Laird of the Wind (20 page)

James opened a wooden chest tucked in the farthest angle of the cave. He sifted through an assortment of hawking gear—leather gloves, pouches, straps, brass fastenings, ankle bells, and tiny leather hoods.

He chose a particular glove and slipped it on his left hand. The fit was still perfect, though he had not worn it for years. He flexed his fingers inside the padded lining and adjusted the long gauntlet over his forearm. The leather needed oiling, but otherwise it was in good condition.

He had never intended to wear this glove again, much less to handle a hawk of his own. The glove felt heavy and stiff at first, but soon the worn leather warmed and molded comfortably to his hand, as if only a few days had passed, and not years, since he had last pulled it on.

He looked at the old stain that darkened the palm of the glove, the scrubbed spot still faintly visible, made by Astolat's blood as she had died in his hand.

The glove stirred other memories of that cursed day when tragedy had struck him again and again before the setting of the sun. James felt the dense weight of that old, congealed sadness again, like a burden he could never quite release.

But he shoved the thoughts away, gathered jesses and a pouch, and turned to approach the goshawk, who blinked past him, still entranced by the golden flame. James smiled ruefully.

The half wild tiercel was handsome, but none too bright. The bird was not likely to enthrall his new master as Astolat had done. She had been a brilliant hunter and a rare, loyal creature; James was sure he would never see her ilk again.

He would keep Gawain until the tiercel recovered, and then he would let him go without regret. James did not want a hawk to hand. The beautiful, difficult creatures complicated life far too much, requiring time and attention he could not give.

"Ho, you gos," he said softly. The goshawk's lids moved like lightning as he watched the flame with utter fascination. James reached out his gloved hand, murmuring to the bird.

As he spoke, he detached the thongs from the tiercel's bracelets and reattached a pair of jesses that had belonged to Astolat. He wrapped the leather straps around his smallest gloved fingers, and nudged his covered fist against the backs of the thin, muscular golden legs.

Gawain must have been thoroughly trained once, James thought. With scarcely a hesitation, the goshawk stepped back and perched on James's fist, his talons flexing firmly on the glove just over the wrist and base of the thumb.

"Good lad," James said. He offered the bird some raw, sliced meat that he had left in the mews earlier, when he had first put the hawk here. "You do remember something of your training. Or else you are just too tired to bate." He sighed, gave the bird more of the meat, and put the rest in the pouch at his belt. Gawain ate quickly and eagerly.

"I do not have need of a hawk, lad," James said, "but I'll keep you so long as you need care." He stroked the back feathers softly, knowing that gentle contact would soothe the bird. Yet he was aware that too much touching would flatten the feathers and make them heavy.

When the hawk was done with the meal, James turned and carried him toward the candle, and blew it out. The goshawk stirred on his fist, and then quieted, lulled by the darkness that was relieved only by the red glow of the brazier. James knew the young hawk was tired, and perhaps in pain from what appeared to be a sprained wing.

"So, Sir Gawain, the manning begins," James said, the words floating low and gentle in the darkness. "I am your source of food now. I am your captor, and I am your freedom. You will learn to know my voice like the beat of your own heart." He smoothed his fingerpads over the breast feathers as he spoke.

Isobel drifted into his thoughts like a summer mist, softening his mood. He was her captor as well. Though she might expect him to try, he was not interested in bringing either woman or hawk under his will. With the bird, he worked toward the exchange of wary trust between master and hawk. That was all he could ask for with such a wild, elemental creature.

The woman was already gentled, with a fine and delicate character, but he craved the gift of her trust. Still, he thought he would never have it of her; the tension between them was too much. And he would keep the hawk longer than he would keep Isobel.

He drew breath, watching the hawk, and began to sing softly, repeating the notes in a haunting, airy pattern.

"
Ky-ri-e e-le-i-son. Ky-ri-e e-le-i-son."

Threads of moonlight slipped through the entrance, which was shielded by tree branches and vines. In the thin light, James saw the goshawk tip his head curiously to listen. He sang the phrase again.

