Laird of the Wind Read online

  Laird of the Wind

  by

  Susan King

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  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-184-3

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  Copyright 1998, 2012 by Susan King. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  Thank You.

  For Josh, the first one out of the nest

  "Though her jesses were my dear heart-strings,

  I'd whistle her off and let her down the wind

  To prey at fortune."

  —Shakespeare, Othello

  Prologue

  Scotland, the Lowlands

  February, 1305

  A flash of light, then darkness as the vision began. Isobel, through closed eyes, saw a man emerge from the shadows. Tall, wide-shouldered, cloaked like a pilgrim, he moved with the easy grace of a warrior. On his gloved fist, he supported a hawk. Mist whirled, and he was gone.

  She frowned at the haunting image. She knew nothing of this man.

  "Isobel?" Her father's voice was hushed. John Seton's only child, the heiress to his property of Aberlady, sat waiting for another prophecy to come to her, and he respected that. "What do you see?"

  She shook her head in silence. Had she opened her eyes, she would not have seen the bowl on the table with the gleaming water surface that had sparked the vision. Nor would she have seen the stone walls of the chamber, or the fire in the hearth, or the three men who watched her so intently. She was blind.

  Her prophetic visions always took her earthly sight for a little while—an hour or longer, even a day or so. She waited on sheer faith for her sight to return, hoping it would.

  More images formed, faces and scenes, and words came to her then. "Treachery," she said. "Murder."

  The men murmured to each other—her father, her priest, her betrothed. "What sort of treachery, Isobel?" her father asked.

  "What do you see, Isobel?" Sir Ralph Leslie—her father's choice for her husband, and her father's friend—had a pleasant voice. He moved heavily, a powerfully built man, and she could hear the hawk, which he had brought with him, chirr on its perch in a corner of the room.

  "Stay back, Ralph," John Seton murmured. "Let Father Hugh and I question her. And keep your hawk quiet. That bird has a poor temper."

  Isobel listened quietly, eyes closed. She had been betrothed to Leslie at Whitsunday, and this was the first time that Sir Ralph had witnessed her speaking prophecy. She dimly realized that he was not sure how to behave during the session. She had not wanted him present—much less wanted the betrothal—but her father and the priest had decided, as they often did, over her.

  She frowned, eyes rolling under her lids as she focused on the rapid images across the dark field of her inner vision. "I see an eagle flying over Scottish hills," she said. "Hawks pursue the eagle," she continued. Her visions often blended real and symbolic. The birds must be metaphors. Then understanding flooded through her.

  "They are men," she said quickly. "Hawk of the tower, hawk of the forest, and others. Southrons and Scots both, come to take a man, the eagle, in treachery. He is a leader they fear and would stop." She heard a hawk call out—kee, kee, kee-eer—but the sound was not from Sir Ralph's hunting bird. The men around her were silent.

  "A gray goshawk on a gloved fist," she said, describing what she saw. "Its master led other men here. Hawk of the tower, hawk of the forest. The eagle is trapped in the middle of the night. He struggles, strong in body and heart."

  She watched as a huge man resisted as others dragged him away. "They accuse him of crimes and intend to kill him. But it is sacrifice—and murder—for their own ends." She saw the man taken away on horseback amid a shower of arrows.

  "The hawk of the forest looses the white feather. He will flee through heather and greenwood."

  "What of the eagle?" her father asked.

  Isobel sucked in a breath against images of cruelty. "His great heart is torn from his breast." She gasped against the disturbing vision. "The English lion claims triumph. The hawk betrayed the eagle, though they were friends. The hawk vanishes into the forest."

  "The English lion—King Edward," Father Hugh murmured, his quill scratching over parchment. "Who are the eagle, the hawk of the tower, the hawk of the forest?"

  She did not know. She felt sad, a terrible sense of betrayal. The strong, brave man—the eagle—would die before autumn.

  And suddenly she knew who he was. Dear Lord, she thought, let me warn him. For once, let me help, not simply foretell. And let me remember—please let me remember this time.

  Usually she forgot her visions, and her father and the priest rarely told her what she had said. They did tell her not to worry over it, and to let them take care of things for her. But she wanted to be involved in her own prophesying. She had first begun to foretell events as a girl, twelve or so years ago, at a time when her father had taken charge of her and her gift. But she was a woman now, and she was not content to let others have control over her visions.

  The priest had spoken of her predictions throughout his parish, and word had spread. She knew that he had written of her to the exiled king of Scotland, John Balliol, and to the men who acted as the Guardians of the realm of Scotland. The English had heard of her prophecies, too.

  She was told that she was a help to the cause of Scotland, and she was glad of that. The visions, and the price she paid, seemed worthwhile to her if the Scottish people benefitted.

  "Isobel, who is the eagle, the man taken?" Father Hugh brought her back to the moment.

