Laird of the Wind (33 page)

Isobel saw herself approach him, her gown whispering over the damp grass. He looked up and smiled. When she reached out to him, he vanished into the mist and the rain.

Then she saw an array of battle scenes, men who struggled with each other on a field, wielding sword and axe, lance and mace, their blows heavy and hard, their armor bloodied and shimmering in the light of a misty dawn, and in a shaded wood, and beside a wide, calm stream. The sounds and sights of the battles faded, replaced by a lion overlooking Scottish hills.

She drew breath, and gripped the edge of the pool, and saw one last, vivid scene of a skirmish in the forest between men on horses and men on foot. James was among them, surrounded by riders. He swept out with his sword as they closed in on him. Blood darkened his face as he fell.

* * *

"James!" Isobel screamed. "
Jamie!
" She lunged out of the pool, splashing and puddling water on stone. Darkness enveloped her, and she sobbed and trembled, less alarmed by her blindness than by a sudden fear for James, wounded and defeated in her vision. She prayed mutely that she had not seen his death.

She fell to her hands and knees on slick stone and groped for her clothing. Finding them at last, she rummaged for the linen square, swiping it hastily over herself in an effort to dry her chilled, dripping skin. Her shaking hands were clumsy and uncertain, but she found her chemise and yanked it over her head, twisting her arm painfully as she pulled on the garment.

The murmur of the spring and the streams seemed much louder once she was sightless. The echo was so steady that it masked the sound of the spring itself, making it hard for her to orient herself. She stood, holding her gown, and turned hesitantly in what she thought was the direction of the ladder, the quickest way to the top. She knew that a doorway led out to the tunnel, but she feared getting lost in a maze of branches and caves.

"James!" she called out. "Jamie!" The strained echo of her voice seemed lost amid the rush of the water, which now sounded like muffled thunder to her ears.

She took a few halting steps forward, and her foot stumbled in a puddle on the floor. She caught her balance, gasped, and turned again. Taking a few steps forward, her hand extended in front of her, she found a wall.

She fumbled a hand over its damp, knobby surface, following it as she took halting steps. The surging rush of the spring grew louder, confusing her. Another step, and another—then she stepped out into nothingness, and fell into the pool.

The shock of the cold water brought her upright, gasping and choking, in water over her head. She sank down and spun under the water, arms flailing. Then she came up, her chemise twisting around her, and sank again. She used the strength of her legs to bound back up to the surface, as her limbs remembered, from childhood swims, how to stay afloat.

Half swimming, half sinking, coughing and gasping and near panic, she pushed forward through bone-cold water, uncertain where the edge of the pool was in the enveloping darkness.

* * *

James tore off his boots and tunic as he called out her name, but Isobel had gone under the surface for a second time. He plunged feet first into the deep end of the pool and sliced through the water toward her. Isobel thrashed, sputtering, her hair spreading like a black cape. He swam toward her with swift, long strokes and grabbed her around the chest, pulling her against him as he headed, legs pumping, for the rim of the pool.

He lifted her over the ledge and heaved out of the water himself, breathing hard as he pulled her out completely. She leaned over and moaned, her breathing as ragged and labored as his. The frightened, wild look in her eyes alarmed him.

"Isobel," he rasped. He swept back the sopping fall of hair that had fallen over her face. "Isobel, I'm here." He tipped her head up and wiped water from her cheek.

"Jamie," she said, reaching out. The movement was awkward. She hit her arm into his shoulder, then she fumbled down to grasp his forearm. James stared at her, frowning. Isobel sat nearly nude before him, and did not seem to know it. She stared upward, her eyes glass-blue.

Beneath the wet, diaphanous cream silk of her chemise, her breasts quivered, round and full; the fabric clung to her hips and pooled over her bare thighs. Desire streamed heavily through him, but his heart plummeted.

He lifted a hand and waved it slowly before her face. She neither moved nor blinked.

"Oh, God, Isobel," he whispered.

With a curdled sob, she fell toward him. He slid his arms around her and gathered her close. She muffled a sob against his bare chest. She was shivering and dripping wet, as he was.

"Soft, you," he said, and held her securely with one arm, while he stretched forward to snatch his dry tunic. He wrapped it around her shaking body. "Be calm, lass."

"I had a vision... s-several of them," she stammered, shivering violently. Late golden light poured downward, but the sunbeams no longer took the dank chill from the air.

"Tell me about it up in the broch, where we can both get warm and dry," he said. He stood, helping her to her feet, then snugged his tunic securely around her. Then he stepped away to gather his boots and hers, and to drag her dripping green gown out of the water, wringing it out.

Wrapping an arm tightly around her, he led her carefully through the door of the cave, and guided her along the tunnel to the long flight of stacked steps beneath the broch.

* * *

In his bedchamber inside the broch walls, he gave Isobel a blanket from his bed, a length of plaid wool that was both thick and warm. While she removed her wet chemise, he turned carefully away and added wood to the low fire. Then he stripped out of his own wet breeches and snatched up his wide pilgrim's cloak against the distinct chill, exaggerated by damp skin and hair.

"Come sit by the fire," he said, turning to guide her. She settled on the floor beside the hearth with her back leaned against the wall and her knees drawn up beneath the blanket. James could hear her teeth chattering. He sat beside her and pulled her within the circle of his arm.

"Wh-where is the hawk?" she asked, shivering.

"I put him in his mews," he said. "I thought he had worked hard enough for the day."

"D-did he come to your fist on the leash?" she asked.

"You are cold." He rubbed his hand up and down her back to help warm her. "He came like a dream, Isobel, flying the length of the leash, a few feet—though it took countless attempts to get him to do that," he added, chagrinned. "But he did it. So I let him eat, and put him on a perch. He'll sleep the night."

