Page 15 of The Hawk Laird
But, she asked herself as Geordie had, did she trust him? She did not know. Even her perceptive inner senses gave her no hint. She only knew that his appearance here had thrown her into a turmoil of fear and hope, of suspicion and faith. She was not certain whether to accept or refuse what he offered.
Why had he come here? She recalled the bitterness in his voice when she had asked him that question earlier.We have matters between us, you and I,he had said. The ominous words still echoed in her mind.
But she could not forget, regardless of what mission brought him here, that Lindsay had brought food when they were starving, had helped her when she was hurt, and now intended to get them out of the castle.
He brought hope, as Eustace had told her. Isobel was grateful for that. But she would do well to be wary of him.
Beside her, Geordie waved, and James Lindsay glanced up toward the window that framed them both. Sensing his gaze on her, she returned it steadily. Then James Lindsay motioned toward Geordie.
“He needs me,” the lad said. “I will be back.” He turned and ran, descending the turning stair with pounding, rapid steps. She looked out the window again, seeing Geordie reach Lindsay within moments. Then another of the outlaws joined them, holding a longbow. As they gestured at the walls, Isobel knew they discussed destroying the castle.
As much as she dreaded it, she could not stop such a thing and knew it was necessary to prevent the English from entering and taking it. Like the outlaws, she did not want Southrons to hold the castle. Aberlady was her home, the refuge she needed.
She sighed, watching the men who gathered in the moonlit bailey. James Lindsay was about to destroy the haven that surrounded the prophetess of Aberlady, where she and her gift had always been protected.
Only a few men, including Eustace, knew about the fits of blindness that assailed her when the visions came. No women remained near her now; her mother had died the same year the gift showed itself, and now her nurse and maidservants were gone too, some lost to illness and death, others to lives with families away from Aberlady. The last woman to serve Isobel personally had died early in the siege, a victim of age and worry.
The cocoon that her father had spun around her was snug, but now it would be gone. Her father and the priest had decided Sir Ralph could protect her in marriage. None of them had ever thought Isobel would be forced into the situation she was in now.
James Lindsay turned then, distracting her. He looked up at the window where she stood. A soft shiver rippled through her. Even in the darkness, she felt his steady, penetrating gaze. She drew back.
She had never thought she would leave Aberlady. Her prophetic gift, which most often appeared at her urging, sometimes burst upon her without warning, bringing gloriousor disturbing visions of the future. Aberlady was the safe place where that occurred.
She had learned to depend on a very few who understood her singular world, and she had been raised to depend on her father. But he was gone, and she did not know when or if she would see him again.
She was sure Eustace would take her to find Father Hugh as soon as they escaped the castle. The priest would give her refuge in his home near the parish church, and he would send word to Sir Ralph, who had gone in search of John Seton.
She longed to know that her father was safe, but she balked at the thought of relying on Sir Ralph, let alone marrying him. Beneath the rough manners common to many men, she felt he had real harshness. Sometimes he frightened her, though he had never deliberately offended her. But her father and the priest trusted and admired him, even when Sir Ralph had changed his fealty. Leslie was a practical man who watched the weather of the war, her father had said.
“He loves you well,” her father had said. “He has promised me to keep you safe no matter who wins this struggle over Scottish lands and rule.”
Safe! She nearly laughed. Aberlady had been besieged for weeks, but Sir Ralph had not come to her aid. His search for her father must have taken him deep into England. If he had known, surely he would have come to Aberlady quickly.
She had spent these weeks learning new lessons. Now she could lead where she had only followed, could defy where she had only obeyed. She was stronger in spirit than she had been.
Still, the thought of leaving Aberlady terrified her. Inside the walls of her home, she had learned independence; inside her cocoon, she could be brave, but she was not a winged butterfly yet. She was not ready for the real freedom of leaving her home.
From the window, she watched a rogue contemplate the best method of torching her home and ripping her away from its protection.
Aberlady Castle would be sacrificed, but its inhabitants would be safe. Homes could be made anywhere, she knew. She sighed and tried to accept what she realized was inevitable.
Another English fire arrow whistled through the dark like a comet, trailing bright flame. The arrow landed, like the others had done, in the earthen yard, flaming and smoking. James Lindsay strode forward and plucked it out of the ground. Then he raised his bow, nocked the flaming arrow, drew the string taut, and released it.
The arrow shot upward, its glowing tail tracing a new arc through the darkness. Then it smacked into the thatched roof of the empty stable and burst into flame.
Isobel gasped.
Another English arrow flamed through the darkness. Lindsay tore that one out of the ground too and shot it forth. The flaming bolt landed on the roof of a storage hut, which began to burn within seconds.
Isobel put a shaking hand to her mouth, unable to move, unable to tear her gaze from the bailey. Golden sparks flew about in the brisk night wind. One by one, the dry thatch and wood in the outbuildings caught flame as if they were kindling.
James Lindsay stood amid the brilliant, growing light, his bow propped upright, and watched the fire grow. Other men gathered near him. No one made an effort to stop the fire from spreading.
Eustace ran toward the burning stable, snatching up a long stick and lighting it like a taper on the low, flaming roof of the storage building. Then he flung the brand toward another thatched roof. More flames erupted.
Isobel felt as if her heart shattered within her breast.
“’Tis to prevent the English from taking Aberlady,” Geordie said quietly. He was beside her; she had not heard him return. “The policy of scorched earth is based on an old custom of war.”
