Page 33 of The Forest Bride
A peregrine falcon sat on a nearby perch, restless, her little dark head tipped against her shoulder. She regarded him as if miffed that he had come to Greta first.
“I took you out to fly the field last time I was here,” he reminded Aurelia, reaching out his hand to brush the speckled breast feathers. She blinked, used to his presence.
He turned back to Greta, looking her over, studying the delicate feathery textures of her breast and back like a physician. He sensed contentment as her feathers roused. Earlier, Bran would have fed the birds; they sat replete, Greta relaxed on his fist.
Greta was an incomparable bird, a king’s bird discovered and kept by a mere knight, though an earl’s son. Ten years now she had been his, though once she had been Edward’s bird. He could only pray the English king never learned that she still lived, and that a Scottish lord protected her in the remote northern hills.
A Norwegian gyrfalcon, nearly white but for a faint gray striping over her breast feathers, she was cloud-colored, a rare and beautiful bird. She had grown large, and so fast on the hunt that each time Duncan took her out and let her off the leash, she could turn into a swift, pale, lethal blur.
“Ah, Smoke. Good sir,” he said, crossing toward another bird, a small tiercel, a male gyrfalcon, pale gray striped with dark gray. Smoke was smaller than his mate, Greta. Years back, they had bonded as a couple and had a family. Banshee was one of their brood, white like her mother, young still, asleep on a corner perch. And Tay, a pale gray tiercel, faintly marked in a pretty pattern. He loved the birds, though sometimes they reminded him of what he had lost—a wife, a family, the loving partnership that Margaret Keith had once described to him. The loss was his own doing, at least in part.
But by some miracle, Margaret was here, now, at Brechlinn. He felt a wash of disbelief. He had named Greta for Margaret so he would never forget.
Aurelia cheeped, catching his attention. She was a peregrine of modest size, brown and gold, slim and elegant. A bird from his father’s mews, raised by Sir Bernard, she always wanted attention. But she was his, and King Edward could not lay claim to her.
He had not yet achieved all that Brechlinn Castle needed, but he made sure the mews was the best it could be. There was room for the birds to have freedom and some interior flight in a place where they were safe, healthy, and comfortable.
He kept his birds discreetly, for he could not easily explain owning gyrfalcons, and he dreaded word reaching Edward. In earlier days, the English king liked nothing better than the gift of a beautiful bird of prey. The king was ill and vengeful now, but he might return a favor for a gift of trained birds. Duncan could not risk anyone learning about the gyrfalcons. And although English decrees about owning gyrfalcons did not apply in Scotland, Edward would not care about that.
After spending some time with the birds, he left the mews to cross toward the tower. He glanced up. Candlelight glowed in a single window on the third level. He felt pulled there, as if someunseen strand stretched between him and the redheaded girl, a strand spun years ago in innocence and hope. It was still fixed in his heart.
The Keith girl had no place in his life now, nor did he expect her to have any love for him, though he harbored feelings for her and always had. He just needed to discover why she was in the Highlands, why she had shot Menteith, and what she knew about the missing girl. Then he would return her safely to Kincraig. He owed her that at least.
He had questions, but should wait until morning.
The candlelight was still bright in the tower window, and he felt again the deep pull of some invisible, strand—an irresistible one. Margaret Keith was here. Some things could not wait until morning. He had to see her again. He had to know this was real.
He strode for the tower.
Chapter Eight
Lilias
Lilias woke witha start to sunbeams slicing through a shuttered window, the light falling across her face. Sitting up, she rubbed a hand over her eyes, pushing back her dark hair, loose from its braiding, and looked around. She leaned against plump pillows, all but swallowed up in a huge postered bed draped in golden damask curtains, her knees and feet small bumps under blankets and a pale embroidered coverlet. The thick mattress smelled of lavender and rose petals with a hint of herbs and resinous bog myrtle. The damask curtains let in a wedge of sunlight. Sliding her legs to the edge of the bed, she sat up and pushed aside the curtaining damask. Where was she?
Ah. Trapped. Imprisoned. She remembered now. Days ago—a week or more?—she had been dragged from her horse in a commotion of men and swords and shouting. Tossed over a saddle, she had been carried away on horseback for hours, then dumped over someone’s broad shoulder and taken up a torchlit stairway. Terrified, she fought, kicked, shrieking until a hand had clapped over her mouth to shut her up. Pushed into a darkened room, she was tossed on a bed. The man left, and a woman, silent and grim, brought her a drink and some food. Throat dry, she swallowed thirstily. Soon, all had gone blurry and she had slept.
Days had gone by, slow and silent, seeing only the woman, getting few answers to her volley of questions. Where was she, who had taken her, where were her friends? What happened to the men of her escort? The woman said little, shaking her head, asking her what she wanted to eat, if she wanted a book or needlework, if she preferred wine or ale.
“I am thirteen,” she said. “Bring me water for my health. If you bring spirits, water them.” She was served hot herbal infusions and watered ale. Her head always seemed foggy, so that she slept often and did little. Today she felt that way again.
She shook her head, sitting with stockinged feet dangling from the edge of the great bed. The room was not large, nearly filled by the enormous bed. The walls were whitewashed and plain, but there was a shelf with a few books that she looked through now and then. The raftered ceiling beams were painted in a flowery design that she had all but memorized. A patterned rug covered part of the planked floor. Daylight spilled through the latched shutters covering a tall window.
A fire in a stone hearth made the room feel too warm, with the sun shining bright outside. She wanted to go outside but had not been allowed. On a table, a tray held a glass goblet, a pottery jug, a pewter plate with apples and cheese. In a shadowy corner, a curtain partly concealed a chamber pot and a table with linens and a bowl of water. Near the window, a leather chair was pushed against a table holding a pot of wildflowers.
The room’s arched wooden door, trimmed in black iron, was latched shut. She knew the latch was bolted. She heard it every time the woman came in and went out.
Locked in a pretty room fit for a princess. Perhaps they thought she was one. But she was only the eldest illegitimate daughter of the earl who last year had declared himself King of Scots. The title of princess now belonged to her younger half-sister, Marjorie, just eleven years old and a captive in England with her other kinswomen.
Now both Robert Bruce’s daughters were prisoners, thousands of miles apart. But Lilias had a better chance of escaping than her half-sister.
Sliding to the floor from the big bed, she went to the table, sloshed the jug contents and sniffed, discovering watered ale. She poured a little into the glass cup, then sniffed the liquid again. The serving woman often gave her something at night that made her feel groggy and vaguely aware of her surroundings. She dipped a finger into the watery ale and touched it to her tongue, then tried to remember what she had learned about herbs and infusions that made one sleepy.
A sweetish, earthy funk traced through the brighter taste of ale. Wrinkling her nose, she thought about what Lady Rowena Keith, Margaret’s sister, had taught her about herbs. Valerian! That had an earthy taste. It was a helpful herb unless the dose was too high. One could fall asleep quickly and feel awful upon waking.
She gave the apple an uncertain glance—it could be tainted—and walked the room, bored, trying to be more alert. Using the little chamber pot and cleaning her face and hands, she smoothed her clothing, the same blue woolen gown that Robert Bruce’s sister had given her, with the same pale embroidered stockings and chemise that she had been wearing when the escort had been attacked. So her days went. So slowly.
Shuddering at the memory of the attack, she wondered what had become of Lady Margaret and Andrew Murray and the kind knights of the escort. She had learned nothing of them since coming here.
