Page 45 of The Hawk Laird
“Could be she is a genuine prophet,” Alice suggested.
“Could be,” he murmured, remembering what he had witnessed in the forest. “But there are some who would have done anything to stop Wallace, and stop those who fight for Scotland’s independence.”
“You think Isobel knows who these men might be?”
“I wonder if she can name them. Sir Ralph Leslie, for one. She might know of others who were after Wallace as well.”
“Sir Ralph wears a black armband for Isobel. He loves her.”
“I doubt his sincerity,” James said. “He can love someone and still commit murderous deeds. Many do. But I have been blamed for Will’s betrayal deliberately. If there is a scheme, I want the truth.”
Alice nodded. “You must vindicate your name.”
He shook his head. “It may be too late for that. I owe this to Will. That is all.”
“Leslie said he has proof you betrayed Will. What did he mean? It has to be a lie.”
He sighed. He ought to tell Alice the truth, but he hesitated, fearing that she would no longer revere him—love him—once she knew what he had done. He said nothing.
“Jamie,” Alice said quietly. “I would never believe treachery of you. Ever.”
He nodded and let the silence linger. “’Tis late,” he finally said. “I must see to the goshawk. He has been too long without me, hooded to keep quiet. With luck, he has been sleeping.”
“I hope you get some sleep too. Do not stay up the night watching that hawk to train him.”
“I will sleep. We will begin training in the morn.”
“You swore never to take on another hawk.”
“I found this one hanging in a tree by his jesses. I could hardly leave him. I will keep him only until he recovers.”
“Aye, well,” Alice said philosophically, “he might be a wee gift from the angels just for you.”
“Or a wee trial,” James answered.
“You have had too many trials, Jamie. ’Tis time the Lord gave you a gift.”
“The Lord does not seem to agree,” he said wryly, and opened the door to step out into the night.
Chapter Thirteen
The goshawk’s gazewas captured by the bright candle flame as James crossed the dark cave. Years ago, he had used the tiny, wedge-shaped cave as a mews for Astolat and Ragnell. Now he set the candle on a natural alcove in the stone wall where the hawk could see it. Then he bent to check the fire in the small iron brazier set in a corner; he had left the peat coals glowing earlier and the low flames were steady now. The hawk would benefit from the warmth and dryness here.
He opened a wooden chest tucked in the farthest angle of the cave and sifted through an assortment of hawking gear—leather gloves, pouches, straps, brass fastenings, ankle bells, tiny hoods.
Choosing a glove, he slipped it over his left hand. The fit was still perfect, though he had not worn it for years. He flexed his fingers inside the padded lining and adjusted the long gauntlet over his forearm. The leather needed oiling, but otherwise it was in good condition.
He had never intended to wear this glove again, much less handle a hawk of his own. The glove felt heavy and stiff at first, but soon the leather warmed and molded to his hand as if only days had passed and not years since he last pulled it on.
He looked at the old stain that darkened the palm of the glove, the scrubbed spot still faintly visible, left by Astolat’s blood as she had died in his hand. The glove stirred other memories of that cursed day when tragedy had struck him again and again before the setting of the sun. James felt the denseweight of that old, congealed sadness again, like a burden he could never quite release.
But he shoved the thoughts away, gathered jesses and a pouch, and turned to approach the goshawk, who blinked past him, still entranced by the golden flame. James smiled ruefully.
The half wild tiercel was handsome but none too bright. The bird was not likely to enthrall his new master as Astolat had done. She had been a brilliant hunter and a rare, loyal creature. James felt sure he would never see her ilk again.
He would keep Gawain until the tiercel recovered, and then let him go without regret. James did not want a hawk to hand. The beautiful, difficult creatures complicated life too much, requiring time and attention he could no longer spare.
“Ho, you gos,” he said softly, removing the hood. The goshawk’s lids moved like lightning as he looked at the flame as if in fascination. James reached out his gloved hand, murmuring to the bird.
