They rode over a meadow beside the loch. Buttercups and bluebells scattered over the grass, and the water sparkled blue. Far out, swans flowed elegantly over the surface.
Lately his memories came more frequently, but were still elusive. He remembered seeing this very loch and its swans as a boy. His father had knelt with him on a high hillside where the wind blew fresh and cold. He remembered his father's mellow voice as he pointed toward the loch below, and told the legend of the swans of Loch nan Eala, and of the fortress sunk deep in its waters. He remembered a small waterfall where they had stopped to drink.
But which direction was that? He twisted in the saddle, glancing at another hill, and frowned as a new memory emerged.
Six years old he had been on the day of his first plaiding.
His father wrapped a plaid around his only son—a rich pattern of red, brown, and purple—and handed him a wooden sword. Gabhan, his father called him. With other kinsmen, they marched together over heather-deep hills. He remembered his father's blue eyes, his black hair, his laugh.
He had felt so proud. The feeling came back, intense, pure.
He remembered the ceilidh his kinfolk held, with singing, dancing, and storytelling to celebrate the plaiding of Adhamnain MacDuff's fine young son. Uilleam must have been there, he thought, and Beithag, and some of the others who now stayed at Elladoune under the guardianship of Gawain Avenel.
He sighed and guided Gringolet carefully over a hillock and tough, bright heather plants.
"What's caught you so deep in your thoughts?" Laurie asked. "A few memories," Gawain answered.
"Your Scottish childhood?"
"Aye," he answered. "Thoughts of home." Through the fringe of trees, he suddenly saw the golden stone walls of Elladoune, and rode ahead quickly.
* * *
That night, silently, gently, he took Juliana into his arms again. Each kiss, every touch, was deep and sincere, fluent with feeling, profoundly comforting.
He cherished their secluded chamber and the privacy of their bed. The freedom there with her, without words, without explanations or questions, was bliss in itself. As before when he loved her, he was aware of natural concordance and deep mutual passion. He followed its compelling course like a swan on a stream.
Exploring her, he let her discover him, body, heart, soul. He burned for her until the brightness of it took him into itself. From the simplicity of a perfect kiss to a sensuous, incandescent ending, he savored it all, and gave all he could, and held her close afterward.
He wondered how he could ever have bound her against her will, and he knew that he would never be able to let her go if he was ordered to leave Elladoune. Uncertainty whispered to him constantly from the shadows. He did not know what was to come. He only knew, now, how much he loved her.
Resting in her arms in the quiet and the darkness, he thought about her silences and his own reticence. They had discovered the honesty of their bodies, but a host of secrets still lay between them. Yet inside the refuge they had found with each other, none of that seemed to matter.
Chapter 25
The first rays of the sun lifted over the slopes beyond the loch. Standing on the bank, Gawain saw mist rippling over the water, and through it came the swans, gliding toward the shore.
Juliana walked past him. Rosy light glowed over her fine, sleek hair. Although she was a married woman in every sense now, he knew she preferred not to wear a wife's veil yet. He was glad; he liked to see the soft gold of her hair.
Several swans arrowed through the water, creating wavelets. Most of the birds were white, though the few cygnets among them were feathered in brown and gray. Juliana waited for them to approach, tossing barley grains into the water.
The birds dipped, found the grain, dipped again. She threw another handful and edged backward, stepping onto the grassy turf on which Gawain stood. The swans came forward, finding every morsel as they glided nearer the water's edge. Two large birds waddled onto the beach as Juliana walked backward.
A few more birds left the water to pursue the trail of grain. Their short legs and webbed feet, set well back beneath their heavy bodies, gave them an awkward gait, and they toddled forward comically. Gawain watched, smiling, for Juliana was soon surrounded by a wave of white swans.
The swans enveloped him now, bumping against his legs, beaks snapping. She handed him the sack of grain. Filtering barley through his fingers, he watched the swans feed.
"If we do this every day at the same time," she murmured, "they will come here to meet us."
