Page 33 of The Hawk Laird
He nodded, his hand tipping and spiraling like a hawk in flight. Isobel watched as his hand moved in endless, gentle loops over the tiercel’s head. All else began to fade from her awareness. Somewhere a bird trilled and a soft wind rushed through the trees. The restrained grace and power of his handswept her along in its flight. He murmured the same low phrases over and over to the bird.
Suddenly she understood what the goshawk knew of the man: a soothing presence, a safe presence, a presence to be trusted.
She wanted to feel that for James Lindsay again, but could not. Then a remembered image came to her suddenly like a dream recalled—a man holding a goshawk on his gloved fist, standing beside a hawthorn tree in the rain.
This man.
Her heart began to thump. Months ago, in a vision forgotten until this moment, she had seen James Lindsay with a goshawk. She drew in a breath and wanted to tell him, yet could not. She wanted to take her gaze from his sweeping, gliding hand in the air, and could not.
The sunlit clearing around her began to fade. His hand was all she saw. Lights sparkled and glistened at the newborn edges of the field. Isobel felt the darkness slide in, filling her head, replacing the world her eyes saw with another world.
She wanted to cry out, but could not. She wanted him to pull her back, but she could not reach out. Darkness and light mingled and swept in like an ocean wave. She fell to her knees. Then light swirled into her, brighter and finer than glowing fire or sun, shimmering and dancing in her mind, brilliant, enthralling, loving, magical.
The images began.
She saw swirling clouds of mist. The veils parted to reveal a green mound and a hawthorn tree. Beyond it rose the soaring walls of a church, its stones dark with rain.
James Lindsay stood beside the tree, cloaked and hooded, a goshawk on his gloved fist. Isobel felt herself there, too, gliding over the damp grass to stand beside him. He turned to look at her, and she felt his sorrow, deep and dark and endless. Hestepped away and she moved after him, floating on the misted air. But he walked into the mist.
She wanted to follow but felt trapped somehow, as if chained. Swirling away, she saw another man standing beside the tree. A large man, an armored knight, handsome in a bold way, broad in bone and muscle, taller than any man she knew. His body was powerful beneath a chain mail hauberk and a green cloak. He held a long broadsword upright, his hands folded on the high hilt, as he watched her. His eyes were gray and somehow filled with light.
“Jamie seeks peace,” he told her. His voice was deep, rough, but kind. “And he seeks forgiveness. But he must grant them to himself and resists it.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
“A friend. Be patient with him, Lady Isobel. He will find what he seeks.”
She looked in the direction that James had gone. But the mist swirled, empty, lonely. She turned back. The huge, handsome knight had vanished.
The mist shifted into darkness again. This time it was a brown murk, cold and filthy, with a vile odor. In the dank shadows, she saw stone walls, and a man crouched in a corner.
Her father. His hair was long and straggling, gray and filthy; his beard hid his face, his flesh sagged on the jutting bones of his large frame, but she knew him. She recognized his blue eyes, dulled to a slate color. He covered his head in his shaking hands and curled forward.
She cried out and he looked up, hope lighting his features. Then the image was gone.
“Father!” she screamed, reaching out. “Papa!”
The darkness flooded into her, sparkling with colored stars, sweeping her away. As it faded to a velvet black depth, she fell forward.
The ground wasfirm and cool beneath her cheek. She felt the dewy grass between her fingers, smelled its fresh scent and the pungency of wild onion somewhere nearby. The wind and the sun were soft on her face and hands. She heard a lark singing overhead and heard the soft chirr of the jessed goshawk, a few feet in front of her. She pushed up to prop herself on her hands and knees.
“Isobel?” His voice was gentle with concern. She turned toward it. “Lady Isobel, what is it? Are you ill?” James crouched beside her. She felt warmth radiate from him. His hand rested on her shoulder, grip strong and firm.
“I am fine,” she said, a little breathless. “I am fine.” She began to stand, rising slowly. His hands supported her as she came up. The breeze pushed her skirt against her legs and the sunlight felt warm and gentle on her face.
“Can you walk?” he asked. She nodded. “Come over here and sit down.” His fingers gripped hers, warm, caring, strong. She felt the weight of his other hand at her waist.
She stepped forward and stumbled as her toe caught something, a root, a stone. His hands steadied her. “Isobel, what is it?”
“I am blind,” she said.
Chapter Ten
“Blind?” he whispered.
“Aye.” Isobel gave a trembling nod.
James stared at her. Bright sunlight lent her irises a pristine delicacy, but her gaze was flat and unfocused. He lifted a hand and waved it slowly, letting the shadow of his fingers pass over her face. She did not blink.
