by Susan King
Groaning softly, she leaned her head back. Whatever the future held, she would face it when it came, rather than fret—or dream—pointlessly now. She closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind of the thoughts that tumbled through it.
She must have dozed, for when she opened her eyes, the water had cooled and the room was darker, but for the low fire in the hearth. Climbing out of the tub, she dried herself with a linen sheet and sat on a hearthside stool. Her fine hair dried in the heat while she combed her fingers through it. When it was damp and golden sleek, she braided it over one shoulder.
Philippa had left a gown and some other things on the bed. Juliana slipped on the garments: linen hose, tied at the knees with ribbons; a chemise of pale silk; and a mulberry gown of serge that buttoned at the neck, fit her torso and arms closely, and swelled full over her hips.
The hem, like the white satin gown, was too long—that must be fashionable in England, she thought. Her own gowns at Inchfillan were practical, leaving feet and ankles unencumbered.
She thought of home and the hills and lochside where she loved to walk. Soon she would see Scotland, but she might never have that freedom again. Her life was utterly changed now.
Picking up a white veil of sheer silk and a circlet of braided silks, she set it down again, not eager to wear a married woman’s headgear just yet. Instead, she shoved her feet into a pair of leather shoes, tied with thongs, and then walked around the room, touching the dark polished wood of the furniture.
Avenel was a beautiful home, she thought. Every room was well kept, and the family seemed warm and charming. She could see how much Gawain loved them, and they him. She envied that.
Her own family had been scattered far and wide. Her father was dead now, her elder brothers were with the Scottish king’s troops, and her mother had willingly consigned herself years ago to a religious life, leaving her children in the care of her cousin, Abbot Malcolm. For years, Juliana felt as if her family were Malcolm and the monks, Deirdre—the abbot’s sister and housekeeper—and Iain and Alec.
At the thought of her little brothers, worry and fear rushed back. She felt anxious again, as if the restorative bath had never been. She had to return to her brothers, and to the rest of her friends and kin. The need was painful and insistent.
Every moment that she stayed in England, she felt as if another strand of her heart pulled, tore, came loose. Scotland was in her blood, was part of her soul, and she had to go back.
She fought sudden tears as a yearning ache assailed her. Deep in her heart, she longed for something else, feeling the lack but uncertain what she needed. Home, certainly; love, perhaps. She thought of Gawain then, and shook her head wearily.
Dear God, she thought, she was tired, and lonely, and frightened. Covering her face in her hands, she sobbed out. As a knock sounded on the door, she lifted her head.
“A moment, Philippa,” she called. Sniffling, wiping her eyes, she crossed to the door to undo the iron latch and pin.
She opened the door to Gawain. Startled, she felt her heart bound. He smiled and tilted his head.
He looked astonishingly handsome. A trick of light and shadow, she thought, staring. He was freshly shaved, his cheeks flushed from a bath, his hair damp, the waves brushing the column of his neck. He had exchanged his dusty surcoat and chain mail for a tunic of dark green linen. A soapy fragrance wafted toward her, an herbal scent reminiscent of sage.
He tightened his eyes in concern. “Are you unwell?”
“Tired,” she replied, almost undone by his tender question. She stepped back, sniffling. He entered, carrying the pack that had been strapped to his horse’s saddle. He walked into the room and set it on the floor. She heard the harsh jangle of the chains tucked inside.
“Come to chain me for the night?” she snapped.
“Not yet,” he said dryly. “If you are ready, my family would like you to join us for supper in the solar. My mother is not strong enough to come to the great hall for meals, so we gather in the solar with her. My sisters are hoping to read to us tonight, since I brought them a new book.”
“I must finish dressing. I was expecting Philippa.”
“She is with my mother. My sisters wanted to help you dress, but I thought you needed better peace than that just now. Their own little handmaid is as giggly as they are, so I told the girls that I would fetch you myself. They think I am eager to be alone with you. The thought delights them.”
