The Swan Maiden

by Susan King

  Juliana looked at Gawain, wide-eyed. He shrugged a little sheepishly; the idea of the Swan Knight, years ago, had not come to him out of midair.

  “We have a swan on the Lindsay crest as well,” Juliana said. “Swans have lived on the loch between Elladoune and Inchfillan Abbey for longer than anyone can remember. There is an old legend about how they first appeared there.”

  “I would love to hear that tale,” Eleanor said.

  “Someday I shall tell you,” Juliana said. “Lady Clarice, are you unwell?”

  Gawain started, for his mother had lifted a hand to cover her face. She lowered it. “ ’Tis naught. I am sure the swans near your home are a lovely sight.” Her voice sounded hollow. “Gawain … would enjoy seeing them.” Her gaze met his and shifted away, and he knew that she was remembering a source of grief.

  “My husband will certainly see the swans of Elladoune when we go home,” Juliana said, smiling.

  Bless her again, he thought, for doing this for his mother’s sake. He reached out to touch her cheek. For a moment, the marriage between them felt real, and good, and no pretense at all. He could easily imagine loving her.

  She tilted her head away from his touch in silence.

  “I am tired, and will retire to my bed now,” Lady Clarice said. “My daughters must go to bed too. Juliana, welcome again to our family. I can see how much my son loves you, and you him.” Tears shone in her eyes. “It makes my heart glad.”

  Gawain took Juliana’s hand and kissed it. She curled her fingers over his, warm and gentle.

  “We are glad too,” Catherine said. “But unhappy that we missed their wedding celebration.”

  “We will have a wedding celebration of our own!” Eleanor said, and beckoned to Catherine, who came close, then nodded.

  “But we had a wonderful feast at supper,” Lady Clarice said.

  “Without the fun of a wedding—dancing, music, guests!” Catherine said. “Juliana is the first guest we have had here in a long while, other than Father’s friends, who only want to discuss military policies.” Eleanor nodded agreement.

  “Juliana and I have traveled far, and are too tired for dancing, and too full for more feasting,” Gawain said. “ ’Tis best to keep the household quiet for Mama’s sake. Later, when she feels stronger, we will have music and dancing, if you like.”

  Eleanor folded her arms petulantly. “I think you should pay a forfeit, since you kept us from enjoying a celebration.”

  “And kept us from the king’s court,” Catherine added.

  “What forfeit?” Gawain asked. “Shall I dance or sing, as they do in court?”

  “You will regret that if you ask him,” Robin said.

  The twins laughed, and Eleanor looked inspired. “We shall follow you to the bedchamber with horns and drums, and flowers and candlelight, as they do on the night of a wedding! We shall put you to bed with great ceremony and noise to bless the union, and keep the evil spirits away!”

  Gawain looked sourly at his sisters. “We have already had our first night,” he said sternly.

  “Gawain and Juliana are too weary for revelry,” Lady Clarice said. “And you two do not need to witness a bedding,” she added.

  “Oh, Mama, we know all about such things! Listen to what the heroine says of Bevis—” Eleanor flipped through a few pages, ran her finger down, and began to read.

  “Had I taken a young knight,

  That was not bruised in war or fight,

  As he is,

  And would me love day and night,

  Embracing and kissing with all his might,

  And make for me bliss …”

  “Oh, for such bliss!” Catherine cried, clasping her hands. “The joy of true love!”

  “Aye,” Eleanor echoed. “Gawain must forfeit kisses!” Catherine squealed in agreement. She and Eleanor grinned up at their eldest half brother.

  Juliana, he saw then, was laughing, her face tucked against the kitten’s snowy fur. Grousing for good effect, Gawain rose from his seat and bent to kiss first one and then the other giggling sister on the cheek.

  “Nay, silly, not us,” Eleanor said. “Kiss your bride!”

  “Each time we say, you must kiss your bride!” Catherine said, nodding to Eleanor. “That is your forfeit!”

  “You owe us this! We most heartfully wanted to see you wed,” Eleanor insisted. “Mama said ’twould never happen, you know, but we were hopeful someone would find you pleasing.”

