Page 32 of The Hawk Laird
“I mean to reclaim him. Soft, you gos. There.” He swirled his hand in graceful, long loops. The hawk watched, intrigued. Isobel watched, too, feeling drawn in by the peaceful, sweeping gestures.
“But he belongs to someone,” she said after a while.
“He did.” He emphasized the last word.
“A goshawk is a yeoman’s bird,” Isobel said. “But knights and barons, even earls and kings, favor goshawks, too. That tiercel could belong to anyone. If his owner is a man of rank, you could suffer for it. You must return him.”
“I am an outlaw, my lass. I do what I please.” He watched the hawk. She watched his hand, strong and supple and beautifully made. The bird stared at it too.
Isobel sighed. “Well, he might be from Aberlady’s mews,” she admitted. “Eustace would know.” She came closer, drawn by the hand, the hawk, the man. “If you ever let me see Eustace again, that is.”
James slid her a look. “Come here beside me, where the gos can see you. If you stand behind him ’twill make him nervous. And do not stare at a hawk,” he added. “It means danger to them. Wildcats stare before they pounce.”
“Ah.” She moved to stand at James’s right side, still holding the cool, damp cloth to her arm. “My father owned a beautiful goshawk once, a sister to one that King Alexander called his favorite hunting hawk.”
James lifted a brow. “My uncle was a royal falconer to King Alexander. Mayhap he raised your father’s hawk.” He spoke to her in the same voice he used with the bird—low and mellow, almost musical. Shivers cascaded down her back.
“Did you learn hawking from your uncle?”
“Aye. I fostered with my uncle and aunt in Dunfermline when I was a lad, before I went to a seminary school in Dundee. My uncle taught me much about his art.”
“You are a falconer, then.” She looked at him in surprise.
“I am but a brigand who knows hawks.” He leaned forward and set the tiercel on the bow perch, then turned to Isobel. He took the cloth from her hand to wipe his fingers, crammed it in his belt, and leaned forward to refasten the bandages on her arm.
She felt the ache ease as he touched her. Shivers rippled from head to foot as he pulled her sleeve up over her shoulder and wrapped the bandages that bound her arm close to her side. The simple sensations roused by his hands on her were relaxing, even compelling.
She did not want his hands to stop. She felt like the hawk, caught and enthralled. Perhaps she even had the same blithe, silly look on her face.
She cleared her throat. “Let me do that,” she said, when he knelt to lift the heavy hems of her gown and surcoat.
“Just quickly,” he said, slipping his fingers beneath to find her ankle. She felt a tender melting sense at his touch, and shifted her weight to her right leg to lift her foot, laying her hand on his head to keep her balance. His sun-warmed hair had a soft, fine texture. Her cheeks flamed suddenly.
“Why do they call you the Hawk Laird?” she asked, groping for something to say. She felt oddly breathless.
“Oh, because I strike with swift skill in the forest, taking English prey,” he said in a mocking tone. “Or because I can see distances clear as crystal. Or mayhap”—he glanced up at her—“I earned the name for my nasty temper.”
She pinched back a smile. “Tell me truly.”
He shrugged as he wrapped the cloth strips firmly around her foot. “I had another hawk, years back, when I first came to the forest,” he said. “She was a goshawk too, large and beautiful, a fierce hunter. She hunted grouse with a passion, just as my men and I hunted Southrons. Quarry never escaped us.” He set herfoot down. Isobel removed her hand from his head. “She was a fine bird.”
“You kept her with you in the forest?”
“I made a mews for her in a cave.” He turned to crouch beside the tiercel. “She would come out with me nearly every day. If we came across prey for her, Astolat would fly to it. If we came across my prey—Southrons—she would perch in a tree or soar overhead, or even fly off for a few hours. But she always came back.” He smiled faintly, but Isobel saw a bitter sadness in his eyes.
James began to move his hand once again in languid passes over the bird’s head. Isobel watched, standing behind him.
An easy peace existed in the little clearing, apart from conflicts of will and temper, of prize and captor. She wanted to preserve that, even if she had to stand here unmoving, just watching the man and the hawk until the sun sank.
“Astolat sounds a remarkable bird,” she said. “You must be a gifted falconer to have trained her so well.”
“Hawks differ in mood and nature, like people. Astolat was a perfect hawk, intelligent, with an almost human loyalty. I have never known a better-tempered bird.” He waved his hand, and the goshawk stared upward, looking enraptured and slightly dimwitted.
“What happened to her?” Watching his fingers glide, Isobel felt as beguiled as the tiercel.
“She caught a Southron arrow meant for me,” he said quietly.
“I am sorry,” she whispered.
