Page 62 of The Hawk Laird
Isobel looked up at the soaring cliffside. “Have you a rope? What about the hawk?”
“This way,” he said, leading her toward the waterfall.
Puzzled, she followed, picking her way barefoot over mossy rocks and waving grasses. James led her so close to the waterfall that the spray dampened her gown and slicked her hair against her brow. She wiped her arm over her face and followed. Quickly he turned sideways and then slid behind the rushing foam of the waterfall. Then his arm thrust out and he grabbed her hand, pulling her through the beating rush of water to stand entirely behind the waterfall.
The sound was deafening, the light inside the crevice diminished. Seeing the outline of his head and shoulders, not sure where to go, she paused. He sluiced water from his brow. The hawk gave a long, nervouskeee-keee. Then Jamie disappeared with Gawain, slipping into shadows with wildcat grace.
Isobel stepped hesitantly into the darkness, and again saw his beckoning hand. He went into a dark crevice. She followed into a black depth, the wet rock underfoot slick and cold.
She felt panic overtake her—the darkness was like blindness, the roar of the waterfall so loud she could barely think. Turning, she bumped against a rock wall. “Jamie!”
A dim golden light flared, lining a narrow passage. She went that way, finding a dry floor that sloped upward. She put out a hand for balance on rough rock and ducked her head to avoid hitting the low ceiling of an apparent tunnel.
“Jamie!” Her voice was a watery echo.
“Here,” he said. The light bloomed brighter. She followed the twisting tunnel.
He waited along the passage, the bird in one hand. He held a flaring pine splint that he stuck into a crease in the rock. Sitting he pulled on his hose and boots, stood with head and shoulders hunched, and gestured for her to sit.
“We keep a flint and torches here,” he explained. “Put your shoes on before we continue. ’Tis a bit of a walk, but better than climbing straight up the cliff side.”
Isobel sat, yanked on her stockings and gartered them, not even caring if he watched, but he did not. She pulled on her boots and then followed James, who carried hawk and torch and loped up the incline. In the long, narrow crevice, the rock walls were pinkish sandstone and looked as if some stone-devouring dragon had carved a tunnel.
“A secret passage up to the crag?” she asked.
“I hope it is secret,” he drawled. “We have used it for years. The tunnel is as ancient as the broch tower that sits high on the crag. Wallace and Patrick and I discovered this cave and tunnel a few years ago when we were being chased by a patrol. We leaped behind the waterfall to hide and found this. Only we few know about it. Quentin, Patrick, a few others.” He walked on, then spoke again. “Pray God the English never discover it. Nearly a hundred men followed my lead at one time,” he added. “But less than ten know about this route.”
“Do the Southrons know you live up on the crag?”
“They know the Hawk Laird hides up there, but they do not know how we come and go. But now that you know—” He turned. The flare highlighted his face. He looked rugged, strong, unyielding. “Give me your solemn promise to never reveal this passageway.”
“Upon my heart, I promise.”
“Will you risk your heart? Then I will hold you to it.” He moved ahead. The torchlight poured gold over his hair, his powerful back and shoulders, turning the hawk golden too.
For a moment Isobel felt an intense yearning bloom inside her, a feeling unlike any she had ever known. It was as if she had just made a deeper promise than he had asked—as if she hadindeed pledged her heart, not for the man’s secret here, but for the man himself.
The feeling was wrenching, so powerful she nearly faltered, placing her hand against raw rock. A sudden memory flooded her mind—a vision, the misty image of a church, a rain-soaked yard, a hawthorn tree. A man, cloaked and hooded like a pilgrim, a hawk on his gloved fist. He turned, and she saw his face. James. And she was there, too.
She had seen those images months ago, the day she had seen Wallace’s death. She had not understood then, and still was not certain. Why had she seen James and herself together by that tree?
James looked back. “What is it? You are pale as the moon.”
“Naught,” she said, and came toward him. “I am fine. How much farther?”
He handed her the torch, one hand occupied with the hooded hawk, and took her elbow to lead her forward. “A long, steady climb that winds through the heart of the crag.”
“Was this cut by hand? Who did this?” She looked around the narrow tunnel with its low ceiling, curved floor, rough walls, pinkish rock gleaming in the torchlight.
“Much of it was tunneled by ancient men, I think. There are deep, old chisel marks. But it was begun by the hand of God—there are numerous caves connected by crevices large enough to be tunnels. In places, it is as open as a dovecote, and there are small wells and even a spring, all inside the crag.”
“How can that be, up this high?”
“The spring thaws funnel off the mountain. You will see for yourself as we go higher.”
They resumed walking. The climb followed the narrow tunnel in a snaking path that turned, ascended, dipped and flattened and stretched upward again. As they went higher,Isobel saw small caves off the tunnel like honeycomb crevices. Farther on, she saw a larger cave.
“Do you live in these caves?”