  Gawain saw Robin smother a grin behind his hand. His mother’s eyes glowed with laughter. In the corner, Philippa chuckled as she sewed a seam.

  Juliana smiled, her cheeks pink. He sighed dramatically and turned toward her, bending. She tipped her cheek and he kissed it chastely. She smelled of roses and lavender from her bath. Crazily, he wanted to linger.

  “On the mouth, with all your might—just as the book says!” Catherine insisted.

  “Make bliss for her, you silly oaf!” Eleanor crowed.

  “Girls,” Lady Clarice admonished.

  “Oh, let him forfeit,” Robin said. “Gawain owes his bride some courtesy, for I would wager that her hasty wedding—and what followed—did not suit a lady’s dreams.”

  Gawain sent him a scathing look. He leaned toward Juliana again, meaning only to kiss her cheek, but she turned her head and his mouth met hers. After a dizzying instant of sweetness, he withdrew.

  The girls applauded. He smiled, glad to see that his mother was laughing. He felt responsible, in part, for the sadness that had come to this family lately. None of them had laughed freely or well since Geoffrey had died.

  Juliana, however, did not smile, but blushed and turned her attention to the white kitten.

  “There,” he told the twins. “You have had your forfeiture. Now go to bed, you two.”

  Catherine looked at Eleanor. “We shall demand more kisses on the morrow. A proper wedding would have days of merrymaking!”

  “Aye, you owe us more celebrating,” Eleanor told Gawain.

  “And Lady Juliana needs more bliss,” Catherine whispered loudly. This sent Eleanor into a giggling fit.

  “Good night, daughters,” Lady Clarice said. “Philippa, take them to find their maid, if you will.”

  Philippa rose from her seat, while the twins kissed their mother. Eleanor picked up the volume of Bevis, and the girls left the room whispering to each other.

  “Those two,” Gawain said, “are heartily spoiled.”

  “They are young,” Lady Clarice said gently. “Let them have their joy. Too soon, life may take it from them.” She stood. “Can someone help me to my bed?” she asked faintly. Gawain took a long stride forward, as did Robin.

  “Let me help you, my lady,” Juliana said, rising. She handed the white kitten to Gawain, then turned to Lady Clarice.

  “My thanks, sweeting,” his mother answered in acceptance, allowing Juliana to assist her. “Philippa will come back soon. Then you and Gawain should retire too. You must be very tired after your journey.” Lady Clarice moved forward with Juliana and looked at her sons. “Robin, find a page and tell him to bring mulled wine for me, and some for Juliana. Gawain, your bride has dark circles under her eyes—’tis in part her fair complexion, but she is weary. See that she rests.”

  “I will, Mama,” he said softly, opening the connecting door that led into his mother’s bedchamber. Juliana guided the fragile lady through. “God be with.”

  He turned back to see Robin watching him. “Your bride is not so silent after all,” he said. “So that mysterious silence of hers is a ruse?”

  “Aye. But we Avenels are not unfamiliar with pretense.”

  Robin looked sheepish. “Father told me to tell our lady mother that Juliana was a guest of the king, and chosen for you as a favor. He did not think she would react well to the truth about your bride.”

  “I understand,” Gawain said. He looked down at the kitten squirming playfully in his hands and scratched its tiny, snowy head gently. “I wonder if any o
f us will ever learn the full truth about my bride,” he muttered half to himself.

  “I will not tell anyone else that she speaks, if ’tis a secret,” Robin said.

  “Good. She wants it kept among us. She has her reasons, whatever they are.”

  “When you get to Scotland, you will learn them quick enough,” Robin said. “Good night, then. I will have the wine sent up. Blessings to you on your wedding, brother,” he added with a little smile. “Mother is pleased. And that is what matters most, is it not?”

  Gawain lifted the kitten and looked into its wide-eyed, innocent stare. “Aye,” he said softly, and chuckled as the kitten nuzzled his cheek.

  “Look at that, yet another female who wants to forfeit a kiss from you,” Robin said, laughing as he left the room.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “She’s abed, sir. Good night and God bless ye both,” Philippa whispered as she slipped out of Gawain’s bedchamber. She smiled and hurried down the hall.

