by Susan King
“Why should we? No one stole the king’s golden chains. Well, if you must prepare another apology, I will help you pen it. I have a knack for words.”
“I am done begging for king’s peace.”
“ ’Tis obvious to everyone—except the Master of Swans—that you acted within your rights as a husband in taking her away from De Soulis. He was mistreating her. She will still be in English custody at Elladoune, so there is no harm done.”
“If I am lucky,” Gawain muttered.
Laurie drew a breath and looked around. “My God, Scotland is a beautiful land. I seem to forget that when I am away.”
And I have never forgotten, Gawain thought, not for a moment. But he kept it to himself.
Patting her horse’s neck, Juliana let Galienne stay back. Ahead, Gawain and Laurence Kirkpatrick traveled side by side: one dark, lean, and quiet, the other broad, his laughter rippling, his gestures wide and free.
Rain clouds hovered above as they moved north. Juliana looked around with rapture, as if she saw Scotland for the first time—beautiful, wild, exuberant, and vivid. As they left the rolling Lowlands and moved into the rumpled, heathered skirt of the Highland hills, she regretted her silence, for she could not share her joy in her surroundings so easily.
The horses slowed as they climbed hills thick with heather and yellow gorse and green ferns, past walls of dark rock where bright flowers danced in crevices. Hawks called in high flight, sheep moved like tiny clouds over distant slopes, and red deer skimmed the crests of the hills.
She lifted her face to the cool, clean wind and breathed Scotland into her lungs and her soul.
When the sun sank and the sky turned lavender, Juliana recognized the shape of the hills and knew that she was near home at last. She sat straighter, felt brighter despite fatigue. The wind touched her like a friend.
They rode past Highland herders in belted plaids and shirts, urging their sheep along the slopes as the enemy rode past; elsewhere, they saw women in plaid shawls, with bare feet beneath simple gowns, watching them with wary eyes. Several bare-legged, pink-cheeked, curious children made her think of her younger brothers. She had not seen Alec and Iain in so long that her heart ached with need, as if she were their own mother separated from them.
Soon, she told herself. Soon, soon.
She urged her horse forward and soon caught up to Gawain and Laurence. Gawain glanced back at her and smiled briefly.
“Now that an English escort has been seen riding north, word will spread that we are here,” Laurence remarked to Gawain.
Juliana listened with interest whenever the Lowland Scot spoke, for she liked his mellow voice and easy manner. He intrigued and puzzled her. She had already learned that he was a boyhood friend of Gawain’s, and was a Scotsman who sided openly with the English.
“Aye, they will spread the word,” Gawain agreed, “and since we have a Scotswoman in our company, hopefully we will have no trouble from the locals.”
“Unless they think to rescue her from the enemy,” Laurence remarked, glancing at Juliana.
“ ’Tis possible. We are close enough to Elladoune now that some of these people may recognize her.” Gawain and Laurence glanced up as two children ran like young deer and disappeared over a hill. Juliana watched them go, too.
“No doubt they carry word that the Swan Maiden of Elladoune is on her way home.” Gawain turned to glance at her.
“You know the area well to know where we are,” Laurie said.
“I rode through these hills long ago,” Gawain answered. “I have never forgotten the way.” He sounded thoughtful.
Juliana frowned. Although he was an English knight, he sounded almost like he was a man glad to be in Scotland again.
“Well, at least we are close to Elladoune,” Laurence said. “God gave me a lazy nature. Journeying is not for me. A seat by the hearth, a cup of ale, a soft bed—give me those night after night and I am content. That is, if a decent bed and decent ale can be had at this castle,” he added wryly.
“We shall find out,” Gawain said. “We will cross a narrow pass between those two hills”—he pointed—“and enter a forest, if I remember properly. The woodlands are considerable in this part of the Highlands, but there have been king’s troops in this area for years. The paths should be well marked. Is it so, my lady?” His dark gaze swept hers briefly.
She did not answer. Perhaps, she told herself sourly, like Laurence, he thought only of cup and hearth and bed as well—and knew immediately that would not be true of him.
