The Swan Maiden Page 5

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.

  “Wait, Gawain,” Robin said. “Something truly magnificent has been brought into the hall. Do not go just yet.”

  “A few moments more, then,” Gawain agreed, aware that his departure might attract the king’s unwanted notice.

  A pony-drawn cart draped in sumptuous fabrics had crossed the length of the great hall, wooden wheels creaking. Guards walked in front, blocking Gawain’s view of the inside of the cart. When it finally rolled closer to where he stood, he drew in his breath, astonished. This was what Robin had urged them to see.

  In the center of a lush green nest sat a blond young woman and a large swan. Both were bound by golden chains. On a wooden pole above them, a yellow banner showing the red lion rampant of Scotland fluttered with the cart’s movement.

  Gowned in white satin trimmed in silver embroidery, the girl sparkled like a diamond. A cap of white feathers framed her face, and her smooth hair had the delicate sheen of purest gold.

  “An enchanted swan for the king’s feast,” Edmund said. “I swear I have never seen a sight so lovely.”

  The girl and the swan sat so still that for a moment Gawain thought they were glittering statues. Then the bird fluttered its wings, and the girl reached out to touch its snowy back.

  She turned her head, and Gawain saw her face more clearly. Perfection, he thought impulsively. Then he saw, despite the proud tilt of her head, that her eyes were wide with fright. He frowned.

  The crowd applauded as the cart rolled nearer. Gawain stood grim and still, watching. The girl’s stiff, straight back, her apprehensive gaze, the heavy locks on the chains, and the presence of the guards made him doubt this was mere entertainment.

  She was a breathtaking sight, but Gawain suspected that the king intended only to mock Scotland and humiliate the girl. The cart halted near the king’s table, and Edward nodded with a smug smile. Gawain stayed where he was and studied the girl from his closer vantage point.

  With a shock of certainty, he realized that he had seen her years ago. A face so exquisite was not easily forgotten.

  He narrowed his eyes, studying her. Aye, she was Juliana Lindsay of Elladoune, he thought, or her double. Six years had barely changed her, though she was thinner. He recognized the oval face, the small, stubborn chin, the wide mouth, the dark-hued eyes, and the lean grace of her frame. But her hair was more pale than he remembered, with a remarkable sheen, like gold washed with silver.

  How did she come to be here at the king’s feast, dressed like a swan and chained like a captive? He remembered that James Lindsay had once mentioned that he was cousins with the Lindsays of Elladoune. He wondered if Jamie knew that his young cousin was being offered like plunder to a king who hated Scots.

  “Is she artfully made from spun sugar and almond paste?” Robin asked, staring.

  “Far too real,” Gawain said grimly. “I know her.”

  “Who is she?” Henry demanded.

  “A Scotswoman, the daughter of a rebel. I met her years ago.” Gawain fisted a hand, silent and fierce, wondering if he and James Lindsay might have been able to prevent this mockery had he stayed with them in Scotland.

  “ ’Tis madness to chain a young girl so,” Henry said.

  “Indeed,” Gawain growled. He walked around the table toward the open area surrounding the cart. He wanted to help, but was not certain what to do, short of grabbing her and carrying her out the door. Surely there was some better solution.

  The king stood. The guests rose too, in a rush of movement, dropping napkins and setting down their goblets and half-eaten portions of food.

  “What have we here?” the king asked in a smooth, rehearsed tone. “A swan … and a Swan Maiden. Welcome to our celebration.” He gestured brusquely. A servant pulled the huge carved chair aside and the king walked around the table.

  Edward approached the cart, a tall, thin man, hands folded behind his back. Torchlight gleamed on his white hair, and on the jeweled collar over his magenta tunic. Age and illness bowed his shoulders.

  “The sight of such a beautiful woman will surely stir our knights to thoughts of … victory over Scotland,” Edward murmured. A ripple of low laughter followed.

  Gawain frowned, watching the king pace in front of the cart. Edward peered at Juliana as if she were one of the strange beasts kept in the little zoo in the Tower of London. The girl straightened her head and back as gracefully as the swan beside her.

  The bird moved then, extending its neck and hissing loudly. It batted a wing at Edward, who stepped back hastily. The guards and some of the advisors rushed forward, but the king waved them away and resumed his stroll.

  “All the swans in England,” Edward said, “belong to the king. No one disputes that. These two swans”—he emphasized the last word—“were taken in Scotland. Scottish swans also belong exclusively to the king of England. As does the land of Scotland itself.” His voice rose, and he lifted his hand.

