The Falconer's Daughter - Liz Lyles Page 0,10
little dog. Her tongue sticking out, she practiced more panting. “Hheheh.”
Brother Lyles looked at the falconer. Kirk said nothing. The monk sighed and pulled himself into a better sitting position, his girth riding high above the cord on his thick waist. The hapless bench squeaked in protest. Cordaella grinned again, the fringe of eyelashes lowering over her dusty eyes.
Kirk watched his daughter curiously, as if she were someone new and not his own kin. If he were to pull away, to send her to Inverness, would she be better off? Would she be happier? He looked down on her dark head, seeing the small cleanly etched profile: her tiny straight nose, the full mouth, the startlingly pale eyes. She was a funny-looking little thing, so skinny, so wild. His own. She was his own.
Only now did he realize that she had survived infancy—so few babies did—and here she sat, no longer a toddler but a little girl of four. No fat on these arms and legs, her slender limbs sunburned and strong. It was easy to see the dark Celt in her.
Brother Lyles cleared his throat. “Cordaella, do you know your true Father?”
“My Papa is here,” she said, pointing at Kirk.
“No, Cordaella, that is your earthly father. Do you know your eternal Father?”
Frustrated she reached back for Kirk’s knee. “Papa!”
Kirk patted her tan cheek, his voice husky. “The Brother means God, Cory. When he says ‘Father’ he means ‘Father God’, not Papa.”
Indignantly she turned back to Brother Lyles. “Of course I know God! He made everything—all the birds, all the bugs. He even made me!”
“There is but one God, my child, and He is the maker and master of every man. He is Lord of all Creation, Lord of Scotland, England, Ireland, Wales, Normandy…” he paused to take a hasty breath before plunging on. “His Son came down from Heaven and lived as man for thirty years, sharing in all the human burdens and sorrows, eventually dying on the blessed Cross so that we fearful sinners, all of us, might know eternal life.” He sat back, “Do you know Him, child, this Savior?”
“I have never met him,” she replied truthfully, “We do not get many strangers here. So far, only two, including you. But the other man was not so fat. He is a page. Do you know what that is? Papa said pages must take messages back and forth. Why didn’t you send your page here?”
Brother Lyles’ Adam’s apple wobbled up and down for a moment. “I am not speaking of a mortal man, Cordaella I refer to Christ our Lord, Christ the Son of God! Do you know nothing of Him?”
“Aye, I know God,” she repeated patiently. “He made everything. He made Papa and me and all the flowers and—”
“But Jesus? You cannot get to Heaven, into God’s presence without first accepting Jesus. Are you unfamiliar with the parables? The great teachings of Jesus our Lord?”
Her delicate forehead creased seriously. “Is he an Earl perhaps?”
Brother Lyles threw up his hands in disgust, crossing himself quickly before rummaging on the ground for his walking stick. As he rose, he said, “Mark my words, Brother Buchanan. Unless you send this child from here, you shall bring destruction on your house!” There was a long span of silence after the friar faded from sight. After several minutes Cordaella walked resolutely to the door and shut it. She lowered the bar across the door, latching it for good measure.
“That will keep the bad men away,” she said, turning back to Kirk.
“Thank you.” He wanted to smile but couldn’t.
She still remained by the door. “What will happen to our cottage?”
“Nothing.”
“But he said—”
“I know what the Brother said.”
“Then why—”
“Because.” He cut her off with a glower. He was sick at heart, sick deep in his gut. Why had the friar come up here, bearing his tiding of doom? Already Brother Lyles had begun the process of taking Cordaella away from him.
She hesitated, still torn. Her curiosity won. “Where is he from?”
“Inverness.”
“He is not a falconer, is he?”
“No. He is a man of the church. A monk of the Benedictine order.”
“Why is he a monk?”
“He would probably say that he was called by God. Most likely he was sent to the church by his family. One son too many!”
She was increasingly perplexed. Nothing the stranger or her father said was making sense. Why was Papa acting so funny? Why didn’t he just answer her questions?
And who was Jesus the Lord? What a very peculiar name.