  "The rebel leader William Wallace." She did not want to say so, but it was truth. "The English king will butcher the freedom fighter to appease his own anger," she continued. "He will call it righteous justice. Wallace is an eagle among hawks, and he will be betrayed by a hawk."

  She heard Ralph murmur to her father. "Go on, Isobel," John Seton urged.

  Eyes closed, she saw a lovely scene, a goshawk flying above a dense forest. "The laird of the wind," she said quickly, spontaneously. She loved the bird's freedom. "Hawk of the forest."

  "Who is he?" her father and the priest asked together.

  "He has no home, he lives in the forest and flies free." She watched the hawk's soaring flight, then frowned at what she saw next. "Other hawks—other men—hunt him. He flees for his life." She twisted her fingers together. "He betrayed, but not by choice. Now he is betrayed. Oh—treachery!" She gasped against a sense of anguish.

  "Who betrayed whom?" Father Hugh asked. "Tell us what you know."

  She fought tears. The visions did not often pull her into their v
ortex like this. She felt grief and loneliness as the images flickered in her mind. She saw mist again, and the man in the cloak reappeared, holding a hawk on his gloved fist.

  "A pilgrim," she said. "He has a penance of the heart. He longs for peace."

  "Who is he?" Ralph asked.

  "He is a laird... of the wind."

  "What is that—a hawk? Isobel, make sense," Ralph said impatiently.

  The man in the pilgrim's cloak was tall and strong. He stood alone in the rain, his hand supporting a gray hawk. In the shadow of his hood, she saw a handsome, somber face. Firm featured, yet gentle. Blue eyes, brown hair streaked with gold. She sensed sadness and pain, and she felt bitterness, even rage in him. How could she know his heart so well, and he a stranger?

  He strode through the rain to a hawthorn tree. The bird fluttered to a branch. "A secret," she said. "A hawthorne tree. A hawk," she said.

  "What secret?" Ralph demanded. "What is she talking about?"

  "Ralph, keep quiet," her father growled.

  "All of it is symbolic," Father Hugh said. "I shall study her words carefully. She sees more, look at her expression. Isobel, what is it?"

  She was silent. For the first time in years of prophesying, she saw herself in a vision.

  A woman glided through the rain toward the hawthorn tree. She was tall, slender, wearing a blue gown, black hair streaming like midnight down her back. Stunned, Isobel watched herself and saw the man in the cloak turn and beckon to her.

  Oh, she wanted so much to go to him—the desire was overwhelming. Yet something equally strong held her back. Then the scene faded. She saw stone walls in sunshine, and recognized the walls of her own home, Aberlady Castle. Arrows whined over the battlements. Men shouted. She smelled smoke, and felt cold and hungry.

  "Siege," she whispered. "Siege!"

  The vision disappeared. Dear Lord, let me remember the man, the hawk...

  When she opened her eyes, she was blind. Her father handed her a cup of wine, easing its cool metal shape into her fingers.

  * * *

  August 3, 1305

  He ran silently through the moonlit forest. Breath, step, pounding heart blended with the sound of the wind. Onward, never slowing, he slipped between the trees, leaping easily through the bracken with his long-legged, swift stride. Pray God he was not too late.

  He ran until his breaths heaved in his chest and the air burned his throat, until his legs ached, but he would not stop. Finally, a light gleamed through the trees. He saw blazing yellow torchlight, a house—then horses and armored men. He heard shouts.

  They had reached the house before him.

  He stopped behind an oak, heart slamming, tunic damp with sweat. Men in chain mail, some on horseback, on foot, filled the moonlit yard. Twenty—no, thirty, he decided.

  A dead man lay on the ground. Someone kicked the body aside. Others brought forward a horse, its rider bound and gagged: a giant of a man. Blood streamed from a head wound. A guard struck the man again.

  Silent and stealthy, the watcher in the forest pulled out the bow slung behind his back and strung it. Quickly nocking an arrow from the quiver at his belt, he aimed. The guard, about to strike the captured man again, fell from his saddle, an arrow in his chest. The archer released a second arrow. Another soldier went down like a felled oak.

  Men now shouted, wheeled, drew swords, loaded their crossbows. Watching from his place behind the tree, the renegade archer saw the prisoner turn and look toward the trees, nodding as if he knew his ally, as if he was grateful to his friend for the attempt to help him.

  The renegade saw something pale and small flutter to the ground, dropped by the prisoner, unseen by anyone else. Later the archer meant to fetch that thing. For now, he was busy. A quarrel from a crossbow slammed into a tree trunk. He slipped forward, closer, and loosed another shaft, hit his target.

  Three guards less, now; nock, draw, aim, release. Four less. Still too many to take alone. But he had several arrows left, and each one would count for a life before the night was done. Even so, without a horse or men at his back, he had little hope of saving his friend, taken in treachery.

  A treachery he had aided. The knowledge cut like a razor. He drew the bowstring again.

  Five on the ground now, silent. The other men mounted and led the prisoner hastily out of the yard. Bolts from their crossbows hammered into the trees as they rode away, but none of them caught the unseen archer in the night.

