by Susan King
“Not successful?” Juliana asked, puzzled.
“I came here in answer to the abbot’s summons about you,” James told her. “But King Robert also sent me to inquire about another war machine. The last one your forest rebels sent to him, secretly and in pieces, was assembled elsewhere and greatly aided the rebellion. But Abbot Malcolm told me that the sheriff’s men burned the site where the rebels were building another engine.”
“True, but I have been waiting to tell you some good news,” Malcolm said. “We have another one. ’Tis hidden where the sheriff’s men will never find it.” He gestured toward the window, where a summer breeze entered.
Juliana looked out to see the top of the scaffolding for the new bell tower. “Where?” she asked. “And will the bell tower be completed in time for the archery competition? We hold it on the steps of the abbey church each year,” she told James.
“My girl,” Malcolm said. “Look again.”
She stood and looked out the window. A wooden scaffold had been erected beside the broken bell tower. Two monks had climbed up to hammer upon another framework of timbers constructed on the roof, surrounding the broken tower. She narrowed her eyes, and then gasped. “The scaffolding!”
James got up to look out the window. “By the saints … ’tis a siege engine! I hadna looked closely at it! Father Abbot, you are a bold fellow.” He turned to grin at him.
“If Bishop Wishart can build one and take it against the English, surely I can do the same,” Malcolm answered. He beamed. “It only needs wheels and the catapult arm, which are hidden in the dormitory. Tell the King o’ Scots he will have his engine. Bring him word that we will transport it in pieces, by night, as soon as ’tis completed.”
“He will be pleased. This is brilliant,” James said.
“Foolhardy.” Juliana scowled. “What if De Soulis sees it?”
“He has seen it,” Malcolm said. “So have his men. No one seems to have noticed what we have done with the timber that the sheriff’s men brought us for our new bell tower and scaffold.”
James shook his head. “Brilliant, but Juliana is right. All of you at Inchfillan take a great risk with this.”
“We are rebels,” Malcolm replied soberly. “We take risks for Scotland.”
“This secret must be protected until the machine can be moved,” James said. “The English must be kept away from here.”
“They dinna come here often,” Malcolm said. “We can move it this week, during the fair, when there are fewer sheriff’s men patrolling at night—they will stay close to the market town.”
James nodded. “Juliana, what of Gawain? You said he was coming to Inchfillan this afternoon.”
“He said he would do so after he saw the sheriff,” she said.
“We must learn how the wind blows with him.”
She sighed. “If what you and Father Abbot say is so, he willna help us. And I canna bear to see him just now—nor can I ask him for help again. Not yet, if ever.”
James nodded. “Then I will speak with him myself,” he said grimly. “ ’Tis time, I think.”
* * *
“Wait here, Sir Gawain,” a woman said. Deirdre, the abbot’s rotund elder sister, who kept his house and helped look after his wards, showed him into a room that held a table and benches. “The abbot will be with you shortly. There is ale on the table.”
“My thanks, Dame Deirdre,” Gawain murmured. He stepped inside the room alone, where he noted three cups on the table beside a jug of foamy ale; one cup was unused, upside down on the table. He poured out some ale, swallowing quickly. It was cool and light, watered stuff well suited to a warm summer day.
The ride from Dalbrae had been torturous, not because of the day’s heat, but because his head was full of troubled thoughts—and his heart was full of torment.
He looked out the window at the new wood going up next to the shattered bell tower. Something seemed odd about it. Frowning, he did not notice the door opening behind him.
“Gawain.”
He turned, expecting to greet the abbot, and saw James Lindsay. He stared, heart slamming. A moment later, recovering himself, he set his cup down.
“Jamie,” he said simply.
James shut the door and sat on the bench. Gawain sat opposite him. His hands trembled, his heart raced. Casually, he picked up the jug of ale and offered it.
James shook his head. “I had my fill earlier.”
