The Swan Maiden

by Susan King

  “Aye, he is the king’s sheriff in the shire where the girl—your, ah, wife—comes from,” Henry said. “Edmund knows something of it. Ned?”

  “I inquired about the girl in the hall,” Edmund said. “A shameful farce, that wedding. You saved her from a poor fate, if one of those sots had gotten her for his own.”

  “We know you did not mean to marry her,” Robin said. He sat on a stool beside the fire. “Though that may not be so bad—she is a pretty chit.”

  “Lady,” Gawain said irritably. “Demoiselle. Girl. Lass, if you will. She is not a chit. You are a knight now, not a boor with a sword.”

  Robin gaped at him, and Henry held up a hand for peace. Gawain turned away and sloshed more wine into his cup. He did not intend to drink it all, but he needed something to do.

  “At any rate,” Edmund said into the tense silence, “this De Soulis has been appointed the first Master of Swans in Scotland—an honorary title, I think, since a sheriff has no leisure to tend royal swans in Scotland during a war effort.”

  “The king seized upon the symbolic importance of swans last May, when he held his first Feast of the Swan in London,” Henry said. “No doubt that is behind this appointment.”

  Gawain downed a long draught. “I know De Soulis. He burned Elladoune Castle the night that I was reported for aiding rebels. Juliana Lindsay lived there. ’Tis where I first saw her.”

  “By the saints! Did you help her that night?” Henry asked. “You never mentioned that detail before, as I recall.”

  Gawain shrugged. “Her, and some others—a mother and children who escaped while their home was being torched. I paid for it with a public apology. ’Tis done.”

  “Not quite,” Henry replied quietly. Gawain glanced at his stepfather, whose hazel eyes were piercing, though his manner was calm, as usual. “Now you’ve met the girl again, and you have married her by king’s order—and you must deal with the man who accused you years ago. Not done at all, is it?” Henry frowned.

  Gawain sipped. The spiced wine burned a sweet path down his throat. “What else do we know about this girl?”

  “She is yours to keep, by legal and sacred bond,” Henry said. “That much we know.”

  “Wonderful news,” Gawain snapped. He flickered a glance at his stepfather, who watched him with grim sympathy.

  “Some good may come of this.”

  “ ’Tis a shock to find myself wed,” Gawain admitted. “But if all that comes of it is my lady mother’s contentment, then ’tis enough.” He glanced around, and saw sober nods.

  “True,” Henry agreed quietly. “Ned, what more did you learn about Gawain’s bride?”

  “She lives in a place called Inchfillan Abbey, under the care of a kinsman, an Augustinian abbot.”

  “He’s wed a nun?” Robin asked.

  “Nay, the abbot is her guardian. De Soulis took her brothers into custody as well, before he brought her south with that mute swan. King Edward requested a pair of Scottish swans, and his Master of Swans obtained them.”

  “De Soulis has a poor sense of humor,” Gawain drawled.

  “One of the guards said that the girl is called the Swan Maiden in the area where she lives,” Edmund said, and shrugged. “I do not know why.”

  Gawain swirled the wine in his cup. He knew exactly where that epithet came from. “Her brothers were taken? I heard there were two Lindsays, older than her, running with Robert Bruce.”

  James Lindsay had mentioned his cousins. Gawain shook his head slightly as he thought of the irony in this sure tangle.

  “Now you have the responsibility of her,” Robin said. “But how are you going to transform her into a loyal English lady?”

  “I do not think that can be done at all, frankly.” Gawain took a stool beside the fire, settling into the slung leather seat and resting his elbows on his knees. “I only meant to free her and send her back to Scotland. I never counted on the rest.”

  “You will return her to Scotland—and you will have custody of her for the rest of your life.” Henry paced the room, rubbing his jaw. His brown hair had grown more gray, Gawain noticed. Henry was a handsome and skilled man, a paragon of knighthood in Edward’s court. His advice and friendship were valued by the king, and his military expertise was respected by many. Gawain considered himself fortunate to call him stepfather and mentor.

