The Swan Maiden

by Susan King

  He nodded his understanding. “You bargain hard, my love.”

  “ ’Tis worth the price,” she said. “I willna give up.”

  “Give up for now,” he murmured. “Here, in this place, we need have no loyalties but the one between us.” He bent close, so that his brow touched hers.

  She smiled sadly. “Just while we are here, then,” she whispered. “Hidden away.”

  The night wind was soft around them, and stars glittered in the indigo sky. He slipped his hands into the silk of her hair and tipped her face upward. He kissed her tenderly, and drew her down to the cool grass. While the cool wind caressed his skin, he bared hers gently, and surrounded her with his plaid.

  With slow, deliberate, gentle caresses at first, he skimmed his hands over her body, cherishing her, feeling her warmth surround him, succor him. Kissing her deeply, luxuriantly, he groaned low when her knowing touch stoked the fire within him.

  Unable to hold himself back any longer, he felt urgent with an intense need that was more than physical. The sun would rise soon, and the obligations of the outer world would return with it. When she arched in sweet and silent ecstasy, he filled her, and loved her, and lost himself within the boundary of her soul.

  The water was dark and calm, swathed in mist, and the sky paled as dawn approached. Gawain walked away from Glenshie to stand on the long slope that overlooked the loch. Long ago, he had stood here with his father, and had first heard the legend of the swans of Elladoune.

  He turned to see Juliana coming toward him, folding her arms around herself, her hair and tunic pale in the darkness. She had slept only a little, he knew, as he had, until the cool, damp air had awoken him.

  He took her hand and looked back at the loch. A sense of peace surrounded him. No matter what he did, she would love him. And he would always love her, to the depth of his soul, and beyond. Nothing would alter that.

  Soon they would have to cross the water and face what had been wrought around them, and between them. For a while, he just wanted to be here with her, immersed in tranquility.

  Dawn emerged, soft and cloudy, a pale, opalescent pink, the hills soft blue-gray, the loch silver. Swans floated, white crescents upon the breast of the water. The mist slipped away on gentle winds.

  At the heart of the loch, he saw a shimmering veil of gold. The dawn light was growing faster than he wanted it to come.

  “Look,” she whispered. “Do you see it?”

  Frowning a little, he looked again. Juliana shifted closer to him, and he put his arm around her.

  A wash of golden color hovered below the water. It wavered, and took the shape of walls—windowed walls.

  “Dùn nan Eala,” she whispered. “ ’Tis the fortress of the swans. The sunken castle. Do you see it?”

  He saw it. Though he could hardly believe his own sight, there it was. If he blinked, the vision might disappear. He drew her closer in the circle of his arm.

  “ ’Tis a gift,” he murmured, and kissed her hair. She slipped her arm around his waist and nodded.

  Time suspended, misted and still. A moment later—a blink, a breath—and the legendary place vanished.

  Juliana turned full into his arms, and he heard her sob. He felt stirred enough to weep himself. He cradled her close.

  Lifting his head, he looked again. No trace existed of the magical fortress. Above the loch, the sky brightened, its upper region heavy with clouds. He glanced at the opposite shore.

  Something moved among the trees in the forest. He narrowed his eyes, watching more carefully. Shapes emerged—figures in long, dark robes, hauling a structure of some kind.

  “What,” he said, “is that?” Whatever it was moved away from the abbey into the deeper part of the forest.

  “Ach,” she said softly. “You dinna see that.”

  “I do see it,” he insisted. “It looks like they are moving the bell tower. God save us,” he muttered, watching as the tall timbers swayed, as if on a base of wheels. “It looks like a siege engine.”

  “ ’Tis naught. Come away.” She pulled at his arm.

  “Naught? A siege engine in the forest, propelled by a bunch of monks, naught?”

  She turned to him, her face earnest. “Gabhan MacDuff—I will call you that so long as you wear that plaid—you needna think upon it. You wear a Highlander’s garment, and stand on your own Highland property, and speak to your Highland wife. And so you dinna see that, over there.”

  “Juliana,” he said crisply, “why are the monks moving a siege engine?”