“Ah.” Three cups, he thought; there had been a meeting, presumably between the abbot, James, and Juliana. Gawain knew that his wife was here, since Laurie had brought him her message when they had ridden to Dalbrae. Laurie had also mentioned a visiting pilgrim at Inchfillan, but Gawain had been so distracted by his thoughts of Glenshie that he had hardly listened. “I see that I was left alone in here for a reason.”
“Aye, at my request. I thought we should talk.”
Gawain sipped his ale, but it tasted dull now, and no longer quenching. He set it aside. “I do owe you an explanation.”
“I heard that you recently made an obeisance to King Edward.” James’s tone was cold and flat. Gawain sensed the tension and anger beneath the surface.
He remained still and cool himself. “Your spies are always about, even so far as London.”
“They are,” James agreed. “I didna come here to confront you. Every man must make his own choices in this war. I made mine. You obviously made yours.”
“I did.” He frowned slightly. “How is it you are here?”
“The abbot sent word that my cousins needed help. I came as soon as I could. Thankfully, Juliana is safe, though the lads are still in custody. Juliana told me much of what has gone on.” He watched Gawain steadily.
Gawain realized that James’s eyes were the same dark, rich blue as Juliana’s. He had not noticed their color before—but now, with his mind so constantly upon Juliana, he saw the strong familial resemblance between the cousins in their eyes, in their fair golden coloring, and in their fine-boned, handsome features.
“Then you know about the marriage, and my post at Elladoune,” Gawain replied.
“I do. Felicitations on your marriage,” James murmured. “I willna congratulate you on your post. It might please a Southron, but it poses some difficulties for me and mine.”
“I will be released from my obligations at Elladoune soon enough. No doubt you heard that, too, since the abbot spoke with the sheriff earlier today.”
James nodded, and studied him in the quiet, serious manner that Gawain remembered well. “What of your obligation to my cousin, your wife?”
“I intend to honor that, though I cannot say what she will want. I doubt she will consent to return to England with me, or even elsewhere in Scotland, once I am reassigned.”
“Ask her,” James said. “If she will speak to you. She seems greatly upset about what she has learned of you today.”
Gawain played with the rim of his ale cup. “I am not surprised, though I am sorry for it. I wanted to tell her myself. I wanted to tell her … many things.”
“Seems to me that you should have done so already. She didna even know the extent of your involvement with us.”
“I never found a good moment to explain that. If I had told her that I ran with you, she would assume that I am loyal to the Scottish cause, and expect me to change allegiance.”
“Oh, well, canna have her thinking that,” James drawled.
“The marriage came quickly for both Juliana and me,” Gawain snapped. “There is still much to explain. And much to guard, between us. She keeps her secrets too.”
James scowled. “She hasna guarded much from you.”
“What do you mean?”
“She loves you. I see it plainly in her. Juliana has given you all of her heart, all of herself. This revelation about you has devastated her. I warn you, if you hurt her further—”
“No need to warn me,” Gawain said brusquely.
“Ah, I see,” James said slowly. “ ’Tis mutual, t
his feeling between the two of you. A tangle indeed, then.”
“Well knotted,” Gawain admitted. He stared out the window, where the scaffold of the bell tower topped the abbey wall.
“Juliana said that you met years ago, when Elladoune was burned, and she and her kin were cast out by De Soulis and the king’s troops. She said you saved her then—and were the first one to call her the Swan Maiden.”
“An odd coincidence, but true.”
“I dinna believe in coincidence,” James said. “I believe in an ordered world directed by God and his angels. I believe therein lies fate, through those means. I have been its victim—and its beneficiary—often enough.”
“Then I am a victim of fate.”
“Or its beneficiary.”
“That remains to be seen,” Gawain said. “Sometimes I think I am caught in a purgatory of ironies, where there is no escape.” He shoved a hand through his hair and exhaled in exasperation. “I have new orders that your fair cousin will not like at all. ’Twill shatter the marriage, I think. ’Twill shatter … her. I do not know how to tell her.”
