Page 85 of The Hawk Laird
“Gawain,” she called. “Here to me!”
The guard looked up. “Gosses are stubborn birds, always wild. But you must have your bird. And Leslie would not want a good hawk lost, if it can be useful for hunting.”
Isobel coaxed the bird, then reached into the pouch at her waist, remembering that James had given her some food for the goshawk. Taking a slimy piece, she waved it about.
“Not like that,” the guard said. “Use it as a lure. Have you got a creance in the pouch?” She nodded, glad of his unexpected help, and withdrew a twine leash. The knight took it and tied the meat to it. “We need feathers to disguise it.”
She dipped into the pouch again and found small feathers that James kept in the pouch. The guard thrust them into the meat like wings as a false bit of prey. Then the man tossed the line out and began to spin it overhead. “Call your bird, lady.”
She did, singing, whistling.
Then Gawain lifted his wings and soared away, banking out of sight. Isobel sighed, devastated. The guard gathered the reins and rode on. A while later, he stopped again.
“There,” he said. “See him in that tall elm? He almost seems to be following you. Call out.” He lifted the lure and spun it again as Isobel sang and called, holding her gloved hand high. Then she saw the goshawk cutting through the trees, streamingtoward her. She held the glove high and waited, heart racing. The guard spun the lure.
Gawain plucked the meat out of mid-air with his talons, and dragged it with him to alight on her glove, as if he had done it a thousand times. Slanting her a bronze glare, he dipped his head and began to tear at the meat. She grabbed his jesses in a trembling hand and wrapped the leather around her fingers.
“Look at that, he came right to you,” the guard said. “A good hawk indeed. Come, Lady Isobel. Your betrothed wants you safe in his castle.” He urged the horse onward.
“Oh, you bonny gos,” Isobel said, her voice thick with tears. “Thank you.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Through the morningmist, Isobel saw a tower of gray stone encircled by high stone walls set on the green crest of a hill. As she and the guard rode closer, she glanced back to see Father Hugh and a few soldiers following. Then the guard’s horse pounded over the wooden drawbridge spanning a rushing stream and passed under the iron teeth of the portcullis.
Wildshaw. She could only think of it as James Lindsay’s castle, though Sir Ralph held it.
In the bailey yard, she saw the early morning bustle of soldiers and servants hurrying about on various errands. Dozens of English soldiers in chain mail and surcoats stood about or walked past, while lanky boys and dogs ran with them, and a servant guided a cart drawn by an ox across the yard. Smoke twined upward from a slate-roofed open smithy, and the tempting fragrance of baking bread wafted from a smaller building nearby.
Above the busy yard loomed the massive tower keep, where wooden steps led up to a wide arched entrance. A man hurried down the steps, chain mail glinting, his wine-red surcoat a rich burst of color in the morning mist.
Sir Ralph Leslie lifted a hand in greeting as he came near, pausing to fist his hands on his hips with a stormy expression. He had always reminded her, in build and temperament too, of a dark bull, and that was true now.
“Lady Isobel, thank heaven you are safe,” he said. “You brought a hawk!”
She gave him a grim look in silence. The guard who rode with her swung down and reached up to help her dismount, taking extra care as she held the hawk. A boy ran forward to lead the horse away.
“I appreciate this, Sir Gawain,” Sir Ralph said brusquely.
Isobel turned, surprised. “Gawain?”
The young knight gave her a quick, warm smile, and she noticed for the first time that he was a handsome fellow. “I share a fine name with your hawk, my lady.” His dark eyes twinkled. “So I was pleased to help you. Good day, Lady Isobel. May you be content at Wildshaw.” He tipped his head and turned away. Isobel smiled slightly, grateful for one friend in this place.
Ralph Leslie looked up at her, for Isobel stood a handspan taller than he did. But in contrast to her slender build, he was broad as an oak, with a round face and a wide torso, his fisted hands tough and sure, his brown eyes smoldering beneath a thatch of iron-gray hair.
“Are you harmed?” His tone held a flat irritation.
“I am fine. Does it matter?”
“Of course it does.” He looked at the goshawk on her fist. “I see you brought my goshawk all the way from Aberlady. A gesture of good will, I see.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Your hawk?”
He nodded. “Aye. I left him with your father’s falconer. He is a stubborn and hot-tempered bird. I had no success training him, though by nature I am a most patient man,” he added. “How is it he sits the glove for you? I did not know you cared for hawks.”
She blinked at him, still astonished. “I—we—Sir Eustace set the hawks and falcons free from Aberlady’s mews. We had no choice during the siege, but for the few we ate. We…found this one in the forest later. I did not realize he was yours.”
“What! Youatetrained birds?” He glared at her.
