Page 63 of The Hawk Laird
“We use them as hideaways. But we live on the summit.” The torch sputtered as they made a sharp turn and bent their heads to avoid the low ceiling in that section. Then the tunnel split into two arms, and Isobel heard the sound of trickling water, its echo magnified by stone.
“There is a spring over there,” he said. “But we go this way.” He turned left to follow the incline. Isobel went with him, her legs tiring. She yearned to rest. Then he rounded a corner, ducked beneath an overhang, and turned to beckon.
Stepping forward, she saw a flight of stone steps and the pale glow of daylight.
He took the steps two at a time. Isobel came more slowly, holding her skirts, wary of the uneven steps. Though she was long-legged, the stairs seemed cut for giants.
They emerged at last into the gray light, the wind fresh and full. Isobel set her foot on grass and looked around. James went ahead, disappearing beyond a stacked stone wall.
A huge, curving stone wall surrounded the grassy area. Blocks and slabs of the same rosy sandstone inside the crag were layered to rise to a remarkable height. She saw small tiny window openings and one rectangular door in the lower part of the high rounded wall.
She walked around the circular yard inside the walls. Sections had fallen, revealing the double wall construction of the circular tower. The space between the walls was divided into cells and floors.
James came toward her, holding the hawk but without the torch. “This is an ancient broch,” he explained. “A fortress, abandoned ages ago, built by a people who they say have vanished from Scotland. The Romans called them Picts.”
“They must have been a race of giants, judging by this huge place.”
“No one knows much about them. And no one seemed to know about the passageway,” he said.
“Their secret was lost,” she said, feeling touched, saddened, somehow, and yet astonished. Overhead, the sky was like pewter and she felt raindrops on her cheeks.
James took her hand. “Come out of the rain,” he said, taking her with him. He stepped over some collapsed stones to enter the hollow core of the double walls and drew her up a rough staircase inside the wall.
They stepped out onto a gallery with windows overlooking the courtyard. Between the double walls here, she saw a few small chambers, snug and swept clean of rubble. James entered one of the cells, ducking beneath the door lintel. Dim light filtered into the windowless room, which held a stone bench and three wooden perch stands. He set Gawain on one of the perches.
“This was a mews,” he said.
“For Astolat?” Isobel asked, remembering the name of his other hawk.
“Aye. We will let Gawain rest, but not long. He could go feral again. Come with me.”
She followed him out and then up a low flight of steps to a higher gallery and into another chamber. A square window shed light into the room, illuminating a stone bench, a table, and a bed that held a flat mattress and fur coverings. A small stone hearth in the corner, cold now, hinted at comfort.
“Is this your chamber?” she asked.
“Aye.”
“Grand for a brigand.” She wandered about. “I thought outlaws lived in caves or hollow trees.”
“Some live in coziness and luxury inside ancient fortresses. But none have true homes. There is another chamber there,” he said, pointing to a narrow door. “You may use that.”
She peered through the doorway. The adjoining chamber had a view of the inner courtyard and held more crudely assembled stone furniture. The stone bed had a rudimentary mattress and no coverlet.
But the stark space had a peaceful simplicity. Isobel sat on the bench and looked out over the courtyard. Rain pattered over the stones and the grass below. She shivered.
“I will make a fire. And we have stores of goods and food, so you will be comfortable here.”
She nodded. Fatigue and hunger, and the rigorous climb, had sapped her strength. He left the chamber and she leaned her head beside the window, watching the rain thicken to a downpour.
Enclosed in a stout tower on an inaccessible crag, she was firmly imprisoned.
Her best chance for freedom remained with the outlaw—and her only hope lay in trusting him.
“The rain hasstopped,” Isobel said.
James nodded, silent as he focused on the hawk throwing yet another bate. He and Lady Isobel sat in the small stone chamber that sheltered them from the rain as they shared the bread and cheese Alice had provided, along with a small flask of red wine he had found in storage. A low fire crackled on the stone hearth, filling the room with warmth.
Sighing, he held out his arm, waiting for the blur of the hawk’s wings to settle as Gawain worked off his displeasure over something. James shook his head, beginning to despair of training this hawk.
