by Susan King
The king rose from his seat and came toward them.
The warm cradle of his fingers and the brush of his lips over her knuckles stirred tears in her eyes. She had not felt comfort or gentleness for so long. Her harsh treatment had made her weak and needy, she told herself sternly. Scowling at him, she straightened her shoulders and tried to pull her hand away.
He tightened his fingers over hers. “Look at me as though your heart is mine forever,” he drawled, “not as if you want to eat my heart for supper.”
She closed her eyes, confused. To get out of here, she reminded herself, she had to cooperate with him. She forced herself to smile at him.
He turned toward the king, holding her hand aloft and bowing. Cheers and light applause swelled through the hall.
Artan, finished with his bread crumbs, hissed and spread his wings. Gawain glanced at the swan, whose neck swayed ominously.
“ ’Twould ruin the moment if he bites me,” he said dryly.
Juliana felt an urge to laugh, until Gawain lifted her hand and turned to the king.
“My liege,” he said, “the Swan Maiden is mine.”
Gawain glanced sidelong at the girl. Her hand trembled in his, but her lips shaped a beautiful smile that struck him like an arrow shot. He caught his breath.
The king approached the cart. Gawain had to see this through; he could not abandon the girl to the king’s game. Once again he had obeyed his impulse to protect others—though that had brought him more trouble than honor in the past.
His greatest flaw, he knew, lay in his tendency to help those who needed assistance, no matter the cost to himself. It was an admitted weakness, and one he could not strengthen.
Somehow Juliana Lindsay seemed to draw that out in him. Fate had thrown them together more than once, and each time he had taken up her cause, though he did not even know her.
King Edward came closer. Gawain bowed. “Sire, I have tamed the Swan Maiden as you requested. I wish to claim her as my own.” In truth, he hoped to gain custody of her and send her back to Scotland.
To his relief, Juliana lowered her head demurely. The cap of feathers and her golden hair shone like crown and veil. She swayed, and Gawain tightened his hold on her arm to steady her.
The king scrutinized them. “How did you accomplish it when no one else could? With some magical incantation?” He looked back at his audience, who laughed appreciatively.
“No mystery, my lord. I obeyed the example of my namesake, Sir Gawain, who showed courtesy and kindness to others.”
“Easy to be courteous to a little beauty.” The king peered at her, lifting her chin with a fingertip. Juliana turned her head aside in a clear, soundless insult.
The king frowned. “And how did you master the swan?”
“With a bit of bread, sire.”
“A practical man.” As the king turned, the swan lashed out and snapped at him. Edward snarled and stepped back. When he reached out to touch Juliana’s arm, she jerked away from him.
“Not tame yet, either of them,” the king said curtly.
“ ’Twill be done, I assure you,” Gawain murmured.
“Do it, or the task will go to another knight.”
Gawain grasped Juliana’s golden neck chain, tugging on it gently. “I assure my liege, the lady will be meek and obedient, and do all my bidding,” he murmured. “So will the swan.”
Juliana glared at him, while Edward nodded in approval and paced away, lanky and slow.
“Behave yourself,” Gawain hissed to Juliana. “Try to act adoring. And keep that swan of yours still.” He smiled, wide and showy. She smiled back, her teeth clenched.
The king swung around. “What a pretty pair of lovebirds—the pale maiden and her dark knight. With but a word from him, she turns into his loving leman. One caution, sir.”
“My liege,” Gawain said.
“Remember the Scots are known for the quick turning of their loyalties. You may lose her devotion without warning. Her countryman Robert Bruce has shown us the bitter side of his fealty lately, even though he renewed his obeisance three times in public audience … ah, much like our good Sir Gawain.”
Gawain tensed at the inference. Edward paced away. “What if the Scottish Swan Maiden gave her heart to England?” He looked at Gawain, eyes glittering. “Tame the girl, and train her to your will.”
Gawain frowned. “Train her, sire?”
“Surely you need no instruction for that. A woman will do all a man’s will if he handles her properly.” He turned to the crowd, beaming like a jester in a play, soaking in the laughter with raised hands. The king, Gawain realized, was very drunk.
