by Susan King
She murmured agreement, and turned around as several swans surrounded them, followed by three of the brethren.
“Father Abbot.” Juliana recognized Eonan, a young lay monk. Lanky and dark-haired, he was a quiet, intelligent youth who had come to Inchfillan as a boy; his father, like Juliana’s, had been killed by the English. Two elderly monks stood with him, their faces somber. “Father Abbot, if I may speak.”
“You may, Brother Eonan,” Malcolm said.
“We heard that Juliana Lindsay is married now,” Eonan began, nodding respectfully to her. “Is it possible that her marriage will prove fortunate for … those people who wish to … to come to Elladoune?” Eonan spoke cautiously, glancing toward the gate.
“Ah, true,” Malcolm said. “Juliana, you can help the cause, for you will already be inside Elladoune.”
“I—” She paused, confused and uncertain.
“We will bring the news to those in the forest,” Eonan said. “They will be glad that Juliana is safe, and they will want to start preparations again. Efforts ceased when you were taken, mistress,” he added. “The sheriff’s men have been searching the forest with a vengeance—even destroying parts of it.”
“Juliana’s marriage is a boon that could ensure our success.” Malcolm spoke hurriedly in Gaelic, glancing toward the two knights who entered the yard. “De Soulis and his men suspect that there are rebels in the forests near here. They seem determined to find them. You can help them, Juliana.”
“I—” She hesitated again, unable to refuse, yet unable to betray Gawain as they clearly expected her to do.
“For now, go with him to Elladoune,” Malcolm said. “He is your husband, and that is not easily altered. We will talk, and plan, and proceed carefully, whatever we do. Did you keep your silence, my girl, while you were held?”
“I did, except with Gawain.”
“Just as well. Which one is he? Introduce us.”
The knights—or their horses—seemed reluctant to enter the compound. Juliana stood surrounded by a ring of swans and backed by a crescent of monks, and looked toward the knights.
Turning like a white wave, the swans hastened toward the newcomers. Laurie’s horse backed away, while the bay danced and bucked. The swans hissed, wings lifted, and waddled aggressively forward. Gawain steadied his mount, and Laurie struggled with his sidestepping horse.
Then Gawain dismounted and walked forward, moving without hesitation through the feathery surf. Heads wavered on taut necks, but no swan attacked as he strode through their midst. They turned fluidly, weaving back and forth in his path as he approached Juliana and the monks.
A large female reached out to tap her beak on the leather pouch suspended from his belt. Gawain ignored the bird.
“Abbot Malcolm of Inchfillan?” he asked. “God give you good day. I am Sir Gawain Avenel, the new constable of Elladoune—”
“Aye, and husband to Lady Juliana,” Malcolm finished in English. He stood placidly in the center of a gaggle of swans, and Gawain seemed unbothered as well. “She has told me of your marriage. Welcome, Sir Gawain. We expected a new garrison leader, and we hoped that Juliana would be returned, but we didna reckon upon a wedding.”
“Nor did we,” Gawain said. He glanced at Juliana.
“We prayed daily, and entrusted Juliana’s fate to heaven,” Malcolm said. “God watched over her and kept her safe, but you are an unusual angel, I admit.”
“ ’Tis the way of heaven to be unpredictable,” Gawain answered, still looking steadily at Juliana.
Malcolm tipped his head. “Do I know you, sir? Your face seems familiar to me.”
Something quick and keen flickered in Gawain’s eyes, and Juliana wondered at it. “We have never met, Father Abbot.”
Malcolm shrugged, then clasped Gawain’s hand briefly. “Let me welcome you and wish you good fortune in your marriage. May there be goodwill between us for all concerned.”
“Indeed.” Gawain sounded vaguely surprised. “My thanks.”
Juliana stared at the abbot, amazed by his acceptance of Gawain. She assumed that his hearty welcome must be part of some new plan that the abbot no doubt was devising.
