Laird of the Wind Read online

  "Tell me," James growled.

  Blair murmured low, detailing cruelty and courage, while James listened in silence. His blood surged with sorrow and rage. A single arrow could have saved his friend untold suffering, had he only had the courage to—he clenched his hands, felt his spirit harden within him, as if the last tender feeling turned to stone.

  "Martyr," John was saying. "His death will spark the Scottish cause to more fire, just when King Edward thought to extinguish it forever."

  "True. John, join us again in the Ettrick Forest."

  "An outlaw's life does not suit me now. I came here for peace, and to write an account of a great man's life. The truth of Wallace's deeds must be known. You belong in the forest, James, not I. You left our holy order years ago to join a cause you believed in. You were knighted on a bloody Scottish field, while I remained behind and took priestly vows."

  "Yet we both ended up forest rogues. We need your weapon hand and your good sense once again. There are only a few who support me now. You must have heard the rumors."

  "I know that you are hunted. I know Wallace was betrayed by Scotsmen—the lord of Menteith, for one. I hear he fled into England to be rewarded by Edward."

  "Another rumor is that Wallace was betrayed by Sir James Lindsay of Wildshaw."

  "Jesu! That I had not heard."

  "So those who once gave me their support now turn their backs on me."

  "You would never betray Will."

  For a moment James wanted to confess what he had done while in English captivity, and the tragedy that had been the result. But he could not say it aloud. First he had something to do.

  "I mean to find the man who arranged Wallace's capture," was all he said.

  "Menteith?"

  "He is one of them. I seek another. Ralph Leslie. He caused the death of one of my cousins, and has my cousin Margaret in his keeping. He commands a garrisoned castle, but I cannot get to him, or free her, with only four men at my back."

  "There were once fifty and more following your command."

  "Most have lost faith in me."

  "I have faith in your purpose—but that is not enough men for the task. Where is Leslie?"

  "King Edward made him constable of Wildshaw Castle."

  "Ah. So you do have a quarrel with the man."

  "Aye," James ground out. "He has my castle—and my cousin Margaret in his custody. I mean to offer a trade for her."

  "What would he want so badly?"

  "The prophetess of Aberlady," James said.

  "You have her?" John asked in surprise. "Black Isobel of Aberlady?"

  "I mean to get her," James answered smoothly.

  "The English king will be furious if she is harmed. He values her."

  "I will not harm her, just take her. Edward hates me already. I do not fear him."

  "He wants her brought to him, so that she can divine for the English."

  "Exactly. A valuable hostage. She predicts good tidings for the English, and bad fortune for the Scots. And she set a noose round my neck with her pretty tunes. But Leslie will trade Margaret for this so-called prophetess."

  "Why would he want her?"

  "She is his betrothed."

  "A risky scheme, even foolhardy. Let your head rule, not your anger."

  "I am a pilgrim and I seek wisdom from the prophetess of Aberlady. I doubt she speaks the truth, since she is paid for her words by the English, so they say."

  John Blair frowned. "I heard that her father—Sir John Seton, a rebel knight—is in English custody now. Be careful—there could be English guards with her."

  "I am in need of her counsel," James drawled. "And I want a hostage."

  "If you keep her half so well as the hawks you train, she will be safe."

  "I have learned much from hawking. Patience achieves goals."

  "Honor and revenge are at cross purposes."

  James stood. "Black Isobel condemned me along with Wallace with her rantings about hawks and eagles. She is a Scotswoman, but her false prophecies favor the English."

  "Jamie—what if she is a true seeress?"

  "Then she had better divine what I need to know. Farewell, John."

  He left the chapel, pulling his hood up against the rain, walking quickly away from the abbey. The prophetess had caused him much trouble with that cursed hawk prediction, which many had heard of by now. He would like the truth behind that—but the damage was done.

  Passing the hawthorn tree near the cemetery, he paused. Wallace's mother's remains lay beneath that tree; he remembered the morning that he and John Blair and Wallace had buried her there in a private, unmarked grave. Will had wanted it that way, had asked James to keep the secret forever. It was the least he could do for a friend.

