Page 36 of The Hawk Laird
“To win you back what you want?” she asked sourly. He wanted a certain woman; she marveled at how strong his love must be. A ripple of jealousy went through her.
“The man who gains such a bargain will be fortunate,” he said. Her insides swirled, and she felt her cheeks grow hot with a furious blush. His voice, a rich blend of soft and rough, felt as intimate as if he touched her bare skin. “You have a suitor?”
“Sir Ralph Leslie is my father’s choice for me. Not mine,” she said. “He has little interest in me, but great interest in what I possess.”
“Aberlady?”
“Prophecy.” She tilted her head, though could not give him the direct stare she wished.
“Ah, is that the way of it.” Then he was silent.
Riding beside him, she listened to the muted rhythm of the horses’ hooves, the tiercel’s faint squawks, and the steady murmur of the forest—rustling leaves, wind, and birdsong. After a while, she wanted to hear his voice more than the tapestry of sounds around her. “You said you fostered in Dunfermline with your uncle?”
“From the time I was ten until I was fifteen,” he said.
“I know the place. ’Tis where Saint Margaret is buried, and other Scottish royalty,” Isobel said. “I have not been to the abbey myself, but I have heard ’tis beautiful.”
“A great abbey, a holy place. The pilgrimage route goes through there,” James said. “But King Edward declared it a den of robbers since Scottish nobles met there to make plans againstthe English. So he burned the place down last year. An atrocious deed. His sister was buried there, yet he burned it.”
Isobel gasped. “Was the abbey ruined?”
“The church was spared by grace of God. I have a friend among the monks there. Most of the monks last year had no quarters after the great fire.”
“And your uncle’s house? Was it safe?”
“Burned. He and his wife retired to a small house in the forest. She lives alone there now.”
“Your Aunt Alice?”
“Aye. Lass, lean left. Low branch.” He touched her arm. She ducked as branches swept over her.
“I am causing you a good deal of bother. I am sorry.”
“I do not mind.” His tone was gentle, the same one he used with the hawk.
As the horses began to descend a slope, she leaned back, gripping her mount’s mane, until the ground leveled again. She felt the wind blow through her hair, felt the heat of the sun on her face, and heard fainter, higher birdsong. The blindness was lingering this time.
“We have left the forest,” she remarked.
“Only to cross a moor. We will enter cover soon and follow another forest track. The Ettrick Forest is a good deal more than forestland, with moors, hills, lochs and burns in its boundaries as well.”
The hawk kakked loudly and Isobel heard the wild thrashing of wings. “What is it?” she asked.
“Just a bate,” James said. Isobel felt the horses stop, while the frenzied whirr of the goshawk’s wings continued, slowed, and ceased. “Calm down, lad,” James soothed. “Back to the fist, then.” After a few moments, the horses stepped forward. “He saw a pair of deer run past. They startled him.” Isobel nodded, and they rode on. “He needs to be hooded.”
“And he needs a name,” she said.
“I usually call my hawks and horses after knights and ladies from the tales of King Arthur.”
She tipped her head curiously. “Why so?”
“When I was a lad, my parents gave me a painted manuscript in French containing many of the Arthur tales. I read them again and again. I suppose the names stayed in my mind.”
“I read them, too, and loved them. My mother owned a copy in English, with beautiful pictures. You called your other hawk after Elaine, Lady of Astolat, who died for love of Lancelot?”
“Aye. ’Twas a prophetic name.” His grim tone reminded her of his earlier remark: the bird had been killed by an English arrow. She waited in the blind darkness, waiting to hear more. He was quiet.
She heard leaves rustle, smelled the tang of greenery, and felt the cool and the quiet in the air as they entered the forest again. The pace of the horses slowed. The hawk kakked.