"
Ky-ri-e e-le-i-son. Ky-ri-e e-le-i-son."

He had thought about the call he would use for this bird during the hours he had ridden beside Isobel in the forest. Somehow this one fit the bird, fit the master. The melody had an elusive serenity, the notes rising and vanishing like the graceful, soaring flight of a hawk.

He sang it again, soft and low. Steady repetition would teach the hawk to recognize the phrase as his master's call. He talked to the bird, his tone patient, quiet.

The hours slipped past. James sang, and murmured, and walked the bird around the dark mews. His intent was to keep the bird awake, and keep himself awake, and in the process, achieve taming as fast as possible.

He would give the exhausted tiercel no choice but to focus on his voice and the gentle touch of his fingertips. In the hawk's bleary, fatigued mind, the only reality would be the one his master provided for him. Gawain would never be tame, but he would learn.

Through touch and voice and endless patience, James would teach the bird that food and security came from one reliable source. The bird would grant him a certain amount of trust.

He was exhausted himself, but he forced himself to stay awake. Manning the bird quickly was paramount just now. Deep into the small, dark hours of the night, James walked, murmured, stroked, and sang.

And all the while, he thought about faith. He wanted faith and trust from the goshawk. He had it freely of Alice, no matter what he did. And he had sensed it, fleetingly, from Isobel, and tasted it like honey on her lips.

He craved more from her, but knew she had changed her mind about him again. He had seen trust flicker within her like a flame, now bright, now fading.

But when he had admitted to her that, indeed, he had taken part in Wallace's betrayal, he had watched the spark of faith disappear utterly in her eyes.

He could not blame her. He had lost faith in himself.

* * *

In the darkness of the curtained bed, Isobel awoke to quiet, comfortable sounds: Alice hummed at some task, the fire crackled, Ragnell chirred, and rain pattered on the roof. She pulled the covers high and peered out through the curtains.

"There you are!" Alice stood by the table, kneading a large mound of pale dough.

"Greetings, Dame Crawford," Isobel said hoarsely.

"Just Alice," the woman corrected her. She grinned. "You have slept nearly two full days! Good rest heals, though."

Isobel blinked in amazement. "Two days? I remember waking a few times."

"But you could scarcely speak, you were so tired." Alice smiled. "If you want to get up now, we must get some food into you for strength." Alice worked as she talked, her sleeves pushed up, her hands capable as she punched and folded the dough.

Isobel glanced around the room. "Where is—"

"Jamie's with his gos. Gawain, he says you call it." Alice laughed. "He asked me to bake bread for the tiercel, so I've been at that task most of the afternoon."

"Bread for the hawk? I did not think they ate bread."

"They do not. 'Tis for something else. Jamie knows I have the way of making bread, though few Scots do. But milled wheat is hard to find, with the Southrons harrassing all Scotland and denying us their goods in trade." She worked the dough while she spoke. "'Tis muckle hard to buy wheat from them, and Scottish wheat is a sparse crop. Jamie brings me milled wheat when he can get it. He brought me some two weeks past, and so I said aye, I could bake bread today. And if he stole this flour from the English, I do not want to know."

"Stole it?"

"Och, he is an outlaw." Alice shrugged. "And he does not care for Southrons. A few times, he and his men took supplies from Southron packhorses being led through the forest, and gave the wheat and other goods round the countryside.

"You see," she continued, "There are many Scots with empty larders and fields, and even homeless, because of the Southrons who come through the Lowlands, stealing and burning. Jamie says we are owed goods back in trade." She shaped a few fat, round bread loaves . "This is a good, chewy bread I make. I use wheat, barley, and oats in the flour, and bere hops to rise it. You had best eat your fill of it, lass. You are all bones."

Isobel blushed, and glanced at her thin forearms and the ribbed shadows along her breastbone. "I am hungry," she said.

"Good. I'll feed you well. First you'll want to dress. Your gown and surcoat are mended and freshened, and folded by your feet." Alice set the loaves aside and covered them with a cloth. "Let me help you, since you have but one arm to use."

