The Swan Maiden Page 8

  “I am a patient man,” he said, “but no more. Sit there. And strip down. You are trembling with cold.”

  “Dinna think to warm me!” She sat again, glaring at him.

  In answer, he snatched up a blanket from the bed and tossed it over her shoulders. She grabbed at it, rubbing at her own hair. Gawain turned and stripped off his rain-damp tunic, tossing it over the foot of the bed. Standing before her in his braies, he grabbed another blanket, pulling it without apology from beneath her. He tossed it around his own shoulders.

  Her gaze skimmed his bare torso, lowered, raised again. She scooted away on the bed. “I hoped you were a courteous knight who would help me. Instead you mean to hold me against my will.”

  “I do not—”

  “I heard the king’s orders! He may be a king, but he acted like a lecherous cur! I willna be subdued for your amusement. Chain me, ravish me, if you dare! Wring my swan’s neck and have him for your supper—or wring my own. But I willna be tamed!”

  He stood staring at her. Pale and ethereal as a moonbeam, she housed a white flame of righteousness that would make any rebel proud and strong. She directed it at him as if he were a straw target and she a flinted point.

  He held up a hand for peace. “I have no intention of taming you,” he said. “Be at ease.”

  “At ease? In a bed with you?” She pulled the blanket closer. “The king urged you publicly to take me this night—just to show that England can rape Scotland. We Scots know that already, and I will fight to the death if you try it!”

  “I do not doubt it,” he drawled. “My written orders from the king are to take you back to Scotland and keep you for my wife. The rest of his orders I need not obey. He will forget them soon enough, drunk as he was,” he muttered.

  She slicked her fingers through her damp hair. “And you, are you drunk as well? Every man there tonight was sodden,” she said with disgust.

  “I am in command of myself, if that is what you ask.”

  She shot him another glare. He sent one back, then ruffled his hair to coax more wetness from it. “You will stay,” he said curtly. “You are my wife now, and my obligation. And a prisoner of the crown. I will not forfeit my life for your escape.”

  “I am nae your wife!”

  “We were wed by a priest. Or did you miss that little moment?”

  She drew breath. “When ice coats the halls of hell, I will be your wife. When the faeries of Scotland serve sweetmeats to the king of England, I will be your wife!” She folded her arms tightly over her chest and lifted her chin.

  He cocked a brow. “You have a talent with words … for a silent maiden.”

  “Those wedding vows meant naught. I didna speak them out.”

  “Naught to us, but they were legally done. Your nod was good enough, and we are joined in the eyes of God and man. To undo it, we would have to find a priest willing to request a divorce from Rome. ’Tis far easier to remain wed.”

  “A divorce willna be necessary,” she announced. “An annulment will do, since you will never touch me.”

  “Will I not?” He stood staring down at her, anger rising. He was tired and frustrated, and he had been more than kind to her so far, yet she treated him as if he were a boor.

  “My kinsmen will kill you if you do,” she said.

  “One of your kinsmen may kill me anyway, if he ever sees me again,” he muttered, rubbing the blanket over his shoulders. She looked at him, puzzled, but he was not about to explain the tangle between him and her cousin James Lindsay.

  “My guardian is an abbot. I live in his household.”

  “In a religious compound? You do not behave like a nun.”

  “If I were a nun, the king’s guards would have left me in Scotland. Father Abbot will annul the marriage.”

  “We will see.” He sat on the bed. She scooted away from him. “Go easy, I will not harm you,” he said wearily. “And I do not want to discuss legalities, either. I just want to get some sleep.” The need pulled at him like a river current.

  She looked longingly at the bed. “Sleep on the floor.”

  “Share the bed with me,” he replied. She shivered again. “Take that wet tunic off,” he said abruptly.

  “I willna.”

  “ ’Tis summer, but these rainy days lately have been chilly. You will be ill by morning by the way you are shivering now. Take that off and get warm.” He yanked away her blanket, then drew the wet garment from her in one long pull. She twisted and squealed in protest. A quick flip draped the tunic with his other garment, near the brazier where they would dry.

