Page 82 of The Hawk Laird
“They mentioned that, but said it is likely he sent servants to do the task for him, to keep him clean. There seems little clue about other names.”
“But for mine,” James said darkly.
“We also heard the possibility that Leslie was involved.”
“That would not surprise me.” He suspected that Leslie knew about the pledge James and other captive Scottish lords had signed. And he was sure Leslie had sent men after him when he escaped Leslie’s patrol and sought out Wallace.
“Now that Robert Bruce has been named one of the Guardians of the Realm of Scotland, they say he is determined toconvince King Edward to appoint a Scottish bishop to work with him.”
“There is more news of the Earl of Carrick?” James remembered Isobel’s prediction about the lion of Scotland, and that Bruce could gain the throne soon.
“Aye. He renewed his pledge to King Edward, but rumors grow that he secretly aids the rebels. They are never caught if Bruce rides out to find them. Edward does not trust Bruce any longer.”
“Then the cause of Scotland has a strong ally in Robert of Carrick,” James said.
Quentin frowned. “Something else we heard—the English put Wallace’s remains on display.”
“Did they,” James said flatly. “Where?”
“Piked his head above London Bridge, crowned with flowers. Sent his limbs north to four locations. In final insult, they set his right arm above the sewers in Newcastle. But they say that his finger rose to point toward Scotland, and there it stays. Better we tell you than others.”
“Jesu,” James said, fighting a rise of grief and anger. “He deserves peace and honor.”
“King Edward should be damned for this act,” Patrick said.
“Among his other deeds.” James huffed bitterly.
“Will Wallace deserves a proper burial,” Quentin said.
“Someone should see to it,” James snapped. Hurt and rage surged raw within as he turned and strode out of the kitchen.
Long after dark, he sat in the mews with Gawain on his glove after walking endlessly around the summit of the crag. The torment had calmed; now he felt grim and solitary.
He heard Quentin and Patrick walking past, talking low, likely gone to seek their pallets elsewhere in the broch ruins. No sound came from Isobel’s small cell nearby. When she did notreturn to the kitchen, James thought she had decided to keep to her chamber.
Gawain sat staring at James with bronze-tinted eyes. He puffed his feathers and balanced on one leg, looking silly but content. Far from content, James blew out a breath, startling the tiercel.
The news of Wallace’s further humiliation rocked his feelings from remorse to anger and back again—anger at the English for brutality and callous lack of respect; at Will Wallace for his stubbornness; and anger with himself for having had any part in the tragedy. He could never repay the debt he owed Wallace. And now he had delivered a blow to Isobel, too, rejecting her when he only wanted to keep her safe and give her a chance at a peaceful life. He despised Leslie, but the man could provide for Isobel what James could not.
He would never forget her, and he had to face that truth too; he wanted her, needed her rather desperately in certain moments. His original plan called for abducting the prophetess, trading her to Leslie for Janet, and going on his way. But the plan went awry, and now he had lost his heart to her.
Setting the bird on a perch, he left the mews and headed for his own chamber. But he stopped by the opening to Isobel’s adjoining nook. He could hear soft snores. So her head was tilted poorly again, and she would not sleep well. Nor would he, with her so close, and him aching with regret.
The curtain that separated their rooms was but a cloak. He shoved through it and went to her bed, kneeling there to cup her face gently and shift her head to ease her snores. Her cheek was warm and her face was beautiful enough to break his sorry heart. He was not accustomed to needing anyone.
She had foretold that the laird of hawks would be taken. He should not forget that.
He kissed her lips. Then he stepped back and shouldered the curtain aside.
Dawn light streamedthrough the cold as Isobel walked with the others along an earthen path that led through the trees. None of them spoke much as they left the crag and moved through the forest. The goshawk rode on her glove.
Earlier, James had said that Gawain might slip back to half-wild if left too long in the mews, so the bird must come along. He let her carry the tiercel after he fed the bird to ensure his crop was full and his behavior more complacent. But Gawain’s piercing eyes seemed to see all as they went.
She and the others followed James’s long stride. The hilt of his broadsword glimmered, strapped to his back, and he carried his bow. His head was draped in a chain mail hood, his body covered in heavy leather hauberk and a long tunic and cloak. He was prepared for battle. So were Quentin and Patrick, walking beside him. Their preparedness both assured her and frightened her, for she could not tell what the future would bring to them that day.
After a while, James paused. “They are waiting for us.”
Looking past him, Isobel saw a few people standing like shadows outside Alice’s house. She walked forward with the men, and saw Alice in the yard, along with Eustace, Henry Rose, and Geordie Shaw, whom she had not seen since the day of the skirmish in the forest, when her horse had run away with her.
