Page 35 of The Hawk Laird
“He is alive,” James said quickly. “You saw him alive. Remember that, Isobel.”
She nodded. Her face was pale cream in the strong sunlight, and her eyes were transparent blue glass, perfect yet sightless.
“Dear God,” he murmured. He felt stunned, dizzy, whirled about in an unknown direction. “Tell me what you need.”
She paused. “Safekeeping from you.”
“Aye,” he said gruffly, willing to grant her anything. He touched the curve of her cheek and she tipped her face into the cup of his palm. Her eyes drifted shut. “I promise.”
“Thank you. Then, James Lindsay, let me go.” Her tone was light, a mock scold.
For a moment, he did not think he could ever let her go. The force and certainty of it astonished him. Sympathy, he told himself; pity, perhaps. Just that, and no more.
“Come with me,” he said gently and led her, step by careful step, toward the horses.
Isobel tilted herhead as they rode along the forest track. Sounds seemed louder to her in the blinded state, scents and tastes stronger, and her fingers told her more of texture and shape. The effort needed to sort through so many sensations, without sight to tell her what she heard or felt or tasted, could be overwhelming. But sometimes she exhilarated in her awareness of the commonplace.
She knew James held the goshawk on his leather-wrapped fist, for she could hear the creak of the leather and the scritch-scratch of the bird’s talons. She heard James murmur often to the bird. His deep, soft voice had a comfortable texture, like warm wool on a cold night.
She knew he held the reins of her horse firmly, for she could feel the tension in the strap. His leg occasionally brushed hers as they rode, sending quick leaps of pleasure through her.
James rode close beside her, sharing what he knew of the Ettrick Forest. He told her he had lived in caves in the Ettrick for almost ten years, and she could sense his respect and love for the place. He was a natural storyteller, spinning entertaining tales about life as an outlaw and a Scottish rebel.
He spoke of his years running with Wallace and his men, engaging in skirmishes and trickery, weighing strategies and risks. He told of acts of cruelty, courage, and cleverness. With deft words and mellow tones, he painted images for her of intelligent, spirited men who believed freedom should exist in Scotland and sacrificed much for their beliefs.
But he told her nothing of how he had come to this life, nor did she ask. She listened and was glad that the earlier conflicts between them had entered a truce.
“My uncle was partly blind,” he said after a while. “I fostered with him as a lad.”
She tilted her head in interest. “Your uncle the falconer?”
“Aye. Blinded in the left eye by a trained eagle.”
“An eagle! I did not know they could be trained.”
“If the falconer is skillful enough, they can. Years ago, Uncle Nigel caught one in the mountains, an eyas—a young bird of prey—straight from the nest. He raised and trained it. A magnificent bird, though nearly impossible to manage. The bird was feeding on Nigel’s fist one day. Birds of prey have a habit of swiping their beaks to clean them, and the eagle swiped against Nigel’s head, taking the eye.”
“God in heaven! And he still trained birds after that?”
“Aye, continued as royal falconer for years afterward,” James said. She heard a note of pride, even amusement. “He was proud of his eye patch. A falconer missing his left eye is most likely to have trained an eagle, so he had even more respect from others.”
“Does he still keep birds?”
“He died a few years ago,” he said quietly. “After King Alexander died, he retired from the work to live in Dunfermline and make hawking equipment. He kept an old peregrine that had belonged to King Alexander. That bird was over thirty years old when she died.”
“Ancient,” Isobel said impulsively. She heard his snort of laughter. “For a falcon or a hawk.”
“Aye well, I’m even more ancient,” he said wryly. “Though I suppose you are scarce twenty.”
She lifted her head. “Twenty-six come winter. Most women my age would be wed with bairns of their own.”
“And you have not done that. Why?”
She shrugged. “I am a poor bargain. Few men would want a blind prophetess for a wife.”
He was silent for so long that she tilted her head toward him as if to seek his reply.
“I think you would be a fine bargain,” he murmured.
