Susan King - [Celtic Nights 02] (40 page)

"Patrick was wounded, and Quentin nearly captured," James went on. "We had lost one of our own that morning, when you disappeared," he added. "We did not care to lose more."

"I am glad no one among you was killed," Gawain said. James said nothing. Drawing a deep breath, Gawain went on. "You knew that my fealty was originally to King Edward."

"You helped Isobel and me, and you defended her—and for that I will always owe you, no matter the rest," James said. "But you deserted us abruptly."

Gawain studied the flecks of foam in the ale as if it contained a map of life's mysteries. The air in the room seemed oppressive. He could relieve it with the simple truth.

His stepfather and stepbrothers would have already mollified James. They would have apologized, soothed him with logic, while screening what they wanted to hide to protect James—and themselves—from further distress.

But he was not like them, he knew that now. He wanted to deal only in clear, refreshing honesty. The truth had to be known. It might seal, as James had said, what was severed.

"We had skirmished with the English the day before," Gawain said. "Do you recall?"

"I do. You fought well. And left before dawn."

"We saw the faces of some of the men we killed, from the trees where we hid."

"Those deaths could not be helped."

"My stepbrother Geoffrey was among them," Gawain said bluntly. "I saw him fall. I went to their camp to find him." He drew a long breath. "One of our bow shots killed him. I do not know who loosed it. Mayhap even myself."

"Jesu," James breathed out. "Why did you not say?"

"Geoffrey came into Scotland to search for me," Gawain said. "My stepfather sent him. I was seen by the English knights and welcomed as if I had escaped from the enemy. I could not get back to you without leading them to you. And my brother was dead, Jamie," he murmured. "I took his body home."

James rubbed his fingers over his brow. "And then you had to stay and make amends."

"Aye," Gawain said curtly.

"Isobel swore you had good reason for what you did. With her gift of the Sight, she was sure that leaving our band of rogues had been a difficult decision for you. I assumed it was some dilemma of loyalty versus inheritance. A question of convenience."

"'Twas guilt and obligation."
And grief.

"I see. You did not betray us."

"Never that. I gave naught away."

"Were you suspected, or lauded for escaping rebels?"

"Both, actually. I stayed two months in the Tower of London for trangressing and aiding the enemy—specifically for helping you free Isobel from her captor. It ended with my formal apology. My stepfather circulated the rumor that your men had taken me captive. He wanted to spare the family more disgrace."

"So you decided to stay with the English."

"I had no choice. King Edward has a formidable temper. My family suffered because I helped Isobel, let alone what I did on behalf of your rebels. They will suffer, even now, if any of this becomes known. I must act cautiously. My mother is ill—I doubt she has the strength to bear any more strain from my quarter, after Geoffrey's death," he murmured.

"How much does Juliana know of this?"

"Very little," Gawain said. He sighed, aware that the damage to his marriage might be irrevocable. "I know I should have told her sooner. There are other matters that I have not confessed to her as well. She will not be pleased by any of it. But she must learn the truth sooner or later."

"Truth and cream," James said, "rise to the top. She has a few confessions to make to you, too, I think."

"I am sure of that," Gawain said wryly.

"Talk to her. She is still here in the abbey."

Gawain looked away. Relief and shame mingled in him; the urge to tell Juliana the truth was strong, but he knew that his secrecy had hurt and angered her. And he did not know how he could save his marriage if he must ruin Elladoune.

"I must leave now," James said, "since King Robert awaits my report, and he will be moving on soon. Though you, Sassenach, do not need to know that." He cocked a brow.

"I never heard it," Gawain said quietly. "I never saw you."

James nodded. "Isobel will be glad to know of our meeting," he said then. "She never doubted you."

"Even when you did."

"I did," James said. "And I was wrong, and glad of it."

Gawain stared into his cup. His throat tightened.

"We will meet again soon, I hope," James said. "I would stay if I could, but Isobel is expecting a child soon—I promised her I would be there."

Gawain smiled. "Tell her—give her my congratulations, and my apologies," he said. "For not being a finer friend."

"She holds no grudges where you are concerned. I only hope you can convince Juliana to do the same."

"She will have to come to that for herself, I think."

James huffed in rueful agreement. "I must ask a favor of you." He leaned forward. "In a way 'tis a question of loyalty again. You may have made a pledge to your king, but you also took a landing oath with Juliana."

"So I did." Gawain frowned, waiting.

"Thai makes us kinsmen by marriage, and makes you kin to her brothers as well. They need protection, especially the wee lads. I cannot stay here to make sure of it, but they must be taken out of the sheriff's keeping."

"I will do what I can," Gawain said. "Children should not have to suffer because men create war."

"True. So if some attempt is made to snatch them," James said, "look the other way."

Gawain nodded slowly. "Well enough."

James stood. "Farewell, then," he said. He went to the door and opened the latch, then looked back at Gawain. "Had you stayed for the Scots," he said musingly,
"Ach Dhia,
what a warrior for our side." He closed the door behind him.

* * *

When Gawain walked through the abbey yard, no one spoke to him. Monks who previously had been friendly now turned away. Laurie waited at the abbey gate, mounted on his brown stallion, with the dark bay, Gringolet, saddled beside him. The Lowlander's face was grim and watchful.