His outraged silence matched Juliana’s stillness.
“Take her north with an escort, and display her in golden chains,” the king said. “The captive Swan Maiden led round the countryside by English knights. She will serve as an example.”
“An example of what, sire?” Gawain asked carefully.
“Of the harm rebellion brings to the Scots. Teach the girl about loyalty to England. We may take her into our bosom of forgiveness if she makes a pretty oath like you did. We know that you understand the concept of loyalty by now.”
Gawain flared his nostrils. “Aye, sire.”
“Then demonstrate it. Teach her a pretty speech too.”
“My lord,” Gawain said, “the lady does not speak.”
“ ’Tis her willful, rebellious spirit. She will surrender to your will. I want to see her in court again when ’tis done.” Edward strutted now.
This was a jest to him, Gawain thought, one he would forget by morning. An urge to protest rose up in him. Then he noticed his stepfather and stepbrothers watching him, faces somber. His family would suffer if he was uncooperative now.
“As you will, sire,” he said flatly.
“Good,” Edward said. “She will be ruled by her English husband. Let her be a symbol of Scotland ruled by England.” Edward grinned, then waved the applause into quick silence.
Gawain’s hand tightened on Juliana’s arm, though she pulled away like a jessed falcon. His heart pounded hard. “Husband?”
“You claimed her. Now marry her.”
“Sire,” Gawain said curtly. “I hoped to win her freedom.”
“Your father requested our assistance in finding you a bride. This one will do for you. When she is docile, bring her to Carlisle to prove her loyalty. That will prove yours.”
A bride, meted out like a punishment, and meant as a test of his loyalty. “My lord, I have renewed my oath to you.”
“Your maiden swan is a rebel, hatched in a nest of rebels. This a merciful sentence for her.”
“Merciful indeed,” Gawain muttered.
“If she proves herself, ’twill be your success. If she rebels, ’twill be your failure.”
A muscle thumped in his cheek. “Sire.”
Edward’s eyes glittered. “Now go and do to her tonight what we would do to Scotland.” His grin grew wicked, and snickers rippled throughout the audience.
Gawain felt Juliana shudder. He held her arm, giving no indication of his own fury.
“That bird looks to be a juicy one. We will dine on it tomorrow. Tonight you will find your little swan tender and delightful, no doubt.” Edward grinned again, then turned to his chamberlain. “Fetch a priest,” he directed. “We will end the feast with a wedding.”
“Sweet saints,” Gawain muttered under his breath.
The king strode away to confer with his advisors, who gathered in a cluster, tall men with long, dark robes, gleaming chain mail, and grim faces. None of them had laughed during the spectacle, Gawain had noticed.
Juliana whimpered, the closest to a sound she had made. “I promised to set you free,” he murmured to her. “But as you can see, I am not Edward’s most favored knight. My apologies.”
She sent him a sour glare.
The knights cleared a path as a priest hurried forward. Gawain felt as if he could hardly breathe. Juliana stood still
beside him, tense in his grip. Behind him, the swan hissed.
He saw his stepfather and his stepbrothers at the edge of the crowd. Henry nodded to underscore his support, but Gawain did not feel reassured. He was about to obey the king’s drunken whim and enter into a mockery of the sacred state of marriage.
At least, he thought, he could repay some of the debt of honor that he owed her cousin James Lindsay. Juliana would be under his protection now, and he could send her back to Scotland. His conscience would ease knowing he had helped a Lindsay.
Otherwise, his imminent marriage to James Lindsay’s rebellious little cousin was plainly astonishing to him. He doubted the girl would ever develop English loyalties. Her kin were rebels, blood and bone, and she seemed to share that. He suspected that her insistent silence was pure stubbornness.
As the priest intoned the marriage text in Latin, Gawain repeated the phrases that bound him to her, legally and forever. He looked at Juliana. She was no loving bride, but clearly furious. Her cheeks were pink, her lips tight, her eyes dark blue flashes. In the cart, the swan hissed. Bizarre wedding music, Gawain thought.
“The lady must speak the vow,” the priest said, edging away from the bird.