  She jumped away from him and stood, dressed in some thin undergarment. He saw firm, pink-centered breasts and lean, graceful curves before she grabbed up the blanket again.

  “Take off my boots and get in bed,” he said gruffly.

  “You do mean to ravish me!”

  He sighed in exasperation. “I am too tired to ravish anyone. Least of all a spitting mad little Highland lass.” Tired, but not unwilling, he realized. The sight of her body had sent a fire bolt through him.

  She stared at him, her breath heaving. He glanced away to ebb the desire that flowed through him. “Those boots need to dry by morn so I can wear them,” he said.

  She stepped out of the boots and kicked them toward the brazier. He walked over to set them to dry properly. When he turned again, she backed away.

  “What guarantee do you give that you willna ravish me?”

  “Do you want to be ravished?”

  “Nay!”

  “Then stop asking about it.” He went toward the bed. She watched him warily, and shuffled away.

  “Juliana,” he said patiently, “you wound me. I am a knight sworn to honor, yet you give me no credence. I have proven my worth to you, yet you will not trust me.”

  “Trust a Sassenach?” she asked incredulously.

  “If my word is … almost good enough for King Edward, ’tis good enough for you. Lie down.”

  “Go to sleep if you are tired,” she said. “I am nae so weary as I was.” Her eyes darted toward the door.

  “Oh, ho,” he said, seeing her intent. “Do not even think about it. A trick done once to me is never done twice.” He stepped toward her and picked her up, dumping her on the bed. Then he sat on the edge, trapping her with his arms.

  “Let me go—you gave your word—” She twisted beneath him. “I willna be a wife to you, and I willna stay here!”

  “Lie still, or I will be forced to chain you here to keep you safe for the night.” His blanket slipped off as he half flattened himself over her to hold her down. His bare chest pressed to the soft globes of her breasts, with only the damp, thin chemise between their bodies. He felt her nipples bead against him, and a shiver went through him.

  She bucked beneath him. “Let me go!”

  “That would be exceeding foolish of me.” More foolish to remain in this position with her, he told himself. He snatched the golden chains from the bedside table.

  “You say you are chivalrous, but you lie,” she said, wriggling beneath him. “You do mean to ravish your own bride!”

  “If ’twould quiet you, I might consider it,” he muttered.

  “Where is your courtesy?” She torqued beneath him.

  “I am summoning all of it in this moment,” he growled. He leaned forward, and she flattened into the pillows, staring at him. “Listen to me. You must stay here, and I need to sleep. As do you, I think. Can I trust you for the night, at least?”

  “I willna stay here with you. I want to go home to Scotland. I want to be free.” Her voice quavered on the last few words, and he sensed how deeply she meant it.

  “I will take you home.”

  “Hah, in your own time, and as a prisoner!”

  He sighed. “Can I trust you for the night?”

  She shook her head vehemently.

  “Well, you are honest at least. My apologies. You leave me no choice.” He slid one of the manacles around her wrist and latched it. T
hen he looped the chain around the bedpost and locked the other manacle into the links. He stood and looked down at her. “Now we can get some rest.”

  She fumed, pulling at the manacle, while he plumped a mound of pillows to support her and then walked to the other side of the bed to lie down, pulling the covers up.

  “I will have the key from you so soon as you are asleep!”

  He rolled over quickly and folded her arm firmly against her, holding her wrist against her chest, which rose and fell beneath his hand. “Not unless you want to carry the rest of those chains upon you,” he said. She kicked him. He turned, presenting his back.

  “There must be tusks on your family crest, for you are a pig!” she snapped.

  “And you,” he said, “were more appealing as a mute swan.” He punched his pillow.

  He heard a husky snarl and felt a halfhearted shove, softened by the bedclothes between them. But she said no more, and he felt himself sliding once again toward sleep.

  Chapter Nine

  Dawn brought a thin, clear light and a return to silence. Juliana awoke alone, and found the white gown, feathered cap, and shoes laid out on the bed. The chains, she discovered immediately, were gone. Within moments, Dame Bette knocked on the door and entered carrying a cup of ale and a slab of hot bread with cheese melted on it.

