by Susan King
The crowd stayed hushed and still, and she ignored them. Nor did she look at her brothers, seated near De Soulis—or at Gawain, standing near the platform. She could not risk giving herself away. Not yet.
Choosing a blunt-tipped arrow, she nocked the bow and spread her feet. Leaning back, swinging the bow upward, she sighted along the arrow shaft.
The little hand bell, over eighty feet above her head, moved slightly in the wind, making the shot enormously difficult. Shooting upward into the trees scarcely ensured her prowess on this one, and she doubted that she had practiced enough.
Widening her stance farther, leaning back, her left arm parallel with the arrow, she began to draw back the string, but hesitated as the bell swayed gently. She felt her body waver slightly. That alone could throw off her aim. The arrow must hit the center hammer to ring it, or the shot would fail.
She remembered what Gawain had told her in the forest: getting down on one knee would give her better stability. The archer ahead of her had nearly taken the prize that way. She knelt on her right knee, extended her left foot, and aimed again.
Hesitating, she sighed out. Too much thinking, she warned herself. Send the arrow upward, straight and true; let it be an extension of sight, will, and instinct. Only then would it succeed.
She lowered the bow, curling forward. Then, on a deep breath, she swung upward until the arrow tip aimed toward the clouds. With a smooth unity of motion, she sighted, tilted, and drew the bowstring, fastening her sight wholly upon the bell.
Heart and soul seemed to move within her, and she released.
Holding his breath as he watched her, Gawain had never loved her so much as he did in that moment. Grace, she was, and beauty, and perfect skill. The dull male clothing she wore might disguise her—but in his eyes, she shone like an angel.
He knew why she did this. Somehow she thought to gain her brothers back through this means, though he could not guess how.
She stretched her left leg out, her weight on her right knee, forming a triangle of grace and strength. She curled into herself, pausing. The crowd was hushed and expectant.
Ah, love, you can do this, he thought fervently. He stood without moving, but inside his heart pounded for her, and for what she faced.
She moved then, rising like a wave in a fluid arc, and released the arrow. The shaft soared, and struck the bell. The peal began, clear and true.
Even as the shields went up in the crowd, cheers swelled around her, mingling with the mellow sound of the bell. Juliana rose to her feet and ran backward as the arrow hit, turned, and hurtled downward. It slammed into the earth only inches from where she had been standing.
More cheers and loud applause rose around her. Juliana smiled, tears starting in her eyes as she listened to the wild peal of the little bronze bell. She walked back into the clearing to stand beside her quiver, propping her bow upright in her hand. Turning, she smiled at the audience, searching for the faces she wanted—needed—most to see.
Alec and Iain were hopping up and down on their bench, cheering and smacking their hands together, their heads bright in the sunlight. They must have recognized her by now, she thought, giving them a private little bow.
Gawain smiled, applauding, while Laurie whistled and cheered loudly beside him. Her gaze met Gawain’s, and he smiled wider—so dear to her, despite all the hurt. Tears pooled in her eyes.
She looked away, searching the crowd for others—Angus, Lucas, and the rest who waited near the boys, ready to reach out for them as soon as she gave the signal. But if she did that, all would be lost. She had another plan in mind now.
De Soulis rose to his feet, glaring. She did not know if he had recognized her; soon enough, he would. Abbot Malcolm accepted the prize in its leather casing from the frowning sheriff and walked toward her. The abbot of Inchfillan traditionally awarded the Golden Arrow to the winner.
“My dear,” Malcolm said, smiling as he held out the leather sheath. “A beautiful shot. And here is our arrow, back again.”
She nodded, and took the casing, drawing the arrow free. Of solid gold, it was shaped like a war arrow with a narrow tip, its metal fletching etched to resemble feathers. The gold was cool in her palm and gleamed clean and brilliant in the sunlight as she held it aloft to more cheering.
Then she drew off her cap and shook her braided hair free in a flaxen spill. The cheering was replaced by gasps.