“But doesna delight you,” she retorted. She went toward the bed to pick up the white veil.
“If you need help, I can assist. Though I know naught about weaving odds and ends into the hair, as the twins like to do.”
“I am nearly done.” She slid the silk through her hands. “Go on. I will join you soon.”
“My dear wife,” he said, folding his arms and leaning against the door, “this castle is a maze of halls and stairways. You might get lost,” he said wryly.
“ ’Twould be a shame if I found a way out and went back to Scotland on my own,” she muttered. She shook the veil, floated the rectangle over her hair, and slipped the braided silken circlet over the crown of her head.
“There would be dire consequences if that happened.”
“Dire for you, bonny for me.”
“Swan Maiden,” he said, “do you still think to fly away?”
“They say I have that power.” She reached up to adjust the veil.
He came toward her. “The thing is crooked. Let me—”
Flustered, she stepped away from him. “I can manage.”
“My mother, and other married women I have seen, wear theirs just so.” He tugged on the veil, cradling the crown of her head. Shivers slipped through her. Gawain picked up the silken ends and tucked them around her throat, wrapping one longer side under the headpiece. His thumb grazed the line of her jaw, just above the silk. “There.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. Shivers cascaded through her still, even when he lowered his hands.
He reached out to pull open the door for her, and smiled, fine lines crinkling around his warm brown eyes.
She tilted her head. “Why are you kind and charming to me at times, and so hard with me otherwise?” she asked impulsively. “What is it you want from this marriage?”
He frowned slightly. “What does any man want from a wife?”
“Since you let me be last night, it canna be lust,” she said boldly. “If ’tis land, wealth, and title, you willna have those of me, for I have no inheritance worth claiming. Is king’s favor enough to content you?”
He closed the door again, abruptly, and leaned his hand against it, his arm above her head. “Each time you see a chance to sting me, you try, lady. My patience grows short with it.”
“My patience grows short, too,” she said.
“You,” he said, “have none.”
“I do, when I want. Just now I want to be free. I have had enough of captivity.”
“But not enough of honing your anger on me. I am not your enemy or your tormentor. I have shown you naught but kindness, and I expect it in return.”
She looked away, feeling her cheeks burn, knowing he spoke the truth. She had sometimes behaved poorly toward him though he had helped her. “Likely you intend to shut me up in Elladoune and await new orders from your king.”
“If you cannot rein in your damnable temper, you may just find yourself shut in a tower somewhere.”
She flashed him a scathing look, and felt as if it met a brick wall. He stared at her until she glanced away. “But you may keep your kitten in your cell with you,” he added when she was silent. “She is in the solar, awaiting you in a basket.”
She pursed her lips. “Dinna think that will make me like you better. I have agreed to be kind to your mother, and I will, and to your sisters too. As for you—”
“Being kind to my mother is more important to me.”
“I dinna wish to upset your mother. She is a good lady.”
“Aye,” he said
gruffly. “Juliana—my mother and my sisters do not know the full truth about us, or about you. And none of us will tell them—at least not yet.”
“They will cease to like me once they learn the truth.”
“I doubt that, but—” He heaved a sigh. “My mother may not live long enough to learn the truth. We will not burden her—or the girls, who have enough to bear with our mother so ill—with the poor circumstances of our marriage, and the king’s orders.”
She nodded soberly. “For now. And later?”
“We shall see. We will go on to Scotland, and do our best to abide by the king’s orders.”
“Ah. Chains for me, and lessons in obedience, and land and accolades for you.”
He gave a huff of frustration, and his eyes seemed to blaze. “Do you think I wanted this?” he demanded. “Do you think I like seeing you chained, and displayed?”
“You didna prevent it,” she said.
He closed his eyes. A muscle moved in his jaw. “I had choices to make. There are matters you know naught about, and reasons for what I do.”
“Tell me, then. Why are you part of this? You dinna seem a man to play the king’s cruel games, yet you do.”