The swans fluttered and circled around them as they spoke. One of them pecked at Gawain’s leather pouch again. Gawain did not flinch as he looked down.
“She means no threat,” Malcolm assured him. “She is a greedy pen, and thinks your pouch holds food. The swans are fed in this yard every day, so that they are as tame as wild swans can be. They are accustomed to Juliana in particular.”
“I see.” Gawain stood calmly amid the birds. Juliana noticed that Laurie remained on his horse, looking distinctly anxious as he eyed the swans.
Gawain looked up. “You have had a fire.”
“We have,” Malcolm said. “We must rebuild.”
“Have you applied to the sheriff for timbers? King Edward maintains a policy of support for the local churches.”
“We will send word of our need to the sheriff. I hear he hasna yet returned from his southern journey.”
Gawain turned again, as they all did, at a sudden commotion. The largest cob had spread his wings and was charging the two horses, causing them to whicker and buck again.
“Cùchulainn! Stop, you!” Malcolm called. “Brother Eonan, stop that cob!” Eonan ran to wave the swan away from the horses.
Malcolm turned back to Gawain. “Sir,” he said, “do you know that the sheriff holds my wards, Juliana’s younger brothers, hostage at Dalbrae?”
“I recently learned of that.”
“We want them released. Will you see to it? They are good lads and shouldna be held. Her older brothers have recently been taken as well, kept elsewhere by the English.”
“I will look into both matters. But I can promise naught.”
Malcolm studied him soberly. “Three years ago, after the burning of our local village, the brethren of Inchfillan came to an understanding with the garrison at Elladoune. We do God’s work here and tend to our flock of souls, and they in turn leave us in peace. ’Tis a truce without signatures.”
“I will respect that agreement,” Gawain said. “I do not yet know all my duties at Elladoune, but I do not war on monks and innocents. Inchfillan will stand safe so long as I am there.”
Malcolm bowed his head in gratitude. “You seem an honorable man, though a Sassenach. We will talk soon. Juliana, my dear, God keep you safe.” He pressed her hands in his. “Come back when you are rested. Go with him,” he added, whispering. “I think you should.”
“My lady,” Gawain murmured. “We must travel on to the castle. The horses—and Laurie—seem eager to be gone.”
She bit her lip. The moment to depart Inchfillan, and all that was familiar to her, had come too soon. She had always longed to return to Elladoune, but now she felt as if it was not her home after all. She hesitated.
Gawain tipped his head and held out his hand. “Juliana?”
She glanced at Malcolm, then at Gawain. She hardly knew her husband. A few nights together, some days on the road—despite his courtesies and the dilemmas weathered between them, she did not yet fully trust him.
Yet she remembered precious hours wrapped in the wondrous privacy of a bed, where trust and affection—and more—had existed between them. She wanted that concordance with him again. Going with him to Elladoune was the greatest risk she had ever faced.
Gawain was her path to Elladoune, to home. Unbidden, she wondered if he was the pathway to even more—to a home for her heart.
“Juliana,” Gawain murmured.
She glided silently past him through the froth of swans and walked toward the gate.
Chapter Twenty
The slope leading to the castle gate was familiar, although she had not traveled its worn track for years. The steep hill that supported Elladoune was a promontory of slate that jutted into the water. High on its flat summit overlooking the loch, the castle, built from honey-colored stone, soared upward.
J
uliana smiled to herself, excited as a child, despite her exhaustion. She looked up as they approached.
The gate stood open, its iron portcullis drawn up into the overhead arch, for Malcolm had sent Brother Eonan running ahead to bring word of their arrival. The rounded corner towers were massive sentinels pierced by arrow slits.
Gawain slowed his horse beside hers as they wended their way up the hill. “I was not certain you would come with me, once we were at Inchfillan,” he said.
“I had to come home to Elladoune,” she answered.
He nodded, and looked up. “ ’Tis not a large castle, by the breadth of those walls, but looks to be a strong one, and built well—two generations ago, I would guess by its design.”
