by Susan King
All the while, he avoided her glance. He felt too ashamed of himself, and the whole of English knighthood, to look in those beautiful eyes.
* * *
“She is tired,” Gawain said to himself, watching Juliana, who sat her horse out in the yard. He studied the drooping lines of her shoulders and her bowed head, and saw fatigue there, and something sad and poignant. He felt as if he had caused it.
“Some of the goodwife’s fresh ale and that excellent cheese will revive her,” Laurie said, standing beside him. “You speak of her more like a husband than a guard. Is it so?”
Gawain glanced at him. “If so, ’tis my own business.”
“I’ve kept a good hold on your secrets in the past,” Laurie muttered, as if bothered by Gawain’s reticence. “And my guess now is that you are lovestruck.” Gawain scowled to dispel the impression, but Laurie only rolled his eyes.
“Dame,” Gawain told the innkeeper’s wife, who walked near them, “if you will, bring some ale and food for the lady in our party.” He handed her a coin.
“The lady, sir?” she asked, pocketing the silver.
“The king’s prisoner,” De Soulis said, approaching them.
“The lady,” Gawain said. The woman nodded and hurried away.
“According to the king’s writ, I am to decide what is best for the prisoner,” De Soulis said.
“Food and ale are necessities.”
“True, but you spoil her. I allowed her to be taken to Avenel so that we could avoid bringing her into a garrison town. But do not fancy yourself her keeper yet. We are not at Elladoune.”
“But we are in Scotland,” Gawain said. “And according to the orders, she is now in my charge. And she is my wife.”
“Eager to take over her care? You wax lovesick. That marriage was no love match, but a jest of the king, I thought.”
“Aye, a poor joke indeed,” Laurie remarked, “to fasten two people in marriage just to make a dull feast more entertaining.”
De Soulis glanced at him. “Go tell the men to mount up. We will be leaving soon.”
“Fine. I will tell them we will depart once the lady has eaten. Surely they can organize themselves in the time it takes her to swallow a few morsels.” Laurie went to the door.
“I am glad he is going to Elladoune with you, and not to Dalbrae with me,” De Soulis grumbled. “He annoys me.”
“He does not bother me,” Gawain murmured. “Tell me—how many men did Sir Aymer decide to send to Elladoune?”
“A few of the men out there will go with you, and later a full garrison will be sent, though that is still being debated,” De Soulis said. “You know what you are to do once you are there. Ride the land, take note of its features, and write them plainly—Latin or French will do—for the commander of the king’s armies. He is most interested in learning where his armies can set up tents or stage battles, how far the villages and abbeys are, and so on. Deliver the notes to me.”
Gawain nodded. He disliked the task, but saw the advantage for himself: he intended to search out Glenshie.
“Since you seem inclined to pamper the girl,” the sheriff added, “I must remind you that she is to enjoy no privileges until she declares her loyalty to King Edward.”
“Of course not,” Gawain repeated flatly, his sarcasm lost on De Soulis. He frankly loathed the man, he decided.
“I took liberty with the king’s orders for you once, but I will not do it again. Was she treated as a prisoner at Avenel or coddled there?”
“She received courtesy from my family,” Gawain snapped.
“Although she committed treason against England.”
“From what the guards told me in Newcastle, she tried to prevent a few swans from being stolen. How is that treason?”
“All the swans in Britain belong to the king,” De Soulis retorted. “And I suspect her of rebel activities, which may be proven when we return to her territory. Watch her closely.”
The innkeeper’s wife approached, and De Soulis took the wooden cup from her hand. Gawain accepted the bread and cheese she carried, then turned to tell the sheriff that the cup was intended for Juliana.
“One thing more before we go outside,” De Soulis said. “At Roxburgh, I saw the list of Scots fallen and taken prisoner at Methven. Your wife’s brothers were captured, and will be ransomed. The Lindsays of Elladoune were listed in the notice sent to the guardians of the realm of Scotland. The other two are in my custody at Dalbrae. We took them when we took the girl.”
