Laird of the Wind (8 page)

Isobel glided through the blazing gate like an angel crossing the threshold of hell. James stared, then strode after her. "Are you mad?" he called. "Come away from there!"

She ignored him, limping along the path, her head and shoulders held proud. James knew that it must cost her considerable pain to advance like that. He followed her.

Flames lingered on the gate, and a few vines blazed nearby, but so far the fire had touched a small part of the garden. Striding along the path after Isobel, James saw the careful arrangement of paths and plant beds—but he also noticed that the garden was already ravaged, without benefit of fire. Stalks and vines were plucked clean, and whole beds had been dug up and not replanted.

Isobel went toward a side wall, where a wooden trellis sagged against the stone. Bare vines clung to it, empty of flowers but for a few ragged blossoms. James was close enough to overtake her in one or two strides, but he paused, ready to snatch her away from there if need be. Behind them, the gate and some dry vines crackled as they burned, and smoke and sparks drifted overhead. But the fire had not yet reached this corner.

A white rose clung to the highest part of the vine, a swirl of pale petals in the light of the fire and the moon. The girl stretched her hand upward to reach it.

James stepped forward and plucked the rose for her, laying it in her open hand. Despite the heavy odor of burning wood, he caught a drift of the rose's delicate fragrance.

Isobel lifted the bloom to her face to breathe in its scent. "My mother treasured these roses," she said. Her voice was soft and hoarse, and tears glistened in her eyes. James waited, expecting angry accusations from her. But she seemed calm as she ran a fingertip along the edge of the rose. "The garden was all that we had left of her," she said.

"I am sorry," he murmured. "I did not know."

She gave a hollow, hoarse little laugh, surprising him. "The siege destroyed this garden before you set your fire, Border Hawk." She glanced around. "We stripped everything edible, even the flowers. This rose bloomed but days ago. Eustace wanted me to add it to the soup, but I refused." She gazed at the pale blossom, and her lower lip trembled.

She puzzled him, so gentle and sad when he had expected anger from her. But they did not have time to pluck roses, with a fire raging beyond, and a hundred English at the gates.

"Isobel, we must go," he said, quiet but firm.

"You did not give me time to say farewell," she murmured, "before you loosed that fire arrow. Let me have the chance now."

James sighed and shoved his fingers through his hair in a gesture of regret. He had been quick to act on his decision to fire the castle; perhaps too quick, but they had little time to spare. He had not meant to cause her this sort of grief.

He remembered his own mother's garden, a haven of scent and color that had provided hiding places for James and his older brother, and created pleasant memories. But it was gone now, burned, as this garden would be soon.

"When I was small, my father brought back the first of these rose bushes from a Crusade," Isobel said. "He said my mother had sweet magic in her fingers for making roses." She smiled. "The garden was always full of roses—white, pink, and red—from spring until fall. When she died, he buried her in our chapel, so that she could be near her roses, and near us, always." She pointed beyond the garden wall, where a small chapel roof jutted up, its clay tiles bright in the firelight. "Dear God, if the fire reaches the chapel—" she said.

"I have already told my men to soak the chapel roof with water to protect it," he said. "I do not burn churches."

She nodded. A tear pooled in her eye and hovered there.

James felt a compelling urge to touch her—a hand to her shoulder, a finger to that shining tear, some gesture of comfort. But he held back, fisting his hand against the craving.

And he waited, silent and still, while a slender, ebony-haired girl cradled a pale rose in the midst of destruction.

In some detached, philosophical part of his mind, long ago trained by scholarly monks to see the symbolism in all things, he realized that heaven and hell existed in perfect duality here in this ravaged garden, in the gentle, lovely girl, in the pure rose, and in the darkness and the inferno that surrounded them.

A blaze that he had caused.

"Isobel," he said. He felt emotion constrict his throat, but went on. "Years ago, I lost my own castle when the English set it afire. Those—those who were inside were killed—my kin, my men, my—" He stopped.

She glanced at him. "You know how I feel," she said softly. "You suffered even worse. And yet you set Aberlady afire."

"Aye," he said gruffly.

"I know you had no choice," she whispered.

He nodded silently. He had felt hollow, black inside, when he shot that fire arrow toward the thatch. Devastating memories, six years past, had sparked again with that burst of flame. But he had locked them away once again. He had no time, no strength inside to let them out.

Watching Isobel, he would have preferred her to shout at him, to call him vile names, to echo his anger and tap the darkness that he carried inside himself.

But her poignant sadness tugged at him, challenged him, unsettled him. She stood there holding that sooty, bedraggled white rose, and he suddenly wanted—something, and could not name it. He had not felt this raw, this open, in years.

Then she glanced up at him, and he saw in her translucent eyes that she bore no grudge toward him for setting the torch to Aberlady. He saw, God help him, forgiveness.

He turned away.

For one long, dreadful instant, he felt as if the hard casing around his heart began to crack. With the next breath, and the next, he willed the gap sealed again.

He reminded himself why he had come in search of the prophetess of Aberlady, and why he had found it expedient to fire her castle. Isobel Seton might be distressed, in need, and impossibly lovely. But he reminded himself that she was the only pawn he had, and he must use her as he had already schemed.

"The policy of scorched earth is sanctioned by the Guardians of the Realm of Scotland," he said coldly. "'Tis a necessary action to prevent the English from taking Scottish properties."

He turned back toward her.

She blinked up at him. Those sad, magnificent eyes nearly undid him again. But he could not easily look away.

"I know," she said. "But I—I hoped my castle would be spared."

"Do not be foolish. The Southrons ready their engines to knock down your gates in the morn. You were willing to defend these walls for weeks to keep them out. I have ensured that they will stay out, for now at least, for the good of Scotland, and for your own welfare." His tone was sharp.

