Gawain tipped his head and held out his hand. "Juliana?"
She glanced at Malcolm, then at Gawain. She hardly knew her husband. A few nights together, some days on the road—despite his courtesies and the dilemmas weathered between them, she did not yet fully trust him.
Yet she remembered precious hours wrapped in the wondrous privacy of a bed, where trust and affection—and more—had existed between them. She wanted that concordance with him again. Going with him to Elladoune was the greatest risk she had ever faced.
Gawain was her path to Elladoune, to home. Unbidden, she wondered if he was the pathway to even more—to a home for her heart.
"Juliana," Gawain murmured.
She glided silently past him through the froth of swans and walked toward the gate.
Chapter 20
The slope leading to the castle gate was familiar, although she had not traveled its worn track for years. The steep hill that supported Elladoune was a promontory of slate that jutted into the water. High on its flat summit overlooking the loch, the castle, built from honey-colored stone, soared upward.
Juliana smiled to herself, excited as a child, despite her exhaustion. She looked up as they approached.
The gate stood open, its iron portcullis drawn up into the overhead arch, for Malcolm had sent Brother Eonan running ahead to bring word of their arrival. The rounded corner towers were massive sentinels pierced by arrow slits.
Gawain slowed his horse beside hers as they wended their way up the hill. "I was not certain you would come with me, once we were at Inchfillan," he said.
"I had to come home to Elladoune," she answered.
He nodded, and looked up. "'Tis not a large castle, by the breadth of those walls, but looks to be a strong one, and built well—two generations ago, I would guess by its design."
"My great-grandfather rebuilt an older fortress. There have been keeps here for generations. We call it Dun nan Eala in the Gaelic, though in my father's time it became known as Elladoune—easier for the English to say," she added, frowning.
"Fortress of the swans," he murmured.
She glanced at him. "You know what it means?"
"I have a little Gaelic," he said, and then rode ahead on the sloping track.
She was the last to ride beneath the portcullis, following slowly to absorb the sight. The last time she had been here, Elladoune had been in flames, and she had taken a terrifying leap into the loch—where she had first met Gawain.
The shape of the castle was a square pulled askew, with round towers at each corner and a fifth one over the gate. The tower in the farthest corner, pulled out beyond the others, overlooked the loch. Its outermost wall sheered down to meet the promontory just above the water. As the largest and best protected of the towers, it served as the laird's keep.
Inside the courtyard, she saw Brother Eonan and a few lay brothers and monks whom she recognized from Inchfillan. Two carried buckets and sacks, and another shooed a few goats and chickens out of the way of the incoming horses. A monk pushed a wheelbarrow toward the large, lush kitchen garden.
The garden was larger than she remembered, and the kitchen building had been enlarged by an addition. More food would have been required to feed a full garrison of a hundred or more men, she realized.
Other changes, too, were evident. New buildings clustered inside the high curtain wall, structures of wattle and thatch. Those, she saw at a glance, were used for stables and livestock, for blacksmithing and armory, and for cooking, washing, storage, and garrison quarters. They were quiet and empty.
Elladoune was different, yet the same. Memories from her childhood assailed her even before she dismounted. The castle was deeply familiar, yet was no longer her home. War was conducted here; enemy soldiers had lived here.
The signs of that were everywhere. Weapons and harnesses dangled in the enlarged blacksmith's building; the stables had more stalls, with room for dozens of horses; rocks for use in catapults were stacked against the wall, and a huge grinding stone for sharpening weaponry stood inside an open shed.
She slid from her horse and stood looking around. A monk led her palfrey away, and Gawain dismounted to speak with Laurence. Then he came back and took her arm.
"Come inside," he said, and led her toward the corner keep.
Her legs trembled as she climbed the wooden steps to the main entrance of the keep tower. He opened the door, but she paused on the upper platform, turning to survey the bailey yard.
"Is it much changed?" he asked after a moment.
