The Swan Maiden

by Susan King

  He smiled, shrugged. “I have a good mind for stories. I never forget them once I hear them.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. Gawain watched the golden-pink sun move upward behind the highest mountain and squinted at the brightness. He felt a strong temptation to tell Juliana the truth about where he had learned those stories.

  If only he could tell her everything—his father’s name, his own true name, his search for his childhood home. He wanted her to know that she had filled his home, and his heart, with the kinfolk of his childhood. He longed to tell her how much that meant to him, and how much more he loved her for it.

  But he kept silent, intent on his private quest. He had to find and claim his home. Only then could he speak of it aloud, even to Juliana. He had his own reasons for silence.

  The swans wandered back to the water, lowered, and swam out. The mother pen stayed near the shore, nosing her beak at one of her four cygnets. While Gawain watched, she sank a little in one spot and seemed to float there. One by one, her little cygnets clambered onto her back. When they were securely folded into gray-brown balls of fluff, she swam out. He noticed that she always kept herself distant from the other birds.

  “Poor Guinevere,” Juliana said. “She is lonely now. Artan was her mate. He has not returned, though I hoped he might.”

  “Perhaps he found another mate in Newcastle,” Gawain said.

  She shook her head. “Not he. Total loyalty, that one, for his Guinevere. Something must have happened to him.” She sighed and glanced at Gawain. “I thought when you heard the swan’s names, you would only recognize the names Arthur and Guinevere. You surprise me with your knowledge of Celtic tales, Sassenach.”

  He smiled. “You surprise me,” he murmured, taking her arm, “almost daily. Come back to Elladoune now. I intend to ride out to see the sheriff this morning, but I will meet you later at Inchfillan Abbey. I want to meet with Abbot Malcolm again.” He walked with her across the meadow.

  “He will be glad to hear more news of my brothers’ pranks.”

  Gawain chuckled. His tale of the boys’ courage and spirit while in the sheriff’s keeping had cheered Juliana and Abbot Malcolm greatly. The abbot missed his little wards keenly, and Juliana desperately wanted them back with her at Elladoune.

  But when he returned to the sheriff’s castle later, he might have orders to leave Elladoune. He sighed. This enchanted place and its swan maiden had woven a spell around him; like a man caught in faeryland, he never wanted to leave.

  As the sun rose higher, he glanced over his shoulder once again. He stopped suddenly. Juliana rounded with him.

  Mist sat in fragile rings around the bases of the mountains, and golden light poured over the tallest slope. An elusive face appeared near the summit, as if carved in the black rock. Light and shadow created deep-set eyes, cheekbones, a mouth, a straggle of hair: an old woman.

  “Look there,” he said hoarsely. “On the side of Beinn Beira. Do you see that face?”

  “That?” She shaded her eyes against the brilliance of the sun. “ ’Tis old Beira, the queen of winter, trapped in the mountain. She escapes once a year, they say, and brings winter, and must be sent back again to her imprisonment. Sometimes her face can be seen in certain light.”

  Gawain took Juliana’s hand, watching while the sun shone more brightly on the face in the mountainside. Gradually, the light washed away the image in the rock, and it disappeared.

  “They say,” Juliana went on, “that good fortune comes to those who see Beira’s face. ’Tis a good omen to catch a glimpse of her still in the mountain, for it means that summer will continue.” She smiled up at him. Her eyes were blue and deep as the loch, her head and throat as pale and graceful as a swan’s.

  He leaned forward and kissed her. “My thanks,” he whispered, tipping his brow to hers.

  “For what?” she asked as she turned to walk with him. “For telling you a new story? I am surprised you didna know that one, Gabhan.” His heart turned with joy every time he heard her say his Gaelic name, though she did not know the effect she had.

  “That one,” he said, grasping her hand, “I did not know.”

  The world was bright with summer color, and with hope, as Gawain rode northward. He kept the eastern face of Beinn Beira in sight. Bluebells formed a purple-blue carpet beneath the oaks and larches, and ferns grew lush and green in places.

  Sweeping over the slopes, heather blooms grew thick and tufted, and the air was warm and fragrant.

