Gawain placed a hand on the hilt of his sword as if he sensed the watchers. The horses filed along the forest track, while birds called repeatedly in the trees.
Some of those calls were human-made. Juliana's heart pounded as the horses slowed over a narrow stretch of the path where the trees arched overhead. She glimpsed movement, limber and quick, high up in the trees, and she saw a steely flash through the leafy cover. An owl sounded somewhere.
They were here for certain, with weapons to hand. Red Angus's owl call often preceded an attack. She had to prevent a confrontation. Desperately she looked around.
She thought of a quick way to signal that she was safe. When she heard further rustling, and more bird calls, she reached out to grasp Gawain's arm. He looked at her, startled. She leaned toward him, smiling.
"Lady?" Gawain slowed his horse with hers. "What is it?"
He looked at her, clearly puzzled, riding so close that his thigh grazed hers.
She stretched toward him and kissed him on the mouth. He responded fast and sure, his lips moving on hers, though she knew he was surprised. When she drew back, he cocked a brow.
"My sisters," he drawled, "are nowhere near, I assure you."
Behind them, Laurence laughed softly, for he had been told about the twins' antics at Avenel.
A blush heated her cheeks. However ill-done or hasty, that kiss was the quickest way to show that she was safe, though she rode with an English escort. Gawain had saved her often enough, she thought. She owed him at least one rescue.
He lifted her hand to his lips, startling Juliana in turn. "Are you so glad to be home, lady, that you kiss your new husband for joy?" He spoke loudly enough to be heard within the trees.
Angling a glance at him, she wanted to answer tartly that she had just saved his life.
"I suspect," he went on quietly, "that strange birds and some rather large squirrels are watching us. If they see a happy bride, they may leave us in peace." He let go of her hand.
With one hand easy on the reins and the other wary on his sword hilt, he pulled ahead, his eyes scanning the trees. The party advanced along the forest track, and the rustling in the trees grew quieter.
The forest opened onto a meadow in a golden wash of sun. Juliana urged the palfrey toward a stream that flowed to join Loch nan Eala. Juliana could see the sparkling surface of the loch not far away.
The silhouette of Inchfillan Abbey was visible above the treetops. She urged her horse across the shallows, sparing no glance for her two escorts behind her.
She was nearly home.
* * *
"At the pace she is flying along that bank, your wee swan will disappear," Laurie said. "If we lose her, the king will definitely be in a temper."
"Let her fly," Gawain answered. He watched Juliana as she galloped, her blue cloak flying out, her white dress rucking up over her slim legs. "We will not lose her. Let her go home," he added to himself.
He could still taste that sweet, surprising kiss. She was as unpredictable as the wind, and he savored her spontaneity. And he very much suspected that she had saved him and Laurie from an attack by rebels. She must know them well to know what was imminent; that realization made him frown thoughtfully.
"Hopefully that place ahead is not her home." Laurie pointed toward a cluster of stone-walled houses as they rode past. Juliana had galloped past the place with scarcely a glance, but the escort party slowed.
Gawain frowned as he and Laurie drew closer. Several buildings of thatch and stone, and a few of wattle and daub, were arranged along a long earthen lane. The village was deserted, its shared field beyond the last house unplanted and bare, its street overgrown with grasses and weeds.
The houses were fire-damaged and skeletal, thatched roofs missing, walls crumbling. The field had been plowed into distinct rows, but had gone bleak and wild, with a broken plow leaning at its heart. Not a soul, human or animal, stirred among the ruined houses or field. Ghosts might walk here, he thought, but no one else.
"What happened here? I wonder," Laurie mused, walking his horse slowly beside Gawain. "This place has seen some disaster."
"I would wager that whatever befell these people was brought on by the English, and quite a while ago."
"Where are the cottars? Those houses look empty. There has been no attempt to rebuild, either."
"Walter de Soulis did not mention this place when he told me about Elladoune," Gawain said. "If the garrison was the cause of this, I should have been told of it."
"If Elladoune's knights attacked this place, 'twould explain why we were watched so closely along the forest path back there."
