Page 46 of The Hawk Laird
As he spoke, he detached the thongs from the tiercel’s bracelets and reattached a pair of jesses that had belonged to Astolat. He wrapped the leather straps around his smallest gloved fingers, and nudged his covered fist against the backs of the thin, muscular golden legs.
Gawain must have been thoroughly trained once, James thought. With scarcely a hesitation, the goshawk stepped back and perched on James’s fist, his talons flexing firmly on the glove just over the wrist and base of the thumb.
“Good lad,” James said. He offered the bird some raw, sliced meat that he had brought with him from the cottage. “You do remember your training. Or else you are just too tired to bate. I do not have need of a hawk, lad, but I will keep you so long as you need care.”
He stroked the back feathers softly, knowing that gentle contact would soothe the bird. Yet he was aware that too muchhuman touch would flatten the feathers and make them heavy. Then he gave the bird more of the meat and put the rest in the pouch at his belt. Gawain ate quickly and eagerly.
When the hawk finished his meal, James carried him toward the candle and blew it out. The goshawk stirred on his fist, then quieted, lulled by darkness relieved only by the glow of the peat in the brazier. James knew the young hawk was tired, perhaps in pain from what might be a sprained wing.
“So, Sir Gawain, the manning begins,” James said, the words floating low and gentle in the darkness. “I am your source of food now. I am your captor, and I am your freedom. You will learn to know my voice like the beat of your own heart.” He smoothed his fingers over the breast feathers.
Isobel drifted into his thoughts like a summer mist, softening his mood. He was her captor as well. Though she might expect him to try, he was not interested in bringing either woman or hawk under his will. With the bird, he worked toward the exchange of wary trust between master and hawk. That was all he could ask for with such a wild, elemental creature.
The woman was already gentled, with a fine and delicate character, but he craved the gift of her trust. Still, he thought he would never have it of her; the tension between them was too much. And he would keep the hawk longer than he would keep Isobel.
He drew breath, watching the hawk, and began to sing softly, repeating the notes in a haunting, airy pattern.
“Ky-ri-e e-le-i-son. Ky-ri-e e-le-i-son.”
Threads of moonlight slipped through the entrance, which was shielded by tree branches and vines. In the thin light, James saw the goshawk tip his head curiously to listen. He sang the phrase again.
“Ky-ri-e e-le-i-son. Ky-ri-e e-le-i-son.”
He had thought about the call he would use for this bird during the hours he had ridden beside Isobel in the forest. Somehow this one fit the bird, fit the master. The melody had an elusive serenity, the notes rising and vanishing like the graceful, soaring flight of a hawk.
He sang it again, soft and low. Steady repetition would teach the hawk to recognize the phrase as his master’s call. He talked to the bird, his tone patient, quiet.
The hours slipped past. James sang, and murmured, and walked the bird around the dark mews. His intent was to keep the bird awake, and keep himself awake, and in the process, achieve taming as fast as possible.
He would give the exhausted tiercel no choice but to focus on his voice and the gentle touch of his fingertips. In the hawk’s bleary, fatigued mind, the only reality would be the one his master provided for him. Gawain would never be tame, but he would learn.
Through touch and voice and endless patience, James would teach the bird that food and security came from one reliable source. The bird would grant him a certain amount of trust.
He was exhausted himself, but he forced himself to stay awake. Manning the bird quickly was paramount just now. Deep into the small, dark hours of the night, James walked, murmured, stroked, and sang.
And all the while, he thought about faith. He wanted faith and trust from the goshawk. He had it freely of Alice, no matter what he did. And he had sensed it, fleetingly, from Isobel, and tasted it like honey on her lips.
He craved more from her, but knew she had changed her mind about him again. He had seen trust flicker within her like a flame, sometimes bright, sometimes fading.
But when he had admitted to her that, indeed, he had taken part in Wallace’s betrayal, he had watched the spark of faith disappear utterly in her eyes.
He could not blame her. He had lost faith in himself.
In the darknessof the curtained bed, Isobel awoke to quiet, comfortable sounds: Alice hummed at some task, the fire crackled, Ragnell chirred, and rain pattered on the roof. She pulled the covers high and peered out through the curtains.
“There you are!” Alice stood by the table, kneading a large mound of pale dough.
“Greetings, Dame Crawford,” Isobel said hoarsely.
“Just Alice,” the woman corrected. “You slept yesterday and into today, nearly two days! Good rest heals, though.”
Isobel blinked in amazement. “Two days? I remember waking a few times.”
“But you could scarcely speak or move, you were so tired.” Alice smiled. “You did get up once or twice, but went back to bed. If you are ready to rise now, you need some food.” Alice worked as she talked, sleeves pushed up, hands capable as she punched and folded the dough.
Isobel glanced around the room. “Where is—”
“Jamie’s with his gos. Gawain, he calls it.” Alice laughed. “He asked me to bake bread for the tiercel, so I have been at that task this afternoon.”
