Susan King - [Celtic Nights 02] (10 page)

The king clapped his hands and came forward. "Well done," he announced. "Now take your maiden swan away, and render her a maiden no more." He walked away with a sly smile.

"Sire," Gawain said. "Might my... lady wife be freed from her chains now?"

Edward ignored him and beckoned to the musicians to play again, resuming his seat while servants rushed to pour wine into his goblet and offer him trays of sweetmeats.

Gawain stood beside Juliana, as silent as she was. The doors of the chamber opened wide as the next cart was brought forward, bearing a huge confection, a fruit-bedecked castle.

The entertainment he and Juliana had provided had ended.

One of the guards approached Gawain. "She's yers to take home, sir, but she is still a prisoner. An escort will go with ye tonight. Orders will be delivered by messenger in the morning. For now, we will wait in the outer courtyard."

As the man turned away, Gawain thought of something and followed him, out of Juliana's range of hearing. She waited for him, standing, wavering slightly.

"Sir!" Gawain placed a gold coin in the man's hand. "Make certain that the swan is taken to the river and released, rather than taken to the kitchen," he said in a quiet, urgent tone.

The guard nodded thoughtfully. "For good coin, anything can be done. I will see to it. The king can eat some other swan on the morrow, eh?" He winked.

"My thanks." Gawain walked back to Juliana and took her arm to guide her out of the hall. She glanced at the swan with a whimper, stumbling, her distress obvious.

"Come, my lady." He urged her toward the door.

She faltered beside him, and he realized that she must have been given some sort of potion to weaken her. He swept her up into his arms and carried her through the huge doorway.

He hurried past servants, past carts loaded with dirty platters and soggy bread trenchers. Striding through a torchlit hallway, he took some stairs that led to the courtyard.

The girl rode silently in his arms. Her golden chains chimed in rhythm with his footsteps as he descended the steps. He walked out into the cool, rainy darkness and set her down, and she leaned against him wearily.

"Not much longer," he said, looking down at her.

A guard appeared, the man with whom he had previously spoken about the swan. He led Gawain's own horses, both saddled: Gringolet, a dark bay, a sturdy destrier from his father's stables; and Galienne, a gray palfrey, a temperate mare that Gawain often rode himself to spare the warhorse.

"'Tis done, sir, what ye asked of me," the guard said. "I saw to the matter myself. 'Twill be released in the morn."

"My thanks, man." The guard drew the palfrey forward and Gawain assisted Juliana into the saddle. "She is called Galienne," he said. "Can you ride?"

She slid him a look that said the question was ridiculous, and took the reins in her manacled hands, turning the horse's head. The rain had flattened the feathers on her small cap, and turned her golden hair to sopping strands. Draped in the white satin gown, her back was straight, her hands amazingly sure.

Aye, he thought admiringly, she could ride very well.

He bounded into Gringolet's saddle and walked him forward to stand beside the palfrey. Unfastening his black cloak, Gawain swept it around Juliana's shoulders and pulled up the hood.

She looked at him, quick and wary.

"You are wet," he said simply. His stepfather and stepbrothers strode into the courtyard. Gawain waited while they mounted their horses.

All the while, his glance repeatedly strayed toward his silent, weary, mysterious bride.

Chapter 7

The patter of rain and the pounding of the horses' hooves on the cobbled stones seemed loud in the night-dark streets of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Juliana rode at the center of a group of guards and the Avenel kinsmen. She recognized the younger of the men as Sir Robert—Robin, the others called him.

Gawain rode ahead of her through the Black Gate that led out of the castle and into the walled town, where cobbled streets, crowded with houses, looked slick in the rain. One of the guards led her horse, though she could have handled her biddable mount.

No one spoke to her, and she kept silent. She had not spoken in so long that she wondered if her voice had grown weak from disuse. She shivered in the cool rain, grateful for the cloak that Gawain had given her.

He rode ahead of her, his head bare, his shoulders broad. She glanced at him often, aware of a tenuous bond. Her husband—the word seemed strangely ominous now. Dread sat like a stone in her as she wondered what he would demand on their wedding night.

A guard carried a torch ahead of them, but it scarcely pierced the rain and shadows. The massive bulk of a church thrust into the night, and the river gleamed like a ribbon in the distance.

The riders followed a curving, steep side lane and halted before a whitewashed, timbered building whose third level canted over the street. The door opened, golden light pouring over the wet cobblestones. A woman waited as the men dismounted, and a boy came out of the house to lead the horses away.

Gawain turned to Juliana and held up his arms to lift her down. "This is the inn where my kinsmen and I have been staying. We will spend the night here." His hands braced her waist.

She slid down from the horse, and would not look at him. He led her toward the inn, and the woman stood back as they entered a dim, low-ceilinged room.

"Greetings, Dame Bette," Gawain said.

"Greetings, sir. I see ye brought a guest from the king's feast." Bette shut and latched the door and turned. She was sturdy, with gray hair haloing out from a white kerchief, and a dark gown. She appraised Juliana with a fast glance. "I do not have a free chamber for her. Who is she with? Sir Henry and the rest have gone to an upper chamber. He's called for hot wine, and says he wants to see ye right away."

Gawain lifted his cloak from Juliana's shoulders, hanging it on a wall peg by the door, and then brushed the raindrops from the sleeves of his dark tunic. Juliana turned to face Bette, hands joined in front of her by the golden chain.

"By the saints, she is chained!" Bette said. "And wearing feathers! Is she a mummer? Eek, sir—is she a harlot?"