Bed, she thought next, and frowned. What would happen when they reached Elladoune? Would Gawain expect her to behave as his wife, once there? She shivered inwardly, deliciously, at the thought of deep kisses at Avenel—and then admonished herself to stop. Too much was unknown and uncertain in this situation.
“We will ride northwest for a while,” Gawain told Laurence. “Then the forest will open into a glen with a lake called Loch nan Eala. In the Gaelic, that means—”
“Loch o’ the Swans,” Laurence translated. “I have Gaelic from childhood, man, as you do—my nurse was a Highlander like yours, if you recall.”
Juliana listened, fascinated. Gawain’s nurse had been Highland, and he knew some Gaelic? He had never mentioned it to her. She wondered why that had been allowed for an Avenel son.
“The abbey of Inchfillan, I am told, is at one end of the loch, and Elladoune Castle lies at the other. Lady Juliana?” He looked at her again. “Is it so?”
She nodded.
“If we go astray, mayhap the lass will speak to us long enough to set us on the right path,” Laurence said. He turned to smile at her, his eyes sparkling blue. “I hoped she would speak to me at least, since I am a Scotsman born and bred.”
Juliana lifted her chin haughtily to show him what she thought of Scotsmen who rode with English.
Once inside the forest on the muffled path, she recognized the track and urged her horse ahead. Gawain and Laurence caught up, each beside her. She peered into the green-shadowed trees, and at the high canopy overhead.
The greenwood held far more than an abundance of flora and fauna, she knew. Men, women, and children lived in the forest and in caves in the glen, forced out of their homes by the English. Most of them were friends and rebels, some officially outlawed by the English. All of them were honest men and women, renegades by necessity, dispossessed by King Edward’s army.
Riding beside Gawain now, she fervently hoped that the forest rebels would let them pass without incident. Any party of king’s men would be noted, she knew, and one with her in it would definitely be followed. If the foresters tried to rescue her, a deadly skirmish might be the result.
Gawain placed a hand on the hilt of his sword as if he sensed the watchers. The horses filed along the forest track, while birds called repeatedly in the trees.
Some of those calls were human-made. Juliana’s heart pounded as the horses slowed over a narrow stretch of the path where the trees arched overhead. She glimpsed movement, limber and quick, high up in the trees, and she saw a steely flash through the leafy cover. An owl sounded somewhere.
They were here for certain, with weapons to hand. Red Angus’s owl call often preceded an attack. She had to prevent a confrontation. Desperately she looked around.
She thought of a quick way to signal that she was safe. When she heard further rustling, and more bird calls, she reached out to grasp Gawain’s arm. He looked at her, startled. She leaned toward him, smiling.
“Lady?” Gawain slowed his horse with hers. “What is it?”
He looked at her, clearly puzzled, riding so close that his thigh grazed hers.
She stretched toward him and kissed him on the mouth. He responded fast and sure, his lips moving on hers, though she knew he was surprised. When she drew back, he cocked a brow.
“My sisters,” he drawled, “are nowhere near, I assure you.”
Behind them, Laurence laughed softly, for he had been told about the twins’ ant
ics at Avenel.
A blush heated her cheeks. However ill-done or hasty, that kiss was the quickest way to show that she was safe, though she rode with an English escort. Gawain had saved her often enough, she thought. She owed him at least one rescue.
He lifted her hand to his lips, startling Juliana in turn. “Are you so glad to be home, lady, that you kiss your new husband for joy?” He spoke loudly enough to be heard within the trees.
Angling a glance at him, she wanted to answer tartly that she had just saved his life.
“I suspect,” he went on quietly, “that strange birds and some rather large squirrels are watching us. If they see a happy bride, they may leave us in peace.” He let go of her hand.
With one hand easy on the reins and the other wary on his sword hilt, he pulled ahead, his eyes scanning the trees. The party advanced along the forest track, and the rustling in the trees grew quieter.
The forest opened onto a meadow in a golden wash of sun. Juliana urged the palfrey toward a stream that flowed to join Loch nan Eala. Juliana could see the sparkling surface of the loch not far away.