Juliana shook her head.
“She may nod her agreement,” the priest said.
This time her head shake was more vehement.
“Is she deaf and dumb?” the priest asked.
“Not deaf,” Gawain said between his teeth. She lifted her chin defiantly. He leaned down. “Nod, Juliana,” he murmured.
She glared at him.
“Marry me, and I can save that bird from a roasting pan.”
She glanced at him quickly, eyes intense.
“I swear it,” he said. He had promised much to many of late, but he would keep this one somehow.
The priest repeated the vows. Juliana sighed and nodded.
“Well enough,” the priest said, and pronounced the marriage blessing. “Give her the kiss of peace,” he directed Gawain.
He bent and touched his lips to hers. Her mouth was still and soft. He felt a swirl of transient pleasure. His blood surged and his heart pounded as if he were a youth, smitten hard and floundering with it.
The king clapped his hands and came forward. “Well done,” he announced. “Now take your maiden swan away, and render her a maiden no more.” He walked away with a sly smile.
“Sire,” Gawain said. “Might my … lady wife be freed from her chains now?”
Edward ignored him and beckoned to the musicians to play again, resuming his seat while servants rushed to pour wine into his goblet and offer him trays of sweetmeats.
Gawain stood beside Juliana, as silent as she was. The doors of the chamber opened wide as the next cart was brought forward, bearing a huge confection, a fruit-bedecked castle.
The entertainment he and Juliana had provided had ended.
One of the guards approached Gawain. “She’s yers to take home, sir, but she is still a prisoner. An escort will go with ye tonight. Orders will be delivered by messenger in the morning. For now, we will wait in the outer courtyard.”
As the man turned away, Gawain thought of something and followed him, out of Juliana’s range of hearing. She waited for him, standing, wavering slightly.
“Sir!” Gawain placed a gold coin in the man’s hand. “Make certain that the swan is taken to the river and released, rather than taken to the kitchen,” he said in a quiet, urgent tone.
The guard nodded thoughtfully. “For good coin, anything can be done. I will see to it. The king can eat some other swan on the morrow, eh?” He winked.
“My thanks.” Gawain walked back to Juliana and took her arm to guide her out of the hall. She glanced at the swan with a whimper, stumbling, her distress obvious.
“Come, my lady. Come.” He urged her toward the door.
She faltered beside him, and he realized that she must have been given some sort of potion to weaken her. He swept her up into his arms and carried her through the huge doorway.
He hurried past servants, past carts loaded with dirty platters and soggy bread trenchers. Striding through a torchlit hallway, he took some stairs that led to the courtyard.
The girl rode silently in his arms. Her golden chains chimed in rhythm with his footsteps as he descended the steps. He walked out into the cool, rainy darkness and set her down, and she leaned against him wearily.
“Not much longer,” he said, looking down at her.
A guard appeared, the man with whom he had previously spoken about the swan. He led Gawain’s own horses, both saddled: Gringolet, a dark bay, a sturdy destrier from his father’s stables; and Galienne, a gray palfrey, a temperate mare that Gawain often rode himself to spare the warhorse.
“ ’Tis done, sir, what ye asked of me,” the guard said. “I saw to the matter myself. ’Twill be released in the morn.”
“My thanks, man.” The guard drew the palfrey forward and Gawain assisted Juliana into the saddle. “She is called Galienne,” he said. “Can you ride?”
She slid him a look that said the question was ridiculous, and took the reins in her manacled hands, turning the horse’s head. The rain had flattened the feathers on her small cap, and turned her golden hair to sopping strands. Draped in the white satin gown, her back was straight, her hands amazingly sure.
Aye, he thought admiringly, she could ride very well.
He bounded into Gringolet’s saddle and walked him forward to stand beside the palfrey. Unfastening his black cloak, Gawain swept it around Juliana’s shoulders and pulled up the hood.
She looked at him, quick and wary.
“You are wet,” he said simply. His stepfather and stepbrothers strode into the courtyard. Gawain waited while they mounted their horses.
All the while, his glance repeatedly strayed toward his silent, weary, mysterious bride.
