Susan King - [Celtic Nights 02] (5 page)

"Keep those candles lit," Beithag said tartly. "We need a miracle."

"If we try to take Elladoune, De Soulis and his men will be there," Lucas said. "How can we withstand a siege or an attack?"

"Once inside, we will triumph somehow," Malcolm said. "God removed the garrison leader. He will solve this too."

"Juliana should not be exposed to this devil De Soulis," Angus said. "After all, he is the one who ruined Elladoune."

"All the more reason," Juliana said. "My father is dead, and my elder brothers are with the new king. They would help us if they could. Let me do what I can."

"Brave girl," Angus said, and nodded. "Well then. May our prayers hold sway with heaven."

"My friends, we shall pray now." Malcolm stood and joined his hands together to lead them.

Juliana lowered her head and murmured in Latin in response, although her heart quickened with fear. As the Swan Maiden, she stood at the center of the local effort, able to help—or to hinder if she should err.

More than one miracle would be needed to gain back Elladoune. Good fortune had assisted her for the last few years, and she prayed that her luck would hold.

One incident of luck in particular she could never forget. On the night Elladoune had burned, a handsome English knight had rescued her. She might have been captured and even killed if not for her Swan Knight, as she always thought of him.

He still appeared in her dreams, nameless and fascinating, dark-eyed and beautiful. Of the hundreds of Sassenach knights she had seen riding near Elladoune and Inchfillan over the last six years, she had never seen his face again.

Since that night, smaller miracles had kept her safe and out of English hands. Whether it was luck or miracles, she whispered a fervent wish that the assistance would continue.

What she wanted most of all was to bring her kinfolk and her friends—and herself—home at last to Elladoune.

Chapter 3

England, London

May 1306

The stone beneath his knees was cold and hard, yet the silence emanating from the courtiers who watched him was colder still. Sir Gawain Avenel bowed his bare head, acutely aware of King Edward's harsh gaze upon him.

"Sire," Gawain began, "I beg forgiveness of the king for my transgressions in Scotland. I offer renewed loyalty and fealty to my liege lord. I solemnly pledge my heart, mind, and sword to the service of my king." He placed his fist over his heart.

His chain-mail hauberk dragged upon his shoulders. In ten years of knighthood, his armor had never felt so heavy. The burden was one of the soul rather than the body.

He must follow this apology through or lose all. His life hung in the balance, as did the welfare of those he loved. He glanced up through the dark frame of his lashes and brows. King Edward, first of that name, frowned at him.

At least, Gawain thought, the king had not summoned the guards to haul him back to prison yet. He drew breath to continue. "I beg to be allowed into king's peace once again."

The tense silence endured. Gawain knew many believed he knelt here to save himself further trouble. He had spent the last two months in a prison cell, and he had submitted a request to retain his modest English properties earned in knight service.

In truth, he knelt here to protect his family—mother, stepfather, stepbrothers, and half sisters—from harm in the wake of what the crown, in documents signed by the king, termed his transgressions in Scotland. King Edward had a long and vengeful memory. Begging forgiveness was scant price to pay.

The recent death of his stepbrother, Geoffrey, on a Scottish field still tore at him. Gawain was certain that he had indirectly caused his brother's death by overstepping the boundaries he had danced too near for too long: he had aided Scottish rebels once again, against his orders.

Not only that, he had joined them in their quest for freedom. To him, those months had been a rare respite of true honor and integrity, yet his deed was regarded as a crime and a breach of faith. And it had brought tragedy.

He endured another irretrievable loss, kept secret from all. He had lost the respect of the Scottish rebels he had befriended. The English called them outlaws, but he knew them as righteous people with noble hearts.

And now each and every one of them—from James Lindsay, called the Border Hawk, and his wife Isobel the prophetess, to the last man among them—believed that Gawain had acted treacherously toward them. It could not be helped, he thought regretfully.

The silence continued. Someone coughed, armor chinked. The chamber glowed with tapestries, painted ceilings and floor tiles, and the jewel colors and sumptuous fabrics worn by the courtiers.

At the center of the brilliance, wearing black and chain mail, Gawain felt grim and colorless. He waited, head bowed.

"This is not the first time you have knelt before us, Sir Gawain," the king finally said.

"Sire, true." A muscle flashed in his cheek. The king had a long memory. "I was knighted here at Westminster Palace."

"I believe you knelt here another time," the king prompted.

"Six years ago, I broke my fealty... and asked to be admitted back into king's peace."

"Broke faith in Scotland. Yet once again you are here for the same reason, and once again beg king's peace."

"Aye, sire."

"Six years past, you aided rebels to escape near... Elladoune, was it not? That was the rash action of a young knight, and you were forgiven." The king flapped his hand impatiently. "But this time you deserted your English commander, Sir Ralph Leslie, and joined Scotsmen led by a known renegade. This time, you lack the excuse of youthful impetuousness."

