by Susan King
Another laugh, this one of pure relief, bubbled up within her, and she stretched toward him. He gathered her into a warm hug, resting his chin on her head. She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring, while a cold autumn wind cut around them and his solid warmth shielded her.
“Laurie will make an excellent sheriff indeed,” she said. “But what of the matter of Gabhan MacDuff, known to the English as Gawain Avenel? Will he pursue that man for treason?”
Gawain tucked her hand in his arm and began to stroll up the hill toward Elladoune. “Did you know that by Scots law—not English, but Scots—if a man is born in Scotland, he is obligated only to the King of Scots?”
“I thought that might be true,” she said. “I hoped so.”
“I have pledged to Edward and broken it three times now, and there is not much to be done about that,” he explained. “But the king is so ill these days, and growing worse, that his advisors no longer care about trivial matters of justice any longer. They are leaving such things to the regional sheriffs and lords.”
“Ah. And what will Sir Sheriff do about your case?”
“He says,” Gawain went on, “that Glenshie is impossible to find, even if it is being rebuilt by this rogue MacDuff. Sir Laurie says it is hardly worth the trouble for a man in full mail on a warhorse to ride up there in search of one renegade, when there are so many other matters at hand—market fairs and farmers’ disputes, and the like.”
Juliana smiled as he spoke, then tugged on his arm so that he stopped and gazed down at her. She leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth.
His hand steadied her at the small of the back, and his other hand brushed along her jaw. Warm and hungry, his lips slanted over hers.
“Ah,” he said, drawing back a little, “I think you approve of the sheriff’s decision.”
“Very much,” she answered.
“Then perhaps you will approve of this—he has offered to foster Alec and Iain at Dalbrae. What do you think, my love? Are you ready to let the young ones out of the nest, after keeping them so close these last few months? Laurie and I thought you might be ready to part with them soon.”
“Not immediately,” she said, wrinkling her brow, thinking ahead to the spring, when their child would be with them at Elladoune. She very much wanted her younger brothers to enjoy a sense of family—and she wanted to cherish it herself. “But when they are ready, that would be a good place for them. They adore Sir Laurie.”
“And they know Dalbrae quite well and will have the run of the place, no doubt,” Gawain drawled. “Laurie says his wife will be coming north soon. She is too impatient to wait for her child to be born first, and will risk the journey—she assures Laurie in her letters that she is robustly healthy, and told him to stop fretting about her condition.” He grinned. “Lady Maude will be a good friend to you, I think.”
She held his hand tightly and tilted her head back to laugh. “Gabhan, my love, sometimes I wonder if I can hold any more happiness inside. Truly. Our life is more wonderful than I ever could have dreamed.”
“Just one more part of the dream,” he said softly. “The ransom for Niall and Will has been paid. They will come back to Elladoune before winter.”
She gasped. Tears started in her eyes. “Paid? I never saw the request!”
“I asked Henry to send the coin from my revenues,” Gawain said quietly. “I have some land in Northumberland that is farmed by tenants and produces well. The coin was readily available.”
She took both of his hands, his fingers warm and sure over her own, and gazed up into his eyes. “I can never thank you enough for that,” she whispered.
“No need to try,” he murmured. “They are my brothers by law. I wanted to help them.”
“You just released two rebels, you know,” she said, tears floating in her eyes.
“I know. Now you will be surrounded by them.” A little smile played at his lips. “There is something more to tell you, and I ask your blessing for it. I am going to send word to James Lindsay soon, and request that he come here to meet with me.”
“Jamie? Of course you have my blessing for it. Why?”
“I have decided to offer my services as a spy for the Bruce,” he answered. “I have contacts and influence as constable of an English-held castle.”
“Gabhan,” she breathed out, “ ’tis a great risk.”
“I know.” He paused, and his gaze swept the castle, the loch, the mountains. “ ’Tis something I must do.”
“What of Laurie? The sheriff wouldna want you to place him in the poor position of being your enemy.”