De Soulis, seated on the platform, shouted out something. Laurie took a long step out of the crowd and raised his hands to clap them loudly. Gawain did the same. Eonan and the monks followed suit, along with all the residents of Elladoune and the forest, scattered throughout the crowd. The cheers and shouts arose, even more delighted and joyous than before.
“Oh, dear,” Malcolm said, standing beside her. He watched De Soulis, who had turned to one of his knights, pointing toward her and giving an order. “What now? You had best run, my girl.”
“Father Abbot.” Juliana shoved the Golden Arrow into his hand. The crowd shifted and scattered as the sheriff’s men walked toward her. “Go into the church and the safety of the abbey precinct. When the lads are released, hide them in the sanctuary of the church. Please—go!”
He nodded, aware of part of the scheme, although no one knew what she had planned. Turning, he hurried up the church steps.
Juliana reached down to her quiver and snatched a war arrow from it. She nocked the shaft quickly and raised the bow. Angling, she turned her back to the church steps. Only the abbot stood behind her, with a look of pure amazement on his face.
“Walter de Soulis!” she called out. Murmurings erupted in the audience. Some of those who had recognized her still believed she did not speak.
He froze in his chair on the platform. “Ah, the Swan Maiden has a voice after all! What is it you want?” he asked smoothly. “Ready to give us your oath of fealty?”
She narrowed her eyes and trained the arrow tip toward him. “Release my brothers to the abbot’s custody,” she called out.
De Soulis looked around. “Take her! And guard those boys—do not let them go!” Two knights advanced toward her, and another pair stepped forward to grab her brothers. Alec and Iain cried out and struggled.
“Stop! I will shoot him if I must!” she called out. The knights walking toward her halted uncertainly. She flexed her fingers on the bow wood. “You know I willna miss!”
Silence descended. She felt a hundred and more gazes upon her. Then Gawain stepped out of the crowd and walked toward her.
“Stop,” she told him, without taking her gaze from the sheriff. “Please,” she begged, when he kept coming.
“Juliana,” he said, standing within an arm’s length of her. He spoke quietly, so that only she could hear. “You have never shot a man.”
“I have never shot a bell before either,” she snapped. She changed her tone as he had, private and low. “But I struck it, and I can strike him. And he knows it. That armor he wears willna stop my aim. There are seams and laces, tiny openings—you know I can hit whatsoever I sight.” She kept the arrow pointed at De Soulis, who stiffened in his chair and glared at her. Her arms trembled but she did not let them waver.
“What will this prove?” Gawain asked.
“That he can be stopped,” she said. “That he canna be a tyrant here. I will only nick his skin. But I must show that his armor can be penetrated. I think—I hope—it can.”
“Jesu,” he said. “I thought you had gone mad, and meant to kill the man in revenge.” He sounded relieved.
“Then you dinna know me,” she said flatly.
“God knows I am trying,” he muttered. “But you have never been predictable.”
“ ’Tis time the people of this glen resisted him. He holds my brothers unfairly, and willna give them up. He will close Elladoune and cast the people back into the forest. And he burned Elladoune years ago—you know that, you were there!”
“Avenel!” De Soulis yelled. “Take her down! She is your wife, man—
this is foolish!” He laughed, though no one else did.
“My wife is in earnest, Sir Sheriff,” Gawain said. His calm voice projected over the crowd. “And she has a deadly aim.”
“Go away,” she told Gawain firmly, though she felt grateful for his steady presence beside her. “Leave me to this. You are one of them. You canna help me.”
“Juliana, please—”
“Gabhan,” she murmured plaintively, her gaze entirely on De Soulis. “You canna save me this time. I must do this. Alec and Iain are my brothers. My responsibility, nae yours. Mine.”
“I will do what I can for them. You risk your life here.”
“Go,” she said bluntly.
He stayed where he stood, a long step away. She felt his gaze penetrate her to her soul, but she could not look at him.
