by Susan King
“Stop!” he hollered, reaching again.
“Let her go,” a deep voice called out. “The boys will pay for her escape!”
With a sense of dread in her gut, she slowed and turned.
De Soulis stared at her from a few yards away, his eyes small and piercing. He was graying but handsome with precise, carefully etched features, and she sensed a darkness about him that went beyond his notorious black armor.
“We have your brothers,” he called. “Go into the loch if you wish.” He waved a hand to encourage her. “Show us how you turn into a swan. I, for one, would like to see it.”
Two knights rode behind De Soulis, Alec and Iain trapped in their arms. Alec sat quietly, but Iain shrieked and struggled as he lay over the front of the saddle, legs kicking.
“Juliana!” Alec called. “Run!”
She hesitated, standing in a cool sweep of water.
“What shall I do with them? Will you speak in their defense, Swan Maiden?” De Soulis guided his horse into the water toward her. She stepped back.
“Do not talk!” Alec shouted. “Remember the Swan Maiden!”
She glanced toward her brother. Alec bravely wanted to protect the ruse they had agreed on, while nearby, Iain still squealed and fought. She was proud of both for their spirit.
“Quiet that boy!” De Soulis ordered. Iain’s captor winced loudly when he was bitten, and he smacked the child in response. Iain began to whimper.
Furious on his behalf, Juliana lunged through the water. De Soulis turned his horse to block her advance. When she stepped sideways, water swooshing, he blocked her again. Her dress was soaked, her breath and chest heaving, her hair hanging down. She stared at him, trapped, wild with a need to free her brothers.
Artan glided swiftly through the water toward them, wings raised aggressively. Nearing the horse, the cob lifted his wings and swatted outward. The bay snorted and stepped back.
Juliana moved again but De Soulis blocked her. Near her, the swan hissed. Reaching down, she touched the taut curve of Artan’s neck. The bird settled low in the water and swam away.
“So, we see some of your magic after all, Swan Maiden,” De Soulis drawled. In the distance, Malcolm and a few monks ran toward them, shouting. “Come to me, or the boys will be harmed.”
She knew it for a genuine threat. After a moment, she lifted her arm toward him in passive surrender.
“Well and truly caught,” he said. “I am disappointed. I expected more of a challenge from the Swan Maiden of Elladoune.” He grasped her arm to pull her up behind him.
She grabbed his belt to steady herself, head lifted and back straight. He guided the horse to the bank and looked over his shoulder. “No plea for mercy?”
She narrowed her eyes. At close view, he was lean and taut, with sharp features and dark eyes. His chain mail, finely woven and glossy as onyx, draped over him like heavy velvet.
She stared at it curiously. De Soulis’s black armor was renowned. Rumor said it was impenetrable, even enchanted. Whatever the truth, she had never seen a war garment like it.
“Juliana!” She looked around to see Malcolm and the monks rushing toward them.
“Father Abbot!” Iain yelled, struggling in his captor’s arms. “Help! The black knight has us all!”
“Let my wards go, Sir Walter,” Malcolm said sternly in Scots. “You have nae quarrel with them.”
“True, though I confess I am curious about the girl. The rumors about her are … intriguing.”
She twisted, and De Soulis caught her forearm in a steely grip. “You cannot fly away now,” he murmured.
“Let them go,” Malcolm repeated. “Leave here.”
“We have business on the loch.” The creamy smoothness of his voice made Juliana feel ill. “King Edward has requested a pair of Scottish swans for a royal feast. He has appointed me his new Master of Swans in Scotland. Part of my duties are to see that swans are captured to stock his rivers and grace his table. My men will take a pair of birds from those you keep.”
“We dinna keep them,” Malcolm answered. “The birds are wild. They choose to stay here.”
“All the swans in Britain belong exclusively to the king,” the sheriff said. “That includes the swans in Scotland. For now, we need but one more. We have caught one already—the Swan Maiden.” De Soulis kept hold of Juliana’s arm. “The king will find this pair quite amusing.”
