Page 52 of The Hawk Laird
He slid her a penetrating glance. “You truly recall naught?”
“Very little, as you have seen yourself.”
His straight brows pulled together. “Who was with you when you prophesied about Wallace?”
“Those three men.”
“The priest recorded everything that you said?”
“Aye. He presented some of it to his parish after that, and sent a copy to the Guardians of the Realm of Scotland. But he did not reveal all that I said about Wallace. He and my father felt it would cause distress, so they kept it to themselves. Then they let it out a week or so before it happened.” She shook her head and sighed. “How were they to know it would happen so soon after that?”
“How, indeed.” Hearing his cynical tone, she looked up. James slid a glance toward her. “Do you know what you said about Wallace? Do you know what you said about me, Lady Isobel?”
She looked away, feeling uncomfortable. “I know some of what I said. That bread must be cool by now,” she said. “What else should we do for the hawk?”
She did not want to talk about the prophecies. She liked the peacefulness of the warm, dark cave, and she liked his soothing voice and gentle mood. To speak of the predictions only created tension between them. She felt that strain already.
He removed the compress and brushed the crumbs from the goshawk’s feathers. “I thought you forgot what you see in a vision.”
He was stubborn and intelligent, and would not be distracted. She rose to her feet and went to the brazier, holding her hands out to gather warmth.
“That time,” she said, “I did my best to remember. I made Father Hugh read me every word of it, though he feels it is best if I do not know what I foretell. He and my father, Sir Ralph, too, were upset with me for asking about that vision.”
“Why?” James spoke harshly, and the hawk ruffled his feathers in response. “Why do they want to keep you from knowing?”
She shrugged. “They say it is too stressful for me. And Father Hugh says the visions are too erudite for one of my small education and feeble female mind.”
“What!” James huffed. “You have a distinctly female way of looking at the world, aye. But ’tis hardly a feeble mind. Just the opposite, I would say.”
Flustered by his compliment, she looked into the bright heart of the brazier. “Father Hugh interprets the visions carefully to understand the symbolism. He says there is much deep meaning in them. He believes that the prophecies come from God, in the language of the patriarchs, and must be studied with care.” She shrugged. “He is preparing a book of the prophecies, though I have asked him not to do that. But he says he will gain much respect through them.”
“Let us hope he will share the honor with the prophetess,” James muttered. “Tell me more.”
“Since that day, I have tried to recall the visions myself, but only parts come to me. I begged my father to tell me what I had said. But I did not trust—” She stopped.
James sat forward. “Did not trust whom?”
She lowered her head. “I did not trust any of them to tell me the truth. And I wanted to know.”
“Why would they lie to you?” His voice was gentle. She wanted to sink into its warmth.
“They have always protected me, so they kept secrets from me. When I was younger, my father felt he should guard mefrom the outside world. But as I grew older, he did not relax his protection.”
“Have you always seen visions?”
“Since I was thirteen. I suffered a serious fever for several days, and nearly died. Afterward, I lost my sight for a month. During the worst of the fever, in a delirium, I described a battle between English and Scots that had not taken place. My parents and the priest were with me, for Father Hugh had come to give me the last rites.”
James watched her steadily. “Dear God,” he murmured. “Did the battle come about?”
“A few weeks later it happened just as I had said. Father Hugh told my parents that my prophesy was a gift from heaven, bestowed by the angels when I lay on the brink of death. He told my father such a gift must be used. He said the angels could speak through me to benefit all Scotland.”
“And they realized that they had a way of predicting the war.”
She shrugged. “I do not know what they thought. They told me little. I did as they asked.”
“You were but a lass.”
“My father and the priest, and my mother too, seemed to cherish me more once I became a prophetess. I was not just a tall, awkward, timid lass to be wed off to some knight. So I did what I could to please them. The visions came easily enough, but the blindness and the forgetfulness were horrible to endure.” She looked away, bit her lip. “Father Hugh says ’tis the price I must pay for the gift.”