  He took a footpath down into the greenwood below the abbey hill, and within moments, ran into the forest.

  Chapter 2

  The sandstone walls of Aberlady Castle glowed in the sunset as Isobel Seton climbed the steps to the battlement. She walked resolutely, head high and proud, her gaze trained on the crenellated wall ahead. Reaching up, she pulled off her white silk veil and undid her black braid, still walking forward steadily. But beneath her gray gown and surcoat, her knees trembled.

  Hunger weakened her, she told herself firmly. Not fear. She would not show that. Every day at set of sun through ten weeks of besiegement, she had come up here to show the English that she was still here, still defiant.

  The breeze lifted her hair as she went toward the crenellations above the foregate. She looked down through an embrasure. Sunset light poured over the incline that led up to the castle: a rocky slope pitted with ditches. Below, a hundred English soldiers gathered near cookfires and tents near wooden palisades set up for protection. Their weapons would be close at hand, she knew, although the day's fighting had quieted.

  Her father's men—hers now, she reminded herself, for Sir John Seton had been captured by the English months ago—watched from positions along the wall-walk. Eleven Scotsmen remained of Aberlady's garrison; sixty had manned the battlements ten weeks past.

  She glanced behind her. The bailey, with its massive stone keep in the center, was deserted, its thatched-roof outbuildings empty of workers, supplies, and animals. They had let the horses go during the one truce day they had been allowed. A few of the hawks had been released; the rest had been eaten by now.

  And one corner of the bailey had become a graveyard for those who had died from injury, illness, or starvation. Soon they might all be buried in that bleak corner.

  Her men nodded as she passed, their bows held ready. They did not object to their mistress walking the battlements, knowing she was safe from the English camped below. The Southron enemies did not dare harm Black Isobel, the prophetess of Aberlady. Her value protected her. Now and then, the English would shout up to her that King Edward wanted her brought to him, whole and unharmed.

  The English king approved of Black Isobel's predictions of the defeat of the Scots at Falkirk, the recent fall of Stirling Castle to the English, and the capture and execution of the freedom fighter William Wallace. King Edward was eager to hear the Scottish prophetess foretell more triumphs for the English. He wanted her to do that in his presence.

  She had tried to prevent Wallace's death by sending a warning, so the news of his execution had made her feel ill. She had stood on the battlements and listened as the siege commander had shouted that she would be well rewarded for helping the English king.

  But she had wrapped her note of refusal around an arrow shaft. One of her men had delivered by shooting it quite accurately into the commander's thigh while he sat his horse. After that, the siege had tightened. The English had brought in engines to batter the outer gate, and their archers had sent flaming arrows over the walls of Aberlady.

  Now a cool breeze stirred past as she stood on the high battlement, spreading her hair like a glossy black banner. She welcomed the effect, raising her chin, standing proudly. In the encampment below, English soldiers gazed up at her, while others practiced with weapons or packed the ditches leading to the castle gates with rubble and branches. A few men repaired the wooden framework of one of the two siege engines used to batter the thick walls.

  The delicious smell of meats roasting over English fires made her stomach rumble miserably. Chain mail glimmered in the sunset as the English ate and talked and settled for the night. In the morning they would begin another battle, she knew. But Aberlady's few defenders were weak from hunger and could not withstand another onslaught.

  Isobel looked around. The castle rested upon a high dark crag with cliffs on three sides, set on a vast moor, the place was said to be impenetrable, unbreachable. But they were not impervious to starvation.

  Isobel sighed, fingers touching gritty stone. She had been born here, and might die here. But not so soon, please God, not so soon.

  "Come away from the wall, Isobel." Eustace Gibson, the castle baillie, stepped out of the shadows, stretching out his hand toward her.

  "Stay back," she warned. "They will shoot if they see you."

  He smiled grimly. "They have tried, and I am still here. Come inside the keep." He guided her toward the steps, and Isobel heard the familiar whine and thwack of an arrow bolt hitting the outer wall where they had stood moments earlier.