“Just be honest,” James said quietly, watching him. “She knows what the abbot told us both—that you have orders to close down Elladoune,” he said. “If there is more, tell her.”
Gawain tightened his mouth and turned his cup in his hand. “The truth about my orders is not pleasant.”
“The truth can seal where we think ’twill sever.”
“Not this.”
“Did you know,” James said, “that I fired my own wife’s castle, on the very night I met her? I suspect your orders are something similar.”
Gawain raised a brow at James’s astuteness. “Did Isobel forgive you for it?”
“Once she understood why I did it, and once she understood me … aye,” he said quietly.
“There is much I must explain to Juliana before she would understand.”
“Such as your betrayal of her cousin?”
“I thought you did not care to confront me about that.”
“Still, I think I must.” James fisted his hand on the table, knuckles white, wrist bones strong.
“Then do so,” Gawain said. “Say what you will.”
“The morning you left,” James answered, low and fierce, “the Southrons hunted us mercilessly in the greenwood. But you know that—you were with them.” His gaze was sharp and cold.
Gawain remembered that day. His stomach clenched inwardly. He swung the cup like a small bell, listening.
“Patrick was wounded, and Quentin nearly captured,” James went on. “We had lost one of our own that morning, when you disappeared,” he added. “We didna care to lose more.”
“I am glad no one among you was killed,” Gawain said. James said nothing. Drawing a deep breath, Gawain went on. “You knew that my fealty was originally to King Edward.”
“You helped Isobel and me, and you defended her—and for that I will always owe you, no matter the rest,” James said. “But you deserted us abruptly.”
Gawain studied the flecks of foam in the ale as if it contained a map of life’s mysteries. The air in the room seemed oppressive. He could relieve it with the simple truth.
His stepfather and stepbrothers would have already mollified James. They would have apologized, soothed him with logic, while screening what they wanted to hide to protect James—and themselves—from further distress.
But he was not like them, he knew that now. He wanted to deal only in clear, refreshing honesty. The truth had to be known. It might seal, as James had said, what was severed.
“We had skirmished with the English the day before,” Gawain said. “Do you recall?”
“I do. You fought well. And left before dawn.”
“We saw the faces of some of the men we killed, from the trees where we hid.”
“Those deaths couldna be helped.”
“My stepbrother Geoffrey was among them,” Gawain said bluntly. “I saw him fall. I went to their camp to find him.” He drew a long breath. “One of our bow shots killed him. I do not know who loosed it. Mayhap even myself.”
“Jesu,” James breathed out. “Why did you not say?”
“Geoffrey came into Scotland to search for me,” Gawain said. “My stepfather sent him. I was seen by the English knights and welcomed as if I had escaped from the enemy. I couldna get back to you without leading them to you. And my brother was dead, Jamie,” he murmured. “I took his body home.”
James rubbed his fingers over his brow. “And then you had to stay and make amends.”
“Aye,” Gawain said curtly.
“Isobel swore you had good reason for what you did. With her gift of the Sight, she was sure that leaving our band of rogues had been a difficult decision for you. I assumed it was some dilemma of loyalty versus inheritance. A question of convenience.”
“ ’Twas a question of guilt, and obligation.” And grief.
“I see. You didna betray us.”
“Never that. I gave naught away.”
“Were you suspected, or lauded for escaping rebels?”
“Both, actually. I stayed two months in the Tower of London for trangressing and aiding the enemy—specifically for helping you free Isobel from her captor. It ended with my formal apology. My stepfather circulated the rumor that your men had taken me captive. He wanted to spare the family more disgrace.”
“So you decided to stay with the English.”
“I had no choice. King Edward has a formidable temper. My family suffered because I helped Isobel, let alone what I did on behalf of your rebels. They will suffer, even now, if any of this becomes known. I must act cautiously. My mother is ill—I doubt she has the strength to bear any more strain from my quarter, after Geoffrey’s death,” he murmured.