“Other two?” Gawain frowned, realizing that her mention of her brothers had omitted the full truth about them—another sign of her distrust. Now he would have to tell her that two of them had been taken, a task he did not relish. He assumed that the two held at Dalbrae were rebels as well. “Where are the brothers who were taken at Methven?”
“I do not know.” De Soulis slid Gawain a quick look. “Let me give you some advice. Do you hope to hold Elladoune and eventually claim it as the lady’s husband?”
“I admit it has occurred to me,” Gawain said cautiously.
“Refuse to pay the ransom. Her brothers will be executed.”
“Jesu,” Gawain burst out. “You are a cold man!”
“I am practical. They are proven rebels, and may never be released or even ransomed. Their kin cannot pay. You are their brother by law, so you can refuse to pay the ransom. Once their sister pledges to Edward, Elladoune can be reinstated to her family. And with her elder brothers gone, she could be named heiress. Therefore, the property would be yours.”
“That scheme stinks of dishonor,” Gawain snapped. “What of the younger Lindsay brothers?”
“Young scoundrels,” De Soulis said. “Rebels in the making.”
Gawain frowned, wondering what those two had done. He was about to ask when he saw De Soulis take a small parchment packet from his pocket and empty it into the foaming ale.
“What the devil is that?” Gawain asked, distracted.
“A potion. She will sleep on the journey. We will of course have to carry her in the supply cart, as before.”
“A sleeping draught?” Gawain demanded. “Have you given her that before?”
“I dosed her with this a few times since we first took her out of Scotland. The herbal mixture quiets her, without harming her. She has been far more docile with it than without it. Surely you have noticed the difference in her mood.”
Gawain narrowed his eyes. “I thought she was drugged at the king’s feast, but I did not realize she had anything after that.”
“On the way out of Newcastle, I gave her some in wine.” De Soulis shrugged as if it was unimportant. “ ’Tis poppy and a few herbs. Give this to her now, and she will sleep or sit nicely until it wears off. You will be glad of it, I assure you. She can be wild without it, as you may have discovered. Mayhap you will want to continue the remedy once you have her at Elladoune.”
“You have no reason to give that to her,” Gawain ground out. He suddenly remembered Juliana’s plea to him at Avenel, that she feared De Soulis would kill her someday. Surely this was why. His breath increased with fury as he glared at the sheriff.
“You are too soft with her. She is a rebel. If you want to present a loyal, obedient wife to the king, you must take a stern hand with her now, or she will overtake you entirely.”
“Kindness fares better than harshness with wild creatures.”
“Such creatures take advantage of kindness, which they sense as weakness. She has a volatile female temperament and must learn her limits. Had you seen her in Scotland the day she was taken, you would understand my actions.”
“She fought you.” Gawain did not need to be told. He watched the man through a flat glare.
“Tooth and nail. She struggled so that I had to stop along the way and ask a wisewoman’s advice—she was the one who gave me this mixture. That girl is like a bird, impulsive and simpleminded. She would fly away in an instant.”
“You found the chains and potions nec
essary, then.”
“Aye. We tied her securely and gave her the medicines. The king ordered the golden chains made up for her in Newcastle—he liked that tiresome conceit about the Swan Maiden. Those chains are more valuable than the girl. Why do you think we have a full military guard for one Scotswoman?”
“Ah. She wears an earl’s fortune around her neck,” Gawain drawled. “How foolish of me to overlook that.”
“If she escapes, we lose part of the treasury for the Scottish campaign.” As he spoke, the sheriff stirred the ale with his finger and offered it to Gawain. “Take this to her. You will be pleased by the result.”
Gawain lost his hold over his anger then. Snatching De Soulis’s surcoat, he yanked him forward. The ale sloshed over both of them. He could smell its bitterness.
“Are you ten fools in one?” he ground out. “A coward encased in black armor? Are you are so frightened of a girl that you must poison her to control her?” He let go without warning, so that De Soulis stumbled and spilled the rest of the ale.