Gawain glanced sharply at Laurie. "You sensed it too?"
"Aye. I was sure we would be attacked any moment. But your lady broke the tension with that charming kiss. Lucky man." Laurie grinned briefly.
"There must be a host of dispossessed families in the forest, judging by the size of that deserted clachan," Gawain said. "'Tis a problem in Scotland. The last garrison I was with encountered a stubborn faction of homeless renegades."
"Ah," Laurence said. "The very ones you joined." He gave Gawain a curious glance. "'Tis a tale I want to hear in full from you, since I have heard bits of it only. There are many rumors about what you did."
"I am sure there are. And I want to know why you are still in the king's army when you swore you would sail to France."
"Land and title are temptations, my friend, available in France as well as England," Laurie said. "But the ale, ah, Scottish ale. I would miss that too much."
Laurie grinned, but Gawain narrowed his eyes. He sensed another layer to Laurie, one that went deeper than a taste for comforts. He wondered if his Lowland friend was as conflicted in this war as he was himself, yet had not admitted it.
"Ho, look there! She's riding to that place—a monastery?"
"The abbey of Inchfillan," Gawain answered. "Augustinian."
"Ah," Laurie said, nodding approval. "Brethren with a practical bent. Nae recluses, but likely nae overblessed with coin, either, in this part of Scotland. Though that church and cloister are quite fine."
Gawain watched Juliana ride toward the foregate of the small stone-walled compound. Beyond the high wall, he saw the roofs of several buildings. The stone church that faced the meadow had a high west entrance tower; its smaller bell tower, above the nave, looked partly ruined by fire.
Juliana tugged on a bell rope, and the iron gate swung open. She entered, dismounting quickly, handing the palfrey's reins to a black-cassocked monk.
As Gawain rode with Laurie across the meadow, he watched Juliana embrace an older man and turn to greet other monks with hand clasps or quick hugs, as if she were indeed home instead of visiting a religious house. Their joy in her return, and her own, was obvious even from a distance. They were her family, he realized.
As he neared the gate and noticed the other inhabitants of the yard, he reined in. Laurie followed suit.
Swans filled the abbey yard, more than a dozen in various sizes. They meandered and waddled between the gate and the group of monks that surrounded Juliana. The largest of the swans—and there were several impressive creatures—turned. With great wings outstretched and necks extended, hissing loudly, they rushed toward the two horsemen entering the gate.
Gawain controlled Gringolet, who snorted and bucked. The yard seemed filled with a veritable sea of white-feathered, irritated birds. He calmed his mount and looked over at Juliana. Standing in her white gown amid the dark-robed monks, head high on her long, slim neck, she looked like an enchanted swan herself. He stared at her in astonishment.
"Strange watchdogs," Laurie remarked. "I think I will stay right here. Those beasties bite, did you know?"
Chapter 19
"The wee lads are well," Abbot Malcolm answered as he wrapped Juliana in a hug. As soon as she had seen Malcolm hurrying across the yard, she asked about her brothers, and blurted out that she was married to a Sassenach. Despite his shocked expression, she insist
ed on hearing about Alec and Iain first. "They are still at Dalbrae. I saw them there last week."
"Pray God they are treated fairly and not imprisoned," she said in Gaelic. She glanced through the gate at the two knights, who had not yet ridden into the enclosure.
"The lads have some freedom there," Malcolm assured her. "I saw them recently. They are fine, though anxious to come home. Juliana, there is news of Niall and Will."
"I heard," she said. "Taken."
He nodded sadly. "And we cannot buy their release. Our abbey is poor. Even if we had the coin, the Church would not allow us to pay a war ransom with it."
"There may be another way. My husband"—the word felt odd, yet surprisingly right somehow—"may be able to help them."
"No more delays. Tell me about this marriage."
"Ach, Father Abbot," she said, sighing. "It happened so fast." While she spoke, Malcolm walked with her toward the foregate, his tunic and her white gown sweeping the grasses.