  “But to take her to Scotland, he has to show her in chains the whole way,” Robin said. “Is that not what the king said?”

  “Aye, so all of England can see the captive Scotswoman,” Edmund said. “A devilish plan.”

  “I refuse to treat a woman so,” Gawain said. “The king is a madman to expect it.”

  “He seems so, at times,” Henry said. “His hatred of the Scots grows more unreasonable, I admit. But if he issues a writ saying she must be chained, and sends an escort to see it done, there is naught you can do about it.”

  “There might be,” Gawain said firmly.

  “Insubordination,” Henry said, “does not honor the Avenel name.”

  “Gold links are soft, and impractical for a prisoner’s chains,” Gawain replied. “Easily broken.”

  “You have a damnable habit of helping others when ’twill only bring trouble for you,” Henry said sternly.

  “Those chains had better hold,” Edmund muttered, “or all the Avenels will pay the price of it.”

  Gawain scowled into his wine cup, knowing the truth of that. Henry looked out the window at the rainy darkness. After a moment, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small object. He tossed it to Gawain.

  Deftly catching it, Gawain opened his hand. A tiny iron key lay in his palm. He looked at Henry.

  “The king entrusted it to me,” his stepfather said. “I entrust it to you. Use it wisely.”

  Gawain nodded and crossed to the door. “ ’Tis late. I bid you good night. We are leaving in the morn, my … bride and I. Do any of you ride north with us?”

  “Robin rides for Avenel Castle tomorrow,” Henry said. “Edmund and I must stay in Newcastle for now.”

  “Ah, then. Good night.” Gawain was aware that his family wondered if he would sleep with his new bride this night. He wondered it himself. He opened the door latch.

  “Gawain,” Henry said. “Thank you.”

  He glanced over his shoulder in surprise. “Why, sir? I have run the Avenel name to near ruin with all my transgressions. Even worse, Geoffrey … is gone now, in part my fault,” he murmured. “This evening’s pageant does not improve matters.”

  “Geoffrey’s death was hard for everyone, but no one is to blame,” Henry said. “We know that you have risked much, and given up much, to protect our welfare. We are all grateful.”

  Gawain began to speak, but his voice clouded. He nodded stiffly, opened the door, and slipped out into the corridor.

  The small bedroom was silent and dark but for the low light of a brazier and a single candle. Outside, rain gusted against the walls, making the room seem cozy. The candle’s halo illuminated the bed as Gawain crossed the room and looked down.

  Juliana lay in the bed against several pillows, with the fur coverlet pulled up to her shoulders. She still wore the white satin dress, although the feathered cap lay on the table. Her pale hair was like moonlight and silk, and her face was smooth and serene. Gawain reached out a hand but did not touch her.

  He wanted a wife, he thought, but not like this. When war and traveling were a way of life, knights often craved the peace and contentment of a home and a family, and he was no different, he knew. Someday he had hoped to find a gentle lady to warm his heart and share his life.

  Unsure what to make of this marriage, he felt numb, still stunned. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her. She slept deeply, her breathing quiet. She was a sweet perfection, golden fair and smooth cheeked, with a soft curve to her mouth, her hands curled and slender on the pillow, wrists manacled.

  Frowning, he used the little key to unlock the collar. Sliding a hand under her head,
he lifted the band away, baring the sinuous curve of her throat. He stroked a finger over the pink crease the collar had made.

  Next he removed the manacles, and pooled the chains on the tabletop. She moaned in her sleep, and he soothed his hand over her head.

  He did not dare to touch her further, for desire coursed quick and intense through him. Giving into that was unthinkable. She had been stolen from her home, imprisoned, humiliated, forced to wed. He would not demand marriage rights of her, despite the king’s crude suggestion.

  He stood, blew out the candle, and walked in the darkness to the other side of the bed. Listening to the driving rain, he removed his boots and clothing, all but his braies. This wedding night was not like most. The girl might wake up and mistake him for a lecher if he kept his usual practice of sleeping nude.

