Page 53 of The Hawk Laird
James watched her. “Ah, lass,” he said, sounding almost sad. “You are a rebel and a warrior, and do not even know it.”
She tipped her head. “What do you mean?”
“You endure much, and you fight, too.”
“How so?”
“In your blindness and forgetfulness, you protest being forced to prophesy. But you are the only one being hurt, I think.”
Isobel felt a weight turn inside her gut as the truth of his words took on substance and force. She stared at him. “My God,” she whispered, shocked. “Do you think so?”
James sighed. “Lady Isobel,” he murmured. “Come here.” He patted the bench. She did not move. “I would come to you, lass, but I am so tired I doubt my limbs will hold me upright.”
Still she watched him, entranced by his gaze, stunned by the truth he had revealed to her about her visions and the aftermath.
“Come here,” he whispered again, and held out a hand.
Chapter Fifteen
Isobel sat besidehim, and James touched her hand. The quick, soft brush of his fingertips seemed to caress her entire being. She trembled as she looked up at him.
“Do you think the blindness and the forgetfulness could leave me, then?” she asked.
“They might, if you ever found peace with your gift,” he said. “In the seminary, we studied the intricate symbolism that exists throughout life, the reflection of the heavenly and earthly realms in objects, in thoughts, in everything. Your blindness is a symbol of something. It may reflect your own struggle, within yourself.”
“Father Hugh said it reflects my unworthiness to know the full truth of God.”
He wrinkled his nose. “It could be that the blindness comes from your own fears. I have heard of cases of blindness that go away even when it seems hopeless. My uncle, who was blind in one eye, once had a bout of blindness in the other eye. A wise-woman brought him herbal medicines and told him his sight would improve only when he stopped being afraid of the blindness in the other eye. He thought about what she said. A week later, his sight was restored—quite miraculously.”
She frowned. “I do not fear the visions.”
“You may fear the way others insist that you keep doing it.” He shrugged.
She rubbed her fingers over her eyes. “Dear God. You might be right.”
He leaned his head against the rock wall. “Sometimes another can show us truths about ourselves we do not—see,” he murmured.
“There are other forms of blindness,” she agreed.
“True. Now tell me—why did you try to recall your prediction about Wallace?”
She sighed. The hawk chittered and shifted on James’s fist. “I do understand my visions,” she began. “I see their meaning clearly when they come to me, but then I forget it. My father and the priest think the symbolic meanings are beyond my intelligence. But I know what I see. That day, I knew I had to remember what I saw.”
“Why?” he asked softly.
“I wanted to warn Wallace. I never doubt the truth of my visions. That much I have learned. What is harder to know is the exact meaning of what I see.”
He watched her. “Did you warn Wallace?”
“I wrote a note with my own hand, and begged my father to deliver it.” She twisted her hands together. “He said he would. But the three of them—my father, the priest, and Sir Ralph—acted strangely about that vision. The images alarmed me. I knew Wallace would come to a dishonorable fate, a horrible end.” She sighed. “But my note was sent in vain. He died, just as I foresaw.” She felt the sting of tears.
“If he received your note, he would have been grateful. He respected prophecy—he had dreams of his own that foretold events. He mentioned your prophecies to me once or twice. But I doubt Will Wallace would have heeded anyone’s warning. He was headstrong. Passionate. A driven man.”
“But I could not bear to know such a thing about a man’s fate and keep silent about it.” She frowned at him through a glaze of tears. A drop spilled down.
James touched his thumb to her cheek, then cupped her shoulder. She was glad of the warmth and weight of his hand, for she felt forlorn and remorseful.
“We both tried to help him, I think.”