  That one lunged forward like a wildcat and ran, bow gripped in his fist. The horses were English-bred, powerful beasts, and soon pulled far ahead of the runner.

  He paused, drew, sighted, let loose another arrow and another, and yet more. He shot so fast that he did not think about his aim. Each bolt was an extension of his will and his rage. Each one found its mark.

  He ran forward again. The horses were nearly out of range now. He climbed a slope rapidly to overlook the earthen road. Eyes narrowed, even in the moonlight, he saw—with the pristine clarity of vision that had helped to earn him the name of Border Hawk—the glimmer of armor ahead in the moonlight. Barely within range they were, now.

  He had two arrows left. The distance would lessen his accuracy, but he aimed, drew back, loosed. The bolt hit one of the men, but he rode on with the others.

  These men would escort their captive to a trial, and a horrible death. The archer was sure of that. His friend was a leader and a rebel who had driven the English king to mad obsession. Neither justice nor mercy would be shown.

  One arrow left. He nocked, drew, sighted. And lowered the bow.

  For one fervent moment, he wanted to take his friend's life with a sure, swift arrow before the English could do it with torture and humiliation. He raised the bow again, eyes steady, jaw locked. His heart sank within him like a stone, and he shot.

  The arrow fell short.

  Chapter 1

  September, 1305

  Rain pattered on stone as the pilgrim mounted the low steps to the abbey church. He pulled open the oak door and stepped inside. Shafts of light, silvered by rain, pierced the dimness in the vaulted nave. Plainsong drifted toward him, chanted by monks in the choir space past the altar.

  Danger shadowed him like a demon, even here. He could not linger, but he paused, closed his eyes. Peace enveloped him like mist veiled the hills. But serenity, for him, was fleeting. He was glad for the simple blessing of shelter from the rain. The forest was his home now, and he was not as accustomed to enclosing walls or stone underfoot as he used to be.

  He drew his cloak closer over his wide shoulders and dipped his fingers in holy water, crossing himself with a swift, practiced gesture. Cautiously he moved along the right aisle through shadows toward the nave. He was hunted daily now by English and Scots alike, but the summons of a friend brought him here to Dunfermline Abbey, out of the sanctuary of the forest. If he was discovered, his capture—or his escape—would disturb the hard-won peace of the abbey.

  Last year, the English king had stayed here, summoning Scots nobles to pay him submission, and dispensing what he called justice. As he departed, King Edward had ordered the place burned, even though his own sister was buried beneath the abbey stones. The blackened ruins of the refectory and dormitory were a stone's throw from the church, which had survived.

  He genuflected by the altar and moved past. In several years as a fugitive, he had never submitted to King Edward, unlike most Scottish nobles by now. He had taken a pledge of freedom for himself and for Scotland.

  Months ago, he had been wounded in battle, captured with two of his cousins, thrown in an English dungeon. One cousin had died beside him and the other—a young woman—had been taken away. And still James had refused to promise fealty to King Edward.

  What he had promised, ultimately, had been far worse.

  As he walked, his tall warrior's build and gait naturally attracted glances, but he bowed his head and moved on. The scallop shell and brass saint's badge pinned to his cloak identified him as a penitent
man. Dunfermline Abbey was a frequent stop along the pilgrimage route, so the disguise served him well.

  He looked about for the one he was to meet after vespers. A few worshippers knelt or sat on benches, absorbed in prayer. The smell of incense lingered, and plainsong swelled in the church. He knew the melody—a kyrie he had sung countless times in what seemed another life.

  Now his soul had rough edges. He had changed much.

  He entered the chapel of Saint Margaret at the east end of the church, and moved toward the massive carved marble tomb of the long-ago Scottish queen. Kneeling in candlelight beside the plinth, he lit a new candle in homage to Margaret, a holy friend to pilgrims and those in need. He folded his hands and waited.

  Footsteps, then a monk wearing the black robe of the Benedictine order entered the chapel and knelt beside him. The monk whispered a prayer, than glanced at James. He had a tonsure, brown hair, a long and familiar face.

  "Brother, I have traveled far on a poor day, and hope for good news," James said.

  "And I wish I had that for you, Jamie."

  James glanced sharply at his friend, heart sinking. "He is dead?"

  "Wallace is gone," the monk whispered.

  James nodded, steeling himself against grief and anger.

  "William Wallace was taken by foul treachery, Christ have mercy on his soul." The Benedictine shook his head. "We heard just days ago. Captured by treachery, brought to trial in London, found guilty of treason... and executed."

  "Treason! He never declared fealty to King Edward," James murmured. "He was not an English subject. He was condemned on false grounds."

  "Aye. They accused him of deeds he never committed—well, some he did, but naught to merit his fate. He was dragged to the gallows, hung until he scarcely lived. They took him down and—" Blair stopped. "I cannot say the rest, not here in this holy place."