by Susan King
De Soulis turned. “Aymer?”
“De Valence.” Laurie smiled flatly.
The sheriff snarled and turned back to Gawain. “You have transgressed yet again, Avenel. I am here to arrest you.”
“What are your accusations?” Gawain asked mildly.
“Protecting Highland rebels. Aiding your wife in her assault against me. Aiding her escape—though I found her myself, as you can see. She is fond of that swan legend,” he said, stroking her feathery shoulder. “But we upped her with no trouble.” She flinched her shoulder away.
Suppressing fury, Gawain cautiously lowered the bow he held. He was sure that Laurie and Angus were prepared to rush the men if any move was made. Setting the bow upright, he stared down at De Soulis.
Elsewhere in the bailey, Uilleam, Beithag, and the others gathered slowly, coming closer. Behind them, the contained fire burned like a great hearth. A cool, damp wind whisked through Gawain’s hair and stirred the plaid around his bare knees. The promise of rain grew stronger.
“You are dressed like a Highlander,” De Soulis observed. “And how do you explain your other actions? What has become of you?” He said it with disgust. “An Avenel!”
“There was little I could do to assist my wife in her assault,” Gawain said. “She had it nicely in her control that I could see. And she freed her brothers from your unreasoning custody, which was her sole intention.” His gaze was keen on Juliana as he spoke. She stood beside De Soulis, slim and straight, the breeze ruffling the white feathers against her throat, where the rope was noosed.
He narrowed his eyes, watching them. The blond knight standing with Juliana was an expert bowman, he knew, and his longbow was strapped to his saddle, but so far the man had made no move toward it.
“Secondly,” he said, in a casual tone, “her escape. She fled all on her own, without anyone’s aid—and with good reason,” he added sharply, “with armed men in pursuit of a helpless girl.”
“Helpless,” De Soulis snorted. “Have you seen her shoot?”
“I have,” Gawain said proudly. “Surely you noticed that I chased off after her with some of your men. I admit we crossed paths later, my wife and I.”
“And you aided her then,” De Soulis growled.
Gawain shrugged. “She needed no help from me. As for abetting Highland rebels …” He looked at the MacDuffs standing in the bailey. “ ’Tis no crime to shelter one’s own kin.”
“Kin?” De Soulis shrieked. “You take your marriage too seriously. These are savages!”
“My marriage has naught to do with this. I was born among these savages,” Gawain said, his gaze wholly on Uilleam now. “My birth name is Gabhan MacDuff.”
In that instant, saying it aloud before witnesses, he made his decision. A burden, long carried, lifted from him and fled with the wind.
He looked at Juliana. Her eyes looked wide and dark in her pale face at this distance, but he knew they were as blue and deep as the loch beyond. The MacDuffs, beyond, whispered urgently. Uilleam stared up at him, unmoving.
“You have gone mad,” De Soulis said slowly. “Mad.”
“Not at all,” Gawain said. “Now let my wife go.”
“If you want her,” the sheriff said, “you will have to join her.” He pulled her nearly in front of him, and she gasped. “Sir Rolfe,” he barked, “take him.”
The blond knight took up his longbow and quiver and began to stride across the yard. Juliana looked up at Gawain, her eyes large, pleading.
He tightened his gaze warily and took in the whole of the bailey. He could stand there demanding her release, but little would come of that. If he used one swift arrow to take De Soulis down in cold blood, he risked shooting Juliana; he had a fine aim, but it was not the match of hers. If he waited and let Laurie or Angus take the sheriff down, and Juliana was hurt, he would not be able to live with himself.
He strode slowly toward the steps. The sheriff’s knight reached the middle of the yard. Gawain dropped his bow.
Juliana cried out then, and twisted violently in De Soulis’s grip. She broke free and ran for the steps, launching past the knight, who reached for her and missed.
Gawain saw De Soulis spin and grab the longbow from his own horse. He snatched an arrow from the quiver and nocked it, aiming toward the battlement.
Knowing he was a ready target on the stone walk, Gawain turned to snatch his own bow. It lay too far away for him to reach it quickly. Juliana leaped onto the steps, bolting up.