The swans circled around them, clapping their beaks and extending their necks, looking for food and attention. The birds frequented the abbey yard almost daily, waddling up from the lochside and through the open foregate. Juliana noticed that one of the monks in the yard produced a cloth sack and began to toss out bits of grain, attracting the swans toward him.
Succinctly and selectively, Juliana recounted her weeks as a prisoner. Malcolm listened, brow knitted with concern. She spoke of the king's feast and the impromptu wedding, then touched upon the return journey, where she had been displayed and chained as the Swan Maiden. Finally she mentioned her warm welcome at Avenel. She kept the nights, and the kisses, to herself, but her cheeks burned as she remembered.
"Father Abbot," she finished, "Gawain was with the men who ruined Elladoune. He is the one who saved me that night."
"Your Swan Knight himself? Ach, God loves irony." He shook his head. "The marriage need not stand if you do not want it. We can annul it, though we must first petition the bishop's replacement in Glasgow and wait for an answer from Rome."
Her heart seemed to twist in protest. "My husband did not want this marriage or this assignment in Scotland, but he has no choice. He must obey the king's orders. If the marriage is annulled, he will face dire consequences."
Malcolm peered at her. "You care about him."
She made a vague, noncommittal sound and shrugged.
"Juliana, are you... the man's wife truly now? Is it even possible to annul it? Certainly you can preserve the marriage if you want to do so," he said gently.
"I—I do not yet know what I want," she mumbled, and blushed hotly. Turning away, she looked around the abbey yard. Earlier she had noticed some damage to the bell tower of the church, and she looked there again.
"Father Abbot, what happened to the tower?" The upper stones of the tall projection were blackened and collapsed.
"There was a fire," Malcolm said. "No one was hurt, but the inside is gutted, and we will need to rebuild. Thank heaven no lives were lost. The tall entrance tower and the rest of the church is unharmed. And our old bronze bell, which Saint Fillan himself once rang out, is fine. But we must repair the tower before the market fair in a few weeks, since so many come to Inchfillan during that time."
She murmured agreement, and turned around as several swans surrounded them, followed by three of the brethren.
"Father Abbot." Juliana recognized Eonan, a young lay monk. Lanky and dark-haired, he was a quiet, intelligent youth who had come to Inchfillan as a boy; his father, like Juliana's, had been killed by the English. Two elderly monks stood with him, their faces somber. "Father Abbot, if I may speak."
"You may, Brother Eonan," Malcolm said.
"We heard that Juliana Lindsay is married now," Eonan began, nodding respectfully to her. "Is it possible that her marriage will prove fortunate for... those people who wish to... to come to Elladoune?" Eonan spoke cautiously, glancing toward the gate.
"Ah, true," Malcolm said. "Juliana, you can help the cause, for you will already be inside Elladoune."
"I—" She paused, confused and uncertain.
"We will bring the news to those in the forest," Eonan said. "They will be glad that Juliana is safe, and they will want to start preparations again. Efforts ceased when you were taken, mistress," he added. "The sheriff's men have been searching the forest with a vengeance—even destroying parts of it."
"Juliana's marriage is a boon that could ensure our success." Malcolm spoke hurriedly in Gaelic, glancing toward the two knights who entered the yard. "De Soulis and his men suspect that there are rebels in the forests near here. They seem determined to find them. You can help them, Juliana."
"I—" She hesitated again, unable to refuse, yet unable to betray Gawain as they clearly expected her to do.
"For now, go with him to Elladoune," Malcolm said. "He is your husband, and that is not easily altered. We will talk, and plan, and proceed carefully, whatever we do. Did you keep your silence, my girl, while you were held?"
"I did, except with Gawain."
"Just as well. Which one is he? Introduce us."
The knights—or their horses—seemed reluctant to enter the compound. Juliana stood surrounded by a ring of swans and backed by a crescent of monks, and looked toward the knights.
Turning like a white wave, the swans hastened toward the newcomers. Laurie's horse backed away, while the bay danced and bucked. The swans hissed, wings lifted, and waddled aggressively forward. Gawain steadied his mount, and Laurie struggled with his sidestepping horse.
