Passion's Exile

by Glynnis Campbell

The pilgrims dispersed with renewed confidence, sprawling in the sunken meadow, picking flowers, clucking like flocks of chickens. Tildy, who had been mincing along the trail in discomfort for the last mile, set off with Lettie to find a bush not too far from the circle of light where she could ease her needs.

  Rose tried not to look at the dark outlaw who passed behind her, but the soft clink of his chains conjured up his visage. ‘Twas easier to displace him from her thoughts when they traveled well apart. Now, hearing his shackles, catching his scent, and, aye, feeling his presence, filled her senses and flooded her mind. She dared not lift her eyes to him.

  Taking a fortifying breath, she marched to the midst of the meadow. The ground was spongy, almost like a living thing, and mushrooms made faerie circles throughout the glade. The place felt enchanted, yet the dark trees surrounding the lea appeared as if they might close over it at any moment, feasting upon the sunlight and the flowers and the pilgrims in one gulp. She shivered as she loosened Wink’s jesses.

  "Mind ye stay close," she murmured to the falcon, "for I’ve no wish to traipse through this eerie wood lookin’ for ye."

  The warning was hardly necessary. Wink never strayed far, and the tame creature always returned to Rose’s arm.

  She smiled as the bird caught the breeze and soared in lazy upward circles, cocking her head this way and that, instinctively seeking prey with her one good eye. For a long while, Wink played in the sky, dipping and turning, fluttering, then gliding, widening her range until Rose thought it best to call the falcon back.

  But just as she lifted her wrist to summon Wink, the bird paused in mid-air, flapping furiously to hold her position. Rose frowned. ‘Twas the bearing a falcon took just before it dove in for prey.

  "Wink!" she shouted, but the bird ignored her.

  Then, while Rose’s jaw dropped, the falcon plummeted like a stone toward the dense trees.

  Rose instantly picked up her skirts and ran clumsily across the wet sod toward the spot Wink had disappeared. She must hurry if she didn’t wish to lose her pet. What the devil had possessed the bird? Wink had lost her eye when she was a fledgling. She couldn’t possibly have learned how to hunt. What had she spied to make her dive like that?

  Rose tried not to think about the ominous trees as she loped toward the border of the meadow, tried not to imagine how much like a wall of hostile soldiers they looked. She squeezed between two oaks where there was no path and followed a straight line into the tangled wood. The way was rough and overgrown, but ‘twas the most direct path, and if she strayed from her course, she might lose her falcon. Branches slapped at her arms and caught at her hair. Gnarled roots rose to trip her. But she set her eye square ahead, silently cursing the willful bird who’d picked the most unfortunate time to plot rebellion.

  To Rose’s relief, the thicket thinned in a moment, revealing a small but lush clearing. Wink had likely plunged onto the carpet of grass here. She spied a flicker of movement through the branches and stepped gingerly forward.

  Then she beheld a most curious sight. At the far edge of the clearing, Simon the palmer knelt upon the ground with his dagger out and a small pile of wood splinters at his feet. She was about to call out to him to ask if he’d seen Wink when she noticed the parchment-pale cast of his skin and the frozen terror in his face.

  She heard them before she saw them. Low growls rumbled like distant thunder, surrounding the spot where the palmer sat shivering.

  Wolves.

  Three of them.

  Shaggy, gray, snarling beasts.

  They growled and snapped their jaws. Saliva dripped from their fangs, and their hackles stood stiff upon their muscular shoulders. Horrified, she watched them creep boldly on enormous paws toward the trembling palmer.

  What should she do? she wondered. There wasn’t time to fetch help, but the palmer could hardly hold off three hungry beasts with his single dagger, and Rose had no weapon with her to lend him aid.

  ‘Twas useless to call out for help. Not only would her cry never pierce the thick foliage, but 'twould instantly alert the wolves to her presence.

  She’d nearly decided to take that risk anyway, to burst loudly toward them out of the trees in the hopes that the commotion would startle them into fleeing.

  But before she could move, she heard a familiar screech from a nearby elm. While Rose watched in astonishment and dread, Wink swooped down from the branches and dove directly toward the slavering beasts.

  "Nae, Wink!" Rose cried, but ‘twas too late.