De Soulis straightened his aim. And then Gawain knew.
Time slowed and vision sharpened even as he lengthened his stride toward Juliana, who came up the steps one by one. De Soulis drew back the string of the huge bow. Rage and hatred darkened his face as he sighted upon the girl.
In that instant, Gawain saw Laurie roar and raise his own bow, saw the knight swerve for De Soulis, knew Angus slid the great sword free. Unknowing, Juliana mounted the top step, her back to De Soulis. Gawain lunged, hand out, eyes keen.
He heard the deep twang of the bowstring, the only signal he needed, a key as paramount as tracking the arrow. That resonant sound sent him sailing toward her, body, arm, and hand extended.
The arrow soared in a pure arc. Focused wholly on its path, he felt, body and soul, as if he himself were a bolt leaving a bowstring. Somehow he knew where the arrow would curve; somehow he angled into that path.
His fingers closed around the shaft. He slammed into her, his shoulder knocking hers. They sank together to the walkway.
She gasped beneath him, and he lay over her, breath heaving, heart thundering. His grip nearly shattered the wooden shaft.
He heaved to his feet and dove for his bow. De Soulis shrieked out and lashed another arrow into the great bow.
Juliana began to get to her hands and knees. The sight of her, roped and crying, together with the slamming of his own heart, snapped the last of his control. Gawain snatched up his bow, nocked the arrow he gripped. He lifted, aimed at the sheriff, and drew the string so taut that his entire being quivered for the release. De Soulis, meanwhile, readied another arrow.
Before Gawain let go of the string, he saw De Soulis fall hard, dropping the bow he had been about to shoot. He slumped forward, an arrow protruding from his throat.
The knight in the middle of the yard lowered his bow and turned to look at Gawain. Then he nodded and walked toward his fallen commander, dropping to a knee as if to beg forgiveness.
Laurie stepped forward and stared down at the sheriff, then turned away. “That damned black armor,” he said, his voice a growl that carried far, “didna protect all of him, did it.”
Juliana was on her feet now, bound hands raised to her mouth, watching what had happened. Turning, she ran toward Gawain with a little cry.
He still held the drawn bowstring. The tension was enormous in his hands, the bow shaking for release. He turned to face over the wall, angled high, and let the shaft go.
The arrow sailed upward, its soaring arc perfect. The bolt came down in the center of the loch.
He spun then, just as Juliana came toward him, and swept her into his arms, holding her tightly. Stepping back, he began to loosen the ties of her white cape, fingers shaking. He tore it away from her shoulders and flung it over the wall. It sailed out like a bird and floated on the water.
“Ach Dhia,” Juliana whispered, looking through the crenel toward the loch’s surface as the cloak sank. “The legend,” she said. “Gawain, the legend! The arrow in the loch—my swan cloak—’tis as if the story itself has come into being!”
“ ’Tis just a tale, that,” he murmured. He undid the ropes around her wrists and opened the knots at her neck. He sent the coil of rope over the wall, too, with an impatient whipping motion.
“ ’Tis a tale, and not real,” he went on as he pulled her into his embrace again, full and unencumbered. “What is real is that we are together, you and I. And we will stay here always, if ’tis what you want. At Elladoune.”
�
�Home,” she said, looking up at him. “Here, and at Glenshie.”
“Aye, love,” he whispered, and touched the silk of her hair. “Wherever you are is home to me.”
“Gabhan,” he heard then, and turned. Uilleam and Beithag stood on the wallwalk with Teig and Lucas’s sons behind them. Mairead and her children came up the steps. All of them were soot-darkened from the fire, and all of them stared at him, eyes wide.
Gawain kept his arm around Juliana, and felt her hand at his waist. When Beithag and Uilleam walked closer, Juliana urged him forward with a little push. He took her with him as he went.
Beithag reached out and touched his face. “Gabhan,” she said, smiling. Tears spilled from her eyes. She repeated his name again, lips trembling.
