by Amanda Scott
Chapter 5
Awaking hours before dawn, Patrick dressed, broke his fast with some bread and ale, and went outside. Having made most of his arrangements the previous day, he had only to collect the bow net he had found and mended, a decrepit falconer’s bag and glove that Small Neddy had unearthed for him, a live pigeon he acquired from the bakehouse, and sundry other items. Carrying his pigeon in one of the twig cages, he persuaded the guard captain to open the gate and let him out.
A low mist covered the ground, giving the landscape an eerie appearance and veiling the moon so that it cast but a pale glow. During his rambles the previous afternoon, he had noted several places that he thought might prove fruitful.
One in particular was a tall, dead, bare-branched tree of the sort that stood at the edge of the woods, overlooking a grassy meadow. Since hawks liked a good view in all directions, he decided that under that tree would be the best place to set his trap. At least, it would if he could find it again in the dark, misty moon-glow.
Working in the dark, in territory with which he was barely familiar, would not be easy, but if he waited until daylight, he would lose at least a day’s time, because it would take that long for the creatures to get used to alterations he made in their habitat and return. Moreover, at night he could work without disturbing any hawks, which would be asleep on their high perches elsewhere.
The woodland slept. No owl hooted. No shadowy fox stole across his path, and only once did he hear a wakeful cow lowing in the distance.
By following the sound of the burn and keeping to the edge of the woods, he made his way swiftly and found the tree he sought without difficulty.
He worked efficiently, using his sharp dagger to cut long, heavily leafed branches for his hide, then pegging half of the bow net to the ground fifteen yards away, beneath the tree he had chosen. Stringing fishing line from the top half of the trap to his hide, so when his quarry entered the trap he could yank it shut and catch the hawk inside the netting without harming it, he hid the trap by strewing moss, leaves, dust, and dried twigs over it. Then he staked his pigeon so it could move about within the circumference of the trap, scattered enough grain to keep it occupied through the day, and withdrew to his place of concealment to wait.
This was the part of the process he enjoyed least, because the hide was only a bit longer than he was and not much wider, and he knew from experience that he might have to lie there all day without much movement. Indeed, catching a hawk could easily take a number of such inactive days unless he was lucky.
He slithered inside and discovered that with care he could turn over without shaking or undoing the entire structure, but that was all the movement it allowed. Setting the rolled end of the fishing line where he could reach it again, he shut his eyes, knowing that with at least an hour still to go before dawn, he could sleep.
This time, however, sleep eluded him. Instead, he found himself thinking about Elspeth. Dreamily, he wondered what she would look like unclothed, but to his surprise, the moment the thought entered his head, instead of seeing a gloriously nude Elspeth in his mind’s eye, he saw the prim-looking one he had seen the day before when she had informed him that felonious activity was not a matter for humor. It was much easier to imagine her with her hands on her hips, glaring at him like an angry great-aunt, than to imagine her lying in his bed, sensuous and eager.
He smiled. He had five days left before it would be safe for him to leave Farnsworth Tower. Surely, in that time, he could make enough of an impression on the lass so she would smile when she saw him.
Elspeth was enduring a normal Monday morning. Having risen at five and eaten a hasty meal of barley porridge, she had opened the curtains and shutters in the hall to air it out. The men who had slept there collected their own oatcakes and porridge, and two of them swept the chamber while another two dealt with raking the coals and building new fires in the two great fireplaces.
Her primary duty was to make herself useful to the two young ladies of the household, but until it was time to waken them, she helped with other tasks. Since Farnsworth Tower boasted only a kitchen maid, a scullery maid, a laundry maid, and a maid of all work, she spent as much time helping them with their chores as doing her own. Lady Farnsworth had her own tirewoman, of course, but Martha Elliot kept herself to herself and resented any task that she did not think fell within her purview. Thus, she looked upon Elspeth as her assistant, and when she issued commands, Elspeth had little choice but to obey them.
