Page 102 of The Hawk Laird
Never that,Isobel thought to herself.
“She is not a virgin, I vow, so what does it matter,” Sir Ralph whined. Isobel suspected he was quite drunk, judging by the amount of wine and ale he had consumed at supper. She hadheard a good deal of slurping and pouring beside her, while she had eaten and sipped very little.
“We cannot change her sorry state,” Father Hugh said. “Although you could have avenged yourself rather than release the knave who did that. But remember, Ralph. Her gift is fragile. As long as she is blind, she is in a state of grace brought on by the holy word of God that comes through her.”
“So I cannot touch her. Damn it,” Leslie muttered.
Isobel sat straight and demure, and tried then to look innocent and saturated in grace. If she remained blind—or claimed she was—she would keep her groom away from her longer.
But both men knew the blindness would go away in a day or less. Her reprieve would end.
She heard Ralph’s heavy step as he crossed the room, and she sensed him standing in front of her. “One kiss. She is my bride.”
“One chaste kiss to mark the marriage,” Father Hugh agreed. “But do not offend the integrity of her prophetic gift. You will not touch her until the blindness passes.”
“By then we will be in Carlisle, visiting the king. A fine place for a nuptial celebration.”
Isobel felt his fingers slide along her chin, felt him tip her head up as he bent forward. His lips touched hers, pressed, opened slightly. She closed her eyes, keeping her lips together beneath his. But he slanted his mouth over hers and she felt the repulsive flicker of his tongue as his hand slid over her shoulder. The kiss was wine-flavored and somehow desperate. She flinched away.
He lifted away and stood back. “Good night, wife.” She heard both men leave the room.
Her eyes flew open. For once, she was very glad the blindness lingered.
Chapter Thirty
Mist draped betweenthe trees as the group made their way along the forest path. Leather trappings, chain mail, and the stomp and snort of the horses created layers of sound as the travelers moved through the cool, silent morning. Isobel rode at the center of a group of a dozen men flanked by Sir Ralph and Sir Gawain. Father Hugh rode in front with several soldiers; several more rode armed and mounted behind Isobel at the center.
She carried the hawk on her gloved fist as they rode through the fog-shrouded forest. With the blindness cleared, she savored the simple beauty of the morning. One night’s sleep had restored her vision, and unfortunately, she had not been able to hide that from Leslie and his father. She tried to ignore Sir Ralph’s eagerness and the spin of dread in her gut as they moved toward Carlisle.
Her groom seemed anxious, looking around, hand on the hilt of his sword. “The guards who went out yesterday have not returned. Do we know if they did what they were told?” he asked Sir Gawain.
“I do not know, sir,” the knight replied.
Isobel gasped as a terrible feeling cut through her. “Did you send an ambush after my father and Lindsay? And Janet?” she demanded, horrified.
Ralph slid her a glance. “No need to concern yourself.”
“We may need to worry more about the guards than the outlaws,” Sir Gawain murmured. He cast her a glance that somehow made her feel reassured.
After a while, hoofbeats quiet and steady on the forest floor, a cloaked figure stepped through the mist to stand on the path ahead of them. Holding a large hawk on a gloved hand, the figure was tall and statuesque—and the hawk had a silver foot. Isobel gasped.
“Alice,” she mouthed to herself, as the escort drew to a halt. The woman dropped her hood and stepped forward.
“Sir Ralph Leslie,” Alice called. “I beg a word, please.”
“Do not stop,” Sir Ralph said. “We have naught to say to you, and we are in hurry. Stand aside, woman!”
As he spoke, Alice raised her arm and cast off the bird, who flew toward the escort. Leslie shrieked and ducked and the men leaned away in alarm as the huge red tail hawk swooped past. Then Ragnell slanted sideways to disappear between the trees, and Alice slipped away, too.
On Isobel’s glove, Gawain, frightened out of his wits by the bird, fell into a ferocious bate. She extended her arm to accommodate him while Leslie snarled and looked around, his hand at his sword.
Next, a slight rumble of sound was the only warning as suddenly an enormous log burst out of the treetops, suspended sideways on long ropes, and swung down toward the front group of guards and the priest. The men guided their horses away, but the log crashed into them to sweep them off their horses like chessmen off a board. Among the mist-veiled trees, men on foot scattered like deer.
“After them!” Sir Ralph screamed, vying to control his startled horse amid chaos. Isobel struggled to hold both her horse and the frantic hawk, still hanging from her glove in a fit.
The soldiers to the rear could hardly control their frantic horses, some of them falling, others carried off into the woodland. Leslie, Sir Gawain, one guard, and Isobel, having been at the center of the group, remained mounted. Father Hughand several guards lay moaning on the ground while their horses stomped and circled or ran frightened into the forest.
Then Isobel saw three men and a woman emerge through the trees to walk toward them on the path. They carried bows, stretched and arrowed and ready, as they advanced. James—with Quentin, Patrick, and Janet.
