meat I had saved for breakfast."

"I saw some blackberries beyond that elm tree."

He nodded. "I'll gather some, and bring the horses to the stream." He moved away, then looked back at her. "Guard the hawk, if you will, until I get back. If he bates, lift him gently to the perch. Be wary of his feet."

"Will he try to escape?" she asked.

"He is well and truly caught, though he does not like it." He tipped a brow at her. "And what of you, Lady Isobel?"

"Do you wonder if you have me well and truly caught?" she asked in a spicy tone, her head lifted high.

He nearly chuckled at the unconscious charm in her earnest defiance. But he only shook his head. "I just wondered if I should leave you here unguarded."

"I will not leave—for now. I do not know this forest, and I can barely control that surly English stallion. And I am hungry." She fisted a hand on her slender hip. "For now, you have two captives."

James returned a frank stare. "And I'll keep you both. Be certain of it." He walked away.

* * *

Isobel savored the last few blackberries and sucked the ripe juice from her fingertips. The taste and satisfaction of fresh food was still wondrous after the long hardship of the siege. She sighed and looked at James.

"Shall I fetch more?" he asked, from his seat beside her on the fallen tree trunk. Amusement crinkled the skin around his eyes. She noticed the tiny creases there, and the golden tips on his dark, thick eyelashes. His eyes were a vibrant, deep blue in the sunlight, like lapis shot with gold.

She shook her head and felt a blush touch her cheeks. "I am full," she murmured.

"Let me look after your arm," he said.

"My arm is fine." The wound ached fiercely, but she was loath to admit it. Her behavior embarrassed her a little. Exhaustion had made her sob like a child and collapse on the horse, and she had likely snored like a soldier after a feast; that, she knew, was a fault of hers. Just now, she had eaten with a ravenous appetite, while James watched with an indulgent look on his face.

She did not want to appear needy or weak to him, and she did not want him to think that she trusted him. At Aberlady, she had put her faith in him, but his rescue had no honor in it. Her anger sparked each time she thought of it.

"I'm fine," she repeated stubbornly.

"Fine enough to make your cheeks paler than they should be, and so fine that you bite your lip and wince whenever you move. Do not be a fool. Let me see it."

She sighed. The arm did need attention. She began to loosen the cloth strips that bound her arm to her side. James leaned forward, the morning sun glinting over his hair. He gently pushed down the strap of her dark gray surcoat, and peeled back the torn sleeve of the pale gray gown beneath it. When he opened the bandages on her upper arm, Isobel winced sharply.

James glanced at her with concern, and took away the last bit of cloth. She peered at her own wound, and gasped.

The large punctures in the front and back of her upper arm had clotted, but the surrounding flesh was pink and swollen. The pale flesh of her arm had become a mass of purple bruises. James turned her arm in his hand, and the fierce ache nearly took her breath. After a moment, he nodded.

"This looks bonny," he said.

"Bonny?" she squeaked in dismay.

"There are no streaks of infection. You're fortunate to have only swelling and tenderness. You'll have some deep scars, but there are oils you can put on the skin for scarring. Let me see your foot." He bent to lift her ankle and peel back the bandage. The wound stung viciously when he exposed it. She decided not to look.

"'Tis healing well also," he said. "And you seem able to walk more easily, though you still limp. I'll clean these and rebandage them, and my aunt can apply the proper herbal ointments and remedies to see that the wounds heal cleanly."

"Is she a healer, your aunt? Where does she live?"

"She understands healing, if more for animals than humans. Her house is a morning's journey to the south."

"Will you tell your aunt," she said slowly, "that you intend to hold me for ransom?"

He picked up a cloth that he had soaked in cool water from the nearby stream, and folded it. His eyes flashed to hers boldly. "I never said ransom, my lass," he said softly. "Just a simple trade, one woman for another."

She sucked in a breath in answer, for he pressed the cold, wet cloth to her arm.

"The cold will help the swelling and ease the pain," he said. "Hold it there for a while."

He went to the hawk, who puffed out his feathers as the man drew near. James held out his arm patiently, nudging the goshawk's taloned feet with his leather-covered arm. After several moments, the gos stepped onto his arm with a flutter of wings. James stood, praising him in a calm, low tone. He offered a strip of meat, which he laid on the leather.

"I thought the rabbit meat was gone," Isobel said.

"It is. This is part of a mouse I caught when I got the berries and the water."

Isobel grimaced. A sparkle of amusement lit James's eyes. "He needs to eat too, and he would not care for nuts and berries, even as we would not care for his food," he said.

"You fed him not long ago."

"Aye," he said. "I'll overfeed him for now, so that when we travel, he will be fat and full, and less eager to try to fly his own meals down when he sees larks and suchlike in the greenwood."

The bird finished the food and clenched his feet, but he did not bate. He stayed where he perched, as if he had begun to trust the man who had taken him.