"Aye," she said. "And nay." She sighed. "Some things I do not recognize—and some seem so familiar."
"What is the same?"
She was surprised that he would want to know. "There," she said, pointing toward the east battlement. "On those stone steps, there is a long crack where I tripped when I was seven and broke my arm. My father had the step repaired, but it kept opening again. I see it still."
"Then the stone should be replaced," he said.
"There, in that tower"—she pointed again—"my older brothers and I played hide-and-seek, and took turns watching the loch for water monsters."
He smiled. "A serious task. What else?"
She was grateful that he let her share her memories, which were precious testaments to her childhood and her past. "Down there," she continued, "on the south side of the bailey, we ran races and played ball, and set up targets for archery. There, in that corner shed, where hay was stored, my brother Niall shot an arrow into my leg as I was climbing the loft. He said the shaft was warped, and that he was aiming for the apple in Will's hand."
Gawain whistled low, shaking his head.
"Over there, my father kept a mews for his falcons and hawks, and I was allowed to raise a small kestrel myself. The mews must be empty now—the door hangs from the hinges. In that corner beside the stable, we buried our favorite pets after they died—do you see the wee stones? I still remember the names carved upon them."
He nodded soberly. "I see them."
"Here in the tower"—she turned to indicate the doorway behind them—"was where we lived. My brothers and I were born here, and my father, and grandfather, and kin for many generations before that."
He glanced up. "What is that above the door? A stone plaque with a design cut in it—a swan with lifted wings, and an arrow in its beak? 'Tis worn some."
"Aye," she said. "'Tis the crest of Lindsay of Elladoune."
"This was indeed a home," he said to himself.
"And now 'tis a place for warmongers," she said bitterly. "You did not ask what is different, only what is the same."
"What has changed, then?" he asked quietly.
"More buildings," she said. "More dirt than should be tolerated—the bailey has no grass left, worn to earth by horses and carts. That midden pile behind the kitchen shed is huge and needs tending. There are harnesses hanging outside the sheds, and weaponry, and..." She stopped and sighed dismally as she looked at the curtain wall.
"And traces of the fire?" he murmured.
"Aye. The blackened stone along the curtain walls has never been cleaned fully. And a section of stone, high up in this tower, is of a different color. That part has been replaced."
He glanced up. "The tower was nearly gutted afterward. Much rebuilding was done, I heard."
"Were you here then, after... after you helped me?"
"Not here. I was sent elsewhere in Scotland."
"Ah, you had to make your apology." She tilted her head to study him. "Your first apology. I want to know more about you," she murmured thoughtfully. "And about your transgressions. Why would a fine English knight risk his own welfare for Scots?"
He glanced at her. "Tell me your secrets, and you may learn some of mine."
Her heart pounded. She looked away quickly, regretting her impulsive tongue. If she pursued her keen curiosity about his secrets and his past, she would put hers to equal scrutiny—and that would endanger her friends. She could not ask any more about Gawain unti
l he was ready to offer his story to her.
"You are fortunate I speak to you at all, Sassenach." She said it lightly, and he chuckled a little.
"Well," he said, "true. My lady, will you come inside?"
She turned and stepped past him through the doorway.
* * *
He fallowed Juliana across the narrow foyer and looked with her into the great hall, a large, plain chamber with white-washed walls, a timber ceiling, and planked floor. Tables, benches and a few chairs furnished it, but no colorful hangings or cushions warmed its starkness.
She said nothing, and turned away to go up the turning stairs. Gawain paused with her at each level to glance into the rooms that opened off the landings. They walked together through rooms that were sparsely furnished and obviously used as military quarters. Juliana made no comment, and climbed the stairs again.
The uppermost level was divided into a bedchamber, solar, and garderobe. Juliana stepped into the main room and turned, the bedraggled hem of her white gown pooling on the wooden floor.
"'Tis all so different," she murmured. "I recognize little of it—the rooms or the furniture." She walked to the window. "Even the shape of this window has changed. The view is the same, over the loch to the mountains," she added softly.