The silhouette of Inchfillan Abbey was visible above the treetops. She urged her horse across the shallows, sparing no glance for her two escorts behind her.
She was nearly home.
“At the pace she is flying along that bank, your wee swan will disappear,” Laurie said. “If we lose her, the king will definitely be in a temper.”
“Let her fly,” Gawain answered. He watched Juliana as she galloped, her blue cloak flying out, her white dress rucking up over her slim legs. “We will not lose her. Let her go home,” he added to himself.
He could still taste that sweet, surprising kiss. She was as unpredictable as the wind, and he savored her spontaneity. And he very much suspected that she had saved him and Laurie from an attack by rebels. She must know them well to know what was imminent; that realization made him frown thoughtfully.
“Hopefully that place ahead is not her home.” Laurie pointed toward a cluster of stone-walled houses as they rode past. Juliana had galloped past the place with scarcely a glance, but the escort party slowed.
Gawain frowned as he and Laurie drew closer. Several buildings of thatch and stone, and a few of wattle and daub, were arranged along a long earthen lane. The village was deserted, its shared field beyond the last house unplanted and bare, its street overgrown with grasses and weeds.
The houses were fire-damaged and skeletal, thatched roofs missing, walls crumbling. The field had been plowed into distinct rows, but had gone bleak and wild, with a broken plow leaning at its heart. Not a soul, human or animal, stirred among the ruined houses or field. Ghosts might walk here, he thought, but no one else.
“What happened here? I wonder,” Laurie mused, walking his horse slowly beside Gawain. “This place has seen some disaster.”
“I would wager that whatever befell these people was brought on by the English, and quite a while ago.”
“Where are the cottars? Those houses look empty. There has been no attempt to rebuild, either.”
“Walter de Soulis did not mention this place when he told me about Elladoune,” Gawain said. “If the garrison was the cause of this, I should have been told of it.”
“If Elladoune’s knights attacked this place, ’twould explain why we were watched so closely along the forest path back there.”
Gawain glanced sharply at Laurie. “You sensed it too?”
“Aye. I was sure we would be attacked any moment. But your lady broke the tension with that charming kiss. Lucky man.” Laurie grinned briefly.
“There must be a host of dispossessed families in the forest, judging by the size of that deserted clachan,” Gawain said. “ ’Tis a problem in Scotland. The last garrison I was with encountered a stubborn faction of homeless renegades.”
“Ah,” Laurence said. “The very ones you joined.” He gave Gawain a curious glance. “ ’Tis a tale I want to hear in full from you, since I have heard bits of it only. There are many rumors about what you did.”
“I am sure there are. And I want to know why you are still in the king’s army when you swore you would sail to France.”
“Land and title are temptations, my friend, available in France as well as England,” Laurie said. “But the ale, ah, Scottish ale. I would miss that too much.”
Laurie grinned, but Gawain narrowed his eyes. He sensed another layer to Laurie, one that went deeper than a taste for comforts. He wondered if his Lowland friend was as conflicted in this war as he was himself, yet had not admitted it.
“Ho, look there! She’s riding to that place—a monastery?”
“The abbey of Inchfillan,” Gawain answered. “Augustinian.”
“Ah,” Laurie said, nodding approval. “Brethren with a practical bent. Nae recluses, but likely nae overblessed with coin, either, in this part of Scotland. Though that church and cloister are quite fine.”
Gawain watched Juliana ride toward the foregate of the small stone-walled compound. Beyond the high wall, he saw the roofs of several buildings. The stone church that faced the meadow had a high west entrance tower; its smaller bell tower, above the nave, looked partly ruined by fire.
Juliana tugged on a bell rope, and the iron gate swung open. She entered, dismounting quickly, handing the palfrey’s reins to a black-cassocked monk.
As Gawain rode with Laurie across the meadow, he watched Juliana embrace an older man and turn to greet other monks with hand clasps or quick hugs, as if she were indeed home instead of visiting a religious house. Their joy in her return, and her own, was obvious even from a distance. They were her family, he realized.
