Page 75 of The Hawk Laird
The water inthe shallow end of the underground pool was indeed warm, Isobel found when she tested it with a bare foot. After their meal of porridge with chicken, overcooked but hearty, James had carried the hot stones to the pool and stacked them in the water. Now she stripped out of her gown and shift and set them beside her boots. The afternoon sun cast amber beams into the cave space, creating a warm rainbow sparkle in the water. She eased herself into the pool, sighing.
Above, on the crag’s summit, she heard James whistle to the hawk as he worked with the tiercel. She sank deeper into the pool and leaned back against the rim of the wide, natural stone bowl that had been rubbed smooth in places by flowing water. Stretching out, she dipped down, finding a comfortable niche. Water lapped in a soft cadence against the stone and trickled along furrows in the rock wall. She relaxed, tension flowing out of her, aches easing. A current of cool water, carried from elsewhere, swirled among the pocket of warmth created by the hot stones. She leaned back to wet her hair and closed her eyes. Somewhere overhead, James sang plainsong to the hawk.
Splashing gently over herself, Isobel smiled, knowing she could easily spend her life in this solitary, beautiful place. The warmth, the rippling water, the trickling harmonies eased her further. The edge of her awareness dissolved.
Within moments, she could not dispel the shimmering images that began.
A man satin a dark corner of a dank chamber, leaned against the wall, ankles manacled. His large frame was too thin and his long gray hair was grimy. His striking blue eyes, so like her own, were hollow. Then shadows closed around her father’s image and Isobel saw horsemen riding along a forest track.
Ralph Leslie was in the lead, bull-like, his back straight as he rode a dappled horse. He turned to the woman riding beside him, her black hair braided beneath a gauzy veil, her gown blue silk.
“Wife,” he said.
Gasping, Isobel gripped the edge of the pool. The woman was herself. Opening her eyes, she only saw a field of darkness. The blindness was back.
Next she saw the pilgrim, cloaked and hooded, walking toward a church in the rain. He pushed back his hood as he neared a hawthorn tree. He knelt by a green mound under the tree and clasped his hands in prayer. A goshawk fluttered past him to perch in the tree.
Isobel saw a woman approach him. Herself. Her gown whispered over damp grass. He looked up, but when she reached out to him, he vanished into the mist and the rain.
Now she saw a flurry of battle scenes, men struggling on a field, wielding weapons, swords and maces and lances, blows hard and heavy, armor bloodied and shimmering in a misty dawn—then in a shaded wood—then beside a wide stream. The sight and sound of the battles faded, and she saw a lion, curiously calm, standing on a hill overlooking a Scottish loch.
She drew a sharp breath, held the edge of the pool, and vividly saw a skirmish in the forest. Men on horses, men on foot. James was there, sweeping his sword around as riders closed in on him. He fell.
“James!” Isobel screamed.“Jamie!” She lunged out of the pool, splashing and puddling water on stone. Darkness enveloped her, and she trembled, less alarmed by blindness than by a deep fear for James, wounded and defeated in her vision. Falling to her hands and knees, she prayed she had not witnessed his death.
Groping for her clothing, she found her things and struggled into them, damp and shaking. The murmur of the water seemed louder because she was sightless. She stood, spinning, trying to find the direction of the ladder that led out of the cave.
“James!” she called. “Jamie!” The echo of her voice seemed lost amid the rush of the water. She took halting steps forward, her foot slipping in a puddle. Making her way forward, she met the wall and fumbled her hands over its slick, knobby surface, following it. The sound of the water confused her. Another step, another—and then she stepped into nothingness.
The shock of cold water brought her upright, gasping and choking, flailing. She had learned to swim as a child, and it came back to her now as she pushed forward through chilly water, seeking the edge of the pool.
James tore offhis boots and tunic as he saw Isobel go under again. He plunged feet first into the pool and sliced through the water toward her with long, swift strokes as she thrashed, sputtering. Reaching out, he grabbed her around the chest, pulling her against him, then pumping arms and legs as he made his way to the rim of the pool.
He lifted her over the ledge and heaved out of the water, then pulled her out completely. She curled over and moaned, her breathing ragged. The wild, frightened look in her eyes alarmed him to the depth of his soul.
“Isobel,” he rasped. He swept back the sopping fall of her hair. “I am here. Isobel!”
“Oh Jamie!” She reached out, fumbling. She was clothed only in the wet, diaphanous silk of a shift that clung to her bare form. Desire cut through him, but it did not matter. Seeing her glass-blue stare, he knew.
“Oh, God, Isobel,” he whispered. With a sob, she fell into his arms, and he gathered her close, both of them wet, the girl shivering in his arms. “Soft, you,” he said. He grabbed his cloak and wrapped it around her. “Be calm, lass.”
“I had a vision—in—in the water,” she stammered. Afternoon light poured into the cave, but the space was dank and chill now. He rubbed her arms, her back.
“Tell me later. We need to get you warm and dry.” He stood, brought her to her feet, then snugged his cloak around her. Gathering his boots and her things, he led her out of the cave, up the steps, and along the stacked steps that would take them back to the broch.
Once inside hisbedchamber tucked between the broch walls, he wrapped Isobel in a blanket of plaid wool both thick and warm. Cloaked under it, she removed her wet chemise while he turned away to add wood to the fire. Then he stripped out of his wet tunic and took up his pilgrim’s cloak against the distinct chill.
“Come sit by the fire,” he said, guiding her there, where she sat with knees drawn up beneath the blanket. James heard her teeth chattering as he sat beside her. He pulled her into the circle of his arm.
“Wh-where is the hawk?” she asked, shivering.
“In the mews across the yard. He worked hard for the day and is resting.”
“D-did he come to your fist on the leash?”
“Aye. You are cold.” He rubbed her back. “He came like a dream, Isobel. He flew the length of the leash, a few feet, thoughit took many attempts before he did,” he admitted. “So I fed him and put him on a perch for the night.”
“Will you stay awake with him?”