"You will not stay awake with him?" she asked.

"I will let him sleep tonight, and carry him through the day on the morrow. If he is a good lad, I will try him on a creance, a longer line that will allow him to fly the length of a field. I think he is ready for that. His wing seems stronger."

"He's finally taming," she said.

"As much as he can." He glanced down at her. "Tell me what happened, Isobel. Are you warmer now?"

"S-some," she said, her teeth still chattering. "I do not know what began the visions," she said. "The pool was lovely—so comfortable, and I was relaxing, and listening to the water flowing, and to you singing, and then the visions just came. When I got out of the pool, I was blind, and... I panicked."

"What did you see? Can you remember?"

She paused, then shook her head slightly. "I know that I saw my father again, and you... you were in great danger, Jamie. I do recall that." She ducked her head toward her updrawn knees, huddled in the blanket. "My father was in a dungeon. I must find him, Jamie."

"Ralph Leslie will help you with that."

"Aye," she whispered, her head tucked. After a moment, she drew a breath. "I saw you, Jamie, in an ambush, I think. I do know that you were in great danger." She made a little sound of frustration. "There were so many other images, of battles, and you and I in a garden. I could not make sense of them."

He watched her, an idea forming in his mind. "Isobel," he said slowly. "You said that your father and the priest would ask questions of you, and you would describe what you saw to them."

"Aye, during a vision. But the vision is passed."

"Bring it back," he said quietly. "Tell me what you see. Let me remember it for you."

She tipped her head, thinking, and nodded. Then she leaned back her head and closed her sightless eyes, breathing deeply. For several minutes, all he heard was the crackle of the fire and the slow sound of her breath. Then he saw her eyelids flutter.

"I see a pilgrim, on the steps of a church in the rain," she said, and described the church. "He walks toward a hawthorn tree. The pilgrim is the laird of the wind, and the tree guards a secret...." She went on in a soft voice.

James felt struck to his soul as he listened. He had heard something similar in the prediction that Father Hugh had circulated throughout the Borderlands; but to hear it in full, from the seeress herself, stunned him.

She described Dunfermline Abbey in detail, even to the hawthorn that grew in the side yard, yet he knew she had never been there. He had walked past that tree not so long ago, cloaked as a pilgrim. He frowned; the only secret the tree protected was the grave of his friend's beloved mother.

Isobel tipped her head and continued. "I see a battlefield beside a wide, calm stream...." The words went on, fast and low, and he listened carefully. Isobel created vivid images in his mind, as if he were blind and she the sighted one.

"A lion stands in protection over the hills of Scotland," he repeated softly. "Who is the lion, Isobel?"

She tilted her head, thinking. "Robert Bruce, earl of Carrick. By spring, he will take the crown of Scotland for himself, but years will pass before his leadership triumphs over the English. Even then, Scottish independence will not last forever. Over five hundred years will pass before Scotland and England can live in true peace, when roads are made of steel, and wagons speed over them without horses."

He stared at her, dumbstruck.

"The laird of the wind will be taken," she said.

James sat forward. "Taken by whom?"

"The hawk of the tower cannot be trusted," she said.

"When will the laird be taken?" he asked softly.

She shook her head as if in protest. "Soon... soon," she said. She stilled as if she saw something new. "A folded parchment drops from the hand, tightly bound, that holds it. The laird of the wind holds the secret of the lion, and protects it with his life. I see another parchment"—she frowned—"but the ink on the page disappears."

A chill traversed along his arms. No one knew about the folded parchment that Wallace had dropped the night he has taken, which James had later returned to pick up.

Isobel sat quietly for several moments, then drew a breath and opened her eyes, tilting her head as if to listen for his voice. The hearth created warm lights in her sightless eyes.

"I am here, Isobel," he said quietly. She reached out her hand, and he caught it in his. "My God," he said. "You are a visionary, with a rare gift. No wonder your father protected you so closely, and the priest wrote down your every word. Do you recall what you said just now?"

She shook her head. "Just something about you, and about battles and Scotland." She shivered and drew the blanket higher.

He gathered her close to him for warmth and related to her what she had told him. His quiet, calm voice did not reveal his abiding astonishment at her prophetic ability.

"Jamie, you may be in great danger if you proceed with this exchange," she said. "The laird of the wind will be taken—"

He shook his head. "Danger always exists," he murmured. "Those of us who fight as rebels must accept that, so the threat of danger does not bother me. And your vision did not reveal when something might happen. I could be in skirmish a week, a month, years from now." He paused, glancing down at her. "And you might have seen a symbol regarding me. There are other ways to take down a man."

She tipped her head, looking perplexed. "How so?"

"He might never meet danger, and yet lose his heart." He watched her evenly.

"'Twas not a symbol," she whispered. "The danger is real."

"Mayhap 'tis," he murmured, watching her. "Isobel," he said after a moment. "That parchment you mentioned....I have it."

Her eyes widened, but remained blank. "What do you mean?"

"The night that Wallace was taken, he dropped a small object that he had hidden in his hand—and his hands were bound together, as you said. Later I went back and picked it up. 'Twas a folded parchment, just as you described." He paused. "You could not have known that."

She sat up, her interest caught. "You still have it?"

"Aye. 'Tis a letter from Bishop Lamberton of Saint Andrews to William Wallace, which mentions a pact made between the bishop and Robert Bruce to support each other against the English. The bishop invited Wallace, with Bruce's sanction, to join in the secret bond. 'Tis well known that the Scottish Church has made a stand against the Southron force—but the letter reveals that Bruce of Carrick is part of that rebellion, too, and was willing to support Wallace."

"Dear God!" Isobel looked stunned. "If the English had such clear proof of Bruce's intentions, 'twould be the end of his hopes—and his life. The future of Scotland would be lost."