"Welcome," he said in Gaelic, smiling.
Beithag peered up at him warily, her eyes dark and keen, her face wizened over strong bones. A plaid arisaid covered her from the silvery crown of her head to her feet, a rich weaving of red and brown and dark purple. He frowned slightly, looking at the pattern. A thought flitted in and out of his mind too quickly to grasp. Juliana beckoned to a tall old man who came forward, surrounded by children and panting dogs.
"Here is Beithag's husband, Uilleam MacDuff," Juliana said. "And these are their great-grandchildren..."
Dumbstruck by the old man's name, he hardly took in those of the children. Gawain noticed that Uilleam wore a wrapped and belted plaid, similar in pattern to the cloth worn by Beithag.
MacDuff. Likely one of his own kinsmen, Gawain realized.
Smiling, although his heart pounded, he bid the old man welcome. Uilleam granted and peered at him intently, then hesitated as if he would speak. Gawain waited, wondering if the old man recognized his face; he knew that he resembled his father greatly. If Uilleam saw anything familiar in the Sassenach, he said nothing. Gawain let out a breath.
Uilleam turned away to join his wife. Gawain watched the old man shuffle away, scarcely able to think clearly. The dogs circled him, sniffed him. He petted them, one by one, distracted but outwardly calm.
"And there is the children's mother, Mairead, on Laurie's horse," Juliana went on. "She is the wife of Adhamnain MacDuff, Uilleam and Beithag's son."
Adhamnain. His own grandfather and father had been called that; it was a common baptismal name among MacDuffs, he knew.
"Her husband is away," Juliana was saying. "And the young man is called Teig." She pointed to the stocky, smiling youth who carried the basket of ducks. He waved to Gawain and grinned at the children, who ran back toward him.
"Is he a MacDuff, too?" Gawain asked.
"He is a nephew to Uilleam. Beithag is a cousin of mine and my mother's. Teig MacDuff is a simple lad, but he is kind, and the children love him. He is strong too, and will work hard in the stables and pens with Uilleam, who knows all there is to know about horses and livestock. The children will help them. Mairead and Beithag and some other women will work in the kitchens with the cooking and brewing. Do you approve?"
"Whatever you think best," he said vaguely. He still felt stunned. More people came through the gate, a few women, some children, another old woman. The chatter in the yard rose to a crescendo around him. Laurie grinned and gestured as he attempted, through Brother Eonan, to communicate to Beithag his request for a hearty supper.
"The women just arriving wish to help with the keeping of the chambers, the linens, the laundry, the sweeping and scrubbing," Juliana said. "Most of them are widows who have been living in the forests on the charity of others. They are glad that we need help at Elladoune. None of these people would accept charity—especially from a Sassenach."
Gawain nodded, scanning the little crowd in the bailey. "Tell them they are welcome here, and we are grateful for their help. The other women who came in—are they, ah, MacDuffs?"
"One or two are MacDuff widows. Their husbands were killed by Sassenachs, and their homes burned."
He had to know. "And Uilleam? Was he a laird near here?"
She shook her head. "He and Beithag had a stone house in the hills, where they raised sheep and cattle and garron ponies. The commander of Elladoune burned their house and took most of the animals. Years ago, Uilleam had an older brother, Adhamnain, who was laird of a castle near that tallest mountain."
"Aye?" Gawain asked casually, though his breath caught.
"I have heard him mention those kinsmen. They were killed, I think, in a battle with the English, after King Alexander died falling from a cliff—the start of our troubles in Scotland. The laird's wee grandson was taken away by his son's wife, who was Lowland or English. 'Twas long ago. The property was ruined by the Sassenachs, shorn to the ground. Made useless."
His heart pounded, his fists clenched as he held them behind his back. Silent, yet in turmoil within, he stared over the wall toward the mountaintop beyond the loch.
Juliana walked away when one of the women called to her. Soon she gathered the newcomers and led them toward the tower keep to settle their belongings and begin their chosen tasks. The monks led the animals into the pens and stables, and Laurie walked the horse toward the stable with them.
