Page 2 of The Hawk Laird
“Who betrayed whom?” Father Hugh asked. “Tell us what you know.”
She fought tears. The visions did not often pull her into their vortex like this. She felt grief and loneliness as the images flickered in her mind. Mist, and the man in the cloak again, holding a hawk on his gloved fist.
“I see a pilgrim,” she said. “He has a penance of the heart. He longs for peace. He is the laird of the wind. Laird of hawks. Hawk of the forest.”
“But who is he?” This from Leslie. “Lady Isobel, make sense. This is nonsense,” he said aside to the others.
The man in the cloak was tall and strong. He stood alone in the rain, gloved hand supporting a gray hawk. Under the shadow of his hood was a handsome face. Somber. Firm features, sad blue eyes. She felt his sadness and pain, felt bitterness, even rage within him. How could she know the heart of this stranger so well? She wanted to soothe him. Help him.
He strode through the rain to a hawthorn tree. The bird fluttered to a branch. “A secret,” she said. “A hawthorn tree. A hawk,” she said.
“What is she blathering about?” Sir Ralph demanded.
“Keep quiet,” her father growled to the knight.
“She often speaks in symbol and metaphor,” Father Hugh said. “I will study her words later. Look, she sees more. Isobel, what is it?”
She was silent. For the first time, she saw herself in a vision.
A woman glided through mist toward the hawthorn tree. She was tall, slender, wearing a blue gown, black hair streaming like midnight down her back. Stunned, Isobel watched herself move toward the man in the cloak. He turned, beckoned to her. But she stopped.
She yearned to go to him. The desire was overwhelming, yet something equally strong held her back. Then the scene faded and she saw stone walls in sunshine. Her home, Aberlady Castle. Arrows whined over the battlements. Men shouted. She smelled smoke and felt cold and hungry. She was shivering. An arrow struck her—
“Siege,” she whispered. “Siege!”
The vision disappeared.Dear Lord, let me remember the man, the hawk…the siege.
When she opened her eyes, she was blind. Her father handed her a cup of wine, easing its cool metal shape into her fingers.
August 3, 1305
He ran silentlythrough the moonlit forest. Breath, step, pounding heart blended with the sound of the wind. Onward, never slowing, he slipped between the trees, leaping easily through the bracken with his long-legged, swift stride. Pray God he was not too late.
He ran until his breaths heaved in his chest and the air burned his throat until his legs ached, but he would not stop. Finally, a light gleamed through the trees. He saw blazing yellow torchlight, a house—then horses and armored men. He heard shouts.
They had reached the house before him.
He stopped behind an oak, heart slamming, tunic damp with sweat. Men in chain mail, some on horseback, on foot, filled the moonlit yard. Twenty—no, thirty, he decided.
A dead man lay on the ground. Someone kicked the body aside. Others brought forward a horse, its rider bound and gagged: a giant of a man. Blood streamed from a head wound. A guard struck the man again.
Silent and stealthy, the watcher in the forest pulled out the bow slung behind his back and strung it. Quickly nocking an arrow from the quiver at his belt, he aimed. The guard, about to strike the captured man again, fell from his saddle, an arrow in his chest. The archer released a second arrow. Another soldier went down like a felled oak.
Men now shouted, wheeled, drew swords, loaded crossbows. Watching from his place behind the tree, the renegade archer saw the prisoner turn and look toward the trees, nodding as if he knew his ally and was grateful for the attempt to help him.
The renegade saw something pale and small flutter to the ground, dropped by the prisoner, unseen by anyone else. Later the archer meant to fetch that thing. For now, he was busy. A quarrel from a crossbow slammed into a tree trunk. He slipped forward, closer, and loosed another shaft, hit his target.
Three guards less, now; nock, draw, aim, release. Four less. Still too many to take alone. But he had several arrows left, and each one would count for a life before the night was done. Even so, without a horse or men at his back, he had little hope of saving his friend, taken in treachery.
A treachery he had aided. The knowledge cut like a razor. He drew the bowstring again.
Five on the ground now, silent. The other men mounted and led the prisoner hastily out of the yard. Bolts from their crossbows hammered into the trees as they rode away, but none of them caught the unseen archer in the night.
That one lunged forward like a wildcat and ran, bow gripped in his fist. The horses were English-bred, powerful beasts, and soon pulled far ahead of the runner.
He paused, drew, sighted, let loose another arrow and another, and yet more. He shot so fast that he did not think about his aim. Each bolt was an extension of his will and his rage. Each one found its mark.
He ran forward again. The horses were nearly out of range now. He climbed a slope rapidly to overlook the earthen road. Eyes narrowed, even in the moonlight, he saw—with the pristine clarity of vision that had helped to earn him the name of the Hawk Laird—the glimmer of armor ahead in the moonlight. Barely within range they were, now.