“How much does Juliana know of this?”
“Very little,” Gawain said. He sighed, aware that the damage to his marriage might be irrevocable. “I know I should have told her sooner. There are other matters that I have not confessed to her as well. She will not be pleased by any of it. But she must learn the truth sooner or later.”
“Truth and sweet oil,” James said, “rise to the top. She has a few confessions to make to you, too, I think.”
“I am sure of that,” Gawain said wryly.
“Talk to her. She is still here in the abbey.”
Gawain looked away. Relief and shame mingled in him; the urge to tell Juliana the truth was strong, but he knew that his secrecy had hurt and angered her. And he did not know how he could save his marriage if he must ruin Elladoune.
“I must leave now,” James said, “since King Robert awaits my report, and he will be moving on soon. Though you, Sassenach, dinna need to know that.” He cocked a brow.
“I never heard it,” Gawain said quietly. “I never saw you.”
James nodded. “Isobel will be glad to know of our meeting,” he said then. “She never doubted you.”
“Even when you did.”
“I did,” James said. “And I was wrong, and glad of it.”
Gawain stared into his cup. His throat tightened.
“We will meet again soon, I hope,” James said. “I would stay if I could, but Isobel is expecting a child soon—I promised her I would be there.”
Gawain smiled. “Tell her—give her my congratulations, and my apologies,” he said. “For not being a finer friend.”
“She holds no grudges where you are concerned. I only hope you can convince Juliana to do the same.”
“She will have to come to that for herself, I think.”
James huffed in rueful agreement. “I must ask a favor of you.” He leaned forward. “In a way ’tis a question of loyalty again. You may have made a pledge to your king, but you also took a binding oath with Juliana.”
“So I did.” Gawain frowned, waiting.
“That makes us kinsmen by marriage, and makes you kin to her brothers as well. They need protection, especially the wee lads. I canna stay here to make sure of
it, but they must be taken out of the sheriff’s keeping.”
“I will do what I can,” Gawain said. “Children should not have to suffer because men create war.”
“True. So if some attempt is made to snatch them,” James said, “look the other way.”
Gawain nodded slowly. “Well enough.”
James stood. “Farewell, then,” he said. He went to the door and opened the latch, then looked back at Gawain. “Had you stayed for the Scots,” he said musingly, “Ach Dhia, what a warrior for our side.” He closed the door behind him.
When Gawain walked through the abbey yard, no one spoke to him. Monks who previously had been friendly now turned away. Laurie waited at the abbey gate, mounted on his brown stallion, with the dark bay, Gringolet, saddled beside him. The Lowlander’s face was grim and watchful.
James was gone already. Gawain was not surprised, knowing his friend’s habit of vanishing quickly. He was glad that James had pushed the matter to a conclusion. The truth had lifted an oppressive weight from his shoulders. The very air felt clearer to him.
But other shadows remained. He had to talk to Juliana, but he must approach it cautiously. Although he was certain of his heart regarding her, he was unsure how to resolve the conflict in his loyalties. Another day or two, he thought, would give him time to sort it through, and perhaps talk to De Soulis again. He would not hurt Juliana unduly—nor would he give her undue hope that might later be shattered.
A few swans wandered in the yard, as they often did, and Gawain walked without hesitation through their midst. A couple of the birds hissed, extending their necks and busking their wings, but he sensed no real threat. He knew they looked for food from a man they were now accustomed to seeing.
“I have naught to give you, Eimhir,” he murmured as he bumped his knee against the large pen. She undulated her long neck and head and nipped at his leather pouch.
The swans waddled away from him, turning like a wave. Gawain glanced after them, and suddenly stopped in his progress.
Juliana walked into the yard, soon surrounded by a writhing, begging ring of white swans. She held out a palm full of grain and tipped it down, scattering seed.