  She sighed. “They are taking it to the King of Scots.”

  “Ah,” he said. “I see. The scaffolding. Malcolm and his brethren built this under De Soulis’s nose. Under mine as well.”

  “They did,” she said. “De Soulis burned the other one the rebels had made, which was already promised to the king.”

  “Juliana,” he said, “what rebels?”

  “The ones in the forest,” she admitted. “The ones in your own, ah, castle.”

  He rubbed a hand over his face. “Let me guess,” he said. “James Lindsay came here to claim that machine for the king.”

  “To check on its progress,” she said. “In part.”

  “So I have been harboring rebels under my roof, and consorting with them daily.”

  “You have.”

  “And I am married to one of them.”

  “You are.” She glanced up at him anxiously.

  He stood quietly, taking all of it in. Then he shook his head and laughed. Putting his hand over his eyes, he laughed yet again, a rueful sound that ended in a groan.

  She smiled up at him. “Heaven willna stop playing its games with you until you give in, I think.”

  “Give in to what?” He looked down at her in surprise.

  “Being the Scot you were born to be,” she answered.

  He shook his head, still smiling. He had no immediate answer for her, but the truth of his feelings was abundantly clear. Yet he had followed heart and instinct before, when he had gone over to the Scots. And he had held himself back from doing so ever again, no matter his leanings.

  What would happen if he followed his heart again? He had much more to lose than before. He rested his arm on Juliana’s shoulders.

  The sky was a soft blush color, its upper layer filled with heavy gray clouds. Rain would come later in the morning, he thought, feeling the cool dampness in the wind.

  He looked across the loch, and drew his brows together.

  The image of the castle was there again, tipping the waves with golden veins of color. This time, the image was brilliant orange-gold, floating on the surface of the water.

  “Juliana,” he said warily.

  “What?” she asked, and lifted her head, and cried out.

  “Elladoune is burning,” he said.

  He took her hand and began to run down the hill.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Is there no boat?” Gawain asked when they reached the pine tree at the edge of the loch. “We would cross faster.” Juliana nodded, breathless with running. She realized he was right, though she used the boat only in cold weather. Turning, she skimmed along the forest path with Gawain until they reached a narrow pebbled beach below the level of the trees.

  Hidden in the shallow water in a reed bed was a small round boat made of hide, with one cross seat and a triangular paddle inside. Gawain helped her into the boat, which spun a little. He leaped inside and took up the paddle.

  “I have never rowed a curragh,” he said. “Though I remember riding in them as a lad.”

  “Rhythm,” she said as he began to move them out of the reed bed. “Rhythm and stroke will balance it.”

  He nodded. Despite some crazy wavering, he dipped a curving stroke to each side and mastered the skill quickly. The little boat struck out over the loch, creating quiet waves.

  The swans glided out of the mist and surrounded them, floating alongside, some of them taller than the low-slung hide boat. Their escort
and the pockets of fog on the loch concealed them from sight as the boat skimmed toward the other shore.

  Juliana watched Elladoune. Bright flames licked the inner side of the castle walls, and smoke billowed from one corner of the bailey. “Only the kitchens are on fire, I think,” she said. “ ’Tisna the great keep. And the stables are on the opposite side. Surely whoever is in there will get the horses out!”

  “We will be there soon enough,” he said as he rowed. “And Laurie and the MacDuffs will be fighting the fire, no doubt. If ’tis the kitchens, the blaze can be put out and the place saved.”

  “Look,” she said, pointing. “The sheriff’s men are outside, on the hill leading to the gate. They must have shot fire arrows into the bailey. ’Twasna an accidental fire.”

  “I want you to know this was done without my knowledge.” He glanced at her. “De Soulis must have ordered the firing of Elladoune.”

  “I know. If the sheriff’s men are at Elladoune, they will be patrolling the forest too. They will see the brethren and the rebels with the war machine!”

  “Then I hope your friends have sense enough to abandon their engine and seek the safety of the abbey precinct.”

  “Hurry!” she said, leaning forward as if that could make the curragh fly faster over the water. “Hurry! There is something to be done to help them!”