James was gone already. Gawain was not surprised, knowing his friend's habit of vanishing quickly. He was glad that James had pushed the matter to a conclusion. The truth had lifted an oppressive weight from his shoulders. The very air felt clearer to him.

But other shadows remained. He had to talk to Juliana, but he must approach it cautiously. Although he was certain of his heart regarding her, he was unsure how to resolve the conflict in his loyalties. Another day or two, he thought, would give him time to sort it through, and perhaps talk to De Soulis again. He would not hurt Juliana unduly—nor would he give her undue hope that might later be shattered.

A few swans wandered in the yard, as they often did, and Gawain walked without hesitation through their midst. A couple of the birds hissed, extending their necks and busking their wings, but he sensed no real threat. He knew they looked for food from a man they were now accustomed to seeing.

"I have naught to give you, Eimhir," he murmured as he bumped his knee against the large pen. She undulated her long neck and head and nipped at his leather pouch.

The swans waddled away from him, turning like a wave. Gawain glanced after them, and suddenly stopped in his progress.

Juliana walked into the yard, soon surrounded by a writhing, begging ring of white swans. She held out a palm full of grain and tipped it down, scattering seed.

She looked steadily at Gawain. He watched her without moving, though his heart slammed as if he had been running.

Like a pale golden flower in a garden of white blossoms, she stood for a long moment, her hair shining in the sun, her body long and slender in a flax-colored gown. He knew those graceful, lithe curves so well that his own body reacted at the mere sight. His heart thundered harder.

He took a step toward her. A tilt of her chin lengthened her fragile neck. Then she spun away from him deliberately, hair swinging, sleek gold. Aloof and silent, she walked away.

He wanted to go after her and ask the question that burned in his mind—
Will you love me, trust me, in spite of what you have heard of me?
—but he already had his answer.

Pride made it impossible for him to go after her now. He would wait until he had cooled, until she had cooled. He would find her here tomorrow.

A moment later, he leaped into the saddle and turned his horse's head. With Laurie following, he rode hard through the abbey gate.

Chapter 28

Sighting the centermost circle of the target—a painted cloth nailed to a tree—Juliana raised her bow with the arrow nocked. She adjusted her stance, squared her shoulders and hips, and grew still to sense the wind and the quiet. Drawing back the bowstring, she opened her fingers.

The arrow whistled away to thwack into the center of the target, leaves spitting downward as the force jarred the tree.

Applause sounded from above. Angus, Lucas, and Lucas's three adolescent sons peered from the dense leafy canopy overhead. Seated on a log nearby, Mairead's two daughters and two sons giggled and clapped. Juliana smiled, then chose another arrow from the quiver on the ground.

"By Saint Fillan, the girl never misses!" Angus said from his perch on the branch of a huge oak. "Try the wands next, with that other target. Split them if you can."

"And step back farther," Lucas advised. "You are too close. That last shot was no challenge for you!"

"None of it challenges her," one of Lucas's sons said. "Someday we will learn her secret, and then we will have to win the Golden Arrow from her—for she will surely take it from the Sassenachs at the fair!" Laughter echoed among the trees.

"Hush, you," she said, looking up, "or the Sassenachs will take you instead."

Walking toward another target, she stepped back farther to please her critics. She adjusted her leather wrist guard, then turned her toes inward for better balance. Narrowing her eyes, she studied the new target the men had set up for her.

Four stripped saplings were stuck upright in the ground in front of a tall mound of raw earth. The difficult challenge, she knew, was to nick a wand as the arrow went past into the target.

For a moment, she considered the shot. When she felt ready, she chose a steel-tipped, pointed war arrow, a type she rarely used. Neither the wedged hunting arrows nor the blunted practice arrows that she preferred, with their pear-shaped ends and short points, would do for this.

Nocking the arrow, she lifted the bow and tilted it, drawing back the string in one fluid movement. The arrow balanced lightly between the bow shelf and her drawing fingers. She sensed the tension, the spring, her own readiness.

Each step came so easily to her, after years of practice, that she gave little thought to the individual elements. Like swimming—or like making love, she thought with a sigh—archery was a physical pleasure that felt natural and exhilarating. She was fortunate to be able to bring innate grace and strength to it, and she preferred to let instinct and intuition guide her.

That was the only secret she knew. When a shot hit the center mark, she had given herself over to instinct; when a shot missed, she had applied too much logic and disrupted the essence of the act. No one had taught her that aspect, and it was not something she knew how to teach in turn.

Although she did not bow hunt, and had never fought in a skirmish, she shot often at targets, and rarely missed. Most of the men she knew, kinsmen and friends, admitted that she was the most accurate shot they had ever seen. She had simply been born to the ability, and accepted that, and was grateful for the gift.

Gazing at one wand, she lifted the bow, tilted it, and pulled the string to her jaw. She sighted along the arrow to its deadly point, and beyond to the sapling. When she felt the tension peak, she let go. The arrow struck the wand in passing, biting into it, and embedded in the turf mound.

Loading another war arrow, she shot again, splitting the next wand in half. Whistles filtered through the treetops. She missed the third, heard her audience's dismay, and began again.