  Isobel turned back, determined, returning to the wall-walk. She pulled her white silk veil from inside her sleeve and leaned deep into the embrasure opening. With an exaggerated motion, she wiped at the fresh scar on the outer stone wall, shook the stone dust from the cloth and stood back. The breeze caught the black length of her hair again.

  Cheers and shouts rose from the English troops. Isobel lifted her head regally and turned to descend the steps. Eustace smiled.

  "Och, Sir John would be proud to see such wit in his daughter!"

  "My father would not have surrendered, and neither shall I." She walked down the steps calmly, but inside she trembled. The wit might be there, but she had learned to hide her fear.

  "Eustace, last night I dreamed that we walked out of here into freedom."

  "Is that a prophecy?" Eustace asked.

  "Just a hope," she answered. She looked up at the sky, where the sunset faded into indigo. The dream was not prophetic—the blinding burden of prophecy had not come over her, nor had it come for a long while. Yet a small, strange shiver rippled through her.

  She frowned, sensing a compelling new presence somewhere nearby. Fatigue was overtaking her, she told herself. She set a hand to the wall, paused.

  "There is some soup left," Eustace said. "Come eat."

  "I will." She had eaten little for three days; the thin soup of barley had to feed all of them. When the last of the grain was gone, they would face an enemy stronger than any. She could already feel the effects of starvation in a lingering dizziness and dull headache.

  "Isobel." Eustace sounded grim. "You must give the final order to surrender."

  "My father would not want that."

  "He would not want us to die."

  She glanced at him. Eustace Gibson had been part of Aberlady's garrison since Isobel had been a small girl. She had come to rely on his skills and his steadfast nature. She sighed.

  "Sir Ralph will be here soon—before the siege, he went to find my father. He will return soon with Sir John." She heard the brittle note of doubt in her voice.

  "We will not see that one soon," Eustace muttered. "Surrender, girl. The English will not harm you."

  "But they will harm you, and take all of us prisoner as soon as we set foot out of the gate. Aberlady will be made into a Southron stronghold."

  Eustace sighed. "We must put the torch to Aberlady as we leave. Then the Southrons cannot take it."

  "Torch Aberlady!" She stared at him.

  "Isobel, we cannot stay. We cannot defend this place."

  Silent, she stared at the darkening sky, unsure what to say—or what to do.

  Then Eustace exclaimed softly. "Look there!" He grabbed the hilt of his sword. "In the far corner of the yard."

  She gasped. A group of men—four, five, she counted hastily—emerged from the shadows beneath the back wall of the enclosure. They walked boldly into the bailey and came toward the steps where Isobel and Eustace stood. On the battlement, the few men of the garrison lifted their bows and held them ready. Eustace lifted a hand to hold their attack.

  "Who are they?" Isobel whispered.

  Unkempt and wild in appearance, the approaching men wore simple tunics, leather hauberks and worn cloaks, but carried good broadswords and bows. One man moved ahead and dropped back the hood of his long brown cloak.

  He was taller than his companions, shoulders wide, legs long and lean. His clothing was shabby at the edges and his tangled brown hair and beard needed trimming. HIs features were handsomely shaped despite grime. His strong, agile stride and his very presence seemed to charge the air like lightning.

  Then Isobel realized that she had sensed his arrival moments ago.

  He gripped his unstrung bow like a staff and halted near where she stood. A broadsword was slung across his back. Nodding to Eustace, he looked at Isobel.

  "Are you the prophetess of Aberlady?" he asked. His voice was quiet, with a deep richness that carried well.

  "I am Isobel Seton. Who are you?" She clasped her shaking hands tightly. "How did you get inside her?"

  He smiled, inclined his head. "We came to rescue you."

  She stared. The stranger possessed a wild beauty and an aura of power. His eyes were deep blue, like the indigo twilight, his hands on the bow graceful and strong. He seemed beyond the ordinary realm, a man out of the mist and the legends of an ancient race.

  And Isobel felt almost bespelled. His steady gaze held hers, assessed her from the top of her head to the roots of her soul.