  The falcon latched onto the back of one of the wolves, gripping hard with her talons and flapping her wings, pecking furiously at the animal’s skull.

  The other two wolves, unnerved by this new enemy, retreated while their brother tossed his shaggy head, trying to loose the tenacious pest that plagued him. But Wink held fast, wildly beating the air, at last drawing blood with her curved beak.

  At first, the wolf hunkered low to the ground and howled in misery, frightening his wary companions further into the deep wood. He whimpered piteously, pawing at his bedeviled head.

  The falcon’s moment of triumph, however, was brief.

  Without warning, the exasperated wolf fiercely whipped his head around, catching his small tormenter between his sharp teeth. With brutal vengeance, he snapped his huge jaws together.

  "Nae!" The scream ripped painfully from Rose’s throat.

  What happened next seemed to take an eternity, as if time slogged through thick treacle. Rose’s ears filled with numbing silence, and her heart sank to the pit of her stomach. She could draw no breath, for it had been torn from her along with the scream. Her limbs felt leaden as she broke from the trees and strove forward on impossibly sluggish feet. Behind her, someone shouted, but she paid no heed. All her attention was focused on her poor bird.

  The wolf turned his bloodied head and speared her with narrowed eyes the color of mustard. But desperation drove her as she lumbered relentlessly forward. She must save her bird. She must snatch Wink from the wolf’s cruel maw.

  She was almost there, almost. The wolf was but yards away. Just a dozen more dragging steps and...

  She was suddenly yanked violently backward by her skirts. The impact bent her double, knocking the wind from her, jolting her from her strange lethargy.

  "Stay!" came Blade's fierce command.

  Rose fought against his restraining grip, trying to break free. He didn’t understand. She had to get to her bird, had to rescue Wink.

  But Blade thrust her aside, hurtling past her with a roar to face Wink's attacker himself.

  Blade had noticed the willful falcon when it first chose to rebel, diving out of the sky and deserting its mistress at the most inopportune time in the most inopportune place. He’d watched Rose follow the wayward creature into the forest.

  Shaking his head, Blade had pursued them, palming the pair of speckled eggs he’d found for the bird’s supper. He had no choice but to go after Rose. After all, a falconer might wander for hours looking for a fugitive bird.

  He’d arrived at the clearing just in time to hear Rose’s piercing cry of distress, to witness her bolting out of the trees.

  Her scream had sent an icy frisson of lightning along his spine. He'd yelled at her in warning, but she'd been deaf to his cry, recklessly rushing toward the wolf that gripped her pet between its teeth.

  Cold dread froze the breath in his chest. He knew nothing would stop Rose. She loved that bird beyond reason, beyond sense. She’d do anything to save it.

  He'd bit out an oath, clenching his hands, cracking the forgotten eggs in his fist. Jesu, he needed to get to her before she reached the wolf. With a bellow, he raced forward, cursing the chain that hampered his pumping arms. A branch whipped at his face, and he knocked it aside, leaping over a fallen log in his haste to intercept Rose.

  She was but a half dozen yards from the beast when Blade finally reached her. Clutching a handful of her flying skirts, he hauled back hard enough to snap her neck, commanding
her to stay.

  Of course, she paid him no heed. She batted at him with desperate fists and cried in protest until he finally coiled his hand in her surcoat and hurled her backward.

  He didn’t stop to think. If he had, he would never have bolted forward in her stead to attack a pack of wild wolves. All he knew was that he had to save that damned falcon. The lass adored the crippled bird, and if she lost it...

  With a snarl of rage, he lurched forward—unarmed except for the fury in his gaze and the vengeance in his heart.

  Somehow, by God’s grace, he wasn’t killed.

  His rampant savagery must have startled the wolves and taken the edge off of their appetites. For when Blade lunged to within a sword’s length from the leader of the pack, the beast recoiled, dropping the troublesome morsel from its jaws. Dominated, it slunk off after its brothers—its ears flat, its tail drooping.

  Blade’s chest heaved like that of a warhorse primed for battle. His heart pummeled at his ribs, and unspent violence tingled along his arms.