  He left the forest track and headed up into the foothills, then made his way carefully among the steeper slants. Rock became more prevalent than turf, and wildflowers bloomed yellow, blue, and violet in crevices. Sunlight highlighted the old woman’s countenance as he made his way slowly upward.

  No castles or ruins appeared, and few homes were set along the steep hillsides, but for an occasional shieling hut or a thatched homestead—each one deserted. This area had been overrun by the English years before, he knew. King Edward’s commanders had burned out, killed, or chased away virtually everyone who inhabited the area surrounding Loch nan Eala.

  He knew, for he had been among those men six years before.

  After a while, he dismounted the bay, for Gringolet had faltered more than once; Gawain did not want to risk a hoof injury or a broken leg for the animal. He secured the reins to a hazel bush and left the horse grazing near a narrow burn.

  The water ran into a narrow gorge, with walls of twisting vines and bracken and rock that rose upward to meet another slope that footed the mountain itself. Gawain headed beyond the burn, toward a long, steep, straightforward hillside. Once he moved higher, he thought, he could better survey the view.

  Climbing with a long, sure stride, he was glad that he had worn only his tunic rather than the weighty chain-mail hauberk and gambeson. Sweating freely in the summer heat, he stopped to scoop a drink from a stream of water that danced over some rocks.

  Moving upward, arduous but steady, he wondered if once again he had gone wrong in his search. Nothing lay ahead but the dark, towering bulk of the mountaintop and scree-covered sides.

  He paused, a booted foot on a rock ledge that jutted out over the glen below the mountainside. He saw the horse grazing by the burn, and far beyond, the smooth blue sheet of Loch nan Eala, with the white dots of its swans on the surface. On the opposite shore, in the distance, the honey-colored walls of Elladoune rose on its promontory. All was perfect in miniature.

  He rounded, and looked up the slope. A jumble of bushes and heathery patches fringed the bulk of the mountain. A narrow waterfall, the source of the trickle below, sluiced among some dark rocks, well above and behind the scrub.

  He narrowed his eyes. He remembered that waterfall, a white frothing tail over the rockface. This slope, too, seemed familiar. Long ago he had stood here with his father to look down at Loch nan Eala.

  Turning, he hurried upward, scrambling in some places. Finally he attained another ledge and looked toward the mountain.

  Just above and beyond the fringe of growth, he saw a square thrust of stone. Gray and broken, a remnant corner of a tumbled tower, its shape struck deep chords in his memory.

  His heart lurched, and he strode upward. Climbing with new fervor, he pushed his way through the dense skirt of bracken and scrub until he burst through and saw Glenshie Castle at last.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Later that morning, Juliana walked along the bank of the loch again while Laurie waited nearby. She had returned to check on a nest that had been plundered by otters more than once in the last few weeks. The pen and the cob had recently produced another cluster, even though it was late in the season.

  To her relief, she found the nest unharmed; the pen perched calmly on her four eggs, and the cob, who paused to stare at Juliana, pulled at the reeds nearby. She turned to walk back toward Laurie.

  Out on the water, she saw Guinevere nudging her little cygnets onto her back. Juliana felt a wash of sadness for the graceful pen, who sti
ll mourned her missing mate and kept on the outskirts of the flock, staying attentive to her young.

  “Juliana!” She looked up to see Brother Eonan hurrying toward her. “Father Abbot says he must see you!” he said breathlessly as he approached. Laurie came with him.

  “Is something wrong? Are Alec and Iain—”

  “They are fine, Abbot says. He went to see the sheriff this morning.” Eonan stopped. “I do not know what has happened there, but he seems very agitated.”

  “I will go there now,” she said. “Laurie, when Gawain returns from his morning patrol, tell him I went with Eonan.”

  “Well enough,” Laurie answered. “Gawain plans to meet you at the abbey later, after he and I go to the sheriff’s castle ourselves, but now he will be more than anxious to get to the abbey after hearing this. I will see you—what the devil!” He stopped as he turned, glancing across the meadow.

  A man melted out of the edge of the forest and walked toward them. Laurie put his hand to the sword sheathed at his belt and stepped forward. Juliana gasped and hurried past him.