“I do indeed,” he said softly. “Now.”
“What do you want from this marriage, and this evil scheme to keep—and train—me?”
He let out a long breath. “What I want most of all,” he said, “I gave up on gaining years ago. I have new goals now.”
Juliana sensed tension in him, and more—a current of sadness, even loneliness. She tilted her head in sudden sympathy. “There is something you greatly desire,” she said more gently. “What is it?”
“I want whatever my king wants, of course,” he said brusquely, and opened the door. “Supper grows cold, and my family is eager to see you. Remember,” he said as she sailed past him into the corridor, “for now, you adore me.”
“Oh,” she said flippantly, “how could I have forgotten?” She marched ahead, and heard his dry chuckle behind her.
Chapter Thirteen
“An elderly man, a wife he took to hand,
The king’s daughter of Scotland …”
Eleanor’s voice skimmed over the opening passages of the story of Bevis of Hampton. Listening, Gawain stretched out a hand to scratch the ears of the old mixed breed hound that lay beside the fire.
“This maid, I have ye told,
Fair maid she was and bold,
And nobly born.”
He glanced at Juliana. Seated in a chair beside him, she held the white kitten in her lap while she, too, listened. Fate had certainly brought him a fair maid of Scotland, he thought. What would come next, he did not know.
A groan from Robin caught his attention. His stepbrother sat at a table, facing Catherine over a chessboard. He lamented some clever move she had just made.
Eleanor continued to read, curled at her mother’s feet on the other side of the hearth, turning the parchment pages of the illuminated manuscript. Lady Clarice listened, a blanket tucked over her legs despite the warm room. She stifled a deep cough behind a cloth and took a sip of wine. Philippa looked up quickly from a seat in a corner, where she sewed.
Despite the sorrowful uncertainty of his mother’s illness. Gawain felt some contentment. What surprised him was that Juliana’s presence added immeasurably to that. He watched her dangle a ribbon for the kitten’s amusement. He wished this peaceful, loving moment—like a little bubble containing paradise—could continue indefinitely.
His gaze flowed over her from head to foot and up again. The plum-colored gown contrasted with her pale golden coloring, and her cheeks were pinkened from the heat of the fire. The cut of the fabric enhanced her lithe body while revealing the grace of her long throat. Profoundly attracted to her, but uncertain how she felt, he glanced away. Eleanor had finished her passage, and she and her mother were staring at him.
“A fine story,” he said hastily. He had read more of it on his own than he had heard from Eleanor just now. “A good adventure, though without the poetic sensibility that our lady mother prefers in a long epic tale, such as Gawain and the Green Knight.”
“Surely no one can surpass the Gawain poet.” Lady Clarice smiled. “ ’Tis one of my favorites—and mayhap why I gave my son that name.” She smiled. “But this story is exciting. We shall hear more of it tomorrow evening. Juliana, have you heard the tale of Bevis before?”
Juliana shook her head, her fingers easing over the kitten. “ ’Tis new to me, my lady.”
“No doubt Juliana has heard many other stories,” Catherine said. “Scots storytellers are said to be the finest of all. Gawain, surely you remember the tales from your earlier days?”
He shrugged. “ ’Twas long ago,” he murmured. “My grand—” He stopped suddenly, recalling that Juliana did not know about his origins as yet. And his mother, who did not like it mentioned, was frowning. He cleared his throat. “Er, we had no time for stories. We were … concerned with other matters.”
“Matters of war,” Juliana muttered.
He reached over to rest his hand upon hers. “Sweet lady wife.” Her quick answering smile was forced.
“Lady Juliana,” Robin said gallantly, “do not fret over it. Leave such matters to men who are trained to war.”
She scowled at him. “Were war left to women, who are nae trained to it,” she said, “there would be none.” Robin blushed and lifted a hand in apology.
“Well done,” Lady Clarice said, smiling.
“Juliana, tell us what you most like to do at home in Scotland,” Catherine said. “Where is your own castle?”