When it was time, she took hot water upstairs and woke her charges, opening their curtains and shutters and then leaving them to get themselves out of bed while she carried hot water to Lady Farnsworth’s chamber. Sir Hector’s man had wakened him already, and Sir Hector had gone to his sanctuary to break his fast amidst his documents, but Lady Farnsworth’s woman informed Elspeth that her ladyship would take her breakfast in her chamber.
Hurrying back down to the kitchen, Elspeth put a manchet loaf, a plate of grilled fresh haddock, and a jug of ale on a tray. Carrying it back upstairs, she handed it to Martha Elliot at the door of her ladyship’s chamber.
Then she hurried back to the chamber shared by Drusilla and Jelyan.
“Where have you been, and why has it taken you so long to return?” Drusilla demanded shrilly. She stood barefoot in the center of the room, still in her nightdress, arms akimbo, her long dark hair hanging untidily down her back. “You should have built up the fire before you left,” she snapped. “It is cold in here.”
Jelyan smiled and said nothing. Shorter and slimmer than her elder sister, she had put on her shift, skirt, and petticoat. She had also put her arms through the sleeves of her square-necked bodice, but because she could not reach the fastenings, she was holding it tight against her waist, still open at the back, waiting for help.
Elspeth moved to do up the back of Jelyan’s bodice. Shifting the younger girl’s long chestnut plait over one shoulder, out of the way, she said, “Drusilla, you told me yesterday that it annoyed you to hear me fussing about in your room after I wake you, and you wanted me to find other things to do until it was time to help you dress. I cannot stir the fire to life from outside the room.”
“Don’t be impertinent,” Drusilla said. “It is getting warmer, and I did not think we would need a fire, but we do and you should have attended to it directly after you wakened us.”
“But Elspeth is right, Drusilla,” Jelyan said. “You were very sharp with her yesterday, complaining that she had disturbed your slumber before it was time and need not bother with a fire. Also, Mother said that we should not waste firewood. Can you do my hair the way you did yesterday, Elspeth?” she asked.
“Yes, of course,” Elspeth said. “Sit on that stool.”
“She has no time to do fancy things to your hair,” Drusilla said. “Wear your French hood. I have changed my mind about what I’ll wear, Elspeth. I want my crimson mock velvet instead of the one you got out last night, so fetch it quickly.”
“The crimson is ready to pack,” Elspeth reminded her, knowing she was probably wasting her breath.
“Then you will have to freshen it later, but I want to wear it today. Moreover, I want you to press all my other clothing, so that I can see everything at its best in order to choose exactly what to take. You had a nice holiday yesterday, so I warrant you can accomplish much more than usual today.”
“Have you finished my mending yet?” Jelyan asked.
“Most of it,” Elspeth said. “Everything will be done in time.”
Although it was a morning like any other, with the ladies of the household planning to depart in a matter of days for a month’s visit to Stirling, Elspeth had many extra tasks to do. When she had seen her charges on their way downstairs to break their fast, she made the bed they shared, then raked the hearth and laid a new fire ready to light when needed. She was washing her hands with leftover water when Martha Elliot entered with an armful of her ladyship’s linen.
“Here are more things for you
to launder,” the woman said curtly.
“I’ll attend to them straightaway, Martha.”
“See that you do.”
Elspeth dealt with the last assignment first by delegating it to the laundrymaid with the caveat that the lass should bring the finished items to Elspeth to return. Next, she asked the stable master to send one of his lads to help in the kitchen. Then she dealt with Drusilla’s clothing, carrying an armload to her own chamber where she laid the items on her pallet.
She had no fireplace in her bedchamber, but the kitchen fire was close by to heat the iron and she could use the side table in her chamber for her ironing. She would have to carry the garments back and forth, but the iron had to reheat frequently, and she was accustomed to the process.