She frowned. He saw her temper blossom then, a hard blue spark in her limpid eyes. "I did not think the Border Hawk cared for the good of Scotland," she snapped.

He felt the jab keenly, startled that her words could wound him so easily. But he felt on more certain ground with anger and conflict than with her sadness, her softness.

Many shared the opinion of him that she had just voiced. After all, his new reputation as a traitor had begun with this girl's own words, months ago. His temper surged.

"Come ahead," he said abruptly, taking her uninjured arm, meaning to pull her toward the gate.

She stood her ground. "Why does my welfare matter to you? 'Tis said the Border Hawk is loyal only to himself. 'Tis said—"

"I know what 'tis said," he barked. He glanced through the burning frame of the gate. The fire in the bailey, which lit up the dark sky, had consumed the outbuildings and now encroached on the tower. In the shadows by the back wall, he saw his men, and Aberlady's garrison, waiting.

"Come," he said firmly, taking her right wrist. "We have to get out of here. Now."

She resisted his tug. Fiery light gleamed on her fine-boned cheeks and in her glossy dark hair as she looked up at him. "Why did you come here, James Lindsay?" she asked.

"I came to rescue you, whether or not you believe that," he snapped impatiently.

"I do not believe it," she said. "There is more. Tell me what 'tis."

He leaned forward. "Are you blind, lass? There is fire all around you! We do not have time for a wee chat."

She gaped at him. He could not think why.

"For now, I am your champion," he muttered sourly. "Later you may call me something else, if you like."

He bent down and scooped her into his arms. Then he strode through the smoldering, fire-spitting gate and headed across the bailey amid a shower of bright sparks.

* * *

She might have done him the courtesy of passing out, James thought, as he climbed hand over hand down a sturdy knotted rope ladder. Then he could have carted her down the cliff as he had wanted to do, slung over his shoulder, head down. Both he and Henry Rose had argued with her that she should let James carry her draped over his shoulder; a little time like that would not harm her, they had said. But Isobel had protested the idea stubbornly, and James had relented.

He had also given in to her insistence that she needed spare clothing and other items. Their escape had been further delayed while Isobel and Eustace had gone off to collect her things in a cloth bundle, which Eustace now carried down the cliff side.

Although she had not complained, James saw the traces of fatigue and starvation on her face. He was keenly aware of her physical weakness as she rode in his arms. She was a well-made girl, but hunger and injury had left her scant strength. And he heard every wince of pain that she tried to suppress.

He glanced to either side and saw the other men, lowering along lengths of rope nearby, moving silent and steady over the jagged rockface. All of those who had come out of Aberlady were weakened with the strain of the siege. James had reminded his own men, who were fit and rested, to usher Aberlady's survivors down the cliff side with care.

He glanced back at Isobel. "How do you fare?" he asked.

"I do not envy birds," she said wryly, her pale face inches from his own. She was face to face with him, her legs circling his hips and her uninjured left arm around his neck. James had fastened her to him with a rope harness, like a bear cub to its mother, leaving his arms and legs free to manage the rope ladder.

"Ah, then, I promise we will not fly," he said with a half laugh. Isobel grimaced and glanced down, and the grip of her arm became choking strong. "Do not look down," he said quickly. "Be at ease. You are safe." She loosened her hold around his neck and tucked her face against his shoulder.

The cliff side was high, raw rock, plunging straight down in some places. The northern face, where they descended, was steep and jagged. Mossy ledges and crevices provided hand and foot holds, some large enough to stand upon. Each man proceeded carefully; in the moonlight, a loose bit of turf or rock could be mistaken for a secure hold. Mist drifted over the cliff face in torn, gauzy veils, making the descent even more dangerous.

James and his men had climbed upward in fading daylight, using ropes fastened to scaling forks, which they tossed up as they went. The downward climb was a greater challenge than James had anticipated. During the hours in the castle, he and the men had created two long rope ladders, and had added sturdy knots along the lengths of the other ropes to aid climbing. But the going was slow and dangerous, for the ropes were not long enough to reach the ground. The lines, secured to the iron forks, had to be loosened and reattached in different places, while the climbers waited on narrow ledges.

James glanced toward the ground and saw its dark expanse beneath the mist. He looked upward at the castle, perched high overhead, its blazing walls casting a reddish glow into the night sky. Moonlight both helped and hindered them. If they could see their way, then the enemy could see them as well. Only the treacherous mists and darkness protected them.

James knew that the English could discover their escape at any moment, and attack them on the cliff side, where they would be most vulnerable. He hoped that the blaze would so distract the enemy that they would neglect to send a patrol around the area until the cliff face was again deserted.

Cold wind whipped his hair into his eyes, and he turned his head to clear his vision. He went down another rung, easing his weight onto the bouncing brace of the rope. The girl's weight was not a burden, though her long legs and her injured arm, strapped tightly, proved awkward to balance. His quiver and bow thumped against his back in the wind, and he paused on the ladder, gripping it firmly with one hand. He rested his other arm and hand around her hips while he caught his breath.

Another strong breeze blew past, and he heard Isobel gasp softly. Her hair unfurled like a banner, weaving a dark curtain with his own. The next gust of wind knocked them roughly against the cliff side. Isobel cried out as her arm slammed against the rock. She buried her face in his shoulder with a ragged whimper. He turned to shield her from the driving force of the wind, and held still to allow her a moment to recover. She sucked in a breath and raised her head, nodding to him to go on.

"Bonny lass," he said with approval. He glanced down to find the next rung. "'Twill not be long now. We're nearly there."