Page 4 of The Forest Bride
“If you were smaller than me, I would be a giantess!” She laughed.
He huffed, feeling enormous beside her. Stopping, he looked up at the bird. “Odd. It is sitting halfway up, though falcons normally seek the highest perch.”
“I may have wounded her. I tried to climb up to help, but I fell. Can you go up?”
“I think so.” The bird had not moved even with humans nearby. It was wounded for sure. Wondering how to capture it, he tested a couple of branches.
“Pardon me. I need to remove my shirt.” He waggled his fingers and she understood, turning her back. Quickly he removed his falconer’s glove, undid his wide leather belt and sporran, tugged at the plaid draped over his shoulder, and stripped off the long tunic until he stood in shirt, woolen trews, and boots. He shrugged off the shirt and slung it over his bare shoulder, then drew on the heavy glove. He would need it.
The bird fixed large dark eyes on him, its white brow angled sharp and wary. It was a female—a gyrfalcon, he realized, for her chest and wings were nearly white, liberally speckled with gray. Her wicked talons flexed on the branch, but her legs were still blue-gray, indicating her youth. When she lifted one wing, the other stayed close, as if she could not fly. As he moved closer,she shifted a little, and a tiny bell on her anklet chimed above the leather jesses looped around her leg.
“She is a trained bird,” he said. “A young one. See the gray specks on her wings? She will turn mostly white in a few months.”
“Pretty thing. Her jesses look tangled on the branch.”
“I will go up and see.” Climbing the pine next to the central one, he ascended until he crouched just above the bird. She twisted her head to watch, dark eyes piercing. Duncan froze in that devilish stare and judged his next move.
Slowly he grabbed another branch and eased his way across to the tree where the falcon perched, pausing above her. Now he could see the bird was weak, her body quivering, likely with hunger as well as injury. With luck, she would let him capture her; a trained raptor would have learned that a human could provide food and safety.
Lifting the shirt, he dropped the linen like a cloud over the bird, reached down, and scooped her up swiftly. Startled, tangled in linen, she fought, but Duncan trapped her, nudging his heavy glove beneath the lethal talons. She caught hold of the leather while he worked to free the jesses, the little bell chiming.
Cooing soft reassurance, he cautiously descended and dropped to the ground. Margaret Keith followed as he carried the falcon out to the sunny meadow.
“There, bird, safe you are.” The creature cocooned in his shirt trembled. “Margaret, in my sporran there is a falconer’s hood.”
She fetched the pouch and found the small leather hood. When he popped it over the bird’s head to shut out the world, the falcon went still. He handed Margaret his shirt and balanced the bird on his glove.
“She seems well trained,” the girl said.
“The glove and hood mean security to her. Otherwise she would fight me fiercely.” He looped the jesses around his fingers as he spoke.
Margaret held his shirt to her chest. “You know birds.”
“Some.” The hooded bird was still as Duncan probed her chest, her wings. Finding crusted blood beneath one wing, he saw an ugly dark puncture, half-healed. “She was hurt a while ago. Likely the arrow dropped away. Not yours,” he added.
“Oh, thank the saints!” He heard her little sob of relief.
“Her crop is thin. She has not eaten for a while. There is a bit of raw meat wrapped in the sporran. I brought it for my goshawk but sent him back with my sister.”
She handed him the wrapped meat. “I have sisters too. Tamsin and Rowena. And a brother, Henry.”
“Do you? Here, dear, take this.” He offered the bloody chunk to the bird, snatching his fingers away as the sharp beak tore down.
“Here, dear,” Margaret repeated, handing another dripping bit to him. She was not squeamish, Duncan noticed with approval, as he fed the bird again.
“Safe now, my lass,” he told the falcon.
“Safe with us,” Margaret echoed. “Is she badly hurt?”
“I do not know yet, but she cannot fly.” He indicated the puncture beneath the wing. The girl did not flinch as she peered at the wound. Duncan admired that.
With the bird on his glove, he could not easily dress again. “Lass, hand me my plaid if you will.” He stood as she draped it over one shoulder and then helped fix his belt. She fetched his other things and grabbed her bow and arrow, moving quickly and without complaint, though she limped.
“It is a good walk to the castle. Your ankle—can you walk?”
“I am fine.” She limped beside him and he walked slowly for girl and bird both. Margaret clutched his things to her chest, smiling.
“Thank you for saving the bird. When do you think was she hurt?”
