Laird of the Wind (5 page)

Chapter 3

"Those Southrons are overfond of fire arrows," Henry said, as another burning shaft traced an arc overhead, smacking into the wall-walk. He glanced at James.

"Aye. Let them fire the castle—we will not have to bother." He nocked an arrow and drew back the string. The point found its mark over a hundred yards away, for he saw an English archer clutch his shoulder and fall to the ground.

"That," James announced grimly, "is for the lass."

"This morn you were not so fond of her."

"I did not know she was besieged, or starving—or quite so young." James drew another arrow from the quiver at his belt and set it to the bow.

"Or so lovely, hey." Henry grinned.

James released the arrow. "She needs our help, regardless."

"True. Hah! Look there! I'll wager that soldier would like to know he was just caught in the leg by the Border Hawk!"

"I am sure he would," James drawled, and shot again.

The full moon rose quickly in the indigo sky, and English fire arrows flew like a host of comets. James shot steadily, one arrow after another, and beside him, Henry Rose did the same. Beyond them, James saw Aberlady's garrison, and his own men—Quentin Fraser, Patrick Boyd, and Geordie Shaw—raining a steady volley of arrows down on English heads.

Henry looked around then. "Sir Eustace, is it?" he asked the man who approached.

"Aye, baillie and captain of Aberlady Castle."

"I am Sir Henry Rose." Henry held out a hand.

Eustace put a hand to his sword hilt. "That's a Southron name," he growled. "And you use a longbow with Southron skill."

"I'm English," Henry said. "Would you have me use a short bow like a Scot? Scotsmen are a sorry lot of archers. But for Jamie here, I'd think none of them had any worth with a bow. With a broadsword, now, 'tis a different matter."

Eustace scowled. "If you be Southron by fealty, then leave this castle the way you came into it, or bid the world farewell."

"Peace, man." James held up a hand. "Henry is Southron by birth, and a master of the longbow. But he fights for the Scottish cause."

"My wife is a Scotswoman," Henry said. "Her people are mine now. And I've seen King Edward's chivalry toward the Scots. I'll take no share in that."

Eustace nodded and glanced at James. "Your loyalty is questioned of late."

"So I hear." James returned an even stare.

"Shall I doubt your fealty too?"

"If you like."

Eustace frowned. "We have to trust you for now. So far you have proved helpful. But if you think to lead us into Southron hands by treachery—" He touched his hilt again.

"I mean to help you," James said flatly.

"Judge him by what you know of him yourself, rather than by rumors," Henry said. An English arrow whistled overhead then, and Henry pulled another shaft from his quiver, preparing to shoot.

James looked down. Far below, under the light of torches, a group of men shoved a massive wooden framework into position close to the castle walls. "That mangonel will be ready for use come dawn," he said. "'Tis stout enough to damage these walls. They mean to finish you off within a few days."

"You came at our neediest moment," Eustace said. "Lady Isobel welcomes your help, too. But she fears you will destroy her castle."

"I will," James said bluntly. "But we will all be free of here first."

"Climbing down that cliff is a dangerous venture," Eustace said.

"But it offers less risk than giving up to the enemy," Henry Rose pointed out.

"Aye then." Eustace nodded. "You should know that Lady Isobel loves this place dearly."

James looked away. Years ago, the English had burned his own castle. He knew the devastation of such a loss, and more. In that terrible blaze, he had lost someone precious to him. He had no desire to fire Aberlady. But he had no choice.

"War brings sacrifice," he said harshly. He glanced at Eustace. "When everyone has eaten, and the hour is late, we can make our escape. Go down to the kitchens with the garrison. My men will guard the walls, and I will fetch the lady and bring her to the keep."

Eustace nodded. "We have ropes to help us scale the cliff. What else can we do?"

"Pray to God, sir," James said.

* * *

Moonlight sliced through the narrow window opening as James opened the tower door. He stepped into the dark, bare little room, leaned his bow and his broadsword against the wall, and crossed the tiny space in two long strides.

Isobel Seton sat on the floor, her head bowed low, her black hair streaming over her shoulders. Blood darkened the sleeve of her gown. She curled forward, clearly suffering.

He dropped to one knee beside her. "How do you fare?"

"Well enough." The words were soft and husky. She looked at him, her face pale in the moonlight, and he saw the keen burden of pain in her taut features. Sympathy whispered through him, and he touched her left, uninjured arm gently.

"The wounds are painful, I know, but you will recover quickly," he said.

She watched him uncertainly. He noticed that her eyes were wide, large, and extraordinarily beautiful in moonlight. In sunshine, James thought, they might be pale blue. Now they seemed opalescent, like captured moonlight. When she swept her dark, thick lashes down, a light seemed to extinguish.

"The noise of the arrow volleys has stopped," she said.

"Aye, 'tis nearly full dark."

"They often send random shots at our walls through the night." She drew in a shaky breath. "Were any men hurt?"

"No men," he said. "Just one woman. Let me look at your arm." When he touched her right shoulder, she started and winced. "I am sorry," he murmured.

She frowned, watching him with those great, pale, jewel-like eyes. He slit open the sleeves of her gown and chemise and bared her arm.

When he brushed the silken mass of her hair away, its cool luxury spilled over his hand. The skin of her neck and shoulder was smooth silk beneath his roughened fingertips. A soft, warm scent, womanly and sweet, tinted with roses, drifted up from her. James felt his gut spin and his loins contract impulsively with a swift, intense desire. He focused his thoughts and his gaze on the wound, forcing all else from his concentration.

