Page 21 of The Hawk Laird
She sighed, looking toward the fire crackling inside a circle of stones, and she thought about James Lindsay, and what Quentin had said. Geordie, too, had stubbornly insisted on his hero’sinnocence, but she had attributed that to his youth. Now the Highlander, a man of about her own age, shared the opinion.
But surely the few followers of the Hawk Laird all believed him innocent of treachery. Outside that circle, disturbing tales persisted about him. She had heard the rumors from Father Hugh, a Scotsman and a priest, who would not spread lies.
Unable to make sense of the matter and too exhausted to try, she settled her back against the tree, eased her hand over her aching shoulder, and closed her eyes to rest.
The tantalizing smellof roasting fowl stirred her out of her doze, and she opened her eyes. A few feet away from her, she saw James Lindsay’s broad back as he sat by the fire, clothed in the leather hauberk and green tunic. He listened to Henry Rose and laughed softly at something the man said.
James turned to glance over his shoulder and saw that she was awake. He nodded briefly to her, then leaned forward to slice off a portion of meat. This he placed on a bit of bark and handed to the outlaw Patrick, who sat at his other side.
Patrick came toward her. “Here, my lady,” he said in a deep, graveled voice, kneeling to offer the steaming white meat. “Jamie said you would be hungry.”
“Thank you,” she said, glancing at Lindsay’s back. He did not turn. Patrick returned to his place by the fire, and Isobel ate hungrily. The meat was charred outside, but inside was moist and delicious. When she finished and licked her fingers, Patrick glanced at her, and quickly brought her another portion of meat.
“My thanks,” she said. “I have only eaten berries and an oatcake until now. I did not realize I was so hungry.”
He nodded. “Your belly was not ready earlier for heavy food, lass. But now that your hunger has returned, we know you’ll recover well.”
“We?” She glanced at him while she ate.
“Jamie and us,” he answered. He sniffed and wiped his nose on his grimy sleeve. “Jamie watches over you like a hawk watches its fledgling. He says you have not eaten much.”
“He does not care,” she muttered, pulling off a bit of steaming flesh. “He lets you and the others do the caring. And I thank you for it,” she added.
Patrick leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Och, he will not admit it, since he was not too pleased with the prophetess of Aberlady.”
Isobel cast him a quick frown. He pulled off his helmet to scratch his unkempt brown hair. He spit into the helmet and buffed it with his sleeve. “I know ladies like fine courtesy,” he said. “So I’ll fetch you some water in a clean helmet, see.” He held it out to show her.
“My thanks, Patrick,” Isobel said. “But I will go to the burn myself, to wash in privacy.”
“Let me show you the way.” Patrick helped her to her feet and supported her with a huge hand at her waist as she limped forward.
Isobel saw James look up as they passed. Quentin glanced up too, and gave her a dazzling smile, lifting his eyebrows jauntily. James saw him and frowned sharply.
Isobel smiled at Quentin, smiled at Patrick, and slid a scowl toward James. He glanced away as if he had not seen her, and rubbed his fingers over his whiskered jaw in silence.
Later in theday, as she rode the white stallion in front of Geordie, Isobel felt so tired, so filled with aches and plagued by dizziness, that she sometimes thought she could not go on. Yet she said nothing to Geordie of her discomfort, nor did she mention it to anyone else who asked after her welfare.
She had found a moment to tell Eustace that she wanted to part company with the outlaws when they neared Stobo,where Father Hugh had a parish church. Sir Eustace had agreed reluctantly. Isobel decided that he liked the freedom of running with outlaws after weeks trapped in a besieged castle. Isobel, however, wanted rest and peace.
But some part of her wanted to stay with the Hawk Laird in the forest, too. However foolishly, she wanted to be with the compassionate man he had been while tending her wounds—but that man had disappeared from her life.
If she had possessed greater strength, clearer thoughts, and better boldness, she would have challenged him to tell her what his intent was concerning her, and why he had grown so cool toward her. But, exhausted and drained, she said nothing to him, and let the stallion carry her deeper into the forest.
She remembered Lindsay’s ominous statement that he had come to Aberlady to find her, as if he had some business with her. She felt his intentions hovering over her like storm clouds. The prophetess could not tell if he was her champion or her enemy. She did not seem to have Quentin’s easy gift for simply “knowing” something, and wished she did.
Devastated by her ordeal at Aberlady, and scattered in her thoughts without rest, she could answer none of the questions that plagued her. All she truly wanted was a place to lie down and sleep.
The dense forest canopy admitted only a little light so that the forest path was dim and green. Isobel heard the steady footfalls of the horses, the trills of birds overhead, and the wind soughing through the branches. The sounds were so peaceful, soft, and monotonous that she nearly fell asleep as she rode.
She stirred herself as she leaned against Geordie, and looked around. A long wooded slope rose to one side of the path, covered with trees. Over her shoulder, she saw a bright, silvery flash among the trunks. Dazed and tired, her reactions slow, shedid not realize until too late that she had seen the gleam of metal armor.
An instant later, she heard the rapid whoosh of an arrow and felt its hard thud as it struck Geordie. He jerked against her, cried out, and fell, suddenly, and heavily, to the ground.
Isobel screamed and turned, instinctively reaching out, but Geordie was gone, fallen beneath the hooves of the horse. So fast that she hardly knew what was happening, the men around her began to shout and turn their mounts. She saw Eustace’s grim face as he flashed by, saw Henry Rose draw his great bow, saw James turn and ride back, his face furious, his hand reaching behind him for the broadsword at his back.
Another arrow sped through the trees and nicked her horse in its flank. Isobel tried to grab the reins and turn him, but he whinnied and reared up, nearly dumping her to the ground. She clung desperately to the mane with both hands as the horse landed hard, jarring her.
With a surge of muscle and power, the warhorse bolted ahead.