“My great-grandfather rebuilt an older fortress. There have been keeps here for generations. We call it Dùn nan Eala in the Gaelic, though in my father’s time it became known as Elladoune—easier for the English to say,” she added, frowning.
“Fortress of the swans,” he murmured.
She glanced at him. “You know what it means?”
“I have a little Gaelic,” he said, and then rode ahead on the sloping track.
She was the last to ride beneath the portcullis, following slowly to absorb the sight. The last time she had been here, Elladoune had been in flames, and she had taken a terrifying leap into the loch—where she had first met Gawain.
The shape of the castle was a square pulled askew, with round towers at each corner and a fifth one over the gate. The tower in the farthest corner, pulled out beyond the others, overlooked the loch. Its outermost wall sheered down to meet the promontory just above the water. As the largest and best protected of the towers, it served as the laird’s keep.
Inside the courtyard, she saw Brother Eonan and a few lay brothers and monks whom she recognized from Inchfillan. Two carried buckets and sacks, and another shooed a few goats and chickens out of the way of the incoming horses. A monk pushed a wheelbarrow toward the large, lush kitchen garden.
The garden was larger than she remembered, and the kitchen building had been enlarged by an addition. More food would have been required to feed a full garrison of a hundred or more men, she realized.
Other changes, too, were evident. New buildings clustered inside the high curtain wall, structures of wattle and thatch. Those, she saw at a glance, were used for stables and livestock, for blacksmithing and armory, and for cooking, washing, storage, and garrison quarters. They were quiet and empty.
Elladoune was different, yet the same. Memories from her childhood assailed her even before she dismounted. The castle was deeply familiar, yet was no longer her home. War was conducted here; enemy soldiers had lived here.
The signs of that were everywhere. Weapons and harnesses dangled in the enlarged blacksmith’s building; the stables had more stalls, with room for dozens of horses; rocks for use in catapults were stacked against the wall, and a huge grinding stone for sharpening weaponry stood inside an open shed.
She slid from her horse and stood looking around. A monk led her palfrey away, and Gawain dismounted to speak with Laurence. Then he came back and took her arm.
“Come inside,” he said, and led her toward the corner keep.
Her legs trembled as she climbed the wooden steps to the main entrance of the keep tower. He opened the door, but she paused on the upper platform, turning to survey the bailey yard.
“Is it much changed?” he asked after a moment.
“Aye,” she said. “And nay.” She sighed. “Some things I dinna recognize—and some seem so familiar.”
“What is the same?”
She was surprised that he would want to know. “There,” she said, pointing toward the east battlement. “On those stone steps, there is a long crack where I tripped when I was seven and broke my arm. My father had the step repaired, but it kept opening again. I see it still.”
“Then the stone should be replaced,” he said.
“There, in that tower”—she pointed again—“my older brothers and I played hide-and-seek, and took turns watching the loch for water monsters.”
He smiled. “A serious task. What else?”
She was grateful that he let her share her memories, which were precious testaments to her childhood and her past. “Down there,” she continued, “on the south side of the bailey, we ran races and played ball, and set up targets for archery. There, in that corner shed, where hay was stored, my brother Niall shot an arrow into my leg as I was climbing the loft. He said the shaft was warped, and that he was aiming for the apple in Will’s hand.”
Gawain whistled low, shaking his head.
“Over there, my father kept a mews for his falcons and hawks, and I was allowed to raise a small kestrel myself. The mews must be empty now—the door hangs from the hinges. In that corner beside the stable, we buried our favorite pets after they died—do you see the wee stones? I still remember the names carved upon them.”
He nodded soberly. “I see them.”
“Here in the tower”—she turned to indicate the doorway behind them—“was where we lived. My brothers and I were born here, and my father, and grandfather, and kin for many generations before that.”
He glanced up. “What is that above the door? A stone plaque with a design cut in it—a swan with lifted wings, and an arrow in its beak? ’Tis worn some.”