“The king?” Malcolm asked. “You canna take the lass!”
“I can and will,” De Soulis answered. “With another swan.” He gestured to two men, who dismounted. They took nets and long hooks from their saddles and walked to the water’s edge.
Juliana gasped and twisted silently in De Soulis’s relentless grip. She had known some of the birds for years, since they had been born, and she could not bear for harm to come to any of them. But she did not know how to help them now.
“Abbot, if the girl wants to protest, make her use her tongue,” De Soulis said. “I am weary of this game she plays.”
“Sir Sheriff, she chooses to be silent.”
“ ’Tis said she has some magic about her.”
“People say that you have magic too. That armor, I hear, is impenetrable and under some dark spell.”
“Nonsense,” De Soulis snapped.
“Then we understand each other.”
“Mayhap. Tell me why the girl does not speak.”
“She is pious and grieving. ’Tis all.”
“She should be in a convent, then.”
“She would be, if King Edward hadna burned most of them,” Malcolm said pointedly. “The girl is kind to her brothers and to our brethren, and tends to the swans. She is an innocent. Leave her be.”
“She makes a fine hostage, as do her brothers. You will hear from me soon, Abbot Malcolm.” De Soulis turned his horse.
“Stop!” Malcolm shouted. “You canna keep them!”
“They provide assurance. We need the help of the monks of Inchfillan when the garrison at Elladoune departs. I suspect rebel activity in this area. But of course we can trust you, Abbot … can we not?”
“Certes. No hostages need ensure it.”
“I will take them nevertheless. The king will want to see this Swan Maiden. As for the boys … what is the tradition among the Scots? Fostering? Consider them fostered by the sheriff of Glen Fillan. My wife will approve of them in her household, as she is without children of her own.” He nodded brusquely. “Good day. Ride out,” he snapped at the guards, and shifted forward.
Juliana gasped out, turning to look at her guardian.
“Where will you take them?” Malcolm demanded.
“Her brothers will stay at Dalbrae with my wife and my garrison,” De Soulis said. “I will take an escort and convey the girl to Newcastle in safety.”
“Newcastle-on-Tyne?” Malcolm asked. “Is the king there now?”
“He and his army have been making their way north toward Scotland and have reached Newcastle. ’Tis a short journey from here, a few days at most. She will be in the care of a military escort. The king will decide what is to be done with her.”
Panic overtook Juliana then. She could scarcely breathe or think as she twisted against De Soulis’s grip in terror. She could not go with these men, nor could she leave her brothers, or Malcolm, or this place. Desperation rose high and quick, and she shoved De Soulis. He wrenched her arm in fierce reply.
“I will come with her myself,” the abbot said, “or I will send monks with her! ’Tisna right to take a female like this—the daughter of a laird—”
“Daughter of a rebel, and a rebel herself, most likely,” De Soulis corrected. “A priest will be with my troops, and he can chaperone her.” He spurred the horse and cantered away.
Juliana looked over her shoulder at the guards who carried her brothers. Alec’s eyes were wide and frightened, and Iain emitted bold, earsplitting shrieks. Malcolm and some of the monks ran forward. The abbot ran on sturdy legs, his dark tunic flapping around
his muscular calves.
Within moments, he loped alongside De Soulis’s horse. “Be strong of heart!” he called to Juliana in Gaelic. “And keep your vow, Juliana—keep silent!”
Tears clouded her eyes as she watched Malcolm. He called out a reassurance to the boys, then stopped in the meadow.
“We will pray for you!” he yelled. “We will ask for a miracle!”
She looked toward the loch, where the two guards stood in the water. One hooked Artan, the large white cob, around the neck, and the other held a net, while the swan beat his wings in a fury.
Juliana turned away, stifling a sob. She too was caught, though her net was woven of secrets.
Chapter Five
A golden chain encircled her neck, yet it was a captive’s chain nonetheless. Similar links bound her wrists and hands, which rested motionless in her lap. The white satin gown, embroidered with silver threads, was the finest garment she had ever worn. A close cap of white feathers covered her head, and her pale hair spilled down her back.