"She is a captive of the king. We have the keeping of her."

"A prisoner! We've no dungeon here! The crown will owe us for her boarding, and it be the very devil to collect it from the royal accounting clerk at the Sand Gate. That man is a lizard."

"The crown owes you naught for her keep," Gawain replied. "I will pay. She is my bride. A gift from the king."

"Bride." Bette stared at him. Then she peered at Juliana, who stared boldly back at her. "Well, she is not ughsome, and may please a man, but Lord bless us, she is a criminal!"

"She is only a rebel Scotswoman."

Bride, Juliana thought. Scotswoman. Rebel. He had not bothered to say her name, though he knew it. She frowned.

Bette looked skeptical. "Well, she needs a bath. I'll take her to yer bedchamber, and wish ye luck of yer marriage."

"My thanks," he said. "Let her bathe in privacy, while I meet with Sir Henry. And bring her a hot meal, if you will." He took the woman's hand, and Juliana saw the flash of a coin. Bette nodded and blushed like a young girl. Gawain crossed the room and went up the stairs.

"Come dear, ye must be tired," Bette said, taking her arm. "And how are ye to bathe, in them chains? We cannot get that gown off of ye, and 'tis too fine to cut. Well, ye'll wash as ye can. Tsk," she added, scanning her critically from head to foot. "Why are ye dressed so? Ye look like a duck."

* * *

"From what the king's chamberlain told me as I was leaving the castle," Henry said, "Walter de Soulis will travel north with you and the lady, bringing an escort of men."

"Walter de Soulis?" Gawain asked sharply. He poured himself a cup of heated wine, watered and spiced, a soothing drink that his father preferred before bedtime. Given the events of the evening, he would have opted for something far stronger.

"Aye, he is the king's sheriff in the shire where the girl—your, ah, wife—comes from," Henry said. "Edmund knows something of it. Ned?"

"I inquired about the girl in the hall," Edmund said. "A shameful farce, that wedding. You saved her from a poor fate, if one of those sots had gotten her for his own."

"We know you did not mean to marry her," Robin said. He sat on a stool beside the fire. "Though that may not be so bad—she is a pretty chit."

"Lady," Gawain said irritably. "Demoiselle. Girl. Lass, if you will. She is not a chit. You are a knight now, not a boor with a sword."

Robin gaped at him, and Henry held up a hand for peace. Gawain turned away and sloshed more wine into his cup. He did not intend to drink it all, but he needed something to do.

"At any rate," Edmund said into the tense silence, "this De Soulis has been appointed the first Master of Swans in Scotland—an honorary title, I think, since a sheriff has no leisure to tend royal swans in Scotland during a war effort."

"The king seized upon the symbolic importance of swans last May, when he held his first Feast of the Swan in London," Henry said. "No doubt that is behind this appointment."

Gawain downed a long draught. "I know De Soulis. He burned Elladoune Castle the night that I was reported for aiding rebels. Juliana Lindsay lived there. 'Tis where I first saw her."

"By the saints! Did you help her that night?" Henry asked. "You never mentioned that detail before, as I recall."

Gawain shrugged. "Her, and some others—a mother and children who escaped while their home was being torched. I paid for it with a public apology. 'Tis done."

"Not quite," Henry replied quietly. Gawain glanced at his stepfather, whose hazel eyes were piercing, though his manner was calm, as usual. "Now you've met the girl again, and you have married her by king's order—and you must deal with the man who accused you years ago. Not done at all, is it?" Henry frowned.

Gawain sipped. The spiced wine burned a sweet path down his throat. "What else do we know about this girl?"

"She is yours to keep, by legal and sacred bond," Henry said. "That much we know."

"Wonderful news," Gawain snapped. He flickered a glance at his stepfather, who watched him with grim sympathy.

"Some good may come of this."

"'Tis a shock to find myself wed," Gawain admitted. "But if all that comes of it is my lady mother's contentment, then 'tis enough." He glanced around, and saw sober nods.

"True," Henry agreed quietly. "Ned, what more did you learn about Gawain's bride?"

"She lives in a place called Inchfillan Abbey, under the care of a kinsman, an Augustinian abbot."

"He's wed a nun?" Robin asked.

"Nay, the abbot is her guardian. De Soulis took her brothers into custody as well, before he brought her south with that mute swan. King Edward requested a pair of Scottish swans, and his Master of Swans obtained them."

"De Soulis has a poor sense of humor," Gawain drawled.

"One of the guards said that the girl is called the Swan Maiden in the area where she lives," Edmund said, and shrugged. "I do not know why."

Gawain swirled the wine in his cup. He knew exactly where that epithet came from. "Her brothers were taken? I heard there were two Lindsays, older than her, running with Robert Bruce."

James Lindsay had mentioned his cousins. Gawain shook his head slightly as he thought of the irony in this sure tangle.

"Now you have the responsibility of her," Robin said. "But how are you going to transform her into a loyal English lady?"

"I do not think that can be done at all, frankly." Gawain took a stool beside the fire, settling into the slung leather seat and resting his elbows on his knees. "I only meant to free her and send her back to Scotland. I never counted on the rest."

"You will return her to Scotland—and you will have custody of her for the rest of your life." Henry paced the room, rubbing his jaw. His brown hair had grown more gray, Gawain noticed. Henry was a handsome and skilled man, a paragon of knighthood in Edward's court. His advice and friendship were valued by the king, and his military expertise was respected by many. Gawain considered himself fortunate to call him stepfather and mentor.