“Aye,” she said. “ ’Tis the crest of Lindsay of Elladoune.”
“This was indeed a home,” he said to himself.
“And now ’tis a place for warmongers,” she said bitterly. “You didna ask what is different, only what is the same.”
“What has changed, then?” he asked quietly.
“More buildings,” she said. “More dirt than should be tolerated—the bailey has no grass left, worn to earth by horses and carts. That midden pile behind the kitchen shed is huge and needs tending. There are harnesses hanging outside the sheds, and weaponry, and …” She stopped and sighed dismally as she looked at the curtain wall.
“And traces of the fire?” he murmured.
“Aye. The blackened stone along the curtain walls has never been cleaned fully. And a section of stone, high up in this tower, is of a different color. That part has been replaced.”
He glanced up. “The tower was nearly gutted afterward. Much rebuilding was done, I heard.”
“Were you here then, after … after you helped me?”
“Not here. I was sent elsewhere in Scotland.”
“Ah, you had to make your apology.” She tilted her head to study him. “Your first apology. I want to know more about you,” she murmured thoughtfully. “And about your transgressions. Why would a fine English knight risk his own welfare for Scots?”
He glanced at her. “Tell me your secrets, and you may learn some of mine.”
Her heart pounded. She looked away quickly, regretting her impulsive tongue. If she pursued her keen curiosity about his secrets and his past, she would put hers to equal scrutiny—and that would endanger her friends. She could not ask any more about Gawain until he was ready to offer his story to her.
“You are fortunate I speak to you at all, Sassenach.” She said it lightly, and he chuckled a little.
“Well,” he said, “true. My lady, will you come inside?”
She turned and stepped past him through the doorway.
* * *
He followed Juliana across the narrow foyer and looked with her into the great hall, a large, plain chamber with whitewashed walls, a timber ceiling, and planked floor. Tables, benches, and a few chairs furnished it, but no colorful hangings or cushions warmed its starkness.
She said nothing, and turned away to go up the turning stairs. Gawain paused with her at each level to glance into the rooms that opened off the landings. They walked together through rooms that were sparsely furnished and obviously used as military quarters. Juliana made no comment, and climbed the stairs again.
The uppermost level was divided into a bedchamber, solar, and garderobe
. Juliana stepped into the main room and turned, the bedraggled hem of her white gown pooling on the wooden floor.
“ ’Tis all so different,” she murmured. “I recognize little of it—the rooms or the furniture.” She walked to the window. “Even the shape of this window has changed. The view is the same, over the loch to the mountains,” she added softly.
Gawain surveyed the austere chamber. A bed filled one corner, enclosed by a green canopy and long curtain suspended from iron rods attached to the ceiling. The few pieces of furniture—a wooden chest, a table, stools, and a heavy chair beside the stone fireplace—were solid and unadorned. The floor still bore traces of swept-out rushes.
“Did you think ’twould be the same?” he asked. “Naught could have survived that fire, Juliana.” He walked toward her.
“There were mural paintings on the walls in the rooms below this, where my parents slept,” she said, staring out of the window. “They are whitewashed over. In the great hall, there were embroidered French tapestries on the walls that my mother was proud to own—gone, too. Likely burned,” she added.
“Aye,” he agreed. “It must have been a lovely home, but ’tis a garrison now—not cozy, but practical.”
“This floor had four chambers—two for my brothers, one for me, one for servants. I … jumped from this window on the night of the fire. ’Twas a tall lancet then.”
“I remember,” he murmured. He saw a moist gleam in her eyes as she looked out. A fierce need to touch her, hold her, welled in him. He doubted she wanted that from him, an English knight.
“I wanted to come back,” she said. “I hoped one day my family would be reunited here. Foolish of me.” She shrugged. “But I am home now, and I thank you for it. What next?”
“You need some rest. I need to find out about food and sleeping arrangements. We will have a garrison here soon, I think, from what De Soulis said. I suspect Laurie has already seen to himself.”
