Page 7 of The Falcon Laird
“You are a stubborn man when you find a cause. You need more adventure, I think.”
John grinned. “That may be. The day your father and I rescued that Saracen princess near Acre is a day I have never forgotten. And you may need a fine adventure as well, lad.”
“Careful, sir. How did this girl capture your tough old Scots heart?”
John shrugged. “Reminds me of Jehanne. I cannot watch another lass wither like that.”
Gavin looked away. “She will only die in your arms for your trouble.”
“All I ask is permission to take her out o’ there. Your own mother was Scottish—”
“Aye, and my lady mother might have laid hands on her in that strange Celtic way she had and healed this girl. But my mother is dead, and this girl has not the rarest hope of a miracle.”
“Ach,once they called you the Angel Knight. You were a hero. Where is that one now?”
“Gone, for the most part.” Gavin sighed. The girl in the cage tugged at his heart. “It would take a miracle to convince King Edward of any mercy.”
“You’ll do it,” John said firmly.
“I no longer believe in miracles.” Gavin strode away through cold fog.
A fever-dream, thatwas all. Christian looked toward the bare wooden bars of the cage door. No one stood there now. No guards, no angel.
She forced herself to a seated position and leaned back against the bars, coughing harshly. Shivering, she pulled the worn plaid up over her shoulders. The illness was affecting her mind.
She wondered if Dominy would be here soon. The English servant woman tended to her two or three times each day, bringing soup, bread and sometimes wine, and escorted her to the privy in the tower. Christian looked forward to those times in the day, like sunlight in darkness.
Dominy’s hands were warm and gentle. The woman sometimes hugged her, even fed her when she was too weakto eat. And she spoke to the prisoner despite the king’s orders against it.
But Dominy had not come that day, so Christian guessed Oliver Hastings must be back in Carlisle again: her blankets had been removed and her morning meal had been bitter wine and stale bread, his usual orders for her.
With luck, he would be too busy with the king to visit her this time. She could not bear to hear his voice, low and toneless. She did not think he would hit her, weak as she was. The king’s guards would not allow Hastings to abuse her, though they still obeyed King Edward’s orders toward her. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back.
Hastings wanted Kilglassie’s gold, but she could not help him. She had never seen it herself, and felt sure it was gone. For a moment, she allowed herself a daydream, picturing herself in the great hall, seated with her harp. The fire-basket in the center of the room radiated glowing heat. Her gown was soft, her cloak lined with fur. Her belly was full. She would sleep at night in a big soft bed.
She could almost feel the cool, polished willow wood harp in her hands, could sense the tightly drawn brass wires beneath her fingertips. She imagined the delicate sounds of the strings, could almost hear the familiar tones, pure and round and true, as she thought through the plucking pattern of a melody.
The memory of the music, all these months, had helped save her. She had learned to play the wire-strung harp as a child, and knew, with a harper’s finely detailed memory, a great many of the Scottish and Irish songs played by generations of Celtic harpers. Those melodies brought her a sense of joy, healing, and peace.
She could find those feelings again, even in this brutal place, by closing her eyes to listen to the music in her mind whilestrumming her fingers in the familiar patterns. She sometimes hummed the songs too, but her voice was hoarse from coughing.
When she listened to her inner music, she did not feel the keen bite of the cold or the painful weakness in her lungs. She heard the songs floating on the air, light and lyrical and soothing. They seemed to shine in the darkness like drops of gold and silver, like stars.
Closing her eyes, she moved her fingers in a rhythm and gave herself up to the music. Soon the cage bars disappeared from her awareness. She pictured herself playing the harp in her home but would not picture the smoldering ruin of Kilglassie Castle as she had last seen it; that thought was devastating.
Chapter Two
“We shall finda new mission for you now that you have returned, Gavin.” Edward Plantagenet tipped back his goblet and downed the contents.
“I doubt any ambassador can convince Robert Bruce to surrender, sire,” Gavin replied wryly.
“He has no right to the crown,” Edward growled. “The young craven has turned traitor. Once I trusted him as one of my finest knights. Now he calls himself King of Scots. Hah! King Hob, my soldiers call him.” He gestured impatiently. “I will see him captured and drawn through the streets of London, then hanged and quartered—and displayed about the country in parts—like Wallace.” He smiled, feral-toothed. “I have made a solemn vow to be avenged on Robert Bruce and all Scotland for this rebellion. I will not rest until it is done.”
Gavin poured wine into the king’s goblet and filled his own silver cup. The red liquid glowed like melted rubies in the firelight. The roaring blaze made him think of Henry’s little widow in her cold cage. He wondered how to remind the king of his obligation as a merciful sovereign.
He downed his wine quickly. He had been surprised at first that Edward chose to stay at Lanercost Abbey, holding his audiences in a small chamber there, instead of the garrisoned castle at Carlisle. But now he understood why.
Edward was clearly ill. The king had suffered for years from bouts of fever acquired in the Holy Land, and now that illness was taking its toll, aging the king since Gavin had seen him last,broad shoulders bowed lower, his graying leonine head turned a striking white, his skin thick and pallid. Even his voice, always commanding despite a lisp, was strained and tired.