  He glanced at her as he dipped the oar along one side, then the other. “What is that?”

  “You showed me your secret,” she said, heart pounding. “Now I will show you mine. But you must never tell, Sassenach.”

  “I am a keeper of secrets, my lady,” he said. “Trust me.”

  She waited while Gawain slid them effortlessly into the shelter of the cove. He leaped out into the shallows and beached the boat on the pebbled shore, then handed her out of the boat.

  She ran toward the cache of belongings that they had left beneath the fallen tree. With shaking hands, she pulled out his chain mail and gear, and her own clothing.

  Gawain picked up his quilted linen gambeson, pulling it on over the belted plaid. He strapped his sword belt over the war garment and pulled on his long boots. Juliana handed him the chain-mail hood and bent for the hauberk.

  “Not that,” he said. “There is no time. This will do.” He took his sword and slid its length into the sheath at his belt.

  “Highland men,” she said, “often wear only the quilted coat and helmet over their plaids. Most canna afford a full suit of chain mail. Now you look even more like a Highland warrior.”

  He slid her a wry glance. “You will not stop, will you, now that you have this possibility at hand.”

  She smiled brightly. “Never, mo cridhe.”

  He looked toward the castle, where a rim of flame edged one wall. “We must go. Hurry.” He held out his hand.

  “Go without me,” she said. “I will meet you there.”

  She fell to her knees and reached under the log again, pulling out another cloth sack from beneath a layer of leaves. She opened it and drew out a short white cloak made of swan’s feathers sewn to a linen lining.

  Standing, she draped the soft, delicate garment over her shoulders, tied it at the neck, and pulled up the hood. The cloak’s curved hem came to her hips. In the soft silvery light of dawn, the feathers were nearly luminous.

  “My God,” Gawain murmured, watching. “So the Swan Maiden does exist.” He tilted his head and gave her a curious smile.

  “For now, she does,” Juliana admitted. “And she has been seen before, near the loch, and in the forest.”

  “No doubt. So this is your secret.”

  “Part of it. We have used the ruse of the Swan Maiden for years, to mislead the king’s men and keep them away from certain places in the forest and along the loch.”

  “Ah. So other siege engines could be moved.”

  “And so the king’s men would keep away from the rebels’ forest homes. When De Soulis captured me, and you brought me back to Elladoune, I thought I need never do this again.”

  “And your silence? What is the reason for that?”

  “To encourage the legend. To confuse the Sassenachs. To keep secrets. Gawain—”

  He placed a finger on her lips. “No need to say it.” He touched the same finger to his own lips. “I never saw this.”

  He turned at the sound of horses thudding along a forest path above the cove. In the distance, through the trees, torchlight moved in a column along a path, and split in two directions—toward the abbey, and toward the castle.

  Juliana looked in the direction of the abbey. In the forest beyond, her friends would still be dragging the siege engine, bulky and slow, along its route.

  “We must hurry,” she said. “I will meet you at Elladoune when the machine is safely to the river.” She stretched to kiss him quickly. “Put out the fire and save our friends, I beg you.”

  “I will do my best. Juliana.” He grabbed her shoulders. “I cannot let you do this.”

  “I must,” she said urgently, “though it doesna please you. Just as you choose what doesna suit me. We must accept that with each other, I think, for we are too stubborn to change easily. Go—I will come to you.”

  He pulled her to him roughly, and kissed her again. Closing her eyes for a moment, she wanted to melt, to linger. But he moved back, and she whirled and began to thread her way between the birches. She glanced back and saw that Gawain had already started back toward Elladoune.

  Pausing, she assessed her direction. If she cut across the meadow toward the abbey, the shortest way to find the monks and their siege engine, the knights might see her in the open, and pursue her; she would be a clear target. Instead, she made her way along the fringe of the forest that skirted the meadow.

  To her left, she could hear hoofbeats along the path. The route led through the forest behind the abbey grounds, and eventually trailed toward the path of monks with the siege engine. If they were not stopped or diverted, the knights would soon discover the rebels.