Gawain remained alone in the bailey, rooted to where he stood. Unknowingly, Juliana had filled Elladoune to the brim with his own kin, who needed his help. The world seemed to turn on irony at times, but this coincidence utterly astounded him.
And he had to keep silent. He could not tell them that he was not just a Sassenach commander whom they would never trust or respect. He was, in fact, Gabhan MacDuff, born among them, the grandson of the laird who had once held Glenshie.
He watched Beithag and Uilleam, his great-aunt and great-uncle, climb the steps to the tower. He knew, then, where he had seen that red, brown, and purple pattern before.
He had worn it himself, on the day he had left Glenshie. His mother had traded his plaid to a Lowland farmwife for a dull brown tunic for him. That day, she had crossed with him into England, and had changed his name from Gabhan to Gawain, altering his life and future forever.
Inside an ivory box at Avenel Castle, tucked away in a storage chest, he still owned a piece of that plaid, a small, tattered scrap. He had clutched it in his sleep every night for years as a child, and later had kept it to remind him of the home and the father and the life he had lost, so long ago.
He stood awhile longer, then walked toward the tower. Strangely, he had never felt so alone as he did in that moment.
* * *
On the following day, Gawain waited with Laurie in the bailey, while Juliana and Eonan led another group inside.
"The eldest one, there," Laurie said, "was once a blacksmith and will shoe horses and repair our tools." Like the day before, Laurie and Eonan had accompanied Juliana into the forest to fetch her friends. "With Juliana is a farmer who was blinded when his house was burned and his family killed. The man with the withered leg and crutch is a harper, I understand, and will play his tunes to entertain us in the evenings. The two women are wives to the blacksmith and the harper."
Gawain nodded as he observed the newest arrivals. He greeted them with Gaelic phrases, receiving shy or gruff replies.
"What does Brother Eonan have in that basket?" he asked, as the young lay monk came into the bailey behind Juliana, who held the hand of the blind man.
"Three baby squirrels," Laurie said. "They had fallen from a tree. I told your lady wife that they were tender for the pot, but she insists that she and the children can raise them for a bit, and put them back in the forest when they are old enough."
Gawain nodded and sighed, beginning to realize his wife's penchant for strays of all sorts. "And how many of these folk," he said, "are named MacDuff?"
"The blind farmer and the blacksmith," Laurie said. "Why?"
* * *
By the end of the week, Juliana had ushered six more people through the gate, including two orphaned boys named MacDuff, an old man whose name Gawain did not learn, but suspected was MacDuff, and a straggling line of young greylag geese.
"They have lost their mother," she told Gawain. "The blacksmith's wife will tend to them with the chickens and ducks."
"Beithag could take one of those for the cooking pot," Laurie said, walking toward them.
"Ach, she will not," Juliana said, and herded the birds past them hastily. "Nor will you eat the baby squirrels or a swan. This is not a barbaric royal court, you know."
"'Tis more like a Lammastide market, this place," Laurie answered. "I was teasing about the roast swan, but she did not think it amusing," he muttered to Gawain.
"No doubt." Gawain suppressed a smile. He enjoyed the fact that his wife and Laurie had become friends.
"Tell me this, lassie," Laurie called after her, "when will you learn that oat
h o' yours, so you can go to the royal court yourself? And we may live in peace here?"
"When hell turns icy, and the English king eats sweetmeats served by wee Scots faeries," she answered over her shoulder.
"What the devil does that mean?" Laurie mused.
Gawain groaned in wordless exasperation and turned to look around file bailey. "It means that I cannot get her attention long enough for her to learn even the simplest oath for the king," he said. "She is too busy, she claims, and will attend to it later. If she does not find time soon, I will face some unpleasant explanations when we are summoned to court."
"I know, man. I have tried myself to bring the subject up with her as we walk through the forests each day. She would rather whistle the homeless out of their trees, and doesna want to hear about the king. A stubborn lass, your wife."
"She has no intention of becoming a loyal English subject," Gawain said grimly. "That has been clear to me from the first."