As she dealt with the ironing, she wondered what the new falconer was doing. She had been careful to avoid him the previous day, not wanting to give Drusilla cause to suspect any undue interest in the man. Doubtless, he was at least going through the motions of preparing to look for a bird that Sir Hector could give to the King, but since he hardly had time to train a hawk before he would leave for Stirling himself, she did not think he would spend much time on the effort.
Thus, it was with surprise that when she found a few moments to step outside, assuring herself that she did so merely to get a breath of fresh air after working with a hot iron for two hours, she learned that Patrick was nowhere to be found. According to Small Neddy, he had departed hours before dawn.
“He ha’ gone tae fetch a new bird,” Neddy said. “He did take Old Lachlan’s bow net. He knotted fresh netting round it hisself, too, he did.”
Elspeth was reassured. Telling herself that she had just wanted to be sure he was not shirking his duties, she returned to her own. But when he did not appear for dinner, she told herself that she was being foolish to feel disappointed at not having seen him and reminded herself that even if she dared leave during the afternoon and risk a worse scolding than she had endured the previous day, he would not thank her if she interfered with his preparations to trap his hawk.
At that moment, Patrick was lying on his back wondering if the wild pigeon that had lighted on a branch inches above his face was about to commit a nuisance. Unwilling to find out, he poked its belly with a twig, grinning when it flew off with an indignant clatter of wings. The mist had cleared, but with the thick canopy of trees, he could not see the sky or any hawks that might have been soaring overhead.
Wakened after an hour’s slumber by a symphony of birdcalls, he had lain on his belly, watching his trap, letting his thoughts drift to his time in England and then to events that had led to his mad dash for the Scottish line. From there they drifted naturally to Elspeth. Whatever he thought about, his thoughts kept returning to her, and he realized that his interest in the lass was greater than he had thought.
He felt as if he had known her for years instead of a day, but the comfort he felt in her company had already led him to make errors he did not normally make, and he would have to take care. He tended to forget that he was playing a part with her and talked to her much the way he talked to his sister or to friends he had known all his life. He liked her, but why he should think of her as a friend merely because she had been handy with a hiding place when he needed one, he did not know. He owed her gratitude, but he felt more of an obligation than that. When Drusilla had slapped her, he had wanted to throttle the shrew.
He speculated for some time in this fashion, but he had reached no reliable conclusion by the time his stomach began to rumble. Turning over he found his skin of water and the bread and meat he had packed for his dinner. As he did, he heard the distant kittenlike mewing that was the hawks’ hunting call. At that distance, they might have been kestrels, kites, sparrow hawks, or even peregrine falcons. He munched slowly, listening, wondering if the pigeon in the trap was too large, if a blackbird might have made better bait, since it would tempt smaller hawks as well. Although Sir Hector had said nothing to him about the laws governing ownership of hawks and falcons, Patrick suspected that, as a man of law, he would know that a landed knight was not entitled to own a peregrine.
In the Highlands, few men heeded such laws, and more than one clan chief boasted at least a golden eagle or gyrfalcon in his mews despite the fact that only emperors or kings could legally own such splendid birds. Since this one was for the King, Patrick decided he would take what came and worry about any consequences later. He was bored, restless, rapidly growing stiff, and the day was far from over.
Two hours later, as he lay watching the trap, his mind numb with boredom, something flashed across the line of his vision, flying an inch or two above the grass. Knowing that if he saw the bird, the bird had seen him, he was careful not to move. The bird turned and flashed past again, soaring upward, turning, then losing height and seeming to float down toward the trap. Soundless now, almost hovering, and unseen by the pigeon, the hawk drifted in at an angle, talons ready.
The pigeon squealed twice and was silent.
Swiftly, Patrick pulled his line, and the net snapped over and down.
Elspeth saw the falconer in the first group of men that entered that evening to eat their supper, and seeing how pleased he looked, she decided his hunt must have met with success. She allowed him to catch her gaze only once, though, and ate her meal as swiftly as good manners allowed. Then she left before he could speak to her. She did not want to incur Drusilla’s ire, or anyone else’s, not two days in a row.
