Susan King - [Celtic Nights 02] (7 page)

Juliana turned away, stifling a sob. She too was caught, though her net was woven of secrets.

Chapter 5

A golden chain encircled her neck, yet it was a captive's chain nonetheless. Similar links bound her wrists and hands, which rested motionless in her lap. The white satin gown, embroidered with silver threads, was the finest garment she had ever worn. A close cap of white feathers covered her head, and her pale hair spilled down her back.

The precious chains and beautiful costume were meant to transform her into a human version of the swan sitting beside her in the cart. Juliana lifted her head proudly, determined to hide her fear and disgrace from her English enemies.

She swayed inside the pony-drawn cart, feeling dizzy and dull-witted. The watered wine given her by one of the guards had been bitter with added herbs, which sapped her energy and made her feel vague and slow, as if she floated through a dream.

Yet she felt as if she were caught in a nightmare.

The cart rumbled along a torchlit corridor inside the king's castle. Servants bearing large platters of food hurried past. Ahead, two men carried a huge tray displaying a castle sculpted of marzipan and adorned with sugared fruits.

Juliana glanced at the large male mute swan settled beside her in a nest of green embroidered satin. A gold chain around his long neck was attached to an upright wooden post. Artan ruffled his feathers nervously when one of the ponies whickered.

Juliana made a wordless, soothing sound. Artan lifted his orange beak, its base knobbed in black. He chirred and quieted.

Beyond a set of tall oaken doors, she heard the sounds of music, laughter, and the clatter of dishes and knives. She knew that a banquet was in progress, attended by the king's guests.

Though her head spun from the wine, she sat aloof while a serving woman arranged the sumptuous white gown around her and adjusted the cap of feathers. Artan hissed and the woman stepped back hastily.

"That swan is a beautiful beast, but mean," the woman said. "But ah, the lady looks like a princess. Seamstresses and artists worked day and night to make this gown and the nest. 'Tis a shame, I say, that the king only means to make a fool of her and her Scottish people with all this costly finery."

"Since when are ye the king's advisor?" one of the guards scoffed. "Go tell the chamberlain that the girl is ready to be presented to king and court." The woman hurried away.

"Here, pretty bird," one guard said, chortling as he approached. He reached out and stroked Juliana's shoulder with damp fingers. She jerked away.

Artan hissed and swiped a wing at the guard, who jumped back. "That foul-tempered swan belongs on the king's table," he muttered. "And the Swan Maiden would do well in a man's bed."

"King Edward wants her brought pure and maidensome to his feast, or we will all be blamed," the first said. "Keep yer hands away. 'Tis eerie the way that swan defends her. Chills my bones, it do, and I'll not touch her, king or none."

Juliana fisted her hands in her lap, gold chains chinking. Several days had passed since she and Artan had been captured in Scotland. The journey south to Newcastle had been a blur of rough cart rides and chafing ropes, aching muscles and constant fear, infrequent meals of stale bread and cheese. And too often, she had been given wine mixed with bitter herbs, which induced apathy, compliance, and bouts of heavy sleep.

Walter de Soulis, who had accompanied her south, had ordered the dosings in the wine. She had tried to refuse in silence, but the drinks were forced down her throat.

White satin, golden chains, and the swan Artan beside her were an improvement, but she did not know what King Edward intended for her. She had been told that he was pleased by the capture of Juliana Lindsay, daughter of a Scots rebel and cousin of another. Would she be imprisoned, she wondered, or sealed in a convent—or put to death as a witch or a rebel?

She shivered at her own thoughts, and turned her attention to Artan beside her, smoothing his feathers.

The Swan Maiden, the English called her, claiming that she knew magical arts. Only fools, she thought bitterly, believed in such things. If she truly had magic, she would have escaped her captivity already.

And if the king discovered the truth about her, she thought, frowning, he would surely order her execution.

The doors of the banquet chamber opened wide, and the cart lurched as the ponies moved ahead. The high-vaulted chamber was filled with torchlight and shadows, voices and distant faces. Clarion trumpets blared suddenly. The swan, startled, ruffled his feathers and hissed again.

She placed a hand on his back and he busked his wings slightly. As the cart rumbled over the floor tiles, Juliana lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders.

* * *

A fanfare of trumpets accompanied the arrival of servants carrying yet another course arranged on platters. Gawain held up a hand in refusal when a servant offered a tray to him and to his stepfather and stepbrothers. Ground pork baked in colored batters in the shapes of fruits seemed highly unappealing, he thought, and turned away.

"No more appetite?" his stepfather, Henry Avenel, asked as he accepted a serving on his own bread trencher.

Gawain swirled the last of the red Gascony wine in his silver goblet. "I have little taste for wondrous foods," he said wryly. "I made my appearance here, ate something in good company, and now I am ready to be quit of this feast."

"So early? Look at the marvelous confection coming through those doors now—what... it looks like a girl made all of marzipan!" Robin Avenel, who had been knighted but a few weeks ago in London, craned his neck to peer through the crowds.

Gawain did not even glance at the newest wonder being offered. Edmund, Robin's older brother, slid them a mildly interested glance and turned back to the servant girl standing beside him, smiling at her and running his fingers along her arm.

He wondered how Edmund could concentrate on seduction amid the din of musical instruments and the chatter of servants and guests. Most of those attending the feast in the hall at Newcastle were knights and soldiers of the king's army, journeying north to Scotland. They needed a grand celebration, he thought, to relieve the tedium of a military existence.

