Page 28 of The Hawk Laird
He narrowed his eyes to examine the bird while it spent its frenzy. One wing moved unevenly; James hoped that indicated a sprain rather than a more serious injury, or one of a variety of illnesses that affected hawks.
“Easy, you bird,” he said as the flurrying wings quieted. “Hush, you bonny gos.” Quick and sure, he slipped his hand behind the bird, scooping under the tail to grasp the body firmly between the legs. The surprise contact sent the goshawk into a limp state of shock, as James expected.
Goshawks taken in the wild had a nervous tendency to fall into a faint when grabbed by a human. Trained birds who no longer feared humans did not fall over so readily. This bird had been free long enough to revert to wildness, he realized.
Slipping his dagger from his belt, he cut the jesses. The leather was dry, cracked, and filthy; the goshawk must have flown away from its owner weeks ago. And the goshawk had fallen into shock immediately, another clue that it had been free for a few days, probably longer.
He gently righted the bird’s head, ready to restrain the goshawk, not wanting to contend with an awake, angry, powerful bird. He held the limp goshawk in one hand and tugged a shirtsleeve over the finely shaped head, deftly trapping thewings and compact body inside. He wound the rest of the shirt around the body and padded the talons as best he could.
With the goshawk cradled in one arm, he looked down. Isobel stood at the base of the tree, staring up at him with her mouth open. She held his tunic in one hand.
“What are you doing?” she called.
“Rescuing a hawk,” he answered. He began to make his way down the tree carefully, using the strength of his free arm. The bird stirred, squealed, and began an awkward struggle.
James leaned his weight against a sturdy branch and murmured soothing nonsense, stroking the bird’s head and breast as if he held a babe in his arms. All the while, he avoided the vicious, powerful feet. When the exhausted bird quieted, James climbed down, dropped to the ground, and straightened.
Isobel clutched his tunic to her chest, her eyes wide as she stared at James, then at the curious bundle. He noticed that her eyes were the fine blue of a clear morning sky.
“You found a hawk?” She blinked at it in disbelief.
“A goshawk. Its jesses were tangled in the tree.”
She nodded and bent to retrieve his leather hauberk, wincing when she jarred her injured arm, still bound to her side. James took the leather garment and belts from her. “How is your wound?”
“It hurts some.”
“It must hurt a good deal for you to admit that much. We should change the bandaging before we travel on.”
“’Tis fine,” she said.
He shot her a doubtful glance and walked toward the glade.
“What will you do with the hawk?” she asked, following.
“I do not know. But I could not leave him there to die.” He dropped the garments he carried, and sat on a fallen tree trunk, his feet deep in ferns. He held the squawking, trembling hawk firmly in his lap and studied it.
Lady Isobel sat on the trunk with him and leaned toward the bird. “My father had goshawks in his mews. They were gray like that, with the white band over the eye, but much larger.”
“Females,” he said.
“We released them during the siege. Eustace was for eating them, but I told him to let them go.”
“Was there a male gos in your mews? This could be one of Aberlady’s birds.”
She shook her head. “I do not remember a smaller goshawk.”
“Well, he came from someone’s mews. Settle down, you bird. Let’s look at you.” Wary of the talons, he began to probe the body gently. “His crop is full enough—his breastbone is well padded—so he’s had good hunting while he’s been free.”
“I know little about hawks, though my father kept them. I did not go in the mews often, and I have never been hunting.” She leaned closer.
“Watch the talons,” he warned. She pulled back. “Size is the best way to tell a male from a female,” he explained. “This bird is much smaller than a female goshawk would be at this age. So the males are called tiercels, a third smaller.” He stroked the delicate feathering over the head, the only exposed part of the bird. “His feathers have begun to change from the brown of an immature bird to gray, but he’s not a full adult yet.”
“He’s beautiful,” she murmured. “His eyes are bright as red gold. Can you unwrap him?”
“Not yet. The swaddling helps calm him,” James answered. “That orange-gold color in his eyes means he’s under two years old. Next spring those irises will be colored red as blood.” He held the hawk upright, and the tiercel squawked at him. “Och, lad. He has a stubborn spirit,” he added with a chuckle. “He does not like being tucked in my shirt.”
“Will you keep him or release him?”
