Page 91 of The Falcon Laird
A man stepped out from behind the trestle table, chewing on a slender stick, and patting his round stomach with a greasy hand. “Greetings! Will ye have pheasant for yer supper, my lord?Or a falcon for yer mews? One of those swans would make a glorious feast that will thrill yer lady. And priest! Fine lark pies for your household?”
“We have no need of it,” Fergus said.
Gavin placed a hand on Christian’s shoulder to turn her. “Come. Do not look if it distresses you.”
She could not move. The sun was bright, the breeze soft, the chatter of the crowd moved past her in waves. But she felt as if the light and the happiness of the day had somehow gone dark and sad.
“Come,” Gavin said, taking her arm, walking with her in the other direction. Fergus carried a basket and hurried with them.
She went, but her steps were sluggish. “I can hear them,” she said. “The birds.”
“I know the sight of the cages upset you,” Gavin said. “But they’re birds, my love. Not people. Not you. Come ahead.” He led her around the corner, and as they came to a low stone wall along the next street, he gave her a little push to sit down. “Father Fergus,” he said, “do you know of an ale shop nearby? I think we could all use something. My lady needs a little rest.”
“I will be back soon,” Fergus said. Christian closed her eyes. But all she could hear were birds.
“Are you well?”Gavin asked, watching her pale face. She sat on the low wall while he stood over her, protective, standing so that the sun caught his shadow, which fell over her to shade her.
“I am sorry. I am fine. Just need a little rest, as you say.” She looked up then. “I keep thinking of the iron cage. And—I always wondered—Gavin, why did you help me when you saw me in Carlisle?”
He was a little surprised by the question. But he owed her the truth about that, and everything. “You broke my heart,” he said simply. She widened her eyes, waited for more. “I wanted you tolive. Just that. You reminded me of Jehanne. It was not easy to see you dying of the same illness that took her.”
“Tell me about her,” she said softly.
“She was sweet,” he said. “Kind, serious. I accepted the match because she was pleasant and a very intelligent girl. And my friend—the queen, Edward’s queen—wanted it for me. I was lonely. I was tired of court life.”
“What happened to her?”
He hesitated, glanced around. Here, in a busy town street—he had not expected to talk about it here. But Christian wanted to know, deserved to know. “She was never strong. When she caught a summer ague, she just grew weaker with cough and fever. The illness continued, and I sent for one physician after another. I began to learn how to treat such ailments myself. But naught could be done. Naught. I tried everything.” He opened his hands, looking at his palms. “Everything.”
“She was so ill. God makes those judgements. We cannot change them.”
“But I tried to change it.” He looked at her.
“With physicians and such, aye.”
He sat beside her on the wall. Amid the commotion of a market day, it seemed they were the only two there. “My mother was a healer—she had a gift that came through her clan folk from some long-ago Celtic saint. I have not said, I think.”
“John once said the holy Columba was part of your mother’s ancestry, yours too. I have heard of such abilities in old Celtic bloodlines. We respect such in Scotland, like those who have the Sight.”
“My mother could touch a person, at times, and bring something miraculous to them,” Gavin said. “She kept her talent quiet, but I saw what she could do. I saw her cure injuries, even serious illnesses sometimes. She might have been able to save Jehanne. But she was gone by then, and I was in France, after all.So I laid my hands on Jehanne myself.” He looked at his palms. “As if I were greater than God. The Angel Knight, they called me. I think I came to believe it.”
“I thought you were an angel,” she said. “Your mother’s gift is surely part of that. Your hands—”
“The gift is not in me. I tried to impose my will, Christian. Jehanne died.” He drew a ragged breath. “In my arms, while I tried to help her.”
“O Dhia,” she whispered. “I am so sorry.”
“Humbling, it was. A hard lesson learned well. I swore I would not presume it ever again. But when I saw you—my dear.” He touched her cheek. “Your strength, your stubbornness. And you were so ill. I wanted you to live, Christian. Just that. I wanted to help you.”
She took his hand, studied his eyes with her own. “Listen to me,” she said. “In the abbey the night we left Carlisle, the night I was so ill, you laid your hands on me. I felt something wondrous. I saw something miraculous. An angel. And you. I think you healed me then. I wish I had told you, now. I did not know you felt badly over it.”
“We are learning much about what we need, what we can give each other.” But he shook his head. “Still, God decided you would live.”
“Aye, of course.” She shifted to cover his hands with hers. “But you were the instrument. I saw it. I felt it. The angel—was you, with wings, with your face. And you, the angel, touched me with such—love,” she said, closing her eyes, “such love that I was healed. I would have died that night without you. I know it. Something miraculous happened there. But I never told you.”
“I hoped you would recover. But it was God’s will, and your own stubbornness.”
“I think you have your mother’s gift. You do,” she insisted. “When I got that splinter, you held my thumb, and it healed then and there, though it was bleeding and very sore.”