Uilleam grasped Gawain’s hand in his own, leathery, warm, and strong. So much like his grandfather’s hands. Gawain stared at them, then looked up into the old man’s eyes.
“I am he,” he said in Gaelic. “Gabhan.”
“Welcome,” Uilleam said. “We have missed you, Gabhan.”
He smiled, and closed his eyes briefly in utter gratitude, and drew Juliana with him into the heart of the gathering.
Epilogue
Avenel Castle
Autumn, 1306
The room was shadowed and quiet. Gawain closed the book of psalms from which he had been reading, and looked at his mother. She rested her head back against the chair, eyes closed. He shut the volume and began to stand.
Juliana looked up from her seat on the floor, where she watched Eleanor and Catherine playing a game of backgammon. He smiled down at her.
“Do not go yet,” Lady Clarice said. “I am not asleep.”
He sat again. “I would not disturb you.”
“You could not,” she said, and looked up at him. “Gawain, I have been meaning to ask you—do you have aught else to tell me?”
“We have shared a great deal of news with you in the two days that we have been here, Mama,” he said. “The resolution of our troubles at Elladoune, the decision of the king’s general to leave Elladoune in my care for now, without a garrison, and under the jurisdiction of a new sheriff. And of course the welcome news about our child to come.” He smiled.
“All that has been wonderful to hear,” his mother said. “But I think there may be something that you withhold from me.” She tilted her head and cast him a penetrating look.
He hesitated. “Aye,” he said quietly.
“Then tell it,” she said. “I am waiting.”
He glanced at Juliana. Her eyes were bright and deep, their color even more brilliant since the child had been conceived within her. He would have thought he already loved her to the capacity of his being, but the feeling still grew and deepened within him.
Beside her, the twins paused in their game and kept silent, hands quiet, faces demure and calm. They had matured and changed in just a few short months, he thought.
He turned to his mother. There was indeed something more to say, and time it was done.
“I have found Glenshie,” he said.
Lady Clarice closed her eyes for a long moment. “Ah. ’Tis still standing, then. Good. Will you claim it for your own?”
“Through the King of Scots, aye,” he answered carefully.
Her dark eyes, so like his, were intense. “You would have to reswear your allegiance for that.”
“I already have,” he answered. “I explained it to Henry and to the others, but I have not told you because—” He paused.
“You feared to tell me.” She stretched out her hand, and he took it. “This family protects me too much.”
“We do not mind,” he answered. “Henry enjoys it, I think.”
“He does. And I am sure he approved of what you told him.”
“He did.” Gawain smiled ruefully, remembering that quiet, late meeting with his stepfather. “He is a good man, a wise man. He knows how important this is to me—and to my Scottish kin.”
“You did what you had to do. I am glad of it. ’Tis your heritage. There is much honor in claiming it.”
He swallowed hard. “Tell me,” he said, “of my father.”
She sat still, her fingers, fragile and nearly translucent, wrapped in his. “He was one of the first of the rebels,” she said finally, quietly. “And I loved him with all my heart.”
More than enough, he thought, for any man. He stayed silent, holding her hand.
Lady Clarice nodded to herself, and he saw tears gather in her eyes. “ ’Tis proper for you to want to find your home and your inheritance,” she said. “And I must ask your forgiveness.”
“Nay, Mama.” He left his chair, knelt beside her, and kissed her hand.
“I should have told you about him long ago,” she said. “I should have told you more about your Scots heritage. ’Twas wrong of me. I was … frightened for you. And still grieving.”
“I understand,” he murmured.
“We will talk, you and I, before you go back to Elladoune.”
She smiled fondly. “Your father would be proud of you, Gabhan,” she whispered.
He nodded, unable to speak. For some reason, he remembered trying to protect his mother with a wooden sword.
“Gawain,” he said after a moment. “I am Gawain to you, Mama, if you wish it. I respect both of my names, and I will always be faithful to the tenets that Henry has taught me. Somehow I will bring this life, and my new life, together.”