Then Gawain dismounted and walked forward, moving without hesitation through the feathery surf. Heads wavered on taut necks, but no swan attacked as he strode through their midst. They turned fluidly, weaving back and forth in his path as he approached Juliana and the monks.
A large female reached out to tap her beak on the leather pouch suspended from his belt. Gawain ignored the bird.
"Abbot Malcolm of Inchfillan?" he asked. "God give you good day. I am Sir Gawain Avenel, the new constable of Elladoune—"
"Aye, and husband to Lady Juliana," Malcolm finished in English. He stood placidly in the center of a gaggle of swans, and Gawain seemed unbothered as well. "She has told me of your marriage. Welcome, Sir Gawain. We expected a new garrison leader, and we hoped that Juliana would be returned, but we did not reckon upon a wedding."
"Nor did we," Gawain said. He glanced at Juliana.
"We prayed daily, and entrusted Juliana's fate to heaven," Malcolm said. "God watched over her and kept her safe, but you are an unusual angel, I admit."
"'Tis the way of heaven to be unpredictable," Gawain answered, still looking steadily at Juliana.
Malcolm tipped his head. "Do I know you, sir? Your face seems familiar to me."
Something quick and keen flickered in Gawain's eyes, and Juliana wondered at it. "We have never met, Father Abbot."
Malcolm shrugged, then clasped Gawain's hand briefly. "Let me welcome you and wish you good fortune in your marriage. May there be goodwill between us for all concerned."
"Indeed." Gawain sounded vaguely surprised. "My thanks."
Juliana stared at the abbot, amazed by his acceptance of Gawain. She assumed that his hearty welcome must be part of some new plan that the abbot no doubt was devising.
The swans fluttered and circled around them as they spoke. One of them pecked at Gawain's leather pouch again. Gawain did not flinch as he looked down.
"She means no threat," Malcolm assured him. "She is a greedy pen, and thinks your pouch holds food. The swans are fed in this yard every day, so that they are as tame as wild swans can be. They are accustomed to Juliana in particular."
"I see." Gawain stood calmly amid the birds. Juliana noticed that Laurie remained on his horse, looking distinctly anxious as he eyed the swans.
Gawain looked up. "You have had a fire."
"We have," Malcolm said. "We must rebuild."
"Have you applied to the sheriff for timbers? King Edward maintains a policy
of support for the local churches."
"We will send word of our need to the sheriff. I hear he has not yet returned from his southern journey."
Gawain turned again, as they all did, at a sudden commotion. The largest cob had spread his wings and was charging the two horses, causing them to whicker and buck again.
"Cuchulainn! Stop, you!" Malcolm called. "Brother Eonan, stop that cob!" Eonan ran to wave the swan away from the horses.
Malcolm turned back to Gawain. "Sir," he said, "do you know that the sheriff holds my wards, Juliana's younger brothers, hostage at Dalbrae?"
"I recently learned of that."
"We want them released. Will you see to it? They are good lads and should not be held. Her older brothers have recently been taken as well, kept elsewhere by the English."
"I will look into both matters. But I can promise naught."
Malcolm studied him soberly. "Three years ago, after the burning of our local village, the brethren of Inchfillan came to an understanding with the garrison at Elladoune. We do God's work here and tend to our flock of souls, and they in turn leave us in peace. 'Tis a truce without signatures."
"I will respect that agreement," Gawain said. "I do not yet know all my duties at Elladoune, but I do not war on monks and innocents. Inchfillan will stand safe so long as I am there."
Malcolm bowed his head in gratitude. "You seem an honorable man, though a Sassenach. We will talk soon. Juliana, my dear, God keep you safe." He pressed her hands in his. "Come back when you are rested. Go with him," he added, whispering. "I think you should."
"My lady," Gawain murmured. "We must travel on to the castle. The horses—and Laurie—seem eager to be gone."
She bit her lip. The moment to depart Inchfillan, and all that was familiar to her, had come too soon. She had always longed to return to Elladoune, but now she felt as if it was not her home after all. She hesitated.
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