As he neared the gate and noticed the other inhabitants of the yard, he reined in. Laurie followed suit.
Swans filled the abbey yard, more than a dozen in various sizes. They meandered and waddled between the gate and the group of monks that surrounded Juliana. The largest of the swans—and there were several impressive creatures—turned. With great wings outstretched and necks extended, hissing loudly, they rushed toward the two horsemen entering the gate.
Gawain controlled Gringolet, who snorted and bucked. The yard seemed filled with a veritable sea of white-feathered, irritated birds. He calmed his mount and looked over at Juliana. Standing in her white gown amid the dark-robed monks, head high on her long, slim neck, she looked like an enchanted swan herself. He stared at her in astonishment.
“Strange watchdogs,” Laurie remarked. “I think I will stay right here. Those beasties bite, did you know?”
Chapter Nineteen
“The wee lads are well,” Abbot Malcolm answered as he wrapped Juliana in a hug. As soon as she had seen Malcolm hurrying across the yard, she asked about her brothers, and blurted out that she was married to a Sassenach. Despite his shocked expression, she insisted on hearing about Alec and Iain first. “They are still at Dalbrae. I saw them there last week.”
“Pray God they are treated fairly and not imprisoned,” she said in Gaelic. She glanced through the gate at the two knights, who had not yet ridden into the enclosure.
“The lads have some freedom there,” Malcolm assured her. “I saw them recently. They are fine, though anxious to come home. Juliana, there is news of Niall and Will.”
“I heard,” she said. “Taken.”
He nodded sadly. “And we cannot buy their release. Our abbey is poor. Even if we had the coin, the Church would not allow us to pay a war ransom with it.”
“There may be another way. My husband”—the word felt odd, yet surprisingly right somehow—“may be able to help them.”
“No more delays. Tell me about this marriage.”
“Ach, Father Abbot,” she said, sighing. “It happened so fast.” While she spoke, Malcolm walked with her toward the foregate, his tunic and her white gown sweeping the grasses.
The swans circled around them, clapping their beaks and extending their necks, looking for food and attention. The birds frequented the abbey yard almost daily,
waddling up from the lochside and through the open foregate. Juliana noticed that one of the monks in the yard produced a cloth sack and began to toss out bits of grain, attracting the swans toward him.
Succinctly and selectively, Juliana recounted her weeks as a prisoner. Malcolm listened, brow knitted with concern. She spoke of the king’s feast and the impromptu wedding, then touched upon the return journey, where she had been displayed and chained as the Swan Maiden. Finally she mentioned her warm welcome at Avenel. She kept the nights, and the kisses, to herself, but her cheeks burned as she remembered.
“Father Abbot,” she finished, “Gawain was with the men who ruined Elladoune. He is the one who saved me that night.”
“Your Swan Knight himself? Ach, God loves irony.” He shook his head. “The marriage need not stand if you do not want it. We can annul it, though we must first petition the bishop’s replacement in Glasgow and wait for an answer from Rome.”
Her heart seemed to twist in protest. “My husband did not want this marriage or this assignment in Scotland, but he has no choice. He must obey the king’s orders. If the marriage is annulled, he will face dire consequences.”
Malcolm peered at her. “You care about him.”
She made a vague, noncommittal sound and shrugged.
“Juliana, are you … the man’s wife truly now? Is it even possible to annul it? Certainly you can preserve the marriage if you want to do so,” he said gently.
“I—I do not yet know what I want,” she mumbled, and blushed hotly. Turning away, she looked around the abbey yard. Earlier she had noticed some damage to the bell tower of the church, and she looked there again.
“Father Abbot, what happened to the tower?” The upper stones of the tall projection were blackened and collapsed.
“There was a fire,” Malcolm said. “No one was hurt, but the inside is gutted, and we will need to rebuild. Thank heaven no lives were lost. The tall entrance tower and the rest of the church is unharmed. And our old bronze bell, which Saint Fillan himself once rang out, is fine. But we must repair the tower before the market fair in a few weeks, since so many come to Inchfillan during that time.”