  Carefully she wended her way through trees and thick undergrowth, through silvery light and deep shadows. Her white cape nearly glowed, and was easily visible. Soon they would see her. If they pursued her, she could lead them away from the rebels.

  As she ran along a slope thick with trees, she could see the knights. Six, she counted; seven. De Soulis rode in the lead, his black armor and black horse like a heavy shadow.

  The forest path forked nearby, one trail leading toward the rebels, the other swinging toward the town. Juliana ran toward the forking, and waited, watching.

  She took a breath and skittered down the slope, balancing herself with arms out, until she reached the cleared path at an angle. Glancing left, she saw the horsemen on the track. She leaped down, far ahead of them, and stopped.

  Breath heaving, she forced herself to wait. When one of the men shouted and spurred his horse forward, she whirled and took the fork toward the little town.

  Without looking behind her, she ran as fast as she could. She heard the pounding and snorting of horses, heard shouts. They sounded well behind her. Pausing again, she turned.

  Her pursuers were closer than she had thought. She dashed sideways through a stand of slender trees, where dense leaves shielded her progress. Glancing back, she stumbled on a hidden root, fell to her knees, and tried to catch her breath.

  As she rose to her feet, a shadow emerged from the trees, and a man lunged toward her. She backed away, but he was fast and strong. His hand whipped out to grab hold of her cloak.

  Pulled violently forward, she fell. Black gauntleted hands grabbed her arms, righted her, dragged her to her feet.

  “Ah,” De Soulis said, “the Swan Maiden is mine.”

  “Sergeant!” Gawain bellowed as he neared the swarm of guards clustered outside Elladoune’s walls. One of the guards turned and walked toward him. “Who gave the order to fire this castle? ’Twas not to be done yet!”

  “The sheriff, sir,” the man answered. “We were told to send fire-tipped a
rrows into the bailey, and set the outbuildings aflame. He told us not to try to take it or to go inside. But there are people in there, sir.” He gestured toward the wallwalk. “They have been shooting arrows down upon us. We do not know who they are.”

  “The place has not yet been cleared!” Gawain said angrily. “There are women in there, and old ones—and children, for love of God!” He glanced up at the battlements. He saw a few heads bobbing behind the merlons, and as one passed an opening, he recognized Laurie. He waved an arm and shouted. Someone looked down. Gawain pointed toward the massive wooden doors, now shut.

  “Sir,” the guard said. “We were told ’twas empty.”

  “I am going in there to vacate the castle,” Gawain said sharply. “In the meantime, do not attempt to attack further. You can take the men back to Dalbrae.”

  “Our orders are to stay here, sir,” the man replied.

  “Where is the sheriff?” Gawain demanded.

  “Riding out after rebels, sir.”

  “You have done what he ordered. The castle is afire. Now be on your way.” He strode past the guard toward the doors, hoping that those inside had seen him and would unbar the gate.

  He heard a bolt slide free, and one of the huge, iron-studded wooden doors creaked open. Gawain slipped through the gap, stepping into shadows and smoke. Laurie slammed the door shut and he and Gawain turned to bar the doors shut again.

  The portcullis was partially raised, and Gawain ducked beside Laurie as they passed beneath its iron teeth to enter the bailey. Gawain pushed back his chain-mail hood and stopped to stare at the bright blaze that filled one corner of the yard.

  Flames consumed the thatched roof of the two kitchen buildings. Gawain saw a few of the MacDuffs—Teig, Uilleam, and some others—running across the yard with sloshing buckets of water, freshly drawn from the well on the other side of the garden plot. The gardens were aflame, too, bright ribbons of fire that ran up beanpoles and slicked across the greenery.

  “Jesu,” Gawain said, looking around. “Is everyone safe?”

  “Aye, so far,” Laurie said, wiping a hand across his brow. His face was streaked with soot. “We moved them all into the opposite tower, and wet the doors and walls thoroughly there. The horses and livestock were put into the ground-floor storage room in that tower, too, and we dampened the floors in there as well. And we have cleared a firebreak between the kitchen buildings and the rest of the outbuildings. The fire should be contained.”