  “Yer husband said ye would be hungry this morning,” Bette said, grinning with delight. “It stirs the appetite sometimes, when ye’ve wed one what makes yer heart quicken.”

  Juliana blushed at Bette’s obvious assumption. Just the opposite was true. She and Gawain quickened each other’s hearts, but not with loving. She ate quickly, for she was hungry.

  “I will lend a hand with yer finery,” Bette said. She helped Juliana slip into the gown. “Yer bridegroom and his kinsmen are waiting downstairs. There is a pack of soldiers in the lane, too. Whatever ye did, my lady, they mean to keep close watch over ye. They’ve brought writs from the king, which yer husband has been reading this morn. He seems none too pleased.”

  She stood, mute and still, while Bette plaited a single braid down her back and tied it with a bit of string.

  “I gather yer husband thinks ye innocent of any wrong, and so do I,” Bette continued. “He has been sitting in a dark mood, shifting those chains in his hands until the clinking sound was like to drive me mad.”

  Sighing, Juliana thought it more likely that her husband was fuming silently over their unwanted marriage, her attempted escape, and their arguments last night. She should never have been so foolish as to break her silence with him.

  She sat on the bed and slipped her feet into her flat shoes, leather painted white to go with her gown. She looked up as Bette approached with the feather cap and settled it on her head.

  “There is a king’s man, too, wearing the blackest armor I have ever seen,” Bette said. “He is the leader of yer escort.”

  Juliana frowned to herself while Bette adjusted the cap; she remembered the journey south too well. De Soulis had shown no consideration for her, ordering a fast pace, tight ropes, and a regular dosing of bitter herbs in wine to keep her senses dulled. Despite Gawain’s presence, she dreaded the return now.

  “Sir Walter says ye must wear the feathery hat,” Bette said. “He says he is the Master of Swans, and ye’re the Swan Maiden, and ye’re to be dressed as a swan for show, like. Oh my, and I thought ye were a mummer guised as a duck!”

  Juliana smiled despite her somber mood.

  “And yer husband,” Bette added, “looks like he would like to strangle the Master of Swans. Hurry, now, ye’ve a long journey.”

  The cart rumbled over the old Roman road, lurching over pits and stones in the roadbed. Juliana grabbed the edge of the cart to steady herself, chains jangling. She looked out at low, rolling hills and patches of moorland. The driver, a gruff old man called John, said nothing as he guided the two sturdy horses that drew the cart, which was packed with goods and weapons.

  A mounted escort of thirty men, with several squires, two servants, and the riderless palfrey she had ridden the night before, surrounded her. Gawain Avenel rode his dark bay horse just ahead of the cart, talking with a knight mounted on a brown horse even larger than the bay. Walter de Soulis, black armor gleaming beneath a wine-red surcoat, rode beside the cart.

  Juliana studied her husband’s head and broad-shouldered back. He wore a dark brown serge tunic over chain mail, with the heavy hood slid down over his shoulders. His hair was thick, wavy, and glossy as ink in the morning light, and his smile flashed handsomely and often as he listened to the other knight.

  The two men seemed to be established friends, she noticed, though appearing to be opposites in many ways. Gawain sat his horse with taut grace and control, while the other had a carefree lack of rhythm. Where Gawain was lean, dark, and restrained, his friend was large, sandy-haired, soft around the middle, and gestured freely with big hands.

  In further contrast to her husband’s sober nature, his friend laughed quickly, booming out. He even glanced back at Juliana and smiled at her, his face as pleasant as his demeanor.

  Though she did not smile back, she found the big sandy-haired knight’s confidence and humor appealing. But she was not ready to trust him any more than Gawain Avenel.

  Riding near the cart, Sir Walter de Soulis seemed even more severe and humorless by contrast. He said little to anyone, speaking sharply when he did. And he had already forced her to drink from the wine bladder that he kept strapped to his saddle.

  Though she had refused at first, he had put it to her lips and poured wine between them, so that liquid dripped over her chin. The bitter aftertaste left a grainy texture on her tongue that she wiped away on the back of her chained hands.