He let more of the food pour out of his palm. "A bit later in the day would be better. Must we leave our bed so early?"
"Have I married a lazy man?" she murmured, smiling.
"Not at all. Just a man who likes his bed well when his wife is in it." He glanced at her, lips twitching in a smile.
A blush colored her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled a dark, rich blue in the early light. "We can come out here a bit later, but always at the same time, and always together."
Together. He caressed her cheek. "That would be fine."
"The swans will come to us," she went on. "If you make the same call when you come here to feed them, they will expect you. They will swim to this spot and wait for you." She scooped barley from his hand and dribbled it downward, cooing and talking softly to the swans.
"What sound should I call?" he asked.
"Anything you like."
He nodded, thinking. "Your cousin James sings a phrase to his goshawk—kyrie eleison—and the bird flies straight to him each time."
She looked at him curiously. "I did not know that. I havena seen him for a year or more. How do you know that about him?"
"Most anyone who has seen him lately has seen the goshawk he has trained," he said. He turned, thumbs tucked in his low-slung leather belt, to look out over the calm, rippling water. "Swans cannot be trained like hawks, of course—and I cannot sing at all. You do not use a call," he ventured, glancing at her.
"The swans know me by sight, and mayhap by my silence, for that in itself is distinctive, too."
"Juliana," he said, "when will you explain to me the reason for the silence?" He watched her carefully.
She shrugged. "I cannot explain that so easily to a Sassenach who looks for rebels and holds a Scottish castle."
"Ah," he said. Intent on her, he did not notice one of the swans come closer. The bird nipped his hand, and he winced. Juliana turned.
"Feed them, if you will hold the grain sack. They are annoyed with you. They will not come to you if you irritate them."
He sprinkled more food, amazed at how much they could take of the dry grain, working it sinuously down their throats. "You do know your swans," he said.
"They come here every spring, and stay till late in the year. I have seen the same ones season after season. I have watched them and fed them; I have helped protect them against otters and foxes and dogs. I even swim with them. They are as familiar as kin to me. That cob, there, is the largest and the oldest of this group. I call him Cuchulainn, after the great hero of the ancient tales." She indicated the great white bird who pecked at the grain more aggressively than the others. "His mate is over there—Eimhir alainn."
"Eimhir the beautiful," Gawain said quietly. "The faithful, strong-willed wife of Cuchulainn."
She glanced at him. "You know the old tale? Your nurse, I suppose? She must have been quite a storyteller."
He shrugged casual admittance. "Do they all have names?"
"Aye. That one pulling at your tunic is Fionn, after the great Fionn MacCumhail, and his mate is Grainne—but unlike the Grainne of the legends, she has been utterly loyal to her mate. The two at the water's edge are Naoise and Deirdre, and those two far out on the water are Aenghus and Caer."
"Caer, who turned into a swan, and Aenghus who searched for her for years," he murmured as he let barley fall from his hand.
She studied him. "You do know the old tales."
"Some. Those names are all
great Celtic lovers."
"True. The four little cygnets there, near their mother, I call Fionnghuala, Aedh, Fiachra, and Conn—after the children of Lir. The tale is beautiful but tragic, and very old."
"The three sons and the daughter of King Lir were turned into swans by their stepmother, and forced to spend eternity in that form," he said. The story came easily into his memory, for it had been one of his favorites at his grandfather's knee. "Finally the pure note of a bronze bell rang out and broke the magic spell. But they were so old, by that time, that they died as soon as they regained their human form."
Juliana stared at him. "How does a Sassenach know that?"
He smiled, shrugged. "I have a good mind for stories. I never forget them once I hear them."
She nodded thoughtfully. Gawain watched the golden-pink sun move upward behind the highest mountain and squinted at the brightness. He felt a strong temptation to tell Juliana the truth about where he had learned those stories.
If only he could tell her everything—his father's name, his own true name, his search for his childhood home. He wanted her to know that she had filled his home, and his heart, with the kinfolk of his childhood. He longed to tell her how much that meant to him, and how much more he loved her for it.