Gawain surveyed the austere chamber. A bed filled one corner, enclosed by a green canopy and long curtain suspended from iron rods attached to the ceiling. The few pieces of furniture—a wooden chest, a table, stools, and a heavy chair beside the stone fireplace—were solid and unadorned. The floor still bore traces of swept-out rushes.
"Did you think 'twould be the same?" he asked. "Naught could have survived that fire, Juliana." He walked toward her.
"There were mural paintings on the walls in the rooms below this, where my parents slept," she said, staring out of the window, "They are whitewashed over. In the great hall, there were embroidered French tapestries on the walls that my mother was proud to own—gone, too. Likely burned," she added.
"Aye," he agreed. "It must have been a lovely home, but 'tis a garrison now—not cozy, but practical."
"This floor had four chambers—two for my brothers, one for me, one for servants. I... jumped from this window on the night of the fire. 'Twas a tall lancet then."
"I remember," he murmured. He saw a moist gleam in her eyes as she looked out. A fierce need to touch her, hold her, welled in him. He doubted she wanted that from him, an English knight.
"I wanted to come back," she said. "I hoped one day my family would be reunited here. Foolish of me." She shrugged. "But I am home now, and I thank you for it. What next?"
"You need some rest. I need to find out about food and sleeping arrangements. We will have a garrison here soon, I think, from what De Soulis said. I suspect Laurie has already seen to himself."
"And what of you?" she asked.
"I am not overly tired. There is much to be done here."
"I mean—where will you sleep?" she half whispered.
He glanced at the bed curtained in green, and looked through the side door into the solar, which contained a bench in a wide window niche. A man could sleep there if he had to, he thought.
He sighed and leaned against the window frame, and thought of their nights together. Sweet secrets and unspoken truces. He wanted more of that with her. He hoped she did, too.
"Where do you want me to sleep?" he asked quietly.
She blushed. "Do we pretend the happy marriage here too?"
"Do you object?"
She shook her head. "Nay. But... 'twas necessary at Avenel. Here—here 'tis different. You are to tame me and make me loyal to your king, and show the Scots the proper direction for their own loyalties."
"Ah. Shall we begin, then?"
"The proper direction for the English," she said, as if reciting, "is to go south."
He laughed. "Ah, there is the Swan Maiden I know. 'Twas apprehension that subdued you today—not surrender."
She scowled. "I will not surrender, nor will I tame."
"I do not expect it of you," he murmured.
"Am I to be treated as a prisoner, or as a wife?"
"How would you be treated?"
"Courteously," she answered. "Without chaining."
"May I remind you that I no longer have the golden chains."
"De Soulis has those chains. If he insists that I am to be kept that way again, what will you do?"
"You are my wife, and in my safekeeping now. Do you think I will chain you?" He tilted his head. "Do you think that disobeying De Soulis would disturb my conscience?"
Her cheeks tinted rose as she shook her head. "But if I must act the constable's happy wife, then I want the privileges his lady would have—freedom to do what I like, and go where I choose. I am at home now, with no reason to run."
"You will have freedom, but you must cooperate. You may go anywhere between here and the abbey, and anywhere else within sight of Laurie."
"Cooperate with what?" she asked carefully.
"There is an oath of obedience and fealty to learn, so that you can say it nicely for the king."
"That," she said, folding her arms, "I cannot do."
He inclined his head to acknowledge her stubbornness, but he would not give in to it. "The oath will be taken, sooner or later. Also, I must have your promise that you will always return to me at the end of the day."
Her eyes seemed to search his. "Aye," she whispered.
"One thing more—do not involve yourself with rebels."
"There are no rebels at Elladoune." Her eyes grew wide and ingenuous, startling blue in the light from the window.
She was good at ruses, he thought. "Do I have your promise in these matters?"
"What will you promise me in return?"
"To trust you."
She studied him. "I need a guarantee."