  He nodded in acknowledgment, having waited outside the chamber while Philippa had gone inside with Juliana to prepare her properly for bed. Now he pushed the door open.

  Candlelight lent a deep glow to the red-curtained bed. Juliana sat propped on pillows and covered in scarlet brocade. She apparently wore nothing at all, for her slim shoulders and arms were bare, and her combed hair flowed down like a river of gold. The coverlet was drawn tightly over her chest, and her hands fiercely clutched the fabric. Her slender legs and feet barely made a hill under the coverlet.

  The kitten lay curled in the middle of the bed. Gawain remembered that Philippa had rushed out of the room to return with a bundle that must have been the cat.

  He came forward. Juliana watched him in silence, her eyes the only part of her that moved. Instead of going to the bed, he bent to open the saddle pack on the floor. The jangling of the chains inside sounded clearly in the quiet.

  He intended to extract a clean shirt, but first he picked up the chains and bands, wondering what to do. The king’s orders were clear. He had already disobeyed them by bringing her to Avenel unbound. But her escape was a strong possibility once he went to sleep. Much as he loathed the idea, he might have to restrain her again.

  “Ah,” she said, watching him. “Now I must bare my neck for the golden collar. Is that the secret of our nights at Avenel?”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “I cannot risk the Swan Maiden’s flight.”

  “So you think you must chain me like a bird in your fine cage.” She waved a hand at the curtains and the canopy of richly embroidered cloth above her head.

  “I do not like this any more than you do.”

  “You could trust me,” she said, “to sleep and not to flee.”

  He almost laughed. “This close to Scotland? I know you better than that, I think.”

  “And I thought I knew you. I thought you would treat me with better courtesy here. Your family has been muckle kind to me. What about you?”

  “You have utterly charmed my family.”

  “You asked me to do so!” She sounded indignant.

  “So I did. But you could not help it, I think.” He stood. “You are like that kitten. ’Tis in your nature to be gentle and charming … yet both of you have claws.”

  “And I have wings, or so you think, and would pinion me.”

  “If I let you spread those wings, you would be gone.”

  “You could trust me,” she said again.

  He sifted the chains from one hand to the other. “I wish I could,” he said thoughtfully. “I want to.” He felt her gaze upon him as he watched the glitter and fall of the chains.

  He hated them. The last thing he wanted was to lock them around her again. But he could not risk losing her. Too much depended on keeping her safely in his care.

  As if she were a bird poised on a windowsill, he knew that she would fly if she had the chance. That was her nature, he thought, to seek freedom. He had seen the urge in her already.

  “The chains are heavy,” she said. “They hurt me.”

  He had seen the bruises, the red marks. “I know.”

  She sighed. “Will you fetch that for me, there?” she asked, pointing across the room to the neatly folded pile of clothing that Philippa had left on the flat top of the great wooden chest. “I canna get out of the bed,” she explained, blushing modestly, and raising a hand to her chest. “Would you fetch me the silk?”

  Puzzled, he nodded, and crossed the room to pick up the silk chemise and the veil and ribbons—not knowing which piece she meant—and brought them to her. The chains swung in his hands.

  She motioned for him to turn away, and he did, while she slipped the heavy cream silk chemise over her head and pulled it down. That, he thought, did not bode well for a woman who claimed to be content to stay in one place for the night.

  He turned to see her sliding the veil through her hands. She rolled its length and wrapped an end around her left wrist, knotting it. Then she looked up and held the other end toward him.

  “If you canna believe I will stay here the night, let me prove it. You may tie this end to the bedpost. I willna go anywhere. I promise.”

  He watched her silently, brows drawn together, stunned by what she offered—her own fledgling trust.

  “If you please,” she murmured, “the chains are horrible to wear. The silk will allow me to sleep, and yet keep me here.”

  Still he did not speak. He frowned, hoping her opinion of him was not so low that she believed he cared nothing for her welfare.