"Gawain," his stepfather said, "you stayed with the barbaric Scots too long this time. If you are not enjoying the feast and the spectacle here, your tastes have turned far too simple."

"They always were simple," Gawain said. "You forget that before I was counted among your sons, and among the king's knights, I was a lad in those barbaric hills." He rarely made reference to that, he thought; the wine had loosened his tongue.

"I have not forgotten," Henry said sternly. "You had best pray the king does not remember you are not my own son."

"They say King Edward has another surprise planned for the evening." Robin leaned forward. "I wonder if this is it." He seemed frustrated when the other Avenels did not bother to look.

"Another
subtletie
sculpted from spun sugar and almond paste?" Gawain asked. The crowd blocked his view. "Another leaping acrobat? 'Twill be lost on this lot, Robin. Most of them are too drunk to care what else is brought out."

"Grand as it is, this feast hardly compares with the king's Swan Feast in London last May, when he knighted three hundred men—our Robin among them," Henry added proudly, smiling at his youngest son. "The king threw a sumptuous celebration there. This one is modest, but the food is good. The Plantagenet court, wherever it rests, does maintain quality."

"In London, the king had a pair of swans in golden chains brought to him, and he swore to destroy Robert Bruce and rule Scotland, or die in the attempt," Edmund said. "I did hear that the king will renew that vow on another pair of swans, since Newcastle is his last stop before he enters Scotland once again."

"Then I will definitely leave early," Gawain said. "Swan meat is tough and not to my liking." The vow, rather than the meat, was his true objection.

"Aye, swans are out of season now—their flesh is most tender in the autumn," Edmund said. "But the king has talented cooks, and he brings them along when he travels. Each dish here has been more artfully crafted than the last."

"These knights are worthy men, and deserve a feast to lift their spirits," Henry agreed.

Gawain frowned. "The king's true intention is to attract new knights for his army and contributions for his Scottish war."

"'Tis wise to be generous toward the king who has recently granted you king's peace." Henry dipped his fingers in a bowl of rosewater, raising his brow at Gawain.

"I am grateful for the king's goodwill," Gawain said carefully. "I simply wish to leave the feast early. In the morning, I will journey north."

"The king has ordered you to Scotland already?" Robin asked.

"Aye. Gawain has been given a post as a commander," Edmund said, "despite his infamous transgressions."

"The king is desperate," Gawain murmured.

"See, some good came of you bowing that stubborn head of yours and begging king's peace," Henry said. "Your Scottish birth could have cost us all our heads, now that Robert Bruce has so boldly claimed Scotland for his own. Edward is furious toward any who have even remote ties to the Scots."

"Who can blame him," Gawain said, mildly and ambiguously, meaning the King of Scots.

Henry frowned. "I defended your actions in Scotland because your mother was worried about you. She still hopes the king will offer you one of his fair cousins for a bride. But you must behave yourself for that to happen," he added.

"I doubt my obeisance will earn me a bride with royal blood, if that is what you are hoping, sir."

"Whoever you marry, your lady mother will be heartsore if you are not happily wed soon, before she—" Henry stopped abruptly, and took a swift draught of wine.

"I know," Gawain said quietly. For his mother's sake, in her last days, he should marry any suitable lady quickly and find affection for his wife afterward. He had given little thought to marriage, busy campaigning in Scotland for Edward. He had wooed and trysted with high-born ladies and heath-born lasses, but had never found a love incandescent enough to light his life, and hers, until the end of their days.

Why hunger for something so rare, he thought sourly, the stuff of legends and courtly tales; most of those stories ended badly anyway. He took a swallow of wine and watched the throng around him.

He had seen true love once, seen its power and its grace. The magic between James Lindsay and Isobel Seton was the most sacred thing he had ever witnessed. He had basked in its reflected warmth, and envied it, and hoped someday to have even a glimmer of that in his own life. Now he realized that he had been a little in love with Isobel himself.

Months ago he had spent a great deal of time with them. The choice he had made had resulted in his stepbrother's death, his own imprisonment, and his humiliating plea before the king.

Even so, he would give anything to restore that lost friendship. Most likely James and Isobel never wanted to see him again.

He shoved a hand through his thick dark hair, realizing that he was a bit more drunk than he thought. Best consider marriage in the light of day, he decided, when his head was cooler and his heart was not quite so aware of its weight of sadness.

If his mother wanted him wed, so be it. He would have fetched down the moon for her if she had asked.

"Perhaps the king will grant Gawain some fair demoiselle now that our brother is back in grace," Edmund remarked. Gawain raised his wine cup in salute while the others chuckled. The wine wet his lips, but the smile did not touch his eyes.

"We cannot hope for that now," Henry said. "We can only hope the king will have no cause to doubt your fealty in the future."

"Certes," Gawain answered. "He will not."

"Will you see your mother before you go north? She will be distressed to learn that you are leaving again so soon. She... was not well again last week when I was there."

"I will visit her tomorrow." Gawain stood and stepped outside the bench. "Good night, sir. Edmund, luck to you. Sir Robin, watch your back, lad." He clapped his youngest stepbrother on the shoulder. "New-made knights are not as invincible as they think." He smiled, just as the trumpets blared to announce another course.