by Tessa Murran
Giselle gave him a weak smile. How could he joke about this as if it were nothing - her life, her marriage? If anyone should cut and run it should be her, but to what? The de Villers castle and lands had been snatched from her family with casual ruthlessness, given to King Edward’s new favourite as a gift. Her home was gone, and her father’s dearest wish had always been that she wed the son of his lifelong friend.
The thought of going home unmarried was dreadful. All Giselle could hope for back there was a life dependent on the charity of her older sister, Sabine, born of her father’s first wife, and resentful of his second, her mother. No doubt she would find a suitably low-born man to take her. Knowing her half-sister’s indifference to her welfare, and her resentful temper, he may well be a worse prospect than Edric.
No, she must bear her fate, and she must wed this fat bully, for the sake of her family’s name and honour. There was no escaping her fate now, for Giselle had absolutely nowhere else to go.
Chapter Two
Lyall Buchanan watched the rider speed away down the road south from Wulversmeade. ‘Steady man, take your time, and for God’s sake don’t miss,’ he said.
The archer beside him pulled his bow taut and squinted into the weak sun before firing his arrow. It struck the rider square in the back with a shock which made him wrench backwards and fall sideways off his horse. A blow to the heart or a lung pierced, most likely, meaning instant death.
Lyall hoped so, for the rider’s foot was still in the stirrup, and his horse wasn’t stopping. It was now dragging the man’s body along behind it, the head bumping over the ground. His attempt to run from the fight and warn Wulversmeade Castle that they had been overcome, had failed. The man now had the same fate as the other corpses lying in the long grass all over the hillside, about a mile away.
‘Let’s get back,’ Lyall said to the archer with a jerk of his head, and they turned their horses towards the trees.
It was but a short gallop back to the woods surrounding Wulversmeade Castle. Lyall turned his horse to a spot where the trees thinned out, affording him a good view of the place without being seen
The castle’s occupants had not mobilised to defend it with any energy. A few guards were pacing the battlements, but they did not look particularly watchful. He spotted a couple of men with longbows, but they were spread too thin. There would be no concentrated fire to withstand on the approach. Complacent bastards, these English. Years of having it all their own way as they raided into Scotland, and then retreated behind their high castle walls, had softened them to life’s realities.
Though there were no war machines capable of hurling missiles, as far as Lyall could see, the gates were stout and more than capable of withstanding a battering ram. If his men did attempt to break through, it would be hazardous, they’d be easy prey for archers firing down on them, or crushed by rocks dropped over the edge of the bailey. The castle’s defenders would pour hot fat at the very least, or tar, or even worse, quick lime, to burn the skin, choke the throat and blind those exposed to it.
To take Wulversmeade, they had to do it quickly, with brutal force, or not do it at all.
Lyall rode his horse over to Lord James Douglas, right-hand man to King Robert the Bruce, leader of this raid into Northern England, and a hard-nosed, ruthless bastard to boot. He was known as Black Douglas in England because of his dark deeds, and if he wanted this castle, he would have it, no matter what it cost in lives. Soon, he would order his men out of the trees, so that they were visible to those inside it. There was no need for stealth as ‘Black’ Douglas had a way of achieving more through fear and cunning than strength or valour.
He turned flinty eyes to Lyall. ‘The one who fled?’
‘We caught up with him, Lord. Word of our presence will not reach the garrison at York, and no one will be coming to the rescue for quite some time. They’ll get no warning and no relief.’
‘Good, so I can enjoy myself.’
‘It was foolhardy of de Mawpas to send out so many men to take us on. He threw their lives away,’ said Lyall grimly.
‘That is English arrogance, always underestimating our Scots’ will to fight.’
‘Are we attacking today, Lord?’ asked Banan MacGregor, his voice full of blood lust. It grated on Lyall’s nerves.
‘Aye, we might, but first, I need to see how many archers are inside and what their range is. Don’t want my men skewered as we storm the walls or while we get into position.’