  “I swore in London weeks past upon a pair of swans,” he declared. “I swear again before God and this company, and upon this
swan and Swan Maiden, that I will quell Scotland and the rebel Robert Bruce. All men here, swear the same with me!”

  Throughout the hall, hundreds of knights repeated the king’s words in an echoing, massive single voice. Gawain stood silent while Henry and his stepbrothers made the vow as well.

  The king rounded upon the girl, his face flushed. She stared boldly back at him. Gawain watched her reaction with keen approval.

  The swan hissed, flapping his wings. Edward raised a hand, avoiding the swan, and stroked the girl’s head, cooing. She batted his hand away firmly. The smack was audible.

  Gasps echoed around the room.

  With a fixed smile, Edward turned to his guests. “The Swan Maiden wants taming,” he said. “We shall choose an English knight for the task. She will be brought to rule by him, just as her rebellious nation will be ruled by his king.” He looked around the hall. “Whoever can tame this Scottish swan shall have her. Come forward and try!”

  Several knights stood, and more followed suit. The king beckoned them forward. Gawain stood not far from the girl’s cart, motionless. Even when Henry urged his sons to go forward, Gawain did not move. He had no interest in this cruel game, and no taste for dominating a woman.

  As the men gathered to form a line, Gawain recognized many of them by name or by sight. Some were so drunk that they swayed and stumbled. And some, Gawain knew, hated Scots as virulently as Edward Plantagenet.

  He looked at Juliana Lindsay again, and saw her face grow pale. Cold fury rose in him. He could not leave now—and he could not stand here and watch this.

  He stepped forward.

  Chapter Six

  She sat straight and wary, greeting each knight in turn with cool silence. One after another they came toward her, some bumbling and drunken, a few edgy and intense. Despite the haze of the herbal potion, she maintained dignity and quiet.

  Most advances or overtures she ignored until the knights walked away to echoes of laughter. Others were bolder, rougher, pulling on her, even caressing her. Laughter rippled out like haunting music, low male voices with scarcely a female titter among them. Her sense of desperation and fear grew.

  She batted hands away, turned her head to avoid drunken kisses. Beside her, the swan hissed continually, rocking his head sinuously on his neck, raising his wings to strike blows.

  One of the men tried to lift her, and Artan lunged, his wing striking the man’s forearm. Juliana heard the sickening crack of bone. The man howled, grabbing at his arm and stepping back.

  “My wrist! The bird has snapped my wrist!” he howled. Some of those watching laughed, while some saluted the swan’s prowess.

  Another knight came forward and yanked on her arm. Juliana shook free of his grip, while Artan flapped his wings and snaked out his neck. The knight stepped out of the swan’s reach and stroked Juliana’s face, making cooing noises.

  In a fury of anger and instinct, she bit his finger.

  The man shrieked and jerked back his arm to strike her. In that moment, a dark-haired knight stepped out of the crowd and strode forward, his hand on the hilt of his dagger.

  “Leave her be,” he growled.

  “Wild swan bitch,” the other man muttered. “She cannot be tamed—I leave her to you, Avenel!” He stumbled away.

  The knight in black stepped back into the crowd, watching Juliana steadily. She stared at him, wiping the back of her hand over her mouth, her hair wisping over her eyes. His face seemed familiar, yet she could not place the meeting or name the man.

  Even without that protective gesture, she might have noticed him. He was a raven among peacocks, dressed in black amid the brightly garbed knights. Taller than average, broad-shouldered and lean, he was unsmiling, while the others grinned and chatted. His dark eyes were intense, and glossy black hair framed a face of chiseled masculine beauty. Quiet power emanated from him.

  Yet he stood awaiting his own turn with her. Juliana looked away. His gesture was possessive, not protective.

  Another knight came toward the cart and slurred a greeting. He reached out and grabbed her arm.

  “One night in my bed will tame her! Come here, little swan!” The audience laughed and called out encouragements.

  Juliana kicked and struggled, and Artan hissed, straining at his chain. The knight lifted an arm to defend against a powerful wing blow, dragging Juliana halfway out of the cart.

  “Release her,” the king ordered. “This grows tedious. ’Tis poor chivalry and poor spectacle. Move on. Next!”

  The knight set her roughly on her feet on the floor and walked away muttering. Juliana leaned against the cart, legs shaking.

  “The Swan Maiden needs taming, and requires a lesson,” Edward called out. “This display has been amusing, but there are priests and ladies among us. We cannot offend them. Who here can win her obedience—and her love?”

  Juliana stood straight, though her head spun and her knees were weak. She waited, proud and still, neck and shoulders tensing beneath the weight of the collar and chains.