Upstairs, she attended to her duties efficiently, taking water to the young ladies’ chamber and laying out their nightclothes and the clothing they would want in the morning. Then she hurried to her own chamber, where she waited patiently for half an hour, in case someone should think to send for her.
Knowing that the hawk would be calmer after nightfall, Patrick had left it hooded and jessed, leashed to its low perch in the shed to settle, while he ate his supper. He allowed himself only a few casual glances at Elspeth, noting that wisps of her hair had escaped from her coif and from the plait coiled at the nape of her neck. His fingers itched to smooth the stray wisps back into place.
She looked tired, and he wished he had the authority to tell her to go to bed. When she left after finishing her meal, he hoped she was retiring for the night.
He returned to the mews shortly thereafter to find the hooded hawk still on its perch. Pausing in the doorway, he watched it for a few moments, then entered quietly, drawing on his glove and taking a bit of fresh rabbit liver from the bucket of parts the lad had prepared before supper. The bird twitched nervously.
Slowly, he approached the perch and released the leash, twisting it around his gloved hand. Then, gently, he stroked the bird’s talons, holding the liver in the open leather palm. Each step took time. Stroking its chest, he felt it quiver, but it tolerated him. He stroked it gently and murmured softly to it for nearly an hour before he reached with his free hand to loosen the hood and remove it.
The bird pecked the gloved hand, which he had closed over the bait, but it did not seem frightened, letting him stroke its chest and talons. It was young but nearing adulthood and amazingly calm for a fresh-caught bird. From time to time as he stroked it, he whistled the warbling tune he would use in future to call it, and thirty minutes later, it stepped onto his gloved fist, bent its head, and took the rabbit liver from between his fingers. From now on, it would take food only on the fist.
The hawk’s talons felt like sword points stabbing into his hand through the aged leather, its grip convulsing almost rhythmically as it shifted its weight. Its head was lowered but thrust forward, and one mad yellow eye glared at him for an instant before the hawk bated, taking a headlong dive in a wild, twisting bid for freedom.
In a flurry of feathers, like a chicken about to be decapitated, the bird hung upside down by its jesses, struggling, flapping, in imminent danger of damaging its primaries. Patrick reached with his free hand, intending to lift it back to his fist.
“Faith, do you mean
to wring the poor thing’s neck?”
Starting nearly as violently as the hawk had, Patrick whipped his head around to see Elspeth in the doorway, hands on her hips, glaring at him. Her expression was exactly as he had imagined it while lying on his back in the hide.
“Don’t chatter,” he said, keeping his voice even as he gently set the bird back on his fist. “I have begun the watch, but if you keep still, you may stay.” He spoke in the same soft tone as before, but his tone made no difference to the hawk. It bated as wildly as before, flinging itself off his fist again.
Patiently and just as gently as before, he lifted it back.
“Won’t she hurt herself?”
“He’s a male,” Patrick said. He nearly reminded her to be silent, but the hawk had remained still, not reacting to her voice as it had to his.
“Very well, then,” she said. “Won’t he hurt himself?”
“He might,” he said, hesitating to say more than a couple of words at a time. Although the bird seemed to have calmed, that calm would not last.
“Why does he fling himself about so fiercely?”
“Are you supposed to be out here? I thought you had gone to bed.”
“Not yet. I finished my evening chores, so I came out to see how you were faring. Why does he fling himself about like that?”
“He is angry and frightened,” Patrick said. “He is only doing what is natural for him, and I cannot stop him, but he will soon learn. The easiest way to train him is to wear him out, so I must keep him awake now until he accepts food from me.”
“What kind is he? Have you given him a name?”
He smiled. “He is a goshawk, and I think I’ll call him Zeus.”
“Ruler of the gods,” she said thoughtfully. “The name suits his fierce and haughty look, to be sure.”