Page 30 of The Hawk Laird
With the other hand, he held the food. He would not exert force over the bird. He knew the tiercel was hungry and tired, and he hoped that the appeal of easy food, and the discipline of previous training, would assert itself.
Finally, the goshawk raked its wings more slowly and settled on James’s offered fist with a decisive flapping. The bird cocked a resentful golden eye toward him.
“Ah,” James said, smiling. “Here, you stubborn, bonny bird.” He transferred the meat to his leather-covered hand. The bird tore at the food immediately. “’Tis cooked, but ’tis all there is. Take it, aye, and the rest.” He watched the bird eat. “Ah, look athim, Isobel,” he said impulsively, grinning at her. “He’s on the fist faster than I thought.”
“He’s quiet. Is he tamed?”
“Hardly. He’s just tired and hurting, and only reluctantly willing to accept me.”
“Ah,” she said. “Like me.”
He flashed a glance at her and gave a grudging laugh. Then the goshawk bated again, flinging himself off the fist to dangle head down, flapping his wings.
“What is it?” Isobel asked, sounding alarmed.
“A bate. Just temper. He wants us to know he does not like this. Hawks, particularly gosses, can throw fits like a spoiled infant. A falconer needs a good deal of patience to deal with a goshawk.” He cocked a brow. “This one looks as if he will need a lot of patience.”
The tiercel beat his wings in a fury, then hung motionless. James placed a hand on the breast and gently lifted him back to his fist. The narrow-toed feet clenched fiercely through the unpadded protection of the bowguard, and James bit back a wince. The bird roused his chest feathers and hissed.
“Soft, you,” James murmured. He went to the bow that he had stuck in the ground and lowered his arm. The tiercel took to the perch with scarce urging, and James quickly secured the leather thongs to the bow to keep him there.
“He is quite temperamental,” Isobel noted, watching.
“Short-winged hawks are of high temper by nature, and more of a challenge to train than long-winged falcons.” James shook his head. “Poor bird. He was manned and lost and has gone feral again, and now he’s had the shock of being trapped and taken. Temperamental and likely to stay that way.”
“Mayhap you should let him go,” Isobel said. “You should not keep a creature who wants to be free.” Her eyes sparked with meaning.
He raked his fingers through his tangled hair and suddenly felt the chill air over his bare chest and back. He retrieved his woolen tunic from the ground—his linen shirt was soiled with the bird’s mutes—and pulled it over his head. While he laced his leather hauberk over the tunic and relatched his belt, he frowned in thought.
The unexpected responsibility of the goshawk would throw his plans into chaos. So far, nothing had gone the way he wanted. The sun would be high before they left the glade, and each daylight hour along the forest path brought the risk of being seen. He had no men to fight at his back if they met soldiers. He sighed and looked at Isobel.
“Are you hungry?” She nodded. “We must leave soon,” he went on. “But first I want to look after your wounds and find you some food. The gos ate the meat I had saved for breakfast.”
“I saw some blackberries beyond that elm tree.”
He nodded. “I’ll gather some, and bring the horses to the stream.” He moved away, then looked back at her. “Guard the hawk, if you will, until I get back. If he bates, lift him gently to the perch. Be wary of his feet.”
“Will he try to escape?” she asked.
“He is well and truly caught, though he does not like it.” He tipped a brow at her. “And what of you, Lady Isobel?”
“Do you wonder if I am well and truly caught?” she asked in a spicy tone, head high.
He nearly chuckled at the unconscious charm in her defiance. “I just wonder if I should leave you here unguarded.”
“I will not leave. I do not know this forest, and I can barely control that surly English stallion. And I am hungry.” She fisted a hand on her slender hip. “For now, you have two captives.”
James returned a frank stare. “And I’ll keep you both. Be certain of it.” He walked away.
Isobel savored thelast few blackberries and sucked the ripe juice from her fingertips. The taste and satisfaction of fresh food were wondrous after the hardship of the siege. She sighed.
“Shall I fetch more?” James Lindsay asked, seated beside her on the fallen tree trunk. Amusement crinkled his eyes. She noticed tiny creases there, and the golden tips on his dark, thick eyelashes. His eyes were a vibrant, deep blue in the sunlight, like lapis lazuli shot with gold.
She shook her head and felt a blush touch her cheeks. “I am full,” she murmured.
“Let me look after your arm.”
“My arm is fine.” The wound ached fiercely, but she was loath to admit it. Her behavior embarrassed her a little. Exhaustion had made her sob like a child and collapse on the horse, and she had likely snored like a soldier after a feast; that, she knew, was a fault of hers. Just now, she had eaten with a ravenous appetite, while James watched with an indulgent look on his face.