“You exaggerate this—I mean her no harm.”
“If that potion had harmed her,” Gawain growled, “your life would have been mine.”
Turning, he stalked toward the door and yanked it open, striding across the yard. He heard De Soulis follow. Laurie hastened toward him.
“We are leaving now—on our own,” Gawain said. Laurie cast a grim look at De Soulis and turned to mount his horse.
Reaching Juliana, Gawain handed the bundled bread and cheese up to her. “My apologies, lady,” he said. “There is no ale. We will stop for water from a clean stream.”
He took the key out of his pouch and quickly unlocked her collar, sliding it off and unlatching the manacles, piling the whole glittering mass in his hands. Juliana widened her eyes.
“Avenel!” De Soulis yelled, coming up behind him.
Gawain spun. “You had better keep these. They are worth a king’s ransom.” He dumped them in de Soulis’s hands. “I am sore tempted to wrap them around your neck. The lady is in my safekeeping as of this moment.”
“If you take her, I will report it—and you will be wearing these chains! No doubt you are aware that nobles enjoy the privilege of hanging on golden chains!”
“I simply obey my own orders, as you did yours. We are in Scotland now, so she is in my keeping. I will ride out with her now. Sir Laurence will accompany us. You can send the men to Elladoune later.” He turned to Juliana. “We must keep to a tough pace,” he told her. “Are you up to it?”
She nodded and took up the reins. He stepped aside and mounted his own horse, turning to see that Laurie was waiting.
“You will not survive your treacherous action this time, Avenel,” De Soulis said. “The king will not show you lenience again—no matter who your family is.”
Gawain almost laughed as he imagined De Soulis learning his true Highland origins. “If King Edward, the Flower of Chivalry, condemns a man for defending his wife, he is not the worthy knight and leader he once was.”
“I will send a report to him by messenger before I leave this inn,” De Soulis growled.
Gawain inclined his head to acknowledge the threat. He picked up his reins and glanced at Juliana. She sat alert and ready, back straight. He blessed her for it.
He urged the bay to a canter and left the yard, Juliana and Laurie following. They thundered along the road and left the inn far behind without being pursued, and Gawain relaxed slightly.
Soon enough, he recognized the air as distinctly Scottish—brisk, clean, scented with peat and heather. Riding past hills and streams, he felt the magic of Scotland more keenly than ever. His anger began to clear like fog in sunlight.
He wondered what the devil had possessed him, once again, to risk so much to defend Juliana. The girl did not even seem to like him, marriage or none. But he knew the answer.
He loved her. It must have begun years ago, on the night he had saved her, the night he had bound himself to her with a secret—the Swan Maiden and Swan Knight. Now the bond had looped out into time and caught him fast in its net.
Tucking the revelation away with the rest of his secrets, he rode onward.
Chapter Eighteen
The air held the soft promise of rain. Juliana felt the damp breeze caress her bare throat and wrists. She closed her eyes briefly, reveling in freedom. Hungrily, she pulled in deep breaths of Scottish air.
Although they had left De Soulis’s escort, she still maintained her silence. Only Gawain had heard her speak, and she felt certain that he would keep that secret. Not knowing his friend well enough to trust him, she stayed quiet.
She drew silence around herself like a cloak, a passive defense. Constant silence, she found, was meditative and protective in the midst of uncertainty. She took peace from it like water from a stream.
She glanced often at Gawain as they rode at a steady pace. As if she had spoken aloud, he seemed to understand her silences, and responded whenever she wanted to go slower, or needed to rest or to refresh herself.
The warmth he had shown her at Avenel had cooled. She missed that easy affection—but Avenel had been a dream, and they were all awake now.
She found his subtle expressions and moods readable, as if she knew him well. Sometimes his dark handsomeness had a hard, compelling edge, when sharpened by anger and impatience. At other moments he seemed more angelic, even boyish, laughing with Laurie or glancing around quickly for her reaction.
Always, though, she saw in him an awareness and concern for others, like a golden thread in all he did. She marveled at it. If his king had been half as decent as this one knight, she thought, Scotland would have no war and no tyrant.