“Scotland can use such an honorable knight,” Lady Clarice said. She patted his hand and smiled down at him as if he were a small child. He did not mind, for he knew that brought her joy. “But now we will not see you much at all,” she added.
He glanced over at Juliana, who dashed tears away from her eyes. “Not for a while, true. But after our child is born next spring, we will visit here as soon as the child is old enough to travel. We will stay for a long while then, if you like.”
“Come in the summer, when the swans are on the river!” Eleanor said. Beside her, Catherine nodded agreement.
Gawain looked at Juliana. “The summer would be a good time to visit. The swans are earthbound then, and cannot fly.”
Lady Clarice nodded. “And I will be waiting here for you. I promise it,” she added fervently, grasping his hand.
Elladoune
Juliana stood with Gawain on the shore of Loch nan Eala at sunset, beneath a pink and brilliant sky. The autumn leaves in the forest were masses of gold and wine and flame. Their colors spilled into the loch, where the swans glided, part of a perfect mirrored reflection.
The castle rose on its promontory, solid and sure. Beyond the loch, the face in the mountain appeared again, touched, as always, by setting or rising sunlight.
Juliana looked at Gawain. “Soon old Beira will be let loose from her prison, and winter will be upon us. And the swans will fly south again.”
He smiled slightly as he studied the mountain. She loved those private, quiet expressions of contentment that she saw in him more often lately. He reached out to take her hand.
“Not all of the swans will fly away from here,” he said, and lifted her hand to kiss it.
The sunset grew more fiery, a bright poem of a sky, and the shadows deepened. The wind had a crisp edge. Gawain turned and Juliana walked with him toward Elladoune, her hand still tucked inside his.
“Gabhan,” she said. “I have something to tell you.”
He slanted an affectionate glance at her. “I already know you are quick with child,” he said. “Have you some other surprise for me?”
“I do. I have decided to take my oath.”
He raised his brows. “Oh? You have been nicely avoiding that for months. I expected you to sidestep it indefinitely.”
“I wanted to, but with a new sheriff appointed to Dalbrae, the matter will come up again. I have decided to say the words, and the sheriff will sign the affidavit, and ’twill be done.”
“What caused this change of heart?”
“I havena decide
d to declare for the English, if that is what you are wondering—”
“Hardly,” he drawled.
“I only thought to keep you out of prison. Charges of treason could come any day. I am surprised that the king hasna sent word to you already about that, but they say he is ill, and willna live long.” She hoped it was not a great sin to wish Edward well away from Scotland, no matter what took him away.
“There are other measures that can be taken to keep me out of the king’s dungeon, and free of another oath of obeisance.”
“If my oath will help, I will do it.” She stopped and looked up at him earnestly. “I would do anything for you.”
“Offering me a rescue, Swan Maid?” he murmured, facing her.
“If you need it of me,” she said.
He cupped her chin in his hand. “I thank you for your loyalty. But there is no need to take the pledge for my sake.”
“I have made up my mind to do this. Send word to the sheriff that I will come to Dalbrae this week. What is his name?”
“You are a stubborn Highland lass, I know, and mean to see this through—but the signed writ for your oath has already been sent to the king.”
She blinked, confused. “How could that be?”
“It was the first matter the new sheriff completed when he came to Dalbrae last week. He told me when I met with him this morning.”
“You have seen him already? We just returned from Avenel late yesterday!”
“I rode out on patrol, but went to Dalbrae as well.”
“Man of secrets, you are. Tell me,” she said impatiently. “What sort of man is he? Why did he send that writ out?”
“I think,” he said, his eyes twinkling deep, “that Sir Laurence will make an excellent sheriff for Glen Fillan.”
“Laurie?” She laughed with delight. “You knew this, and didna tell me?”
“I wanted to surprise you,” he answered, grinning. “He was appointed sheriff by his wife’s cousin, Sir Aymer, and came to Dalbrae while we were gone. He found the writ for the oath among some other documents—De Soulis had it prepared before the fair. You never took the oath, but Laurie signed it, swearing that you had, and sent it by messenger to the king with some other documents. ’Tis done. His gift to us, he says.”