“Sir Sheriff,” she called out. “These people fear you, and that accursed armor you wear! No one will fight you, despite your cruelties. But if my father were alive, or my older brothers here, they wouldna fear you. And neither do I!”
De Soulis pointed at her. “You do not fear me, Swan Maiden,” he said, “because you understand magic.”
“Magic?” she asked. Insight came to her. “I understand the power of illusion—whether or not the illusion is true.”
She wondered if he would admit it. Suddenly she knew that his black armor had no mystical invincibility. Rumor invested it with power, and he used that advantage. She understood that, for she had relied upon the mysterious aura of the Swan Maiden to protect the forest rebels.
De Soulis smiled flatly, inclined his head. “Just so.”
Admittance enough, she thought. He watched her, his eyes piercing black, his countenance filled with anger at being publicly challenged. She faced him, arrow unswerving.
Her arms ached fiercely. The ache spread into her back and to her shaking legs. The compelling tension in the weapon demanded release soon. She breathed hard, as if she were running, but she would not give up.
“What do you want?” De Soulis growled. She knew then, by the lowering of his hand, that she had won.
“Let my brothers go,” she answered. “Here and now, into the sanctuary of Inchfillan. And dinna try to claim them again.”
He flicked his hand in a wave. A guard guided Alec and Iain away from the platform, even though De Soulis’s wife cried out and reached for them.
Keeping the arrow aimed, Juliana watched from the corner of her eye as her brothers walked through the crowd toward the church. The abbot ushered them into the shadowed foyer, then stood protectively in the doorway once they were inside.
Tears welled up in her eyes. She blinked them away. Her limbs trembled violently, but she kept the arrow directed.
“What now, love?” Gawain asked quietly.
Hearing that, she wanted only to turn to him, and could not. Would not. She was not certain herself what came next. Judging by De Soulis’s furious glare, as soon as she lowered the bow he would order his men after her. She had not thought this through entirely, she realized. Her plan had been born of desperation.
She slid her gaze around the crescent of people. To the right, she saw a cluster of familiar faces. Angus, Lucas, Eonan, other Highlanders from Elladoune, and the monks of Inchfillan had gathered together in the crowd. They began to draw apart slowly, forming a narrow aisle of escape.
Beyond them lay the sparkling surface of the loch.
Between her and that corridor to freedom stood Gawain.
She pulled the bowstring taut, aimed, and let go. The arrow slammed into the wood of the platform, just at De Soulis’s feet. He stood, shouting for his guards to capture her.
Juliana dropped the bow, whirled, and launched into a run, streaming past Gawain, bow clenched in her hand. He turned and winged out his arms to stop the guards who rushed toward her.
Running fast, she cleared the opening her friends made. The gap closed behind her as she headed toward the loch.
Her heels pounded the grass, quick and sure. Behind her, she could hear De Soulis screaming orders, heard chaos and shouting. Moments later, the distinct thudding of horses’ hooves sounded behind her.
To her left lay the blue expanse of the loch, but the shoreline was open here. She would be an easy target for bow shots. Ahead, trees spread away from the loch to join the forest. Beyond the copse was the cove, and past that, another meadow, and Elladoune. She ran toward the trees and safe cover.
Shouts sounded behind her, and an arrow thunked into the ground in front of her. She zigzagged between the tree trunks, surging onward.
Another arrow split the ground behind her. She stumbled through a green skirt of ferns as high as her knees, her booted feet crushing and cracking through the undergrowth.
Cool shadows enveloped her as she swung toward deeper forest, a dense thicket of greenish light. More arrows zinged by her, smacking into the undergrowth, whizzing past her ears.
She glanced back. Guards followed, some on horseback, others on foot, crashing through the quiet with heavy feet, burdened by armor and weaponry, bellowing after her to stop.
She never slowed, even when she felt the punch and sting of an arrow that tore through her side, ripping her tunic. The blow took her breath, and she staggered, but kept her feet, and ran on. Putting a hand to her waist, she saw blood on her fingers, but felt only a small, painful cut that she hoped was not deep.
