Laird of the Wind (48 page)

"He is welcome with us. Years may pass before John or I can hold our own castles. Wildshaw is still held by the English."

"'Twill be yours soon enough. Quentin said local men are talking quietly of joining the Border Hawk again. You may have enough men one day to take Wildshaw again."

"I intend to," he said. "And I mean to discuss that matter with Robert Bruce myself." He splashed a wavelet toward her. "Come in the water, lass."

She tilted her head, clearly still intent on delivering news to him. "Quentin said Father Hugh left to go on a pilgrimage to Dunfermline, and then to Saint Andrews," she said.

"I know. Quentin told me of it. Father Hugh may go down to Canterbury and then on to Saint James at Compostela. He feels a deep need to cleanse his soul of the pride that he thinks caused his son's ambition, and resulted in his death."

Isobel nodded. She dropped down to sit on the edge of the pool, drawing up her chemise and swirling her legs in the water. "'Tis warm at this end," she said. "'Tis cold where you are."

He surged forward and stopped a few feet from her, dipping down to submerge his chest and shoulders in the water. "Come in and find out what 'tis like," he said.

She shook her head. "Margaret feels the burden of killing Ralph," she said, frowning as she watched the rippling surface of the pool. "I said what I could to comfort her."

"She did what had to be done," James said. "But she must find her own peace with the matter."

"Patrick asked her to wed with him, did you know that?"

"That does not surprise me," he said.

"She refused," she said. "Though she loves Patrick, she likes her freedom, too. She needs time to think."

"Aye, well," he said, "some of us take our time to decide who to wed. And some of us know from the first moment." She cast him a glance, and he smiled, coaxing one from her.

"Did you know from the first moment?" she asked.

"I knew my heart had been breached like a castle wall, that first evening," he said softly. "But it took me a little while to accept defeat."

"Ah, naught could ever defeat you, brigand." She tipped her head to look at him. "I heard Quentin and Patrick tell you that they saw your friend John Blair in Dunfermline, and that he has urgent news for you," she said. "Will you leave soon?"

"Aye," he answered somberly. "I want to show him the letter from the bishop concerning Wallace and Bruce. I want John to deliver the letter to Bruce himself, with a note that includes the words of the prophetess of Aberlady—a hopeful message for him, I think, for she predicted he would be king of Scotland soon, and eventually save Scotland from English domination."

"Did she?" She smiled. "I would like you to tell him about that. Quentin said you have another matter in Dunfermline."

He sighed. The summons from John Blair involved brief mention of a clandestine task. That news made it imperative that he go to the abbey quickly. "There is something I must do."

She watched him. "Jamie," she said softly. "Have you not yet found peace, after all that has happened?"

He pushed the water toward her until it rippled about her slender legs. "Come in and find out," he said, teasing.

She shook her head. "You come out. I am cold."

"Let me warm you." He surged forward and stood, reaching out to take her waist, pulling her into the water with a deep splash. She gasped, her chemise floating around her like a cloud in the water. He grasped it and pulled it off in one easy motion, while she lifted her arms to assist him.

She draped her hands around his neck and curved her body into his. Her breasts felt divinely soft and heavy against his chest, and her body fitted to his like glove to hand.

"I did not want to come in," she said. "The reflections in the water and the sound of the spring could bring on a vision."

"You do not want another vision?" he asked, dipping his head toward her, brushing his mouth across her cheek.

"Not just now," she answered.

"And if you had one," he said, "would I not kiss the darkness from you?"

"Aye," she breathed, turning, seeking his mouth.

He enfolded her in his arms and covered her lips with his in a deep kiss that stirred his body and salved his soul. She wrapped her arms around his back and drew him down into the water with her to their chins, the warm currents swirling about them.

"Jamie," she whispered against his cheek. "I want you to find peace now that this is over."

He framed her face in his hands, her wet hair streaming down to pool like midnight around them. Her eyes were wide and beautiful, opalescent as moonlight. He kissed each eyelid, kissed her brow, and drew back to look at her.

"Part of me may never find true peace, lass," he whispered. "One deed weighs on my heart still. I may never find the forgiveness I seek. But I am thankful, each day, for the serenity you have brought into my life."

"I know that something remains unresolved in your heart," she said. "I know that. But here, in this paradise, with each other, we will always have sanctuary."

"Aye, love," he said, bending to kiss her, to surround himself with her, soul and body. His hands drifted down to her waist, pulling her closer. "Peace is here, with you."

The End

Page forward for a note from Susan King

followed by excerpts from her award-winning titles:

The Black Thorne's Rose

The Raven's Wish

Special Author-Cut Editions

available only in ebook format

Author's Note

At Dunfermline Abbey, a hawthorn tree grows in a small graveyard on the north side of the church. Longstanding tradition says that William Wallace's mother is secretly buried under the tree. But a lesser-known tradition claims that Wallace himself may be buried beside his mother.

According to local legend, the Benedictine monk John Blair, along with a friend, collected Wallace's remains from the four towns where they had been piked on display. They placed them in a secret grave near the abbey, possibly beneath the same thorn tree where Wallace's mother lay.

John Blair, who was Wallace's confessor and a rebel fighter himself, retired to Dunfermline Abbey after Wallace's death to write a chronicle of his friend's life. The Latin manuscript was apparently sent to Pope Boniface, but has been lost to history. Supposedly, the fifteenth-century poet Blind Harry used Blair's chronicle in writing his own well-known life of Wallace.

Whether or not the legend of the grave is true, I could not resist exploring its fictional potential. I am grateful to Mr. Bert MacEwen, of Abbot House in Dunfermline, for telling me about the legend. At the time, we stood looking at the hawthorn tree, which was in spring bloom.

The hawking techniques described in this novel are, for the most part, taken from early treatises on hawking, such as
The Boke of St Albans
and
A Jewell for Gentrie.
I was fortunate to be able to observe two falconers and their birds, a tiercel goshawk and a red-tailed hawk, and to speak with several falconers regarding modern and medieval techniques. The high-strung temperament of the goshawk in this book is, as far as I understand it, certainly within the realm of possibility.

Prophets and prophetesses were by no means unheard of in medieval Scotland, and respect was accorded them by commoner and king alike; the witch hunts of medieval Europe, for the most part, occurred outside of Scotland until the late sixteenth century. The best known Scottish medieval prophet is Thomas of Ercildoune, or Thomas the Rhymer, who predicted events that have actually transpired up to the twentieth century. Historical evidence indicates that Thomas of Ercildoune may have acted as a spy under Robert the Bruce.

As for who actually betrayed Wallace, the historical record, as so often happens, does not reveal the full truth. Recent popular opinion implies that Robert Bruce, earl of Carrick, who became king of Scotland after Wallace's death, may have had a hand in it. The evidence, however, indicates that Bruce, if anything, secretly supported Wallace.

Scholars of Scottish history, including G.W.S. Barrow, the best authority on Robert Bruce and the wars of independence, suggest candidates for the deed who are far more likely, if less well-known, including Lord Menteith, a Scots noble.

James Lindsay and Isobel Seton were created within the stream of historical truth, shaped and defined by what did happen, as well as by what could have happened, long ago. I hope you enjoyed their story regardless of myth, fact, or supposition.

Excerpt from

The Black Thorne's Rose

Special
Author's Cut
Edition

by

Susan King

Chapter 1