Page 6 of The Hawk Laird
Isobel turned back, determined, returning to the wall walk. She pulled her white silk veil from inside her sleeve and leaned deep into the embrasure opening. With an exaggerated motion, she wiped at the fresh scar on the outer stone wall, shook the stone dust from the cloth, and stood back. The breeze caught the black length of her hair again.
Cheers and shouts rose from the English troops. Isobel lifted her head regally and turned to descend the steps. Eustace smiled.
“Och, Sir John would be proud to see such wit in his daughter!”
“My father would not have surrendered, and neither shall I.” She walked down the steps calmly, but inside she trembled. The wit might be there, but she had learned to hide her fear.
“Eustace, last night I dreamed that we walked out of here into freedom.”
“Is that a prophecy?”
“Just a hope.” She looked up at the sky, where the sunset faded into indigo. The dream was not prophetic. The blinding burden of prophecy had not come over her, nor had that come over her for a long while. Yet a small, strange shiver rippled through her.
She frowned, sensing a compelling new presence somewhere nearby. Fatigue was overtaking her, she told herself. She set a hand to the wall and paused.
“There is soup left,” Eustace said. “Come eat.”
“I will.” She had eaten little for three days; the thin soup of barley had to feed all of them. When the last of the grain was gone, they would face an enemy stronger than any. She could already feel the effects of starvation in lingering dizziness and a dull headache.
“Isobel.” Eustace sounded grim. “You must give the final order to surrender.”
“My father would not want that.”
“He would not want us to die.”
She glanced at him. Eustace Gibson had been part of Aberlady’s garrison since Isobel had been a small girl. She had come to rely on his skills and his steadfast nature. She sighed.
“Sir Ralph will be here soon—before the siege, he went to find my father. He will return soon with Sir John.” She heard the brittle note of doubt in her voice.
“We will not see that one soon,” Eustace muttered. “Surrender, girl. The English will not harm you.”
“But they will harm you, and take all of us prisoner as soon as we set foot out of the gate. Aberlady will be made into a Southron stronghold.”
Eustace sighed. “We must put the torch to Aberlady as we leave. Then the Southrons cannot take it.”
“Torch Aberlady!” She stared at him.
“Isobel, we cannot stay. We cannot defend this place.”
Silent, she stared at the darkening sky, unsure what to say—or what to do.
“Look there!” Eustace grabbed the hilt of his sword. “In the far corner of the yard.”
She gasped. A group of men—four or five, she counted hastily—emerged from the shadows beneath the back wall of the enclosure. They walked boldly into the bailey and came toward the steps where Isobel and Eustace stood. On the battlement, the few men of the garrison lifted their bows and held them ready. Eustace lifted a hand to hold their attack.
“Who are they?” Isobel whispered.
Unkempt and wild in appearance, the approaching men wore simple tunics, leather hauberks and cloaks, but carried good broadswords and bows. One man moved ahead and dropped back the hood of his long brown cloak.
He was taller than his companions, shoulders wide, legs long and lean. His clothing was shabby at the edges and his tangled brown hair and beard needed trimming. His features were handsomely shaped despite grime. His strong, agile stride and his very presence seemed to charge the air like lightning.
Then Isobel realized that she had sensed his arrival moments ago.
He gripped his unstrung bow like a staff and halted near where she stood. A broadsword was slung across his back. Nodding to Eustace, he looked at Isobel.
“Are you the prophetess of Aberlady?” His quiet voice had a richness that carried.
“I am Isobel Seton. Who are you? How did you get in here?”