Thrashing and shouting sounded everywhere now. She skittered sideways and headed down a steep slope. Her footing slipped, and she slid on her bottom into a bed of ferns.
Rising to her knees, she braced a hand at her side, for her wound wrenched painfully when she moved. Guards had reached the top of the hill, but they had not seen her. She stepped forward, ready to bolt.
A steel-clad arm snatched her from behind, clamping around her. She was slammed backward into a hard, armored body. Gasping with pain, she kicked fiercely, finding his shin. He grunted and dragged her into dense tree cover, falling with her into shadows.
Chapter Thirty
“If you kick me again,” Gawain muttered, “I may just leave you here.” He pulled her deeper into the thicket.
She twisted, staring up at him. “Gawain—oh, Gawain!”
“Hush,” he urged. He glanced at the slope, but saw no knights. Holding her, he ducked down into a nest of ferns at the base of an oak, hiding behind the breadth of the wide, ivy-covered trunk. “Be still.”
She wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder. Her breathing was fast and ragged. He stroked his hand over the tangled silk of her hair, immensely relieved to have her safe in his arms, at least for now.
He leaned his back against the oak, shrouded with her in shadow. Tense as a cat, motionless, he listened, and glanced over his shoulder.
Saplings quivered as the guards descended the wooded slope. They shouted, their voices echoing slightly. Gawain held her close and waited, his hand quiet on her hair.
Although the sheriff’s men searched perilously close to their hiding place, the knights soon departed, climbing back up the hill, rustling and calling as they left.
Gawain let out a long breath. “There, Swan Maid—it seems you needed one more rescue.”
She tightened her arms around his neck, and her little sob tore at his heart. Then she pulled away. “Go,” she said, skittering back. “I can get away.”
“Ho, come back here,” he said, and yanked her toward him into the shadow of the oak, gripping her around the waist.
Juliana cried out, clearly in pain. He took his hand away and swore, low and keen, at the blood darkening his palm.
“You are bow shot,” he ground out.
“ ’Tis naught,” she said quickly. “A nick only. Let me go.”
“Stay here. We must be certain they are gone.” He circled an arm around her, and with his other hand put pressure on the wound, located in the slim curve of her waist.
She winced and tried to shift away, but he held her tightly. “Leave me here,” she said
in a fierce whisper. “If you dinna join them soon, they will hunt you as well!”
“Will I leave you in danger to save my own hide?” he growled. “Do you think so little of me?”
She shook her head. “But you must go,” she murmured.
“Hush.” He tucked her head against his chest. “Just hush.”
She quieted, and he sat warily, listening for the return of the sheriff’s knights. He kept a hand over Juliana’s wound. The bleeding had stopped, but it would need attention.
After a while, certain of the quiet surrounding them, he exhaled. “They have gone elsewhere to look for you.”
“If they find me,” she said, “what then?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “What did you think would happen when you cooked up your scheme?”
“I hoped De Soulis would let my brothers go, and allow us to live in peace, if I could show that he was naught to fear.”
He wanted to laugh. He leaned his head back against the trunk and huffed out in disbelief. “There is more to defeating the man than proving his armor … invisible, as Iain says.”
“I know that. I couldna think what else to do.”
“You could have waited for me to do something about it.”
“I … we couldna trust you to help us.”
Gawain blew out a breath, wordless and remorseful. He slid his fingers through her hair. “You can,” he said hoarsely.
She closed her eyes. “ ’Tis hard to trust a Sassenach. Even you,” she added in a whisper.
He said nothing in reply, and pressed his brow to hers, realizing how much ground he had lost with her, how much he must tell her. He felt the pain of it like a wrench in his own gut.
“What would you have done,” she asked after a moment, “if I had shot De Soulis? Would you have captured me, as a prisoner and a criminal, or would you have let me go?”
He drew back. “He would not have been shot.”
“He would. I never miss my aim.”