“I once lived in a place called Elladoune,” she replied. “ ’Twas burned by the English.” Her bluntness caused Lady Clarice and the twins to gasp. Gawain frowned warily.
“My mother told my brothers and me many tales and legends about warriors and their ladies—wonderful, magical stories,” she went on. Relieved, Gawain hoped she did not intend to press the other issue. “Later, we lived in the forests with outlaws and dispossessed families, where I learned to hide from English soldiers. And there, too, I heard wonderful stories, at night, by the fire, from a harper left homeless by the war.”
“Oh, my,” Lady Clarice said faintly. “Homeless! Dear saints. We did not realize that you were … a victim of the Scottish war.”
“Most Scots are victims of the war in one way or another, Mama,” Gawain said. He felt strangely humbled, for he had not known that Juliana had lived homeless after Elladoune. He looked down to pet the old dog, telling himself that he should have asked how she had fared.
“I lived in the forest for two years, my lady,” Juliana said. “We were safe there, with other dispossessed people. We learned to fend for ourselves and to avoid the English.” Aye, Gawain thought, listening. She knew how to fend for herself. And he realized why she found it so hard to trust English knights.
“Go on,” Catherine said. “What then?”
“My father died fighting for freedom, and my mother entered a convent in her grief. We were taken in by her cousin, an abbot, and lived in his private house on the abbey grounds, not in the monastery itself. His sister, who is his housekeeper, lived with us there. My two older brothers had already gone to fight with the rebels, and are with them still. I have four brothers, two older and two younger than I,” she added.
“How came you to be a guest in the king’s court, if your family are Scottish rebels?” Eleanor asked curiously.
Gawain kept his attention on the hound by his knee, and Juliana’s hands stilled on the kitten.
“She was a guest, Mama,” Robin spoke up. “As I told you when I first came here, she was invited to the king’s feast to represent the king’s hope for an end to the Scottish war. She was dressed as a swan, in satin and feathers, and the king himself called her his Swan Maiden. Was she not beautiful, Gawain?”
“She took my breath, I swear it,” Gawain murmured. That at least was the truth. He stroked the old dog’s back.<
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“Swan? Oh, the pretty feather cap,” Clarice said, nodding.
Gawain sighed and sat back, rubbing his hand across his chin. As much as he loved his good-hearted family, he knew they found the truth often too awkward to face. If Henry and Edmund had been there, they would have supported Robin’s story.
His family preferred ideals and pretty versions of the truth and avoided complex emotional matters. He had seen the habit intensify in the years of his mother’s illness. Henry in particular wanted to protect her and give her happiness, even if it meant disguising the truth.
The tendency had been there earlier, as well. His Scottish origins were rarely mentioned. As a boy he had been hurt by it, but he eventually understood. His mother wanted him to become a favored knight, and wanted no taint from his Scottish name and background. He also suspected that she still grieved for his father, whom she had loved deeply.
However, she loved Henry faithfully, and he adored her. He had provided a luxurious and privileged life, and had shielded his family well at Avenel.
If they wanted to embellish the truth about Juliana, Gawain would not correct them. In his own thinking, he never embroidered or denied any matter. The early influence of his Scottish father and kin left him with a hunger for honesty.
He glanced at Juliana. She had the quick-witted frankness of a Scot, which he found vastly refreshing and reliable. That was part of the draw he felt toward her. She would not understand the unspoken rules within the Avenel family.
But she seemed to sense them, for she had gone fluidly along with what was said and done around her. Although her delicate brows were lowered over sapphire eyes, she kept her thoughts, her temper—and the truth—to herself. Once again, he blessed her for it.
“Gawain, being my son, would of course be a perfect Swan Knight,” Lady Clarice went on, still talking about the king’s feast. “My family are De Bohuns, Juliana. Swans have been part of our family crest for generations. ’Tis said that long ago, one of our ancestors was a legendary Swan Knight named Helias.”