"Sire, Leslie was a cruel man who served his own needs before those of king and crown. He brought suffering and shame to an innocent woman. May I remind my lord king that Lady Isobel's gift of prophecy is admired in the English court as well as in Scotland. I chose to aid the lady."

"Defending a lady is understandable, but this one is wed to a Scottish outlaw."

Gawain would never regret what he had done, though he had lost his friends in Scotland, and endangered his family. At least he could repair the risk to his loved ones. He would pay any penance to bring them better peace.

"I upheld my oath of chivalry," he told the king simply.

"Was it honorable—or traitorous? Your father insists you were their prisoner, not their abettor. Shall we believe him?"

"Sire, years ago I knelt here beneath your sword blade, and swore to defend women and those weaker than myself against cruelty and oppression. I swore to support virtue and honor wherever I found it. Am I to be reprimanded and punished for doing so? I pray that my liege, a paragon of knighthood himself, will trust my integrity—and forgive my faults."

"Do you sympathize with the rebels?"

"Sire," Gawain said. "I am an Avenel."

"And they are unswervingly loyal." The king grunted, a begrudging sound. "You have always shown integrity despite your impulse to help those you should not. The ideals of the courts of love do not apply on the fields of war—especially this Scottish war."

"Sire, I pray pardon." He bowed his head. Near the dais, he saw his stepfather and his stepbrothers. Henry looked worried, and his son Edmund fisted a hand. Robin, soon to be knighted himself, was pale.

"Henry!" the king called out. "Your eldest is cut of different cloth than you and your other sons. He is dark as a raven where you three are well-mannered brown wrens. He has a rash and willful nature, which you thankfully lack."

"His mother and I have always been proud of him, my liege," Henry said smoothly. "If Gawain has transgressed in rescuing a lady, his mother insists 'tis because he is pure of heart, like his namesake in the Arthurian tales." Henry smiled. The king nodded as if mildly amused.

Gawain lowered his gaze. Few, including the king, remembered that Henry was his stepfather, and Henry had not corrected the assumption. That gesture of support was humbling indeed.

"Sire," he said, "I can only aspire to be as worthy a knight as Sir Henry Avenel."

"Then aspire to behave yourself," the king barked.

"I offer my obeisance and my pledge."

The king flicked his fingers. "Very well. Your vow is acceptable to us."

"My lord." He bowed his head with relief. He hoped to be excused soon. Even this brief royal audience had required two months of prison, three petitions for leniency, and a goodly sum of money. If the king wanted to discuss the weather, Gawain would have to stay.

"We need trained knights in the north now that Robert Bruce has claimed the Scottish throne and hides in the hills like an outlaw," King Edward said. "We must send our army in pursuit. Every capable knight is needed. You are to return to Scotland with us in a few weeks. We are gathering men to journey north."

"Sire." Gawain swallowed hard. "My liege, since I am to go north again, might I make a request?" Not the best moment, Gawain knew, but he would not be granted another audience soon.

"You may try," the king murmured.

"There is a place called Glenshie in Glen Fillan, west of Perth. It was taken from the Scots many years ago, burned but never garrisoned. I wish to rebuild the property, sire."

"Why?" Edward demanded.

"I... If I may garrison a Highland castle, I can demonstrate my fealty. And it will be of benefit to both Scots and English."

The king beckoned to his chamberlain, who summoned an army commander Gawain recognized from among the courtiers. They murmured together.

"That location is remote and impractical," the king finally replied. "Worthless and abandoned. Still, my general suggests that you command a garrison somewhere. If your talents were put to better use, you might be less inclined to behave... chivalrously."

"Sire," Gawain said, gritting his teeth. The callous denial of Glenshie, his childhood home, cut like a knife. Yet he could never petition for the property as its rightful owner.

"Before you go, understand this." Edward leaned forward. "One more transgression and your head—mayhap the heads of your Avenel brothers too—will see the cutting block. A bad apple may spoil a whole barrel." He sat back. "Let that guarantee your new oath."

"Sire, my word upon it." Swamped in suppressed anger, Gawain felt loyalty rock beneath him like a boat.

"We will test the strength of your word," the king murmured.

Gawain rose to his feet and bowed, then walked away, filled with a vague sense of dread. His stepfather and stepbrothers came forward, their faces showing relief and pride.

No matter what he did, it seemed, their love for him sustained. Such loyalty could never be fully repaid—and must never be dishonored.

But a few months with Scottish rebels, followed by a stint in the Tower of London, alone with his thoughts, had changed him irrevocably. He was a different man, though the Avenels had not yet realized it.

His promise to the king had come easily, for he loved his family. Yet he did not know if he could honor his vow. He had lost his beloved stepbrother Geoffrey, had lost the respect of his Scottish friends. Now he risked even more: kinship, the firm rock of honor and ambition, the calm horizon of the future. He no longer knew who he was, and he could not share those thoughts and fears with anyone.

Subdued, he accepted the congratulatory embraces of his stepfather and stepbrothers. As he departed the hall with them, his doubts shadowed him, relentless as a hawk.

Chapter 4