  “Ach Dhia,” she breathed, recognizing the man as a friend, and a cousin—James Lindsay walked toward her.

  Dressed like a pilgrim in a somber brown cloak with a scallop shell pinned to the shoulder, he was tall and strong, and moved with a natural agility. Sunlight glinted off the dark gold of his wavy hair. He lifted a hand in greeting.

  “Jamie!” she called out.

  “Pilgrim,” Laurie said. Juliana turned to see him coming near, with Eonan behind him. “If you seek the abbey of Inchfillan, ’tis that way. They will admit a pilgrim who wishes to pray and rest. Otherwise, move on.”

  Juliana hastened toward Jamie and took his outstretched hand. He bent to kiss her cheek. “Cousin,” he said.

  “Cousin!” Laurie echoed.

  “Aye, sir,” James answered. “I am glad to see that my cousin Juliana is well protected.” He pushed back his hood, his keen glance the same dark blue as Juliana’s, a legacy from a shared grandfather.

  “I thought you were some rebel come to challenge us,” Laurie said gruffly, sliding his sword into its belt sheath.

  “Oh, never that,” Juliana said earnestly.

  “I travel in peace, on pilgrimage,” James said. “I intend to visit Inchfillan Abbey. ’Tis a pleasant surprise to see my cousin here, on my way to the abbey.”

  “Just a pious man anxious to be at prayer,” Juliana added.

  “Och, nae doubt,” Laurie said wryly.

  “Allow me to speak with my cousin and tell her news of our kin,” James said. “I assure you she is safe with me.”

  “Walk with her if you like, but only in our sight,” Laurie said as James moved away with Juliana. “And dinna go far.”

  “Did you really come here to see Father Abbot?” she asked.

  He nodded. “He sent word to me.” James glanced back at Laurie and Brother Eonan, who watched them. “He wrote that you were taken by the English, and the wee lads taken too, and that he needed help to free all of you. I came as soon as I could. I have another mission as well here, on King Robert’s behalf. But I am glad to see the abbot found a way to gain you back.”

  “The lads are still held, though the Sassenachs brought me back. King Edward wed me to one of his knights—the new commander at Elladoune. Now I must pledge fealty to the king.”

  “Wed?” James looked astonished.

  “Aye, to Sir Gawain Avenel—you may know his name. He is now constable at Elladoune, although there is no garrison there as yet. The king’s orders—Jamie, what is it?” She paused.

  “Jesu,” he murmured. “Gawain. I know him well.”

  “Aye, he mentioned that he met you.”

  “Met me? He ran with us for a few months.”

  “He fought with Scots rebels?” Juliana gaped at him. “When? How? He is King Edward’s loyal man!”

  “I heard that he pledged his oath anew.” James frowned. “He was a good comrade, but loyalties change often in this war. Men must choose between their heads and their hearts. Some side with the Scots for the love of liberty, and stay the course. Others declare for the English to protect their inheritances.”

  “But Gawain is English … he never—” Juliana felt stunned.

  “He sided with the Scots for a bit, lass. Or so I thought.”

  Juliana stared, her head spinning in confusion. “But—”

  “He is a solitary man. Courteous and of a noble spirit, but he keeps his secrets close. He had some good reasons to side with us and change back. Inheritance, most like. My wife liked him well, and she has a fine eye for character.”

  In spite of the distracting revelation about Gawain, Juliana gasped. “Wife? You do have news! The Border Hawk is wed?”

  His smile was quick and charming. “Aye, caught fast. My wife is Isobel Seton of Aberlady.”

  “The prophetess? I have heard of her! So the rebel softened enough to take a wife.” She smiled widely. “I never thought ’twould happen. You nearly became a monk!”

  “Aye, true.” He laughed ruefully. “You must meet Isobel.”

  “I want to, and soon. But for now, tell me more of you and Gawain. He never said he ran with rebels!”

  “I doubt he wants it known, especially if he has resworn his fealty. He helped Isobel and me in a bad situation, and stayed with us for a while. He fought at my back and I trusted him well.” He frowned. “One day the English camped nearby, and there was a skirmish. The next morn he was gone. We saw him riding with the Southrons, while we hid in the forest.”

