Page 5 of The Falcon Laird
“A clan name. You said her husband was an English knight.”
“Many Scotswomen do not take their husbands’ names.”
“Who was her husband?”
“Henry Faulkener.”
Gavin swore. “My cousin’s widow? Jesu,” he said, stunned. “Henry was older than my father. I hardly remember the man. In ten years, I had word from him but twice. When did he die?”
“Last summer, fighting the Scots. He wed the girl when he took possession of her castle.”
“So that is why you wanted me to meet you up here.”
“And because someone should speak to the king on her behalf.”
“Edward will not pardon her, a Scot, so easily.”
“He might listen to your appeal. You were once one o’ his most favored knights.”
“Long ago. Now he owes me a promise of land and a castle, and I mean to collect.”
“But you successfully negotiated the marriage of his heir to the wee French princess. You’re back in his graces now. Convince the king—”
“John,” Gavin said curtly, “the only matter I plan to negotiate once I claim the land owed to me is the sale of my wool and grain at next season’s harvest fair.”
“Ach,” John growled. “He values your diplomatic opinion.”
Gavin frowned, gazing at the sad woolen bundle that was Henry’s little widow. He heard the girl cough harshly and sink lower on the rough planked floor.
“She is your cousin by marriage.”
“She is a little dying bird in a cage,” Gavin said softly. “She ought to be removed to a convent and allowed to die in peace.”
“Indeed,” John said. “See to it.”
Mist drifted betweenthe wooden bars like ghosts, and Christian wondered if her own soul would drift free soon, a fragile wisp. She drew a ragged breath, feeling the drag of the illness in her lungs. Her feet were cold. She drew them under the plaid.
Only death would free her from captivity. But her daughter waited for her, needed her; she could not die. She stifled another cough. They were frequent, painful, and she was too exhausted to fight the illness, the chill, the hunger much longer.
Beyond the cage, she heard male voices. Guards often talked nearby, though by king’s order none were permitted to speak to her. She shivered; her gown and plaid were not much protection from bitter winds. The blankets brought earlier had been taken away again; she was rarely allowed to keep blankets for long. She shivered again, coughed.
The men continued speaking softly. One had a gruff, older voice in a lilting Scots accent. The other spoke northern English in a deep, mellow voice soothing as the low strings of a harp.
She glanced toward the men and frowned. The older man was Scottish—were they both? Were they sent by Robert Bruce to ransom her? She felt hope, raised her head to peer at them.
And nearly gasped. The younger knight, tall and blond, looked like a warrior saint, shining and glorious—Saint Michael himself, she thought suddenly, sent to guard and comfort a dying girl. She blinked. Was he a vision, then?
His armor shimmered like silver, his pale surcoat was embroidered with golden wings, his blue cloak was the color of the night sky. Without hood or helmet, his golden hair touched his shoulders. He seemed made of shining steel and gold and heavenly peace. His badge, she saw then, wrapped around his upper arm encased in chain mail, showed an angel encircled in a buckled belt.
An archangel come to shepherd her in her final moments? She lifted a hand. She wanted him to take her away if he could. She could trust him.
But his presence must mean she was truly dying, and would never see her daughter again. She cried out at the thought, and folded into the soft blackness that replaced the floor.
Gavin felt struckto his very soul.
Lady Christian had lifted her head, hair in straggling tendrils framing her gaunt face, and had looked directly at him for a moment. That flash of deep green was a startling burst of life in her shadowed face. Her steady gaze showed strength and pride and asked no pity. The spark in her lustrous eyes had wrenched his heart. Somehow her fragile soul had touched his own, carefully guarded as it was. He exhaled and glanced at his uncle.
“Fainted away, she has,” John said. “God save us, she looked at you as if you were some saint, standing there. As if you—” He stopped. “What was it Queen Eleanor called you, years ago? Aye, the Angel Knight. This one looked at you as if she believed you were her heavenly savior.”