The broken arrow shaft thrust viciously out of her upper arm. He took the base of the arrow shaft between two fingers and tugged gently. Isobel sucked in a sharp breath and bit her lip to stifle a cry. James murmured a quiet assurance and narrowed his eyes to judge the angle of the arrow.

A few probing touches, another tug on the base of the shaft, told him what he most dreaded: the removal would be difficult, and excruciating for her. He sighed and sat back on his haunches.

"The broadhead is wide and barbed," he told her. "I cannot pull it out without doing grave damage to the muscle." He paused. "I will have to push it through."

She swallowed hard. Her lustrous, stricken gaze tugged at him oddly. "Have you ever done this before?"

"Nay. But I have seen it done, and I have had it done to me. A field surgeon once pushed a barbed arrow through my leg." Even with the benefit of a few drams of
aqua vitae
, the pain had been considerable, he recalled. "We should go down to the kitchen for the task. And we need water and wine—a good deal of the last, if you have any left in your stores."

She shook her head. "The wine is gone, but our well water is still clear, if low. We can cleanse the wound, at least."

"Have you herb simples?" he asked. "Willow, or valerian? Is there salt left? A salt water poultice would be helpful if there is naught else to use."

"After ten weeks of siege, we have are fortunate to have water and a few grains of barley left." She touched the back of his hand, her gaze entreating. "Take it out now. Here."

He frowned, puzzled. "'Twill be easier in the kitchen. I will need to cauterize the wound, since there are no medicines."

"Can you do it here?" She looked down. "I do not want the others to see. My men think me strong. You will be the only one to see the truth....I do not have the courage for this."

He turned his hand to take her fingers. "You are stronger than you think, I suspect," he murmured. "But so be it. We will do it here if that is what you want." He peeled down her sleeve. She glanced at him while he examined the wound. "'Tis so dark. How can you see?"

"Well enough. I am called after a hawk," he said lightly, "not a mole."

"I do not like darkness much. Can we sit closer to the moonlight?" A tremor in her voice made him glance at her sharply. His fingers, upon her arm, sensed the quiver that ran through her body; he felt a cold, strong stream of fear in her.

"Aye," he said softly, wondering if the daunting prospect of the arrow removal had made her so fretful. He helped her to shift more directly beneath the arrow slit. The moon cast a bright, cool light through the window.

He frowned as he returned his attention to the wound. He would have preferred her to be deep in her cups when he took out the arrowtip, for the thing was wickedly made. The broadhead, which he had felt through her thin flesh, was wider than his thumb and barbed like a double thorn. The removal would not be easy no matter how he did it.

He encircled her arm with his hand, and felt tension thrum through her like a plucked harp string. He murmured a few words of reassurance, and felt her begin to relax under his touch. She glanced at him, a quick look of innocence and pleading, and closed her eyes, leaning back against the wall.

Touching her, watching her, he felt her courage, fragile but definite. She did not know its existence, but he did. And he saw something more, too: she placed her trust in him. He was humbled by that. So few trusted him now.

Ironic, he thought. He had come to Aberlady to use the prophetess to regain the trust he had lost. Yet all he saw in her eyes in this moment was trust, and he felt suddenly ashamed of his purpose here.

Isobel gave James a tremulous smile. A feeling flared inside of him, brighter than the moonlight, then faded before he could grasp its enticing warmth.

"Do it," she whispered. "Now, James Lindsay."

He watched her hard, thin collarbones rise and fall with her rapid breaths, and looked at the broken arrow shaft jutting cruelly out of her slender arm. He unlaced the wide leather arrow guard that he wore around his left forearm, and handed it to her.

"You might want to bite on that," he said.

She nodded stiffly and slipped the leather piece between her teeth. He angled her torso in preparation for his task. As he moved her, she whimpered and squeezed her eyes shut.

He knelt beside her and took her right arm above the elbow. With his other hand, he gripped the broken arrow shaft.

"Easy, now, Isobel," he murmured.

Eyes closed, teeth pressed to the folded leather, she waited with a gentle, shining courage. He admired her bravery and wondered why she did not see it in herself. She glowed with it, like a flame inside a horn lantern.

He drew a breath and sighted the angle carefully, wary of hitting bone. Then he shoved the arrow through, fast and hard. The bladed iron tip burst through her flesh. Isobel cried out once, a low, guttural sound that ripped through his heart.

Biting his lip, aware that he hurt her dreadfully, James pushed the rest of the broken, bloody shaft through her arm and plucked it free.

She dropped the leather piece from her lips and let her head sag forward, heavily, against his chest. Her head rolled in a drunken sort of agony, and her breathing was ragged and fierce. But she neither screamed nor swooned.

"Soft, you," he whispered. "Soft, now, 'tis done. You did well, lass." He touched her head, smoothing his fingers over the silkiness of her hair, and pressed the folded cloth to the fresh wound. She uttered a raw gasp and grew silent.

No matter what else he thought of her, he could not forget the way she had endured the ordeal. He encircled her back with one arm and held the wadded cloth against the wound.

Isobel leaned against him so heavily that he feared she had passed out. She turned her head, reassuring him. Her small, tremulous sob stirred a rush of compassion through him.