Laurie nodded, turning, hands on his hips, to survey the yard and the castle walls. "And what is her intention with this castle? The place has changed in the space of a few days. Stables swept out, outbuildings repaired, the animals penned in... the gardens trimmed back and harvested... the smells of savory cooking and sweet baking from the kitchen... and brewing, thank heaven, brewing begun as well. We will have good Scots ale before long."
"The very reason you returned to Scotland," Gawain said, and chuckled. He pointed toward a corner of the curtain wall, where two men worked with brushes and buckets. "Look there—her newest project. She has them whitewashing the traces of the old fire."
"And so I ask again, what is her intention here?"
Gawain frowned. He appreciated the changes at Elladoune. Fresh linen for the beds, fragrant heather and myrtle in the mattresses and pillows, clean rushes on the floors, good food on the table. His clothing was clean, and a steaming bath had been readied in a tub in the bedchamber the other night.
The horses were exercised and groomed each day, and armor and weapons had been cleaned with sand and repaired. After supper in the evenings, the old harper had played poignant tunes that had made Gawain's throat constrict to hear them. The music was achingly reminiscent of his childhood.
He had ridden out nearly every day to search the hills, and made observations about the terrain in his head. Each evening, back in Elladoune, he recorded his notations on parchment.
As yet he had found no trace of Glenshie. Although he had been tempted to ask some of the MacDuffs if they knew where the place was located, he had spoken little to Uilleam MacDuff or his wife Beithag. Uilleam seemed to pause now and then to study him, but never expressed his thoughts.
Every day, Gawain took time to thank them for the fine work they were doing, and complimented Beithag on the excellent food she prepared with Mairead and the others. And he made sure to mention the care that all of them took to improve the castle.
Though he wanted to ask about Glenshie and mention his childhood, his Gaelic was no longer good enough for a long conversation. He could not reveal who he was—even to Juliana. At times, the urge was overpowering, especially when they lay in their bed, enclosed and sated, loving and trusting of each other. Even so, he could not speak of it.
He was happy, God forgive him. He was content and falling more in love with her. He did not want to disturb that joy. Knowing that she would be ecstatic to learn who he was, he looked forward to telling her. Although it might be a point of pride, he had to find Glenshie first.
Once she knew of his origins, Juliana might expect him to change allegiance and become a rebel and a traitor. He could not risk that happening again. He loved his family at Avenel and owed them much. And for now, he was grateful that Juliana cared for him even though she thought him a Sassenach born and bred.
"Aye," Laurie said, still assessing the castle with his gaze. "Your lady wife has clear goals here. She has transformed this place, filling it with comforts and children and willing hands to work. She has made it into a home, man. And how you are going to explain that to the commander of the king's army when he sends a garrison here, I cannot imagine."
"Let alone how I am going to explain how it has become filled with Scots," Gawain remarked. And my own Scottish kin as well, he thought; one more reason to keep his own goal secret.
"A quandary indeed. What will you do?"
"I had best think of something," Gawain answered as they walked toward the tower keep. "De Soulis will have arrived by now, and I must ride to Dalbrae to talk to him. Juliana pleads with me often to free her brothers."
"I will go with you if you like. Well, my friend—a week has passed. Do you suppose, since tomorrow is the seventh day," Laurie said, "your lady will rest from making miracles?"
Gawain snorted his disdain for the pun and ran up the steps, eager, as always, to see his wife.
Juliana lay enveloped in silence, warmth, and darkness inside the curtained bed. The only sound was the easy flow of Gawain's breathing. She cuddled next to him, and felt his arm encircle her, even in his sleep. His whiskered chin lay against her cheek, and she turned to kiss him. He slept on.
Gray light filtered through the curtains, and she sighed to see it. Dawn was coming, and she should rise, for there was much to be done. Today the floors in the tower rooms were to be scrubbed clean and sanded to remove the black marks of boots and spurs. Teig and some of the older children would whitewash another part of the inner curtain wall. And Beithag had promised to send someone back to the caves to collect lengths of plaid stored there, which Juliana wanted to hang upon the walls in the great hall and bedchamber.