  He hastened toward the abandoned prey and felt Rose rush up behind him. He knelt before the creature that lay broken upon the grass. Its beak hung open in a soundless cry, and its breast pulsed rapidly. Its body bore the marks of the wolf’s teeth, a mangled wing, flecks of blood. And yet there remained a valiant, defiant clarity in the falcon’s eye that challenged death.

  Still, as much as he prayed the bird might live, he feared ‘twas too far damaged. With utmost care, he scooped the small thing onto one palm, then turned to look at Rose.

  His grim expression must have revealed his doubt.

  What he perceived in her face was terrifying. ‘Twas far more than mere sorrow. Indeed, the despair in her eyes was so profound, it chilled him to the bone. For a long while she only stared at him—silent, hopeless. He couldn’t draw breath, so inconsolable was her gaze. He’d encountered a woman’s sadness before, but never had it pierced him so deeply, so utterly. While he returned her stare—unable to speak, unable to comfort her, unable to breathe—he watched her eyes fill with tears.

  Rose felt numb. Time seemed to stop, and she saw the scene before her with the detachment of a dream. She knew she should look away, but her gaze was locked on the broken body speckled with blood, on the wing bent at an impossible angle, on the beak, parted in a silent scream. She sensed she should move forward, but her limbs felt weighted. She sensed she should weep, but her grief was too deep for tears.

  This couldn’t be happening. Wink couldn’t be dying. ‘Twas unthinkable. Only a moment ago, Rose was smoothing the feathers over her dear falcon’s warm breast. Only a moment ago, her beloved bird soared high over the treetops.

  She peered again at her wounded friend, and this time she swore the falcon looked back at her. She felt the burden of Wink’s stare like a weight pressing upon her chest. And suddenly she realized the truth.

  "‘Tis my fault," she whispered bleakly. "If only I hadn’t let her go. If only I’d waited till we were safely out o’ the wood..."

  "‘Twasn’t your doin’," Blade said firmly. But she ignored him.

  "I should never have brought her on pilgrimage. I should never have taken her from Averlaigh. What does she know o’ the wild?" Her brow crumpled. "Ah, God, ‘tis all my fault."

  "Nae," he insisted, "‘tis no one’s fault."

  But she clung to her self-reproach, for it served to suffocate her mourning. "If only I’d kept her jesses tied. If only I hadn’t let her fly free. ‘Twas my hand that wounded her, as surely as if I stuffed her between that wolf’s..." She broke off with a sob.

  Blade felt her words like a dagger dragged across his soul. Of course, she couldn’t know how they affected him. Nor how often he’d formed that same thought in the dark corners of his mind. Her lament dredged up his past, bringing it to the surface, filling him with the same regret she suffered.

  Not a day went by when guilt didn’t peck at him, when he didn’t hear the endless echo of that other woman’s scream, when he didn’t imagine her blood staining his hands.

  He knew how Rose felt. He knew precisely how she felt. He’d battled the same demons for two years.

  "Listen to me," he said raggedly. "There’s nothin’ ye could have done to prevent this. Her fate was never in your hands."

  How many times had he told himself the same thing? Yet he never heeded his own advice. Still he blamed himself for the deed. Still he didn’t have the strength to face his past without smothering beneath a pall of remorse.

  Guilt deafened her to his counsel as well. "I should have left her in the mews at Fernie. I should have—"

  "Hist!" he said, his hand gripping her chin. "Ye bear no blame for this."

  "But—"

  "Did ye not feed her?"

  "Aye."

  "And keep her warm and dry?"

  "Aye."

  "And fly her when she needed to stretch her wings?"

  She nodded miserably. "I wish to God I hadn’t."

  "Lass, ye cannot keep a bird from the skies. Ye saved the poor blind wretch when another falconer would have killed her ere she moulted her first feathers."

  Her bronze eyes brimmed with a lake of tears as his words finally crumbled the last rampart guarding the keep of her grief. She began to cry softly, burrowing her face in her hands.

  For Blade, empathy was as instinctive as chivalry. ‘Twas unconscionable for him to stand by and do nothing while she suffered. He had to do something, needed to do something—anything—to ease her pain. No matter how impossible the task.

  Wiping his free hand across his brow, he glanced down again at the falcon. Incredibly, its eye was still bright with life. But its mangled body reminded him of that other battered victim in his past, the victim he’d not been able to save. What if he failed again? What if he made another deadly mistake? What if he couldn’t save the creature?