The precious chains and beautiful costume were meant to transform her into a human version of the swan sitting beside her in the cart. Juliana lifted her head proudly, determined to hide her fear and disgrace from her English enemies.
She swayed inside the pony-drawn cart, feeling dizzy and dull-witted. The watered wine given her by one of the guards had been bitter with added herbs, which sapped her energy and made her feel vague and slow, as if she floated through a dream.
Yet she felt as if she were caught in a nightmare.
The cart rumbled along a torchlit corridor inside the king’s castle. Servants bearing large platters of food hurried past. Ahead, two men carried a huge tray displaying a castle sculpted of marzipan and adorned with sugared fruits.
Juliana glanced at the large male mute swan settled beside her in a nest of green embroidered satin. A gold chain around his long neck was attached to an upright wooden post. Artan ruffled his feathers nervously when one of the ponies whickered.
Juliana made a wordless, soothing sound. Artan lifted his orange beak, its base knobbed in black. He chirred and quieted.
Beyond a set of tall oaken doors, she heard the sounds of music, laughter, and the clatter of dishes and knives. She knew that a banquet was in progress, attended by the king’s guests.
Though her head spun from the wine, she sat aloof while a serving woman arranged the sumptuous white gown around her and adjusted the cap of feathers. Artan hissed and the woman stepped back hastily.
“That swan is a beautiful beast, but mean,” the woman said. “But ah, the lady looks like a princess. Seamstresses and artists worked day and night to make this gown and the nest. ’Tis a shame, I say, that the king only means to make a fool of her and her Scottish people with all this costly finery.”
“Since when are ye the king’s advisor?” one of the guards scoffed. “Go tell the chamberlain that the girl is ready to be presented to king and court.” The woman hurried away.
“Here, pretty bird,” one guard said, chortling as he approached. He reached out and stroked Juliana’s shoulder with damp fingers. She jerked away.
Artan hissed and swiped a wing at the guard, who jumped back. “That foul-tempered swan belongs on the king’s table,” he muttered. “And the Swan Maiden would do well in a man’s bed.”
“King Edward wants her brought pure and maidensome to his feast, or we will all be blamed,” the first said. “Keep yer hands away. ’Tis eerielike, the way that swan defends her. Chills my bones, it do, and I’ll not touch her, king or none.”
Juliana fisted her hands in her lap, gold chains chinking. Several days had passed since she and Artan had been captured in Scotland. The journey south to Newcastle had been a blur of rough cart rides and chafing ropes, aching muscles and constant fear, infrequent meals of stale bread and cheese. And too often, she had been given wine mixed with bitter herbs, which induced apathy, compliance, and bouts of heavy sleep.
Walter de Soulis, who had accompanied her south, had ordered the dosings in the wine. She had tried to refuse in silence, but the drinks were forced down her throat.
White satin, golden chains, and the swan Artan beside her were an improvement, but she did not know what King Edward intended for her. She had been told that he was pleased by the capture of Juliana Lindsay, daughter of a Scots rebel and cousin of another. Would she be imprisoned, she wondered, or sealed in a convent—or put to death as a witch or a rebel?
She shivered at her own thoughts, and turned her attention to Artan beside her, smoothing his feathers.
The Swan Maiden, the English called her, claiming that she knew magical arts. Only fools, she thought bitterly, believed in such things. If she truly had magic, she would have escaped her captivity already.
And if the king discovered the truth about her, she thought, frowning, he would surely order her execution.
The doors of the banquet chamber opened wide, and the cart lurched as the ponies moved ahead. The high-vaulted chamber was filled with torchlight and shadows, voices and distant faces. Clarion trumpets blared suddenly. The swan, startled, ruffled his feathers and hissed again.
She placed a hand on his back and he busked his wings slightly. As the cart rumbled over the floor tiles, Juliana lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders.