  In turn, she saw the spark of purpose in his eyes and sensed a current of danger. She pulled in a breath and lifted her chin. "You know my name, but I do not know yours," she said calmly, though raw excitement thundered through her. "How did you get inside our walls?"

  "Through the postern gate in the north wall," he said.

  "But that small door is hidden by scrub and rocks, and overlooks a cliff more than a hundred feet high. How did you reach it?"

  He shrugged. "That took some time."

  "Who are you?" Eustace asked abruptly.

  "James Lindsay," he replied. "Sometimes I am called the Border Hawk."

  "Jesu," Eustace breathed out. "I thought as much."

  Isobel gasped. She knew the name—the Border Hawk was a renegade Scotsman who hid from English and Scots alike in the vast lands of the Ettrick Forest. His arrival inside Aberlady could mean salvation—or defeat. His loyalties were known only to himself.

  She had even heard rumors that the Border Hawk was a sorcerer who changed his form at will; that he was alive, that he was dead, that he was possibly immortal, born of the fair race. And it was said that he had done some heinous deed against Scotland.

  She had mentioned him in one of her prophecies, but she could not recall the prediction. Now she wished that she knew the whole of it, though Father Hugh had once dismissed it.

  "James Lindsay," Eustace said, "I hope your purpose is fair-minded. We still outnumber you by a few." He indicated the parapet, where men trained bows on the newcomers.

  "Why would you climb up here to rescue us?" Isobel asked.

  "I came here on another matter," Lindsay said. "We did not know about the siege until we approached the castle. We bring assistance—and some food." He beckoned, and one of his men stepped forward, pulling three limp rabbits from a sack. "I assume this is welcome."

  "Aye!" Eustace said. Lindsay's young comrade turned to run toward the stone-walled keep that towered over the center of the bailey yard, where the meat could be prepared.

  "Did you bring an army ready to attack the English?" Isobel asked then.

  "We are but five," Lindsay said.

  "There are a hundred English outside, and you bring us five men?"

  He arrowed his brows together. "We will bring you to safety."

  "I have heard that the best knights fly with the Border Hawk," Eustace said.

  "'Twas once said of us," Lindsay remarked. "We will leave here soon."

  "How? By the north face cliff?" Isobel asked, astonished.

  He nodded. "Aye, after you have eaten, and the darkness is deeper."

  "The English will take the castle if we abandon it," she said.

  "'Tis Scottish practice to render castles unavailable for Southron use. Either a castle is held by force of arms, or destroyed."

  "But—" Isobel began.

  James Lindsay brushed past her to climb the steps. Eustace turned to follow him. Isobel lifted her skirts and ran up the steps behind them both.

  Eustace turned. "Go to the keep, Isobel."

  "He means to ruin Aberlady!" she hissed.

  "This is necessary."

  "We cannot trust this man to help us! You know what they say about him now!"

  Eustace sighed. "He brings hope, where we had none."

  "Aberlady will be destroyed!"

  "I would have set fire to these walls myself when we left. It is our chance."

  She stared at him, stunned. He hurried away to join Lindsay, who stood behind a merlon stone, scanning the English garrison. Isobel hesitated, then ran after them, pausing by an embrasure in full view of the English soldiers below.

  Lindsay grabbed her arm, pulling her behind the merlon. "Are you a dimwit, to stand there?" he asked.

  "The English will not harm me," she said with certainty.

  "If you believe that, you are not much of a prophetess," he snapped, as he held her fast.

  "Watch this," Eustace said to Lindsay. "Each day, the English fill their ditches with bracken to smooth the incline for their siege engines. Each night, we set them afire, see."

  Just then, two men on the wall-walk lit arrows wrapped in cloth and pine pitch, touching them to a torch. They loosed the flaming arrows to sail toward the lower ditches, setting them ablaze.

  Held fast in the iron curve of Lindsay's arm, Isobel watched the fires spark and blossom. She saw Lindsay's men mount the steps and arrange themselves along the battlements.