  He bit at the inside of one cheek. What if he didn’t try?

  His heart pumping with renewed purpose, he turned toward the palmer, who had already recovered and was gathering his chips of dead wood. Blade scowled, for the knave doubtless intended to sell his harvest as relics, Splinters of the True Cross, in the next village.

  "Simon!" he barked. "Bring me those sticks."

  The palmer looked as though he might refuse, but Blade’s stern glare convinced him to oblige. With a disgruntled frown, the man approached and deposited the sticks before him.

  Blade set the falcon tenderly upon the grass, then sorted through the pieces, finding one of a suitable size for a splint.

  "’T’won’t work, ye know," Simon announced smugly.

  Blade ignored him.

  "A bird’s wing can’t be mended," Simon informed him, crouching nearby.

  Blade tugged up the linen shirt he wore beneath his doublet and tore a strip of cloth from the bottom.

  "The wretched creature can’t possibly survive with a missin’ eye and a broken wing," Simon decreed.

  Blade snagged the palmer by the throat of his pilgrim’s cloak. "This wretched creature saved your thankless life," he snarled. Then he shoved the man backward onto his bony backside, not because he disagreed with the man's predictions, but because the palmer’s damning words distressed Rose.

  Her eyes were wild and wide and anxious, and her bloodless knuckles clenched tightly at her skirts.

  Simon, muttering under his breath, salvaged a few nearby splinters before he scurried off.

  "‘Tisn’t true, is it?" Rose asked, her voice hoarse, her eyes demanding. "She’ll live. She has to live. We’re survivors, Wink and I." She tried to smile. "Stubborn lasses to the core." Then she bit her lip to still its trembling. "Ye won’t let her die, will ye?"

  Blade steeled his jaw against her piercing regard. What could he tell her? That Simon was probably right? That the bird was too badly hurt to recover? That a half-blind, lame bird wasn’t worth saving? That he knew little to nothing of mending falcon’s wings? That the last wounded creature he’d tried to save he’d killed?
/>   "I won’t let her die," he promised.

  She seemed to draw strength from his words. Wiping the tears from her face, she crept forward to lend assistance.

  "‘Tis all right, Wink," she whispered. "The brave knight is goin’ to help ye. Lie still."

  Blade winced at her choice of words. He felt anything but brave. If he were brave, he’d tell her the truth—that her bird was doomed. If he were brave, he’d put the poor creature out of its misery with a twist of its neck.

  Instead, he knelt in cowardice before the injured falcon and put his limited surgeon’s skills to use. Gently, he positioned the broken bone of the bird’s wing until ‘twas straight. Then, while Rose held the wing in place, he wrapped it against the splint, weaving the cloth through the tattered feathers with painstaking care. All the while, the bird lay quiet, as if it understood that he meant it no harm.

  The bird mustn’t be allowed to try to fly, and so, once splinted, Blade folded the wing flat against the falcon’s side. While Rose secured the bird, he loosely wrapped the remaining linen around its body to fix the wing in place. Still, though its eye was bright and its senses lively, the falcon made no protest, lying remarkably motionless in its mistress’s hands.

  ‘Twould be fortunate if it lived through the night, Blade knew. The palmer was right. For a healthy bird to recover from such injuries would take a miracle. For one already crippled...

  Maybe he should tell Rose the truth. Maybe ‘twas best not to give her false hope. Surely death’s sting would be less if ‘tweren’t compounded by the ache of betrayal.

  But Rose’s tender words to the falcon melted something inside of him, and he lost all will to burst the bubble of her faith.

  "Don’t worry, Wink," she murmured. "Blade will take care o’ ye. Despite his felon’s chains and his dark looks, he’s a good man, a gentle man." She traced a finger softly over the falcon’s head. "Ye’ll see. Your wounds will heal, and soon ye’ll be wingin’ across the skies again. Ye have my promise and a noble knight’s word o’ honor."

  Blade nearly choked at that. His honor was questionable at best. But then she lifted her gaze to him, and the trust shining in her eyes—as clear and pure as a mountain stream—swelled his spirit. He didn't have the heart to withdraw his foolish promise.