But he kept silent, intent on his private quest. He had to find and claim his home. Only then could he speak of it aloud, even to Juliana. He had his own reasons for silence.
The swans wandered back to the water, lowered, and swam out. The mother pen stayed near the shore, nosing her beak at one of her four cygnets. While Gawain watched, she sank a little in one spot and seemed to float there. One by one, her little cygnets clambered onto her back. When they were securely folded into gray-brown balls of fluff, she swam out. He noticed that she always kept herself distant from the other birds.
"Poor Guinevere," Juliana said. "She is lonely now. Artan was her mate. He has not returned, though I hoped he might."
"Perhaps he found another mate in Newcastle," Gawain said.
She shook her head. "Not he. Total loyalty, that one, for his Guinevere. Something must have happened to him." She sighed and glanced at Gawain. "I thought when you heard the swan's names, you would only recognize the names Arthur and Guinevere. You surprise me with your knowledge of Celtic tales, Sassenach."
He smiled. "You surprise me," he murmured, taking her arm, "almost daily. Come back to Elladoune now. I intend to ride out to see the sheriff this morning, but I will meet you later at Inchfillan Abbey. I want to meet with Abbot Malcolm again." He walked with her across the meadow.
"He will be glad to hear more news of my brothers' pranks."
Gawain chuckled. His tale of the boys' courage and spirit while in the sheriff's keeping had cheered Juliana and Abbot Malcolm greatly. The abbot missed his little wards keenly, and Juliana desperately wanted them back with her at Elladoune.
But when he returned to the sheriff's castle later, he might have orders to leave Elladoune. He sighed. This enchanted place and its swan maiden had woven a spell around him; like a man caught in faeryland, he never wanted to leave.
As the sun rose higher, he glanced over his shoulder once again. He stopped suddenly. Juliana rounded with him.
Mist sat in fragile rings around the bases of the mountains, and golden light poured over the tallest slope. An elusive face appeared near the summit, as if carved in the black rock. Light and shadow created deep-set eyes, cheekbones, a mouth, a straggle of hair: an old woman.
"Look there," he said hoarsely. "On the side of Beinn Beira. Do you see that face?"
"That?" She shaded her eyes against the brilliance of the sun. "'Tis old Beira, the queen of winter, trapped in the mountain. She escapes once a year, they say, and brings winter, and must be sent back again to her imprisonment. Sometimes her face can be seen in certain light."
Gawain took Juliana's hand, watching while the sun shone more brightly on the face in the mountainside. Gradually, the light washed away the image in the rock, and it disappeared.
"They say," Juliana went on, "that good fortune comes to those who see Beira's face. 'Tis a good omen to catch a glimpse of her still in the mountain, for it means that summer will continue." She smiled up at him. Her eyes were blue and deep as the loch, her head and throat as pale and graceful as a swan's.
He leaned forward and kissed her. "My thanks," he whispered, tipping his brow to hers.
"For what?" she asked as she turned to walk with him. "For telling you a new story? I am surprised you did not know that one, Gabhan." His heart turned with joy every time he heard her say his Gaelic name, though she did not know the effect she had.
"That one," he said, grasping her hand, "I did not know."
* * *
The world was bright with summer color, and with hope, as Gawain rode northward. He kept the eastern face of Beinn Beira in sight. Bluebells formed a purple-blue carpet beneath the oaks and larches, and ferns grew lush and green in places.
Sweeping over the slopes, heather blooms grew thick and tufted, and the air was warm and fragrant.
He left the forest track and headed up into the foothills, then made his way carefully among the steeper slants. Rock became more prevalent than turf, and wildflowers bloomed yellow, blue, and violet in crevices. Sunlight highlighted the old woman's countenance as he made his way slowly upward.
No castles or ruins appeared, and few homes were set along the steep hillsides, but for an occasional shieling hut or a thatched homestead—each one deserted. This area had been overrun by the English years before, he knew. King Edward's commanders had burned out, killed, or chased away virtually everyone who inhabited the area surrounding Loch nan Eala.
