Page 92 of The Falcon Laird
He shook his head. “A small thing. I had no gift for Jehanne.”
She leaned toward him. “What if she was always meant to die young? What if what you did helped her move into the world of the blessed, where she was always meant to be? That is healing, too.”
He stared at her. The truth, genuine and beautiful, washed through him then. He remembered how peacefully Jehanne had died, although she had suffered greatly. How gently she had departed.
“Angels are sent to guide the dying,” Christian went on. “I took you for Saint Michael because I was near death. You have an angel’s touch. I know it.”
He wrapped an arm around her. “God, I do love you,” he whispered.
“I love you. It has been there all along, from the first. I just did not know.”
“Nor did I.” He kissed her head through the veil that covered her curls. “Thank you for believing in me. But my mother’s gift is lost, Christian. I do not have it. John, her half-brother, does not have it. But if we have a child one day, perhaps the gift will appear again.”
“I love that,” she said. She looked up. “Fergus should be here soon.” She sat with him. Sighed. “Gavin,” she said. “I can still hear the birds.”
“We will leave soon. You need never hear them again. Ah, Fergus, coming down the lane.”
As they madetheir way toward the stables, they neared the street where the fowler’s shop was located. Christian turned her head away, not wanting to look, not wanting to hear. She reached forGavin’s hand for a moment. She knew more about him now, and appreciated him so much more. And she was eager to go back to Kilglassie now, renewed in her love and gratitude for the good husband that fate, and even King Edward, had given her.
Yet she could not shut out the chirps and songs from the crowded cages. Each step brought her closer to the fowler’s shop on the way to the stables. And she looked again.
The cages, sagging, horrible, confining little structures, sat on the trestle table, their occupants jabbering, chirping, flitting from side to side. The fowler was not there just then. In Gavin’s wake, and a few steps behind Fergus now, Christian walked steadily by, looking straight ahead.
The small falcon squealed miserably as she passed. The doves made low cuddling sounds, and the larks began a high, beautiful song, so complex and wonderful that it could have challenged a harper. She walked past.
Suddenly she whirled and ran back. Stopped in front of the trestle table, she stretched out her hand to unlatch the first cage she could reach.
The larks spilled out of the cage in a flood of small brown wings, pouring upward, singing their delight. She hooted, then pried open another door. Doves flew out like fluttering clouds, dazzling white and gray, soaring into open air. Snowy feathers drifted over her shoulders as she yanked open another cage, and another. Flapping wings and joyful songs filled the air. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she looked upward. She had never seen anything so beautiful, had never felt such unbounded exhilaration.
“Christian!” Gavin shouted, turning.
“My lady!” Fergus called, as both ran back toward her. All around, shouts, sudden and shocked, came from all around. The fowler burst out of his shop, and customers gathered. Christianpulled open another cage—pigeons, gray wings brushing past as they left.
“God in heaven! Are ye mad?” the fowler shouted. He reached for her, but she whirled away, bumping into the man who blocked into her path. Gavin.
He took her arm in a fierce grip and pulled her toward him, then pushed her behind him as he faced the angry fowler. A flurry of feathers drifted down from above to dust his shoulders and head, hers as well. Fergus joined them, a phalanx of three.
“She’s mad, your lady!” the fowler shouted at him. “D’ye see what she’s done? I will have her arrested!”
“No need,” Gavin said. He tossed a fat leather bag toward the man, who caught it deftly despite his ire. “That should more than cover your losses. It is enough for three times as many birds.”
The fowler hefted its solid weight and poured coins into his hand. He grunted. “I could let it go. But that lady is muckle crazed.”
“But she does have a point. Birds should fly free in God’s world. People should be free, I believe the lady would say,” he said over his shoulder, pulling, not very gently, on Christian’s arm.
“God wills it,” Fergus called. “Blessings, sir! Enjoy your day’s profit!”
“Come with me, my dear, before the aldermen and all the king’s host come to see what in God’s name is going on here. Did you have to rescue every bird in Ayr?”
“I had to free them,” she panted as he yanked her along. “I had to, Gavin.”
As they passed the last of the cages, the falcons, still confined, rustled their wings restlessly. The smallest one squealed. Christian, craned her head back to look at it.
“Oh, sweet saints in heaven,” Gavin muttered. He passed Christian to Fergus and turned back.
With a quick flip of his hand, he opened the falcon cage. The birds glided out, one after the other, with a powerful spread of wings, brushing past like a breeze, soaring up into the clouds.
Christian laughed in delight, stray feathers caught in her hair. Her heart had never felt so light, nor so full of simple joy, as in that moment.