  A knight stepped forward, a young man with light brown hair and a pretty face that would mature into handsomeness. Artan stretched his neck to utter a snakelike hiss, widening his wings.

  “My—my lady,” the knight said. “I wish you no harm.”

  She leaned her head against the cart, feeling dull-witted and weary. Artan hissed. The knight glanced nervously at the bird. “Robin … Sir Robert Avenel is my name. My stepbrother is Sir Gawain Avenel, the man who just championed you. I would be your champion, too.” He smiled awkwardly.

  Her glance flickered toward Gawain Avenel, the knight in black, who watched with a grim frown.

  “If you please, my lady, consent to come with me.” The young knight lifted a hand toward her.

  Artan lashed out and bit him. Robert leaped back, shaking his hand.

  “Watch, pup, and see how ’tis done,” another knight called, this one a broad man in a blue surcoat. He shoved Robert aside and grabbed Juliana’s hand. He kissed her fingers, his lips hot and repulsive.

  “Sweeting, let me show you the pleasures of captivity.” He stroked her feathered cap. “Come with me, and discover delight.”

  Juliana jerked away from his touch. Artan lurched at him. Swearing, the knight stepped back.

  “With that devil swan and a black knight to protect her, no man can gain the lady,” he muttered. “Avenel, see if you fare any better!”

  The dark knight came toward her. He reached out, as had the others. Juliana expected Artan to lash out and bite him.

  Avenel opened his closed fist and sprinkled bits of bread inside the cart. Artan snatched at the food.

  The knight cocked a brow and looked at Juliana. “Are you hungry?” he murmured. “I can fetch something more appealing than bread crumbs, if you wish.”

  Surprised, she shook her head.

  “I imagine you would like to leave all this nonsense behind,” he said quietly.

  She nodded, looking up at him.

  “Come with me, then, and all will be well.”

  She shook her head. His calm manner was reassuring and soothing, but his intent was no different than the others.

  “Lady Juliana,” he murmured, “this competition to win you will go on all night, unless you surrender to someone.”

  She narrowed her eyes. How had he known her name? The king had not announced it. He must be close to the king, or in league with the guards who watched over her. As for giving in to English will, she would rather live in a prison cell than surrender her body and her will to a king’s man. She conveyed her refusal with a haughty angle of her chin.

  Avenel reached into a pocket and took out another piece of bread, which he tore into pieces for the swan. “Not all these knights share my agreeable temper. A wring of the neck, a twist of a dagger, and your swan will not protect you for long. The only risk is the crime of harming a swan in England. Apparently ’tis no crime to mock a Scotswoman. You will have to cooperate with me if you would be safe.”
He spoke low and urgently.

  She slitted her eyes. He leaned close, resting a hand on the cart. Artan, busy nibbling, did not even lift his head.

  “The king makes a show of his chivalry, but he detests any Scot. If one of those drunken fools wins custody of you, no one will ensure your safety.”

  Frightened, she watched him with wide eyes. She had to put her faith in him. He had proven himself capable of decency at least, even if his intentions toward her were no doubt sinful.

  “Show the king that I have tamed you. Then I can help you.”

  She would never submit to him just so he could gain favor with his cruel king. Anger flaring, she turned away.

  “Better to be tamed by me,” he murmured, “than one or more of my drunken comrades. Lady, tell me … did you remember the Swan Knight in your prayers, as you promised?”

  Gasping, she stared at him. Only the Swan Knight himself would know of that promise.

  She looked at him speculatively. Years had etched his face and made it leaner, harder, but she recognized him now. His eyes were just as she remembered, dark brown, deep and warm, framed in black lashes and serious, straight brows. This was indeed the man who had saved her at Elladoune.

  He tipped his head and smiled. “I see you are still in need of a rescue, Juliana Lindsay.”

  Heart quickening, hope rising, she nodded in answer.

  “Give me your hand.” He opened his fingers, and she reached out. His grip was warm, dry, and strong. “Now do as I tell you,” he murmured. “Act heartstruck for love of me.” He lifted her hand and kissed it.

  A thrill spun through her at the touch of his mouth. Her knees buckled, and he caught her arm under the elbow. His smile was unexpectedly boyish, tilted, and full of easy charm.

  Heartstruck was not so difficult to pretend. She felt again the adoration from years ago, when he had helped her and she had asked his name. Call me your Swan Knight, he had said.

  But she could not trust him, no matter if she wanted to do so. He was an English knight, and she was a Scottish prisoner.

  She scowled at him. He kissed her fingers again. Applause fluttered amid hoots of laughter. “Smile, lady,” he murmured.