She looked forward to the warmth of color on those plain walls at last. Elladoune was no longer the home she remembered, and she knew it would never be the same. But this week she had begun to hope that a home could be made here after all.
A home, with Gawain. She snuggled against him. Her hopes were perhaps unrealistic, but in the quiet of their enclosed bed, dreams seemed possible. Elladoune could be a haven again, a loving place, where she could live with her husband, her friends, and her brothers back from captivity. And someday, she thought, children of her own.
A fragile dream, she knew, easily shattered if the king's commanders decided to send a new garrison here. She prayed that they would not. English soldiers were needed elsewhere just now.
If her dreams were fully realized, the English would never garrison Elladoune. And Gawain would never leave it.
She wrapped her arms around him in the dark, and pressed against his warmth and firmness. A wave of love and desire poured through her—desire edged with poignancy, for although she had fallen in love with the Swan Knight of her early dreams, he was still a Sassenach.
Yet in their bed, she could keep hold of her hopes and joys. Here, she was home... and he was home for her heart. She kissed his cheek, and settled her lips upon his, and woke him slowly with gentle hands.
Chapter 24
Dalbrae, high on a grassy hill ringed by a ditch and earthworks, was a fortress even at first glance, its gate sealed, its battlements guarded by soldiers. Gawain had inquired at the gate often enough to be admitted this time without question. He and Laurie, who had ridden out with him, entered and dismounted.
Unlike his previous visits, this time they were told that the sheriff was there and would see them. Grooms led their horses away, and Gawain and Laurie followed a young page to the great hall inside the massive central keep.
As they stepped into the large chamber, Gawain was startled to hear a high scream. It emanated from somewhere in the gallery, a walled area protruding above and extending the width of the entrance wall. Gawain glanced upward, but saw no one through the windows that pierced the wooden wall. Another scream sounded, followed by thunks and shrieks.
"God save us, they are tormenting the wee laddies," Laurie muttered, looking around. "We should have come sooner."
Gawain frowned, but said nothing. Walter de Soulis rose to his feet from a chair beside a huge stone
hearth and waited. He greeted them somberly and indicated seats on a bench beside a stout oaken table. Dressed in black serge and silver trim, rather than the distinctive black armor he usually wore, the sheriff sat in his carved chair. The shrewdness of his narrowed eyes was evident in the well-lit chamber.
Alarming noises continued in the gallery. The sheriff beckoned to the page hovering near the door. "Wine," he snapped.
When three wooden goblets were filled with claret, De Soulis drank of his own, then wiped a hand across his mouth. Gawain cast a look at Laurie and cleared his throat.
"Sir Sheriff," he said. "We are here to discuss several matters, but first I must ask after my wife's brothers... what the devil is that noise?" he finished abruptly as a horrifying scream rang out into the room.
"That," Walter said, "will drive me mad."
"And us with it, but what is that infernal commotion?" Laurie demanded. "Are you dragging them on a rack up there?"
"It is the sound of my wife's indulgence," Walter muttered, and downed more wine. A clacking sound echoed through the hall.
"Apparently you have some reason to hold these boys hostage from their family," Gawain said. "But now that I am wed to their sister, and commander at Elladoune, I expect you to release them into my custody."
"I cannot do that, much as I might like to."
"They are babes, not criminals. Give them over to me."
"Babes? You do not know them, I think."
A shuttered window in the upper gallery, meant to allow musicians to be heard playing, smacked open. Gawain looked up.
A small, blue-covered behind emerged from the opening, and a back, shoulders, and legs thrust outward after it. A wiry boy in a blue tunic, legs bared, clung to a rope securely knotted to a rafter in the hall, its length pulled inside the gallery.
The boy pushed out of the window opening, swung outward into the great hall, and dangled for a moment waving a wooden sword at the three men gaping at him from below. On the return swing of the rope, he smacked the soles of his bare feet into the gallery wall, landed deftly, and looked up.
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