  At the time, Gawain had been riding at the head of the escort. He turned to ride back. “Sir Sheriff,” he said, “what are you doing?”

  “The girl looks pale and nervous. The wine will strengthen and calm her,” De Soulis answered. Gawain nodded, glancing at her with a frown before riding away.

  That had been over an hour ago, and now she felt woozy from the herbs in the wine. She had swallowed only a bit, but its effect was enough to dull her thoughts and make her feel weary.

  She was exhausted already from little rest the night before, and for the past several days and nights. As the cart rolled along the road, she leaned her head against a bale of hay and slid into a bleary doze that deepened into sleep.

  “Laurie, I swear I am glad to see you,” Gawain said with quiet relief to the man who rode beside him. “ ’Tis sheer luck you were sent from York with the king’s men to ride with this party into Scotland. I had not seen or heard from you for near a year, I think.”

  “Ha, luck,” Laurence Kirkpatrick said. “ ’Twould have been luckier had I been at Newcastle yesterday. I would have talked you out of staying for the king’s feast. Married!” He shook his head. “How could you go to a supper and come out with a wife!”

  “I only thought to help the girl. She needed a champion.”

  “Och, aye,” Laurie answered with exaggerated wisdom. “And no one could protect the lass but you, I suppose. I heard the story from your stepbrothers this morn. Surely someone else could have stepped in.”

  “Robin attempted to help, but her swan bit him. I was the only one who thought to bring bread for the poor creature.”

  Laurence shook his head disparagingly. “Do what I do, man. Watch after yourself first. Life is more pleasant that way. I am a Scotsman born and bred, but I fight for the English king. The pay is better, and the chances of gaining land and a good life are far better.”

  “And the ale is good,” Gawain said dryly.

  “Och, well, the ale is better in Scotland, actually,” Laurie answered. “But I prefer to offer sword arm and services where my skills will be appreciated and rewarded.”

  Gawain slid his friend a quick look. “I wonder if a certain English girl influenced your decision … Maude, was it?”

  Laurie’s cheeks
burned bright. “Maude of Rosemoor. Sir Harry Gray’s youngest daughter.”

  “Ah, Lady Maude,” Gawain drawled. “Here you chide me for being a married man, yet I was sure you would be the one to wed first. Last we met, you were well smitten by that fair damsel.”

  “Er, uh,” Laurie said. “We are wed.”

  Gawain laughed with delight. “When?”

  “Last winter.”

  “So the fair Lady Maude is the reason a braw Border Scot rides for the English king,” Gawain said, grinning.

  “Pay and rewards were greatly on my mind.” Laurie scowled.

  “Oh, I am certain of it,” Gawain said. “The lady is accustomed to finery, being Sir Harry’s daughter.”

  “Ho, just wait, now that you are wed!”

  “But my lady wife does not seem to care for finery and property. She cares only for freedom—and wants only to get as far away from me as she can.” He frowned, thinking of the unsavory task of restraining her the night before. There was something fresh and wild about her that deserved freedom, he thought, glancing back involuntarily. She slept in the cart.

  Laurie, too, looked back. “I canna blame the lass. Her English bridegroom is a somber sort.”

  “Aye, and sworn afresh to the king, too.”

  “Nae still torn between Scottish and English?” Laurie whispered loudly. “When we were lads and squires together, you used to say—”

  “I said naught,” Gawain hissed. “And keep quiet about it.”

  “Well, many are pulled between two loyalties. Change like the wind, they say of us Scots.”

  “I am not a Scotsman,” Gawain insisted.

  “Ah.” Laurie nodded as if he knew better. “Then listen to one who admits that he is. This matter is much on my mind of late. Many Scotsmen have lands to protect in England—as I do, as you do. And many think Scotland is better off under English rule. The English have wealth and military might. Scotland is poor and leaderless, needing wealth and might on her side.”

  “Scotland has a bold leader now in Robert Bruce, it seems.”

  Laurie shrugged. “I will wait and watch before I decide what I think of that. Bruce was one of the finest knights in King Edward’s court, and he has English lands and interests, far more than I do. Now he’s gone over to the Scottish side, but following him doesna seem safe nor wise.”