Chapter Seven
The patter of rain and the pounding of the horses’ hooves on the cobbled stones seemed loud in the night-dark streets of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Juliana rode at the center of a group of guards and the Avenel kinsmen. She recognized the younger of the men as Sir Robert—Robin, the others called him.
Gawain rode ahead of her through the Black Gate that led out of the castle and into the walled town, where cobbled streets, crowded with houses, looked slick in the rain. One of the guards led her horse, though she could have handled her biddable mount.
No one spoke to her, and she kept silent. She had not spoken in so long that she wondered if her voice had grown weak from disuse. She shivered in the cool rain, grateful for the cloak that Gawain had given her.
He rode ahead of her, his head bare, his shoulders broad. She glanced at him often, aware of a tenuous bond. Her husband—the word seemed strangely ominous now. Dread sat like a stone in her as she wondered what he would demand on their wedding night.
A guard carried a torch ahead of them, but it scarcely pierced the rain and shadows. The massive bulk of a church thrust into the night, and the river gleamed like a ribbon in the distance.
The riders followed a curving, steep side lane and halted before a whitewashed, timbered building whose third level canted over the street. The door opened, golden light pouring over the wet cobblestones. A woman waited as the men dismounted, and a boy came out of the house to lead the horses away.
Gawain turned to Juliana and held up his arms to lift her down. “This is the inn where my kinsmen and I have been staying. We will spend the night here.” His hands braced her waist.
She slid down from the horse, and would not look at him. He led her toward the inn, and the woman stood back as they entered a dim, low-ceilinged room.
“Greetings, Dame Bette,” Gawain said.
“Greetings, sir. I see ye brought a guest from the king’s feast.” Bette shut and latched the door and turned. She was sturdy, with gray hair haloing out from a white kerchief, and a dark gown. She appraised Juliana with a fast glance. “I do not have a free chamber for her. Who is s
he with? Sir Henry and the rest have gone to an upper chamber. He’s called for hot wine, and says he wants to see ye right away.”
Gawain lifted his cloak from Juliana’s shoulders, hanging it on a wall peg by the door, and then brushed the raindrops from the sleeves of his dark tunic. Juliana turned to face Bette, hands joined in front of her by the golden chain.
“By the saints, she is chained!” Bette said. “And wearing feathers! Is she a mummer? Eek, sir—is she a harlot?”
“She is a captive of the king. We have the keeping of her.”
“A prisoner! We’ve no dungeon here! The crown will owe us for her boarding, and it be the very devil to collect it from the royal accounting clerk at the Sand Gate. That man is a lizard.”
“The crown owes you naught for her keep,” Gawain replied. “I will pay. She is my bride. A gift from the king.”
“Bride.” Bette stared at him. Then she peered at Juliana, who stared boldly back at her. “Well, she is not ughsome, and may please a man, but Lord bless us, she is a criminal!”
“She is only a rebel Scotswoman.”
Bride, Juliana thought. Scotswoman. Rebel. He had not bothered to say her name, though he knew it. She frowned.
Bette looked skeptical. “Well, she needs a bath. I’ll take her to yer bedchamber, and wish ye luck of yer marriage.”
“My thanks,” he said. “Let her bathe in privacy, while I meet with Sir Henry. And bring her a hot meal, if you will.” He took the woman’s hand, and Juliana saw the flash of a coin. Bette nodded and blushed like a young girl. Gawain crossed the room and went up the stairs.
“Come dear, ye must be tired,” Bette said, taking her arm. “And how are ye to bathe, in them chains? We cannot get that gown off of ye, and ’tis too fine to cut. Well, ye’ll wash as ye can. Tsk,” she added, scanning her critically from head to foot. “Why are ye dressed so? Ye look like a duck.”
“From what the king’s chamberlain told me as I was leaving the castle,” Henry said, “Walter de Soulis will travel north with you and the lady, bringing an escort of men.”
“Walter de Soulis?” Gawain asked sharply. He poured himself a cup of heated wine, watered and spiced, a soothing drink that his father preferred before bedtime. Given the events of the evening, he would have opted for something far stronger.