  “Ach Dhia. Did he … betray you?” she nearly whispered.

  “I never knew for sure, but it appeared so. He went back to England, I heard, and knelt before the king to beg forgiveness. And got it, I see, if he is now constable at Elladoune, complete with a bride given him by the king—and the bride my own cousin!”

  “I didna know,” she murmured.

  “He was a good friend—or so I thought.” James shrugged. “What he did for Isobel and me canna be repaid. But he broke our trust later. I never suspected him for a traitor, so it surprised me. Mayhap Isobel and I liked him too well and somehow missed the truth.” He looked at the loch and watched the swans.

  She bit at her lip, remembering that Gawain had told her he had spent two months in prison—for betrayal. He had explained little, but she wondered anew what he had meant by it.

  “Juliana, I have news of the lads.”

  She looked up quickly. “We heard too. I dinna know what we will do, for we canna pay any ransom. And Alec and Iain are in the sheriff’s keeping now. He refuses to give them up.”

  “We had best go see the abbot. There is much to discuss.”

  She frowned. “Jamie, you should know this—Gawain will be coming to the abbey later today to see Abbot Malcolm.”

  James cocked a brow. “That will prove interesting.”

  Glenshie burned bright as a lantern in his mind, even as he sat in De Soulis’s hall with Laurie. While the page poured out cups of golden, cool ale, he remembered the sunlit stones of Glenshie. When De Soulis complained about a delayed delivery of several tuns of wine and barrels of salted fish from Perth to Dalbrae, Gawain thought of the view of Loch nan Eala from the hill below his grandfather’s castle; his castle by right, now.

  The place had been a ruin, a stone shell, some of its higher level tumbled. The foundation walls were still sound, but choked with ivy. An abundance of green ferns filled the inner bailey, and the steps leading to the tower keep had collapsed.

  But he had recognized it, and relived childhood moments that nearly brought him to the brink of tears. Exploring the castle’s remnants and perimeters much of the morning, he thought about rebuilding. He envisioned Glenshie clearly in his mind: a strong stone tower once again.

  After leaving the mountain and meeting Laurie for the ride to Dalbrae, he kept silent about his discovery. Though he burst to tell his friend, he hoped to reveal his news—and the blessed relief of the full
truth—to Juliana first.

  He fixed his attention on the conversation. He had come here to check on the boys and to learn his orders, and to discern the possible lay of his future.

  “Has the king’s commander decided what to do with Elladoune?” he asked De Soulis.

  “Aye, but there are some matters for us to address first. I have writs from Aymer de Valence, and one from the king himself, to convey to you.”

  The sheriff reached over to the end of the table and drew toward him a flat wooden chest. Opening its silver latches, he removed a few folded parchments with broken seals. He sifted through them, his fingers sly, somehow, along those edges.

  “I believe that you have a document to deliver to me, as well,” De Soulis said. “Is your report complete?”

  Gawain thought about the folded parchments tucked inside his tunic. He had brought them, intending to deliver them, but some inner caution made him hesitate. “Almost,” he said. “A week.”

  The sheriff scowled. “De Valence wants that information.” He reviewed the page in his hand. “This first matter does not concern you directly, but you should know. As the king’s Master of Swans, I am to capture swans for the king’s rivers in England,” he went on. “The mute swans of Elladoune are among the best known in Scotland, and so some of those will be taken up in the next few days. You will see us at the task.”

  “The swans’ feathers are molting just now, I believe,” Gawain said. “They are unable to fly.”

  “And that makes them even more suited for upping, when they are hooked and netted, and transported. The younger ones are easier to catch that way than the aggressive adults. We will snare a few cygnets and young swans and send them south.”

  Gawain narrowed his eyes, thinking of Juliana’s unchivalrous capture several weeks earlier for the same reason. He thought, too, of Guinevere’s four young cygnets, who were exactly what De Soulis wanted. He felt a sudden, strong compassion; the proud and beautiful female swan had already endured the loss of her mate. Her offspring should not be taken from her, too.