Page 44 of The Hawk Laird
“You and Janet are all I have left in this world,” Alice said. “Nigel has been gone four years and our two oldest sons died at Stirling seven years back. And then young Tom, last spring.” She stopped and bit her lower lip as it quivered.
“It has been hard for you,” James said softly.
“You must get Janet back, Jamie.”
“I will.”
The needle flashed. “I hoped you might marry our Janet someday. You are cousins by marriage only. She is a good lass.”
“Janet,” James said, “has a will like an ox. She would do me in.”
Alice chuckled. “Tom said that of her once,” she said. “‘The will of an ox and a rump to match, and I do not want to play with her.’ I beat him about his own rump with my broom when I heard that!” Chuckling, she stitched the cloth while James finished his ale.
Hearing a sniff, then another, he saw his aunt blinking back tears. “Alice?”
“I am fine, lad. So long as I have you and Janet.” A shadow passed over her eyes.
James nodded, knowing how deeply his aunt mourned the loss of her husband and her sons to the cause of Scotland. But she had James, her sister’s son, and Janet, her husband’s niece, and loved them as if they were her own.
Something warm shoved against James’s leg. He reached down to pet the large, white cat. “Ho, Cosmo. Where have you been?” he asked, stroking the long back. “Out catching mice for Lady Ragnell? You must find a few extra for Gawain.”
“He only brings mice to Ragnell because he is terrified of her,” Alice said. “You will have to catch mice yourself for that gos of yours. Sparrows, too. Gosses love sparrows.” She glanced up. “Cosmo, come away from the bed. You will wake the lass. Shoo!” She waved until the cat turned and settled by the hearthstones.
His aunt fixed him a bowl of porridge, the quickest meal she had for him, and as he ate he glanced again toward the curtained box bed where Isobel slept. Perhaps by morning she would be rested enough that he could question her further. When he set down his bowl, he helped Alice refresh the remaining bathwater with a hot bucketful.
As Alice went outside to tend to her garden, James stripped down and stepped into the luxury of a warm bath. The water was still scented with lavender and foamed with the herbal soap Isobel had used. He scrubbed his hair and shaved his unkempt beard, ignoring thoughts of Isobel’s cream-skinned body, slick and nude, sharing the same water. Instead, he thought about other, simpler matters. He was used to bathing in a cold pool near his forest home, though the warmth and fragrance of the heated water eased his weariness as little else could.
Changing into a clean tunic and trews of brown serge—clothing that had belonged to his tall, large-boned cousin Tom—he settled by the fire to explain to Alice what had happenedsince he had escaped English custody several weeks before. His aunt listened quietly and offered steadfast praise for his attempt to save Wallace, even knowing he viewed it as a failure, and listened to his account of rescuing the besieged inhabitants of Aberlady Castle.
No matter what he did or did not do, his aunt believed in his integrity.
As the night deepened to true darkness, they sat quietly together. He always found peace beside Alice’s hearth, here in the forest house as well as years ago in the Crawford home in Dunfermline.
“She truly does snore, that one,” Alice commented then, looking around.
James hid a smile. He found the soft snores emanating from the box bed scarcely audible. But Alice lived in near isolation now with only animals for company; she had grown unused to human noise.
“If you tilt her head, she’ll quiet,” he said.
Alice gave him a sharp glance. “And how do you know that?”
“We slept in the forest last night. I learned it then.”
“Ah, I noticed how gently you speak to her, and how careful you are of her comfort.” Her brown eyes twinkled. “What about our Janet, eh?”
“Och, it is not the way of it,” James said sternly. “Isobel is in my safekeeping.”
“If you want to call it that. How long do you intend to keep her?”
“I will send word to Leslie soon.”
“I wonder if you are reluctant to let her go,” Alice said softly.
He pressed his lips. “She is more trouble than you can know. But she is injured and needs time to recover,” he finished lamely. He could not explain to his aunt the tangle of his feelingstoward the prophetess. He could hardly sort through the threads himself.
“Black Isobel is younger than I thought. So young, such a gentle girl, to make such predictions.”
“Aye.” James leaned forward, fingers spread toward the warmth of the hearth. “She foretold Will’s betrayal and his execution, and her prediction laid the blame on me. The hawk of the forest. The Hawk Laird—that was the implication. Why, Alice? Why say that about Will, and about me?”