“Laurie,” he said, “suggested it to me himself.”
She stared up at him. “Laurie?”
“I told you that he leaned that way.”
“He has fallen, then. In a manner of speaking.”
“Well,” he said as he took her arm again, “he says he likes Scots ale too well to be unkind to those who make it. And the sheriff of Dalbrae gets the best ale in the region, after all.” He laughed then, deep and mellow, and hugged her to him as they climbed the hill toward the castle.
Hearing a sound, fast and rhythmic and growing louder, Juliana turned and looked overhead. Gawain turned with her.
A huge white swan flew toward the loch, its great wings beating in a steady cadence. Dipping, sinking, the bird landed on the loch with a flurry and a splash. Then it settled on the water, curving head and neck in a graceful arc.
“Ach Dhia,” Juliana breathed. “Look!”
“What is it?” Gawain asked, glancing where she pointed.
Guinevere glided across the loch with her four cygnets, now grown larger, their grayish feathers mingled with white. They streamed in a line toward the newcomer.
“ ’Tis Artan,” she said. Tears pooled in her eyes. “He is back.” She looked at Gawain. “He found his way home after all.”
“I knew he would,” he said, drawing her into the circle of his arm. “Somehow I knew he would do that, though it took him all his life to find his way here.”
Juliana tilted her head, and he kissed her, familiar and welcome and comforting. The child within her tumbled, and she looped her arms around her husband’s neck and smiled. “And whatever comes in the future,” she said, “we will be together here.”
Gawain nodded. “Aye, love,” he murmured.
Author's Note
Swans and swan lore are shining threads in the Celtic as well as the medieval fabric. The history, the legends, and the natural care of these beautiful birds, who lend themselves so well to imagery and metaphor, were a pleasure to research. As early as the twelfth century, swans in Britain were regarded as the exclusive property of the English monarchs. Masters of Swans were appointed by the crown to care for the birds, and to raise them for table and captivity on rivers and lakes. Today, swans in Britain are carefully tended and protected, and thrive there.
Symbolism was never far from the medieval mind, and swans have always lent themselves to that. Medieval chronicles record that in May, 1306, Edward I of England held a grandiose feast at Westminster, in which he knighted, en masse, three hundred knights. Later in the festivities, two captive swans were brought into the great hall:
“Two swans were brought before the king in pomp and splendour, adorned with golden nets and gilded reeds … an astounding sight to the onlookers. The king swore by the God of Heaven and by the swans that he wished to set out for Scotland … to avenge the breach of faith by the Scots” (transcribed in Elizabeth Hallam, Four Gothic Kings, Wiedenfeld and Nicolson, New York, 1987).
The link between swans and Scotland led me to the rich Celtic tradition of swan legends and tales; the Lindsay crest itself features a swan with wings raised. For purposes of the story, the legend of the swans of Elladoune was invented, and a second Feast of the Swans was created in Newcastle, where the English king stayed in 1306 while gathering his armies.
Readers who are familiar with my previous novel, Laird of the Wind, will recognize Sir Gawain Avene
l from his introduction there, and will know James Lindsay and Isobel Seton and their involvement in the cause of Scotland. I hope The Swan Maiden proved enjoyable, independent of its connection to another novel.
Finally, while arrow catching is quite possible to do, it is a technique best left to experts. I was fortunate enough to be instructed carefully in how to catch arrows by Sensei Tim Gilbert, a sixth degree black belt, who has been snatching bolts out of midair with ease, style, and courage for twenty years.
I hope you enjoyed The Swan Maiden, the second in my trilogy of stories involving legends of maidens in the Highlands of Scotland. Please look for The Sword Maiden, my next release from Signet books. I love to hear from readers—you can reach me by e-mail through my Web site at www.susanking.net; or send a note with a self-addressed, stamped envelope to: P.O. Box 356, Damascus, MD, 20872.