A fanfare of trumpets accompanied the arrival of servants carrying yet another course arranged on platters. Gawain held up a hand in refusal when a servant offered a tray to him and to his stepfather and stepbrothers. Ground pork baked in colored batters in the shapes of fruits seemed highly unappealing, he thought, and turned away.
“No more appetite?” his stepfather, Henry Avenel, asked as he accepted a serving on his own bread trencher.
Gawain swirled the last of the red Gascony wine in his silver goblet. “I have little taste for wondrous foods,” he said wryly. “I made my appearance here, ate something in good company, and now I am ready to be quit of this feast.”
“So early? Look at the marvelous confection coming through those doors now—what … it looks like a girl made all of marzipan!” Robin Avenel, who had been knighted but a few weeks ago in London, craned his neck to peer through the crowds.
Gawain did not even glance at the newest wonder being offered. Edmund, Robin’s older brother, slid them a mildly interested glance and turned back to the servant girl standing beside him, smiling at her and running his fingers along her arm.
He wondered how Edmund could concentrate on seduction amid the din of musical instruments and the chatter of servants and guests. Most of those attending the feast in the hall at Newcastle were knights and soldiers of the king’s army, journeying north to Scotland. They needed a grand celebration, he thought, to relieve the tedium of a military existence.
“Gawain,” his stepfather said, “you stayed with the barbaric Scots too long this time. If you are not enjoying the feast and the spectacle here, your tastes have turned far too simple.”
“They always were simple,” Gawain said. “You forget that before I was counted among your sons, and among the king’s knights, I was a lad in those barbaric hills.” He rarely made reference to that, he thought; the wine had loosened his tongue.
“I have not forgotten,” Henry said sternly. “You had best pray the king does not remember you are not my own son.”
“They say King Edward has another surprise planned for the evening.” Robin leaned forward. “I wonder if this is it.” He seemed frustrated when the other Avenels did not bother to look.
“Another subtletie sculpted from spun sugar and almond paste?” Gawain asked. The crowd blocked his view. “Another leaping acrobat? ’Twill be lost on this lot, Robin. Most of them are too drunk to care what else is brought out.”
“Grand as it is, this feast hardly compares with the king’s Swan Feast in London last May, when he knighted three hundred men—our Robin among them,” Henry added proudly, smiling at his youngest son. “The king threw a sumptuous celebration there. This one is m
odest, but the food is good. The Plantagenet court, wherever it rests, does maintain quality.”
“In London, the king had a pair of swans in golden chains brought to him, and he swore to destroy Robert Bruce and rule Scotland, or die in the attempt,” Edmund said. “I did hear that the king will renew that vow on another pair of swans, since Newcastle is his last stop before he enters Scotland once again.”
“Then I will definitely leave early,” Gawain said. “Swan meat is tough and not to my liking.” The vow, rather than the meat, was his true objection.
“Aye, swans are out of season now—their flesh is most tender in the autumn,” Edmund said. “But the king has talented cooks, and he brings them along when he travels. Each dish here has been more artfully crafted than the last.”
“These knights are worthy men, and deserve a feast to lift their spirits,” Henry agreed.
Gawain frowned. “The king’s true intention is to attract new knights for his army and contributions for his Scottish war.”
“ ’Tis wise to be generous toward the king who has recently granted you king’s peace.” Henry dipped his fingers in a bowl of rosewater, raising his brow at Gawain.
“I am grateful for the king’s goodwill,” Gawain said carefully. “I simply wish to leave the feast early. In the morning, I will journey north.”
“The king has ordered you to Scotland already?” Robin asked.
“Aye. Gawain has been given a post as a commander,” Edmund said, “despite his infamous transgressions.”
“The king is desperate,” Gawain murmured.
“See, some good came of you bowing that stubborn head of yours and begging king’s peace,” Henry said. “Your Scottish birth could have cost us all our heads, now that Robert Bruce has so boldly claimed Scotland for his own. Edward is furious toward any who have even remote ties to the Scots.”
“Who can blame him,” Gawain said, mildly and ambiguously, meaning the King of Scots.