As she rode on, she succumbed further to the charm of brown eyes framed in thick black lashes, to his tilted smile, to the low timbre of his voice, as if—
Her breath caught. As if she were in love. This is not the way, she told herself sternly, that a captive regards a captor, that one enemy studies another.
Yet it is the way, a gentle voice in her head answered, that a woman looks at the man she desires. It is the way a wife regards her beloved husband: admiring, fascinated, loving.
Sighing, wondering if it was so, she rode on.
The three horses spread out, spacing one behind another, to follow a narrow drover’s track up a long, steep hill. The wind blew harder as they rose higher. Gawain slowed the bay to ride beside Juliana, while Laurie rode ahead, out of hearing.
“I must speak to you,” Gawain said. “De Soulis told me news of your brothers.”
“Alec and Iain?” She spoke quickly.
“The two with Robert Bruce.”
“Niall and Will. Are they—?” Her eyes showed true alarm.
“They live,” he assured her, and heard her sigh in relief. “They were taken at Methven, and may be ransomed for return.”
“Where are they kept?”
“I only know that they were listed as prisoners on the roll sent to the guardians of the realm of Scotland.”
She nodded. When she lifted her head to gaze at the purple mountains that rose above the moorland, he saw the gleam of tears in her eyes. One tear slipped down, and another, and his heart turned with the sight. He could not bear it.
“My kin and I canna pay a ransom,” she said.
“Juliana, I will make no guarantee,” he said carefully. “But I will inquire about them, and see what can be done.”
A fat tear slid down her cheek as she nodded mute thanks.
“What of the other two?” he asked. “You did not tell me of them, nor that they are in De Soulis’s custody—he told me himself.”
“I assumed you wouldna help them. They would be rebels too, if they had the chance. And if my elder brothers are released, they will fight the English again. ’Twould be unwise for you to help the Lindsay brothers. Your king would be much displeased. You shouldna risk his wrath for the sake of some young lads.”
“I have a heart,” he snapped. “Though you think I
do not.”
“I think you do,” she said quietly. “ ’Tis what frightens me most.” Clucking to the palfrey, she passed him.
He watched her go, and blew out a long breath in frustration. Spurring Gringolet, he surged up the hill past the palfrey and struck out over the drover’s track to catch up to Laurie. At least, he thought, he need wrestle no challenges from that quarter.
“What do you think your wee Scots swan wants of you?” Laurie asked Gawain almost as soon as he caught up to him.
He shrugged. “To be free,” he answered. “To go home. She wants naught more from me, I can tell you that.” He scowled.
“Nay? I notice that while she may be cool as ice, there is a true fire in her eyes for you. And a fire in your own, for her. It just makes me curious. I have seen you besotted, but never like this.” Laurie gave him a quick, appraising glance.
“I am not besotted,” Gawain ground out. “Nor is she.” He was tempted to ride far ahead for a while, where no one would speak to him. He needed silence, as did Juliana again—she now lagged far behind, he saw, as he glanced quickly at her.
“Are you sure she doesna want wee English babes with you? Sweet dark-eyed Avenel bairnies, who will grow up privileged at court, marry well, and own land on both sides of the border?”
Gawain slid him a long look. “I assure you, she does not want that,” he said firmly.
“So what do you want? I am just curious,” Laurie said, smiling mildly. “I am a wondering sort of man.”
To find Glenshie, Gawain wanted to say; to find my home, and learn the truth—about many things. But he would not tell even Laurie, not yet. He frowned as he guided his horse along the ridge of the hill, its slopes thick with early heather blooms.
Overhead, a flock of ducks arrowed through the sky. He glanced up. “I want to be free as well,” he answered. “Free of this infernal questioning.”
Laurie grinned fleetingly. “What else to do on a long journey but talk, eh?”
“And free of this ridiculous task that the king has set for me. The real question is what the king wants. We may pay dearly for leaving De Soulis’s company.”