He knew, for he had been among those men six years before.
After a while, he dismounted the bay, for Gringolet had faltered more than once; Gawain did not want to risk a hoof injury or a broken leg for the animal. He secured the reins to a hazel bush and left the horse grazing near a narrow burn.
The water ran into a narrow gorge, with walls of twisting vines and bracken and rock that rose upward to meet another slope that footed the mountain itself. Gawain headed beyond the burn, toward a long, steep, straightforward hillside. Once he moved higher, he thought, he could better survey the view.
Climbing with a long, sure stride, he was glad that he had worn only his tunic rather than the weighty chain-mail hauberk and gambeson. Sweating freely in the summer heat, he stopped to scoop a drink from a stream of water that danced over some rocks.
Moving upward, arduous but steady, he wondered if once again he had gone wrong in his search. Nothing lay ahead but the dark, towering bulk of the mountaintop and scree-covered sides.
He paused, a booted foot on a rock ledge that jutted out over the glen below the mountainside. He saw the horse grazing by the burn, and far beyond, the smooth blue sheet of Loch nan Eala, with the white dots of its swans on the surface. On the opposite shore, in the distance, the honey-colored walls of Elladoune rose on its promontory. All was perfect in miniature.
He rounded, and looked up the slope. A jumble of bushes and heathery patches fringed the bulk of the mountain. A narrow waterfall, the source of the trickle below, sluiced among some dark rocks, well above and behind the scrub.
He narrowed his eyes. He remembered that waterfall, a white frothing tail over the rockface. This slope, too, seemed familiar. Long ago he had stood here with his father to look down at Loch nan Eala.
Turning, he hurried upward, scrambling in some places. Finally he attained another ledge and looked toward the mountain.
Just above and beyond the fringe of growth, he saw a square thrust of stone. Gray and broken, a remnant corner of a tumbled tower, its shape struck deep chords in his memory.
His heart lurched, and he strode upward. Climbing with new fervor, he pushed his way through the dense skirt of bracken and scrub until he burst through and saw Glenshie Castle at last.
Chapter 26
Later that morning, Juliana walk
ed along the bank of the loch again while Laurie waited nearby. She had returned to check on a nest that had been plundered by otters more than once in the last few weeks. The pen and the cob had recently produced another cluster, even though it was late in the season.
To her relief, she found the nest unharmed; the pen perched calmly on her four eggs, and the cob, who paused to stare at Juliana, pulled at the reeds nearby. She turned to walk back toward Laurie.
Out on the water, she saw Guinevere nudging her little cygnets onto her back. Juliana felt a wash of sadness for the graceful pen, who still mourned her missing mate and kept on the outskirts of the flock, staying attentive to her young.
"Juliana!" She looked up to see Brother Eonan hurrying toward her. "Father Abbot says he must see you!" he said breathlessly as he approached. Laurie came with him.
"Is something wrong? Are Alec and Iain—"
"They are fine, Abbot says. He went to see the sheriff this morning." Eonan stopped. "I do not know what has happened there, but he seems very agitated."
"I will go there now," she said. "Laurie, when Gawain returns from his morning patrol, tell him I went with Eonan."
"Well enough," Laurie answered. "Gawain plans to meet you at the abbey later, after he and I go to the sheriff's castle ourselves, but now he will be more than anxious to get to the abbey after hearing this. I will see you—what the devil!" He stopped as he turned, glancing across the meadow.
A man melted out of the edge of the forest and walked toward them. Laurie put his hand to the sword sheathed at his belt and stepped forward. Juliana gasped and hurried past him.
"Ach Dhia," she breathed, recognizing the man as a friend, and a cousin—James Lindsay walked toward her.
Dressed like a pilgrim in a somber brown cloak with a scallop shell pinned to the shoulder, he was tall and strong, and moved with a natural agility. Sunlight glinted off the dark gold of his wavy hair. He lifted a hand in greeting.
Susan King - [Celtic Nights 02] Page 24