Within a short time, Isobel was dressed, washed, and seated by the table with her right arm snug in a sling, and her left hand holding a cup of warm spiced wine. Alice set a bowl of hot porridge on the table, and stuck a wooden spoon in it.

"When the bread is baked, we'll take some to Jamie. Eat."

Isobel ate. Alice carried the loaves outside to a stone bread oven behind the house. When she returned, she refilled the porridge bowl. Isobel finished nearly all of that helping, too.

"Good lass," Alice said. "You're tall, but slim as a reed. Jamie said you hardly ate for weeks, due to the siege."

Isobel nodded, and answered Alice's questions about the besiegement at Aberlady. Hearing thunder, she glanced toward the windows, tiny openings covered in oiled parchment that let in a faint grayish light. Rain battered the roof and the door.

"'Tis a soft rain," Alice said. "But we will get wet when we take the bread to Jamie."

"Where is he?"

"'Tis not far, a walk through the greenwood and up a long slope to a cave," Alice said. "He set it up for mews long ago, and he took the goshawk there. Can you walk on that ankle?"

Isobel stretched her foot. "It feels much better. I can walk well enough." Hearing a flutter of wings, she glanced up.

Ragnell left her perch and flew across the room, landing on the back of a chair. He silver leg and claw foot thumped down as she found her balance. The large bird fixed Isobel with a gleaming rust-red eye.

"She is not leashed to the perch?" Isobel asked.

"Ragnell flies where she pleases," Alice said. "She is free to come and go, even outside." She smiled. "She will not go far. She cannot live on her own out there, one-legged and spoiled to the fist as she is, and she knows it."

"What happened to her leg?" Isobel asked.

"Ragnell was given to my husband as a wounded eyas—that is, an infant bird taken from the nest to be trained. Nigel was a royal falconer," Alice said, as she poured steaming, spice-scented wine into Isobel's cup, and a second cup for herself.

Isobel nodded. "I know. Jamie told me about him."

Alice picked up a leather glove and slipped it on, raising her hand. With a rapid fluttering, Ragnell crossed the room, wings spread, to land on her mistress's fist. "Ragnell had been attacked by a jealous merlin in another man's mews. Nigel thought she would die, but she was a fierce wee hawk."

Alice produced a bit of raw meat from a dish by the hearth, and fed the bird a morsel, wiping her fingers on a cloth. "Her wounded foot turned black and fell off. Nigel made her a false one, and then others as she grew larger. She learned to fly and perch wearing the silver foot. She even learned to fly at quarry, though she does not prefer that. She's spoiled to the fist and only feeds there. Och, my lazy, silly bird," she cooed.

Ragnell kakked and stretched down to clean her beak sideways on the glove. She opened her tail wide, shot a wet mute across the floor, and blinked at Isobel.

Alice made a disparaging sound. "She wants you to know she's queen here. Nay, do not—I'll clean it up. Lady Ragnell has trained me for her handmaiden. 'Tis the price I pay for such noble company, I suppose. We're alone here, Ragnell and I, but for the cat, the goat, and the chickens. Ragnell's made a mewling servant of the cat, but so far the goat ignores her."

"It must be pleasant to live alone, with no one to answer to but yourself," Isobel said.

"'Tis lonely, lass."

"Sometimes I think living alone would be like paradise. I have always obeyed someone—my father, my priest. Now my betrothed wants the same obeisance from me. Mayhap I should go into the forest and live as an anchoress."

"You do not look like you would be content as an anchoress."

"You have found contentment alone."

Alice shrugged. "Some." She stroked the bird. "I do not choose to be alone, lass. My sons and my husband are dead, all gone fighting for Scotland." Isobel saw Alice's eyes pinken with unshed tears. She sighed, shook her head. "All I have is Jamie, and Margaret, and this arrogant bird." She cooed at Ragnell. "I hope one day that James will wed Margaret. They're cousins, but only by marriage."