If you enjoyed the first two books in Susan King’s wonderful “Maiden” trilogy, you won’t want to miss the next novel in the series, The Sword Maiden. Set in the magnificent Scottish Highlands, it tells of ancient legends, searing passions, and an enduring love. Experience the thrilling romance and wild adventure that readers have come to love and expect from this extraordinary author. Turn the page for a special preview.
The Sword Maiden
A Signet paperback coming in Fall 2001
Chapter One
Scotland, Argyll
1428
Wild as blackberries she was, sweet and dark and unruly, and she would never be his. Lachlann MacKerron knew it, had always known it. Yet he paused in his work and leaned in the doorway of the smithy to watch her. He allowed himself that much.
Eva MacArthur, daughter of the clan chief, stood in the yard talking quietly with Lachlann’s foster mother, holding a basket of cheese and oatcakes as an offering of comfort for the new widow. Ever since his foster father’s death, many neighbors had made kind gestures, but only Eva had come to visit every week.
Inside the smithy, a piece of steel heated in the forge, but it could be left for a few moments. Lachlann lingered in the doorway. Sunshine gave Eva’s dark hair a warm sheen, and he knew without having to look that her eyes were the gray green of a stormy sky. He tipped his head to admire the lean line of her body; she was not tall, but she was made with grace and strength.
She had outrun him often enough in childhood when they had played together in the hills with her MacArthur cousins. He did not doubt she could outrun him still, had she wanted. In the past few years, womanhood had tempered her natural penchant for boldness. He liked that softening well upon her. She would make a fine wife for a man—but she was not for him.
The chief’s only daughter would never be matched to the smith’s foster son, even though the young smith’s true birth name and birthright was grander by far than anyone suspected.
Lachlann frowned, sensing the burden of secrets keen upon his shoulders. What he had learned as his foster father lay dying had changed him forever. His past, his identity, his future were suddenly different. In the past weeks, he had tried to accept it, though it would take him along a new path in life.
Shaking his head, he stirred himself away from his thoughts and watched Eva as she continued to talk to his foster mother. Changes had come into Eva’s life, too, he knew. Recently he had heard that the MacArthur, Eva’s father, had betrothed his daughter to a Campbell. News and gossip spread quickly at the smithy, and Lachlann listened to little of it—but he had given discreet attention to the discussion of the coming marriage. Eva MacArthur, his customers said, seemed willing to wed the handsome Campbell, who was far older than his bride.
Eva turned just then and smiled at him, and it seemed as if a sunbeam came through a cloud. Grief and hard resolve had tormented him for weeks, but he felt himself brighten a little in the bask of that smile.
He nodded at her, brisk and somber, and wiped his hands on his leather apron. He was aware that he filled the space of the doorway awkwardly, too tall, too broad in the shoulders, his head bowed beneath the lintel. He felt large and clumsy and crudely made, suddenly, with her clear-eyed gaze upon him. His dark hair sifted over his eyes, and he shoved it back, his long fingers grimed with ash and the handling of iron.
Eva embraced his foster mother and took her leave, and Lachlann turned away. He entered the dark, warm haven of the smithy, where the fire glowed red and his work awaited him.
Soon enough, Eva MacArthur would marry. Before the wedding took place, Lachlann would leave the region of Argyll. When their paths crossed again—years from now, he thought—she would surely despise him for what he would do.
His decision was made, his resolve private and intense. He could not turn away from his new responsibility of vengeance—even though the man he was obliged to hate was about to wed Eva.
Lachlann turned toward the forge, still hearing Eva’s voice in the yard. Though the girl had captured his heart long ago, she did not know it. He would keep that to himself with the rest of his secrets. But some part of him, deep within, hurt savagely to know that she would be wife to his enemy.
Eva walked past the door of the smithy and stopped to peer inside. Lachlann stood just beyond the rectangle of sunlight that spilled into the doorway. Her shadow touched his feet.
“God’s greeting to you, Lachlann MacKerron.” Her voice was soothing, low-pitched, and mellow as honey.