  After a moment, he flung the mass of links toward the pack, where they jangled out of sight. Then he stripped off his surcoat and tunic, and tossed them over the end of the bed. Kicking off his shoes, he strode to the bed in his braies and climbed in. The feather mattress bounded beneath his weight. He was careful not to disturb the snowy puddle of sleeping kitten as he pulled the covers up.

  Snatching the end of the veil, he tied it around his right wrist, closest to her, and held up his forearm. Juliana gaped at him all the while.

  “There,” he said. “We will bear it together. And should you feel some urge to slip out in the middle of the night, you will have to wake me, or carry me over your shoulder.”

  She continued to stare at him.

  He folded his hands, silk pulling slightly between her arm and his, and looked at her. “Silent again, Swan Maiden?”

  “You … you would bind yourself, for my sake?” she asked hoarsely. Her eyes looked overlarge, as if she were about to cry. For love of God, he could not think of a reason for it.

  “This solves some of our problem, does it not?” He settled in the bed, putting his hands up behind his head. Her arm went up. “Ah. Sorry.” He lowered his right arm, keeping his left up behind his head. A moment later, he leaned over and blew out the candle that flickered on a small table at his bedside. Then he lay back again.

  “Good night, my lady,” he said softly. “Sweet dreams.”

  Silence lingered for a few moments. “Gabhan,” she said. He had not heard his name on her lips before. Whispered in the dark, her Gaelic accent lent it an intimate, wonderful sound. Gav-vahn. Unknowing, she had used his original name. No one had called him Gabhan since his boyhood in Scotland.

  He pulled in a breath. “Aye?”

  “I must ask a favor of you.” Her voice sounded wary.

  “Ask it.” He expected a lecture regarding the straying of hands in the middle of the night. But he had agreed, when they had been together at Newcastle, that he would not force himself upon her. If she was to become his true wife, she would have to want lovemaking between them as much as he had begun to want it.

  Judging by her behavior toward him so far—excepting the pretense they played for his mother’s sake—the chances of that were scant enough, he told himself. He raised his knee and looked up at the shadowed canopy, hoping to seem nonchalant about lying in bed with her. He waited.

  “I want you to take me safe to Scotland yourself,” she said. “Dinna l
eave me in the care of De Soulis.”

  As at other times, he was surprised. The girl was never predictable. “When Walter de Soulis concludes his meeting with Aymer de Valence, we will resume our journey together, by king’s order,” he said. “In a few more days—by week’s end, at least—you will be in Scotland. What does it matter how you get there?”

  “I want you to take me there,” she said. “He willna harm me if you are there. I—I will feel safer with you.”

  He glanced at her sharply. “Has he laid a hand on you?”

  She shook her head. “He hasna touched me. But I fear that he will kill me one day, even so. Dinna leave me with him on the journey, or at Elladoune, when we are there.”

  “Kill you? Juliana, you are letting fancy and fear run with your thoughts.” He wanted to take her hand, but knew that was not wise, no matter how closely the silk joined them.

  “ ’Tisna fear or fancy,” she said softly.

  Although he made less of her feelings to reassure her, she seemed to feel real apprehension. “He is not a pleasant man, but he is a loyal king’s man, a sheriff and now Master of Swans in Scotland. He will come often to Elladoune. If he disturbs you, stay out of his way.”

  “I dinna trust him. If you must guard me at all, I want to be guarded against him.”

  He frowned. “Very well.”

  “Thank you. And in return”—her gaze swung toward him, a sober gleam—“I will stay in your cage.”

  Saints and martyrs, he thought, sleeping with her proved a mighty challenge. Those luscious little sighs, the light bounce of the bed, the gentle pull of the length of silk between his wrist and hers, created sweet, prolonged torture. His awareness of her was keen and constant, though she had scarcely moved. While he had hardly slept, he knew she did, and quite deeply.

  The temptation to pull her into his arms was strong. He tried to turn his back to her, but could not, without rolling her with him. He stayed on his back and stared at the curtains, which he had earlier pulled shut, enclosing him and Juliana in a warm and intimate nest. Flexing his hands, he resisted the recurrent, teasing, delicious thought of touching her.