Page 9 of The Hawk Laird

“Heroic,” he muttered, then rose to his feet to gaze down at her as if that angered him.

“Why are you here?” she asked. “What do you want?”

“I came,” he said softly, “to find the prophetess of Aberlady.” Something in his tone sent a shiver along her spine. “We have matters between us, you and I.”

“I do not know you, though you seem to know me.”

He shrugged. “You are widely known. Let me make a prediction, Black Isobel,” he said in a low voice. “You will cometo know me well. And you will come to regret what you and yours have done to me and mine.”

She gasped. “I do not understand.”

He turned toward the door. “I will come back to look after your wounds. You will be safe here.” He stepped through the doorway into a clatter of falling arrows.

Staring after him, Isobel wondered just how safe she was.

Chapter Three

“Those Southrons areoverfond of fire arrows,” Henry said, as another burning shaft traced an arc overhead, smacking into the wall walk. He glanced at James.

“Aye. Let them fire the castle—we will not have to bother.” He nocked an arrow and drew back the string. The point found its mark over a hundred yards away, for he saw an English archer clutch his shoulder and fall to the ground.

“That,” James announced grimly, “is for the lass.”

“This morn you were not so fond of her.”

“I did not know she was besieged, or starving—or quite so young.” James drew another arrow from the quiver at his belt and set it to the bow.

“Or so lovely, hey.” Henry grinned.

James released the arrow. “She needs our help, regardless.”

“True. Hah! Look there! I’ll wager that soldier would like to know he was just caught in the leg by the Hawk Laird!”

“I am sure he would,” James drawled, and shot again.

The full moon rose quickly in the indigo sky, and English fire arrows flew like a host of comets. James shot steadily, one arrow after another, and beside him, Henry Rose did the same. Beyond them, James saw Aberlady’s garrison, and his men—Quentin Fraser, Patrick Boyd, and Geordie Shaw—raining a steady volley of arrows down on English heads.

Henry looked around then. “Sir Eustace, is it?” he asked the man who approached.

“Aye, baillie and captain of Aberlady Castle.”

“I am Sir Henry Rose.” Henry held out a hand.

Eustace put a hand to his sword hilt. “That’s a Southron name,” he growled. “And you use a longbow with Southron skill.”

“I’m English,” Henry said. “Would you have me use a short bow like a Scot? Scotsmen are a sorry lot of archers. But for Jamie here, I’d think none of them had any worth with a bow. With a broadsword, now, ’tis a different matter.”

Eustace scowled. “If you be Southron by fealty, then leave this castle the way you came into it, or bid the world farewell.”

“Peace, man.” James held up a hand. “Henry is Southron by birth and a master of the longbow. But he fights for the Scottish cause.”

“My wife is a Scotswoman,” Henry said. “Her people are mine now. And I’ve seen King Edward’s chivalry toward the Scots. I’ll take no share in that.”

Eustace nodded and glanced at James. “Your loyalty is questioned of late.”

“So I hear.” James returned an even stare.

“Shall I doubt your fealty too?”