Isobel watched, and wished she could have faith in the man again. But he had taken her prisoner. "If I were a hawk," she said, "I would bate and bite and foot you until you let me go."

"How fortunate for me that you are a woman, then," James drawled, glancing at her. She blushed.

The tiercel flattened his feathers and squawked. James began to pass his hand in slow, graceful arcs over the bird's head, again and again, while he uttered affectionate phrases in a soft, soothing tone. The hawk watched the moving hand in fascination, and seemed to relax, his feathers flattening.

"What are you doing?" Isobel asked.

"He'll fall into a kind of lazy trance, watching my hand," he explained. "There, you bird, easy," he added quietly. "He will forget that I am his natural enemy, and become comfortable perched on my hand, listening to my voice. Eventually he'll learn that I will not harm him. He'll learn to trust me."

"That," she said, "is not so easy."

"So I hear." He slid her a quick look.

She let it pass. "Do you mean to train him?"

"Aye, I mean to reclaim him. Soft, you gos. There." He swirled his hand in graceful, long loops. The hawk watched, intrigued. Isobel watched, too, feeling herself drawn in by the peaceful, sweeping gestures.

"But he belongs to someone," she said after a while.

"He
did
." He emphasized the last word.

"A goshawk is a yeoman's bird," Isobel said. "But knights and barons, even earls and kings, favor goshawks, too. That tiercel could belong to anyone. If his owner is a man of rank, you could suffer for it. You must return him."

"I am an outlaw, my lass. I do what I please." He watched the hawk. She watched his hand, strong and supple and beautifully made. The bird stared at it too.

Isobel sighed. "Well, he might be from Aberlady's mews," she admitted. "Eustace would know." She came closer, drawn in by the hand, the hawk, and the man. "If you ever let me see Eustace again, that is."

James slid her a look that acknowledged her dry remark. "Come over here beside me, where the gos can see you," he said. "If you stand behind him 'twill make him nervous. And do not stare at a hawk," he added. "It means danger to them. Wildcats stare before they pounce."

"Ah." She moved to stand at James's right side, still holding the cool, damp cloth to her arm. "My father owned a beautiful goshawk once, a sister to one that King Alexander called his favorite hunting hawk."

James lifted a brow. "My uncle was a royal falconer to King Alexander. Mayhap he raised your father's hawk." He spoke to her in the same voice he used with the bird—low and mellow, almost musical. Shivers cascaded down her back.

"Did you learn hawking from your uncle?" she asked.

"Aye. I fostered with my uncle and aunt in Dunfermline when I was a lad, before I went to a seminary school in Dundee. My uncle taught me much about his art."

"You're a falconer, then." She looked at him in surprise.

"I am but a brigand, named for a hawk, who knows hawks." He leaned forward and set the tiercel on the bow perch, then turned to Isobel. He took the cloth from her hand to wipe his fingers, crammed it in his belt, and leaned forward to refasten the bandages on her arm.

She felt the ache ease as he touched her. Shivers rippled from head to foot as he pulled her sleeve up over her shoulder and wrapped the bandages that bound her arm close to her side. The simple sensations roused by his hands on her were relaxing, even compelling.

She did not want his hands to stop. She felt like the hawk, caught and enthralled. Perhaps she even had the same blithe, silly look on her face.

She cleared her throat. "Let me do that," she said, when he knelt to lift the heavy hems of her gown and surcoat.

"'Twill take but a moment," he said, as his fingers slipped beneath and found her ankle. Isobel felt a tender surge of feeling, as if part of her began to melt. She shifted her weight to her right leg and lifted her wounded foot, laying her hand on his head to keep her balance. His sun-warmed hair had a soft, fine texture. Her cheeks flamed suddenly.

"Why do they call you the Border Hawk?" she asked, groping about for something to say. She felt oddly breathless.

"Mayhap because I strike with swift skill in the forest, taking English prey," he said, his tone dry. "Mayhap because I can see distances clear as crystal. Or mayhap"—he glanced up at her—"I earned the name for my nasty fits of temper."

She pinched back a smile. "Tell me truly."

He shrugged as he wrapped the cloth strips firmly around her foot. "I had another hawk, years back, when I first came to the forest," he said. "She was a goshawk, large and beautiful, a fierce hunter. She hunted grouse with a passion, just as my men and I hunted Southrons. Quarry never escaped us." He set her foot down. Isobel removed her hand from his head. "She was a fine bird."

"You kept her with you in the forest?"

"I made a mews for her in a cave," he said, and turned to crouch beside the tiercel. "She would come out with me nearly every day. If we came across quarry for her, Astolat would fly to it. If we came across my quarry—Southrons—she would perch in a tree or soar overhead. Sometimes she would fly off for a few hours. But she always came back." He smiled faintly, but Isobel saw a bitter sadness in his eyes.