by Susan King
Gawain saw Iain reach inside the neck of his tunic and pull out a tiny wriggling mouse, which he slipped to the floor. When it ran in front of the woman, she shrieked.
Alec drew his sword. “Lady Matilda, I will defend you!”
“I will! Me, I will!” Iain said, pulling out his own sword and rushing after Alec. The mouse scurried into the shadows, and the boys pounded toward the door, bare feet slapping the floor.
The sheriff glowered at his wife. “Those boys should be punished,” he said sternly. “I will see to it if you do not.”
“Walter,” she said, tears pooling in her eyes. “Do remember how dear they are to me. I have so longed for a child … I am grateful you decided to foster Alec and Iain. They are like our own children now!” She clasped her hands, smiling tremulously.
He waved her away. “Go now, and try not to cry again, madame. And keep those boys out of my sight.”
She gathered her skirts and ran sniffling from the room.
Gawain returned to his seat in the silence and picked up his wine goblet. The three men quaffed their wine all at once.
“Fostered?” Gawain asked. “Not hostaged?”
“She lacks temperament for the truth,” De Soulis said.
“Ah,” Gawain said, nodding. He fully understood that. “She would not do well with the truth, so you altered it.”
“Nor would her father do well with it,” Laurie muttered.
“I may make pages of those boys,” De Soulis said. “They can foster here and become knights for the king, if the wildness can be tamed out of them.”
“I will take them back with me,” Gawain snapped. “Your wife treasures them overmuch. And you clearly do not enjoy their presence.”
“I will keep them, nonetheless,” the sheriff said, waving his hand in the dismissive gesture common to him. “My wife wants them. She will return to England soon, for she is unsuited to long stays in Scotland. They can travel south with her if she desires it.”
“You have no right to send them anywhere!” Gawain burst out.
“Their sister is an official prisoner of the king, though you need reminding of that,” the sheriff said bluntly. “She cannot retain custody of them, nor can you, for your tenure here is still undetermined. For now, I will keep the boys. But if they continue thusly, I will not guarantee their safety.”
“Guarantee it,” Gawain said flatly. “Or give them up now.”
De Soulis slid him a dark look. “They will not be harmed.”
“I will be back to ensure it,” Gawain said. Barely keeping hold over his temper, he stared steadily at the sheriff.
“Do you doubt the abbot’s loyalty?” Laurie asked. “Is that why you keep the boys? Abbot Malcolm seems a capable guardian for them. He seems a passive man, neutral, as he should be.”
“Seems so.” the sheriff answered. “And I want him to stay so. I do not trust him.”
“Do you trust anyone?” Laurie asked mildly, though he, too, stared hard at De Soulis.
“Certainly not you two,” De Soulis barked.
“The other matter to discuss,” Gawain said abruptly, “has to do with the elder Lindsay brothers taken by the crown’s army. Is there further word of a ransom list?”
“Aye, what of it?”
“My wife wishes her brothers’ freedom paid.”
“And you intend to pay it, to free two Scots rebels? Are you truly so besotted by that creature you wed?”
“If the Lindsays’ kin produce the ransom, there is naught I can do about it,” Gawain drawled.
“Nay? Remember that I am watching you closely,” De Soulis said sharply. “I hope your oath of fealty was a sincere one.”
Ignoring that, Gawain rose to his feet. “Since you have no further information for me, and you refuse to release the young Lindsays, our business is concluded for now. Good day.” He stalked out of the room. Laurie followed.
Outside, Gawain strode quickly through the busy yard, heading for the stables in angry silence. He simmered over the frustrating results of the visit. His future at Elladoune seemed extremely uncertain, and he had not gained back Juliana’s brothers, any of them, as he had hoped. At least he could report that her young brothers were holding their own under the circumstances.
“Ho,” Laurie said, “look there. De Soulis’s warning didna last long for those wee rascals.”
Gawain glanced where Laurie pointed. Alec and Iain stood in the midst of the garden, bows and arrows busy while they shot at vegetables lined up along a low stone wall. From the kitchen, a young servant boy was running, arms waving.
Wheeling, Gawain headed toward the garden at a stiff pace. He stomped inside, greens fluttering around his booted ankles, with Laurie following.
Iain pointed his weapon at a head of lettuce and pulled back the bowstring as Gawain angled through the planted rows. Striding toward the garden wall, Gawain took note of the boy’s aim and his target.