  All he wanted was some rest. He felt exhausted from the shock of the evening and the crazy tilt in his future. In the morning he would sort out his obligations. He would receive writs and meet the escort; he realized that he did not even know their destination in Scotland or his military duties yet.

  A gust of wind and rain made the closed shutters tremble. The outer world was in upheaval, he thought, like his own world. He eased between the covers. The rope foundation of the bed creaked as he reclined and closed his eyes.

  He had much to think about—too much for a weary man to sort through in one night. Listening to the rain, he felt sleep overtake him.

  Chapter Eight

  Blessed freedom. The chains were gone. Juliana could feel the cool air on her neck and wrists. She wondered, lying in the darkness, if the Swan Feast had been only a nightmare.

  More fully awake, she realized that her captivity was still real, for she lay in the bed at the inn. But someone had freed her. Relieved and grateful, she sighed and stretched.

  After weeks of straw and thin blankets, the deep, soft bed felt like a cloud. She yawned and snuggled into its warmth. Just last night, she had curled in a corner of a cold dungeon cell, too afraid to sleep because of the guards outside the door.

  Here she had slept undisturbed for what seemed a long while, although the sky was still dark beyond the opaque glazing in the small window, and rain still pattered unceasingly.

  She rolled over, and squeaked in alarm.

  Gawain slept beside her, his shadowed form motionless beneath the covers. She had not realized his presence until now; his soft snores had mingled with the sound of the rain.

  She wondered if he had removed her chains—at least he had left her fully dressed. Apparently he had not attempted to ravish her as the king had suggested to him.

  Yet. She sat up carefully, watching him.

  In the shadows, she saw only the firm gleam of a bare shoulder, the dark mass of his hair on the pillow. He sighed, shifted his head, resumed snoring. Sure that he was completely asleep, Juliana leaned closer out of curiosity.

  Warmth emanated from him, and he smelled clean and spicy and good. He smelled like comfort, she thought suddenly. She recalled the gentle kiss they had exchanged after the marriage vows had been said. She remembered how he had kept her safe, years ago, in his arms. A subtle shiver traveled through her. She wondered what it would feel like to kiss him again, deep and full, like lovers.

  But he was not her lover, and their wedding night was a mockery. A husband had been forced upon her like a sentencing. He had helped her, and she was grateful, but he was an enemy to her people. King Edward had sworn to destroy Robert Bruce and Scotland, and Gawain Avenel had stood with the other knights as they repeated that vow.

  She had to get away from him and this place before he awoke and tried to claim his rights as a husband. Best if she escaped Newcastle altogether, so he could not chain her again as his prisoner, albeit his wife.

  She eased herself out of bed and stood. Although her satin gown rustled loudly, the knight slept undisturbed. Turning, she wondered what to wear; she could hardly flee through the night in a gown as bright as a full moon. Unlacing the neck, she slipped out of the garment and the thin, impractical slippers she had been given. She stood in her gauzy chemise.

  The dark blur of the knight’s tunic lay on the foot of the bed. The black serge garment was wide and large, and she tugged it over her head and slipped her arms in the sleeves. Avenel was broad-shouldered and she was slight, but her legs were long. It suited her well enough to flee in it, she thought.

  Groping around, she discovered his leather belt and latched it over her hips, but it nearly thunked to the floor and she set it aside. Glancing furtively toward the bed, she snatched his boots. They were heavy and well made, and so big on her feet that she fitted them with floor rushes stuffed into each toe box.

  She braided her hair out of the way, although with its fine texture it would soon loosen again, lacking a ribbon. Then she tiptoed to the door, eased it open, and slipped out.

  The fire in the brazier must have gone out, Gawain thought vaguely, stirring in the bed. The sheets were cold. He rolled over and stretched out his hand in the darkness.

  She was gone.

  He bolted upright and grabbed groggily for his clothing. That was gone, too. Standing, swearing, he stepped in a pool of white satin. Juliana had not only fled the room, she had left him nothing to wear but his braies—or her gown and feathers.

