Chapter 5
The pointof the dagger made a soothing shick sort of sound as it slid through the leather. Pherson, bent over his worktable, frowned in concentration, hoping he’d measured correctly. By cutting this raw piece of leather here, he could maximize the scraps.
When it came to hawking, scraps of leather were always useful; everything from ankle ties to hood repair to training. Pherson had spent many a winter’s evening fashioning leather scraps into approximations of mice or small prey for training young birds.
But this piece was special, because he needed to ensure the main cut would be large enough for a piece of footwear. Wynda had told him the brace for Wren’s twisted foot was complete, and all it lacked was the leather to create a full boot.
Well, he was nowhere near as smart as Lady Wynda Oliphant, but he could ensure his daughter had the leather she needed for her new footwear.
His lips twitched as he glanced into the corner of the room. At one point, this had been a sort of stable for a family’s livestock, and over the years he’d converted the stalls into spaces for the hawks and falcons, and cleaned out the hay.
There was, however, a pile of heavy wool blankets stored in the corner. In the winter, he hung them from the rafters to trap heat for the birds. Now, they were being used for something else entirely.
As was her habit when he was working late with the birds, wee Wren had curled up on the blankets to watch. He often spoke out loud while he trained, hoping she’d understand and learn. He would never force her to take on his responsibilities when she grew—she would be able to make her own choices, by God!—but hawking was a noble profession, and a lass could do worse than remembering how to speak to such noble beasts.
But as he’d fallen into silence to work on the leather, she’d closed her eyes.
Now, the silence of the mews was broken only by her soft snores and the ruffle of wing feathers as one of the birds repositioned herself on her post.
Pherson brushed a lock of hair from his cheek then reached for one of the scraps he’d just cut into a thong. As he stretched the ache from his lower back, he rolled his shoulders then tied his long hair back at the base of his neck.
Mayhap ‘twas time to cut it off. But it brought Wren joy to braid, and…
And it helped hide him.
Back then, back in the Lowlands, he’d kept his hair cut close, the way his father had. He’d grown, and changed, enough that he hoped none of them would recognize him anymore…but why take the chance? He’d keep the long braids, and continue to pray Roger Campbell—with his one-eyed scowl and his army of brutish devils—didn’t come looking for him.
Because if—nay, when—they did, he’d have two choices.
Run. Again.
Or fight.
Last time, he had Wren to consider; he had to run to keep her safe. But here on Oliphant land, she was safe. She was safe and happy, and thanks to Lady Wynda Oliphant, was learning to read and would soon run.
He couldn’t take that from her.
He couldn’t run again.
Mayhap sensing his thoughts, Geraldine shifted on her perch. She was the only bird not in her own cubicle; she had a grand perch he’d carved for her the winter before last. After so many years together, it felt wrong to lock her away.
He trusted her, and she trusted him.
But then... Beneath her hood, her stately head twisted around, and he could imagine her eyes behind the leather, staring toward the main room of the house.
The hilt of his dagger settled against his palm, the weight and heft comforting.
He blew out the candle.
“Better than a guard dog, eh, Gerry?” he murmured as he crept past.
It would be too much of a coincidence that an enemy would arrive tonight, as he was considering them. But who would be sneaking toward his home, silently enough only the falcon could somehow sense their steps?
Lightly he stepped through the connecting door, his bare feet testing each placement in the dark before he committed his weight. He dared not risk a light; he wanted his midnight visitor to believe him asleep.
Thank fook Wren’s safe with the hawks.
Geraldine would protect her.