Page 48 of The Hawk Laird
“You would not be content as an anchoress, I think. Too young. Too full of curiosity for life, is my guess.”
“You found contentment alone.”
Alice shrugged. “Some. Not by choice.” She stroked the bird. “My sons and my husband are dead now, all gone fighting for Scotland.” Isobel saw Alice’s eyes pinken with unshed tears. She sighed, shook her head. “All I have is Jamie and Janet, thisarrogant bird and an uncaring cat.” She cooed at Ragnell. “I thought one day James might wed Janet. They are cousins, but only by marriage, see.”
“Jamie would do anything for you,” Isobel said softly, feeling a deep tug at the thought that James loved this Janet so well that he was willing to risk all to gain her back.
Alice smiled. “He is like one of my own sons, though a brigand and a rogue.”
“Alice, is he a traitor?” Isobel asked. The question had been troubling her.
“Nay.” Alice shook her head. “He does not have that in him.”
“Sir Ralph claims there is proof of it.”
“There cannot be.” She frowned. “But Jamie looks haunted. He keeps some secret to himself. But then, he has carried a heavy burden ever since Wildshaw was taken by the English.”
“What do you mean?” Isobel asked.
“He has many deaths on his conscience.”
Isobel frowned. “Do you mean those he killed in battle?”
“Such deeds bother him, but he is a warrior, and nae the priest his father wanted him to be. Battle deaths are deemed righteous deaths by the Church, and I am sure he confesses those and is absolved. But what sits upon Jamie’s shoulders like a yoke are the deaths of…those he loved, though he did not cause their deaths.” Alice got to her feet to set the bird on a perch. She took off her glove and turned. “That bread will be done now,” she said crisply. “Come outside, lass, and help me fetch it.”
She lifted a cloak from a wall peg and threw it around her shoulders, then held out Isobel’s own cloak and helped her put it on.
“We will find Jamie and his gos,” Alice said. “And hope the rain keeps Sir Ralph away.”
Isobel followed Alice out into the rain, helping gather the heated loaves and wrap them in cloths. As Alice left some in thehouse and came back with one for Jamie, Isobel felt her heart thumping wildly at the thought of seeing James. What would happen later? Would he insist on keeping her captive, or would he let her go? She wondered for a moment if she should try to escape.
But for now, she thought, as she walked with Alice through the wet grass, she had no choice but to stay. Her arm would heal, her limp was already improving, and soon her foot would be strong enough for the long trek through the forest to Wildshaw Castle to find Sir Ralph, if he did not find her first.
As she passed between the trees, cool raindrops sprinkled over her cheeks and hair, and the damp breeze filled each breath. She inhaled deeply and sensed the freedom, somehow, in the scent.
Most of her life had been spent inside castle walls, effectively imprisoned by the will of those who would protect her. Now, tasting freedom and independence, she craved more.
Even so, she was still a captive.
Chapter Fourteen
Isobel clutched aloaf of hot bread wrapped in coarse cloth, savoring its warmth as she followed Alice through the murky rain. They climbed up a long, rocky slope, and halted near the top. A massive rockface soared beyond the earthen crest of the hill, a bleak stone surface covered with scrub and vines.
Alice walked toward the craggy rock. At first glance, Isobel saw several deep crevices as she followed Alice, who edged along between the rock and huge clumps of prickly gorse. One deep shadow was a narrow opening, obscured by thick green growth. Alice put a finger to her lips as they approached the cave.
From out of the rock came an unexpected sound. Mellifluous and deep, a singer created a resonant, low harmony with the silvery patter of the rain. Isobel looked at Alice in amazement.
“Jamie sang with the Benedictines at Dunfermline, in a choir the angels themselves would have praised,” Alice murmured proudly. “When he was a lad, he sang alone for King Alexander. Now he sings to his hawk.” She called his name.
The chanting stopped. “Come in, Aunt.”
Alice turned sideways to squeeze through the small opening. Isobel followed her into darkness. The cave was a narrow, widening toward the back, with light filtering from the opening and a glowing brazier that gave out dry heat. A tall wooden perch stood on a floor covered in sand and earth to absorb the bird’s mutes. James sat on a bench, back against the stone wall, goshawk perched on his gloved fist.
“Alice!” James and the goshawk both fixed bright gazes on Isobel. “My lady,” he said.
“We brought bread,” Alice said.
“Fresh baked, still hot?” James sat up. Isobel noticed he kept his voice soft and low for the bird’s benefit. She perceived, too, the undercurrent of fatigue in his slumped shoulders and the shadows beneath his eyes. The goshawk stirred restively, and James shushed him.