  Muttering under his breath, he went to a corner where his saddle pack lay. The previous day, expecting to ride north to fulfill his term of knight service—wifeless, he thought sourly—he had packed clothing, blankets, and other items.

  He extracted a dark brown tunic and yanked it over his head. Discovering that she had taken his boots, too, he swore again and headed for the door, stubbing his bare toe on a stool.

  He made his way along the hall and down the creaking stairs quickly. The other bedchambers were occupied by king’s knights, including Henry and his stepbrothers, but no one stirred.

  The front door was unbarred, and his cloak was missing from the wall peg where he had left it to dry. Growling in further annoyance, he stepped out into the night.

  Rain drenched him within moments. Through the darkness, he saw someone standing at the end of the street. At first, he thought it was a boy. Then he realized that Juliana turned as if uncertain where to go.

  Staying in the shadow of the houses, he strode toward her and snatched at her cloak as she whirled to run. “Walking home to Scotland?” he asked.

  She fought him, sputtering in the rain. He held her in a fierce grip, while the downpour slicked over his head, ran into his open collar, sluiced cold around his bare feet.

  She squealed and tried to stamp on his feet with his own damned boots. He stepped neatly aside.

  “You will not get far,” he said. “The town is surrounded by a wall several feet thick and more than twenty feet high, with seven gates.” He pulled her hard against him and pointed toward the castle that loomed over the city. “Seventeen towers, each with guards on watch, day and night. The outer wall of the town was built fifty years ago to keep the Scots out. ’Twill keep one Scots lassie inside.”

  He lifted her and dumped her over his shoulder. As he headed back to the inn, he struggled to hold her. She squirmed, her feet beating at his thighs. He smacked the most convenient part of her to reach, her small rounded bottom, and received a solid punch in the kidneys.

  Inside the inn, he slammed the door behind them and slid Juliana to her feet. Stripping off the sodden cloak, he flung it over a hook. She stared up at him, her gaze livid, her cheeks flushed, her hair hanging in soaking strands over her face. He kept one hand tight around her upper arm.

  “If eyes were daggers,” he murmured.

  “You would feel the prick,” she snapped. Her voice was soft and hoarse, and cracked on the last word.

  He raised a brow. “Ah, so you do talk. I thought so. Good. You can explain what the devil you were doing out there.” He pulled her toward the stairs.

  When she dug in her heels like a mule, he yanked, half dragging her up the steps.
She shivered in his damp black tunic, which hung on her like a funeral pall.

  When they reached the second floor, Henry peered out of an open door. Beyond him, another door opened, and Robin and Edmund looked out. At the foot of the uppermost staircase, Bette stood with a candle in her hand. All of them gaped.

  “Good night,” Gawain said succinctly, and pulled Juliana along the corridor. He pushed open his bedchamber door, shoved her inside, followed, and slammed the door, bolting it.

  “As if that would keep me inside,” she said. She folded her arms and stood staring at him.

  “Determined to escape? What about that wall around the town? Do you intend to fly over it, Swan Maiden?”

  “You dinna understand. I must go home.” He heard a plaintive wobble in her voice, and frowned.

  “I understand well enough that you must stay here.”

  She turned her head indignantly and did not answer.

  “Back to silence, I see. What is this silence of yours all about? I remember having to hush you up, years ago. You were full of speeches when we hid in that loch with the swans.”

  “ ’Twas long ago. I scarcely recall.” Her English had the airy lilt of a Gaelic-speaking native. It tugged at him swiftly, keenly, a reminder of people and places better forgotten. “What will you do with me now?”

  “I have not thought about it. I was sleeping until a few minutes ago.” He pushed her toward the bed, and she sat on its edge, sending him a little glare. She was shivering markedly, he noticed. He was cold himself, and damp. “Take off those wet things and get under the covers,” he said. He ran his fingers through his hair, shaking some of the moisture out of it.

  “I willna.” She folded her arms.

  He turned to stoke the brazier in the corner of the room, adding dry sticks and coals from a bucket. Juliana stood and edged toward the door. Standing, he spun around and grasped her arm to turn her firmly toward the bed.