Just as he heard the arrow leave the bow, he lashed out his hand and snatched the arrow in midair. He brandished the shaft.
“Come here, Iain Lindsay,” he growled.
The boy gaped at him. Behind him, Alec stared too, then gave his brother a shove forward. Laurie waited, hands on hips. A small crowd gathered to watch the scene in the garden.
“Is this how you behave at home?” Gawain asked.
Iain gulped and looked up at him. “N-nay, sir.”
“And you,” Gawain said as Alec walked timorously forward. “Do you set a good example for your brother?”
Alec lifted his head. Gawain had seen that gesture often in the sister: pride and courage. “I do, sir.”
He lifted his brows in surprise, still clutching the arrow, from which Iain could not seem to take his astonished gaze.
“Swinging on ropes when men are in meetings, shooting vegetables, letting go of mice to scare ladies—this is good?”
“We wouldna do so at home, for Father Abbot and Juliana wouldna allow it. But these are Sassenachs here,” he added ominously.
“And we are rebels. Sir,” Iain said, gazing at him anxiously. “If you please.”
“Ah.” Gawain kept his countenance as grim as he could manage, though it proved a challenge. A few feet away, Laurie shook his head, shoulders shifting.
“We canna waste in prison,” Alec added. “We must fight!”
“I see.” Gawain weighed the arrow shaft in his hand. “Well, consider this. As hostages, you are kept as guests rather than prisoners. Play at swords if you will, and shoot at targets if you are given permission. But harm no property and frighten no one. Especially not the sheriff’s wife—she is good to you.”
“Ach, we let the wee mousie go only to show her how we could protect her,” Alec said. Iain nodded in vigorous agreement.
“Show a lady gentleness,” Gawain said, “and you will be all the stronger for it.” The boys frowned as if that puzzled them. Gawain handed Iain his arrow. “Next time, ask first.”
Iain stared at the arrow. “Sir, how did you catch it?”
“A great deal of practice. If you both behave very well here, I will show you someday. But do not try it on your own. There is a secret to it. Promise me.”
The boys nodded and spit on the ground to fix it. Gawain smiled and touched Iain’s head, the curls soft and baby-fine. “I will tell your sister you do well and show much courage, shall I? Farewell, then. I will see you again, soon.”
“Promise?” Iain asked.
Gawain spit on the ground.
He could not stop searching the skyline. As he and Laurie returned from Dalbrae, even with the conversation lively between them, his gaze continually strayed to the hills.
“I had forgotten about that trick of catching arrows that you used to practice years back, when we squired together,” Laurie said. “You always did that with such ease. And gave those wee bits a startling! They will never cross you!” He laughed with delight.
Gawain grinned. “I was not sure I could still do it after so lo
ng. But ’tis simple enough with practice, and if one has a keen eye and a fast hand—and a sharp ear to listen for the twang of the bow, for that is the real secret to it.”
Laurie nodded. “A fine, unique skill, though I never could manage it. You were determined to teach yourself to do that when we were squires—always after me to shoot at you, making me swear it all secret. What gave you the urge to learn such a strange thing? Something about catching a faery bolt?”
“Aye, a legend I heard as a boy,” Gawain said. “Foolishness, I suppose, though I did master the trick.”
“You kept at it until you could snatch it with ease. Nae such a practical thing, for what can you do with it? Frighten wee boys?” Laurie grinned. “Now you will have to show those lads how to do it.”
“When they are much older, I will.” The promise gave him an odd thrill of surety; he would have to be with their sister in the future for those lessons to take place. He almost smiled.
“They are good lads. They will be fine rebels one day, too … unfortunately,” Laurie said.
Gawain murmured agreement, his gaze scanning the distant slopes. He had not yet seen the only landmark he knew, a craggy face in a steep rockface. He sighed, aware that his search for Glenshie depended on a child’s memory. He had been but Iain’s or Alec’s age when he left Scotland with his mother.
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 Twenty-Five
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 didna 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 canna 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 willna come to you if you irritate them.”
<
br /> 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 Cùchulainn, 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 àlainn.”
“Eimhir the beautiful,” Gawain said quietly. “The faithful, strong-willed wife of Cùchulainn.”
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 Gràinne—but unlike the Gràinne 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?”
