Page 96 of The Hawk Laird
“The prophecies are most important here,” Father Hugh said.
“I will never be part of your plan.”
“You need us,” Father Hugh said. “You understand little of your power. You are like ink for a pen, clay for a hand. Someone must take over from there.”
“Father Hugh—the lass prophesied for the outlaw, but refuses to say what it was. We must find out what she said. She must tell us all she knows. I can convince her, I think.”
“Aye, then,” Father Hugh said.
Isobel stood, edging toward the door.
“I will get the damned hawk,” Sir Ralph said, striding toward the perch, then rummaging through the falconer’s pouch to pull out a small leather hood.
“He will foot you,” she warned.
“Let him try,” he said, managing to hood the hawk in one swift, forceful movement. The bird squawked but stilled on the perch. “Father!” he called.
Father Hugh nodded and pulled out a piece of dark cloth that was tucked in his belt that she had not noticed. He whipped it over her head and tied it firmly behind her head.
Darkness descended suddenly, and though she pulled at the blindfold, the priest took her hands and held them.
“If the blindness is forced upon you first, you might prophesy more readily,” Father Hugh said. “Sir Ralph—do not hurt the lass. Stay back. Here, Isobel, sit.”
Someone guided her back to the bed and pushed her to sit. She knew Leslie’s rough, strong hands and the grip of a man who worked with weapons and gear and horses. Then he tied her hands behind her.
“Why do you do this? Father Hugh, I thought you a worthy priest! Why join in this treachery?”
“John Seton looked after the welfare of his only child,” he replied. “Just as I cared for mine.”
“Your—child?” She tilted her head, frowning. “Sir Ralph is your—son?”
“Aye. I watched him struggle in his youth, the bastard of a priest. So I found a noble household to foster him, and made sure he was instilled pride and ambition in this temporal world. Now, Lady Isobel,” he murmured, “with the darkness upon you, you can summon the visions.”
She turned her head to shake off the blindfold, shake off the fear. “I will not.”
Sir Ralph’s hand clapped heavy on her shoulder. “All this talk of freedom and wildness and that devil of a gos over there has shown me the way to tame you.”
“Tame me?” Her heart pounded. Now that she knew their relationship, she could not trust them to be anything but cruel, grasping, and in agreement.
He bent close. She could smell his breath. “I will keep you awake for days and nights, without food, without sleep, listening only to me.” He caressed her shoulder as if it was a bird’s wing. His whisper was cold as ice entering her veins. “When you are ready to obey me as your master and your husband, we will have prophecies great enough to please a very demanding king.”
“Nay,” she whispered, bowing her head. He laughed.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
James gripped thechains, and with the strength in his arms and shoulders, raised his body weight so that his feet cleared the floor. He lowered himself, pulled up again, repeating it until his muscles ached for release.
“You will exhaust yourself,” John Seton observed.
“What else is there to do?” he muttered. Wrapping his hands around the chains, he set his bootsoles against the wall and stretched his legs. “I have grown weak in here on a thin porridge and sour watered ale. I need my strength to get us out of here, and get Isobel and Janet free too.”
John Seton grunted. “True, we have lost brawn and will in here.”
“Not will. And I am gaining back the brawn. Especially when crumbs fall down in here from above.” He extended his legs against the wall again, glancing up at the wooden planks that formed the ceiling—those same boards were part of the floor in a chamber overhead that was used by garrison soldiers as a dining hall. Sometimes when the men gathered for supper, small scraps of food would trickle down between the planks and fall to the dungeon floor. John and James would harvest the bits before mice could scurry in to grab the feast.
John looked up. “I hope they drop some chicken bones with a little flesh on them tonight. Your eye looks better and the bruises are fading.”
James sat and squinted. “It is improving. I no longer see an old fool, but a friend.”