“And to you, Eva MacArthur.” His words created a deep thrum inside the dim, stone-walled smithy. “I thank you for visiting my foster mother so often. She values your kindness.”
Eva smiled ruefully. “We all care about her and miss your foster father. Finlay MacKerron was a good man. My father laments that he will never find an armorer of his merit again. He says you will be as good, if not better. He very much likes the blades you have made for him.”
“My thanks.”
“But we have heard that you will be leaving Scotland soon. My cousins say that you plan to go with them to join the king’s army and perhaps even sail to France to fight the English there.”
He nodded. “Scotsmen can earn land grants and knighthoods by doing so.”
“But men must endure a brutal war, one that is not our own, to earn such honors,” she murmured.
“True.” He watched her steadily.
“Will you leave your foster mother then? It surprised me to hear it of you.”
“Her sister—your own cook at the castle—is coming here to live with her, along with her daughter and son-by-marriage and their children. I would be underfoot among so many.”
“Will you be gone long?”
He shrugged. “Who can say? Tell your father that there is a fine smith across the glen who can do whatever is needed.”
“Until you return.” She placed a hand on the doorframe.
He paused. “I might come back,” he said cautiously.
“You will.” She smiled again. “You know that I am blessed with the Sight—or cursed, depending on who you hear it from.” She laughed softly. “But I feel certain you will return to us.”
He frowned, knowing that when he returned his mission would destroy her life. Hoping she would not foresee the dark intent in him, he glanced away.
“Ach, Lachlann MacKerron,” she said quietly, “how could you stay away from this lovely glen, with its loch and its legend of a magical sword, and you a bladesmith?” She tilted her head and watched him, still smiling, teasing him gently.
“How indeed?” he murmured. He turned and picked up a leather gauntlet, drawing it slowly over his left hand.
“You have work to do, I see.”
“I do,” he answered. “Tell your father that I intend to finish the work that Finlay left undone at his death. The weapons and armor that your father commissioned from our smithy will be completed before I leave.”
“You would have to labor as hard as two men, or three, to finish all of those pieces alone.”
“I do not mind.” He found deep satisfaction in the solitary nature of his craft, and could wo
rk for endless hours unaided but for specific tasks. “Tell him it will be done.”
“Well, then.” She hesitated. “I must go.” But she lingered in the doorway.
“Congratulations to you,” he said stiffly after a moment. “I hear the banns of your marriage were posted last week.”
“They were.” She glanced down at her feet, bare and slim, as she stood outside the doorway. “In another month I suppose I shall be wed.”
“Ah,” he said noncommittally and picked up a pair of tongs. He was grateful, suddenly, that shadows and smoke surrounded him as he stepped toward the forge.
“Farewell, Lachlann,” Eva said. “A thousand blessings to you on your journey, when you go.”
“Blessings to you, Eva MacArthur … in your future.” Using the tongs, he lifted up the length of steel resting in the fiery coal bed. The metal glowed pale yellow.
Eva stayed in the doorway for several moments, then left. Lachlann did not glance up, but knew she was gone. Felt it somehow. He turned his attention to the work.
Hot new steel gleamed as he tipped the raw blade into the fire and watched yellow flow into orange red. The dirk would be strong and true when it was done, as fine as any weapon made in this smithy when his foster father was alive.
He would work late again that night, he thought. The colors that told the state of the metal were brightest in the darkness, and he still had much to do. He had worked entirely alone since Finlay MacKerron’s death.
Lachlann had become a master smith himself several years ago, while still a lanky youth; he could handle the tasks at hand easily. But there were moments when he keenly missed Finlay’s wry wit, guidance, and companionship, in the smithy and at home.
He glanced toward the pile of weapons and armor pieces in the corner, much of it hammered out by Finlay in the last few months. The work already promised to Eva’s father and kinsmen, partly paid in good coin, was nearly done. In addition, Lachlann also had the usual tasks of making horseshoes and nails and repairing farm tools. He had begun to refer that work to the smith across the glen.