"So do I." He drew closer. "Shall we seal it?"
She nodded slowly. He rested his lips upon hers, soft as a butterfly alighting. When her body curved toward him, his heart knocked like a drum. "There," he said, "'tis sealed."
She bit her lip and then slowly shook her head.
"What?" He almost laughed. "Not enough?"
She shook her head again, staring up at him.
He growled low and took her by the shoulders. As her head tipped back and her eyes closed, he kissed her profoundly, deeply, as he had wanted to do ever since he had woken beside her that morning in the heavenly quiet of Avenel.
Her hands rested on his waist. Desire poured through him. His mouth moving over hers satisfied only the edge of his hunger. He wanted to sweep her up and carry her to the curtained bed.
Heart pounding, he drew away. Her head stayed back, eyes still closed, simple ecstasy on her face. Her breasts were soft and firm against him. The sensation drove him closer to madness.
"Is that binding enough for you?" he asked hoarsely.
She nodded. "Better than chains." She sounded breathless.
"Some manacles," he said, cupping the side of her face, "are not made of gold or steel. Some chains are invisible, yet bind the heart firm."
"And what chains are those?" she whispered.
"If you do not know," he said, "'tis no use to tell you."
She stared up at him and did not answer.
"My dear wife," he murmured, taking his hands from her face, "you are tired. And I have duties as a constable that I cannot neglect longer."
Striding from the room, he closed the door behind him. The coolness of the stairwell and his forceful step subdued the heated throbbing in his body. But nothing diminished the tug he felt as he walked across the yard, as if a golden cord spun out, linking him with the girl in the tower room.
* * *
Late that night, Gawain stood in the small solar and looked through the window. Entranced by the view—a sweep of lavender sky above dark mountains and the sparkling indigo loch—he stood unmoving and thoughtful, his foot resting on the stone bench.
In the room behind hi
m, Juliana slept deeply, as she had for hours. Earlier he had brought her some fresh ale the monks had supplied, and something to eat—a burned oatcake proudly produced by Laurie. She scarcely roused enough to swallow a little watered ale before sliding back into sleep. He had not disturbed her since, although he had looked in on her a few times, touching her head gently before closing the curtain again.
Though the hour was late, he could not sleep. Laurie had claimed the largest chamber on the floor below, declaring it his privilege as the second in command at Elladoune. The monks had returned to Inchfillan Abbey, after explaining to Gawain and Laurie the features of the castle, and showing them its stores and livestock. Laurie had prepared supper from garden vegetables and salted venison, found in the storeroom.
Gawain wrinkled his nose at the thought of that thin and unsavory pottage. A cook would have to be found, he told himself; Laurie was willing, but not up to the task. He wondered if the abbot could lend some of his monks to work in the kitchen, or if Juliana could find a local goodwife to come to the castle.
In the advancing darkness, the swans floated on the loch, tiny, pale blurs. He remembered that they had been out there on the water the night Elladoune had burned. But of course they would still swim and nest here. Swans were creatures of habit. The fire and the garrison had not frightened them away.
He thought of the legend of another disaster, long ago: a terrible storm, brought on by magic, had destroyed an island fortress in this very loch. Hundreds of people had died here. According to the tale, they had transformed into swans.
He frowned, musing about the legend and remembering the first time he had heard the tale from his grandfather. The ruins of Glenshie were not far from Elladoune, he knew—but where?
Across the loch, mountain slopes thrust upward. He studied each shape, searching for a certain contour, an image that he remembered from childhood: an old woman's face in a mountainside.
As a boy, he had called it Beinn an Aodann—mountain of the face—imagining that a giantess lived there. He could not recall the local name. He stood for a long while, searching the profiles of the hills.
He was not trying to avoid going to his wife's bed. Sooner or later, he knew that he would go there. An implicit agreement had occurred between them, although he was not sure when or how. But he felt it with conviction in his heart. He suspected that she did too. Time—and gentleness—would tell.
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