‘I’d say three hundred yards, on a good day with a standing target, but they will be afraid and, most likely, disorganised. Hard to hit a moving target when your hand is shaking, and you’re shitting your braies,’ said Lyall.
‘Would you wager on it?’ asked Lord Douglas, smirking and then turning back to the castle walls. ‘I do wonder at it not being better defended if our information is correct, and she is within. I don’t think this lot have the stomach for a dirty fight, they are under-manned and too comfortable on those walls. I would have expected hundreds of men at arms to protect her, seasoned knights at the very least.
‘This might be a ruse to trick us, to draw us into losing men and arms. We have our spies, and so do they. We should wait, and not rush in,’ said Banan.
Lord Douglas gave him a filthy look from eyes as black as coal. ‘I didn’t come all this way just to sit on my arse while the English have time to discover us and drive us back to the border. If Queen Isabella is inside those walls, I will have her, and King Robert will have the leverage he needs to make the English acknowledge his right to the throne. King Edward can hardly leave his lovely, French wife in the hands of filthy, Scottish barbarians can he, not unless he wants a war with France? He will have to concede to Robert’s claim to the throne of Scotland if he wants her back.’
‘Maybe he will be happy to be rid of that she-wolf,’ said Banan. ‘They are rumoured to hate each other, and it is said the bitch has a lover. She is cunning and ruthless, more so than her soft husband.’
‘So it is with all woman, can’t trust any of them.’ Lord Douglas turned to Lyall and gave him a wicked grim, turning his dark face to the devil. ‘Enough of this blathering,’ he said, sitting forwards on his horse in excitement. ‘Shall we see if these English bastards have heard of me?’
‘Would you like me to do the honours, Lord?’ said Lyall.
‘Aye, go out and deliver my terms for surrender, and Buchanan, when you tell them what I want, there’s no need to be polite about it.’
‘I will be direct, as ever, Lord.’
‘Oh, and Buchanan, one more thing. Try not to get an arrow through that pretty face of yours. Those archers look a bit twitchy.’
***
Giselle climbed the winding stairway to the top of one of the high towers flanking the bailey. Her perch afforded her a view of woodland straight ahead, where the tops of the pine trees swayed back and forth in a brisk wind as if the forest were alive with some huge beast moving through it.
Gently sloping hills spread out behind the castle and, to the south, the sun was turning a distant river to a silver ribbon. How she longed to follow it all the way back home. She pulled her hood tighter against her face as the wind picked up.
All night she had tossed and turned and bemoaned her fate while disappointment crushed her. It seemed her life was over before it had even begun. Marriage to Edric would be a misery, for he seemed to have no redeeming qualities. All he had to offer was lust and resentment. Already, she thought she hated him. Giselle looked down at the drop from the walls and, for an instant, contemplated hurling herself off. There was no way back and no joy ahead, so why bother trying to go on? She had walked up to this tower in a daze of misery, feeling only the longing of a bird, desperate to fly its cage.
A flash of something bright caught her eye, and a hooded rider, in a blue and red tunic, sped out from the edge of the trees. He pulled his horse to an abrupt stop within shouting distance of the castle walls. It was then that she realised he was covered in
blood.
One of Sir Hugh’s men? Was he injured?
Giselle glanced down at the bailey below where men began to shout in alarm. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked back at the rider. His horse bucked and kicked under him, but he paid no heed to the beast and seemed to have no fear of the archers, now lining him up in their sights.
The shouting grew louder and more anxious. ‘Scots, arm yourselves! Make haste!’ Men rushed upwards from the yard, carrying with them screams of panic. ‘Make fast the gates, be quick about it.’
She should go inside, find Agnes, but her legs would not move. It was as though she were glued to the spot. How could Scots be this far south? Surely this man was but a lone soldier, but if that was the case, why was Sir Hugh himself now running out onto the bailey below?
Giselle risked another glance at the Scot. He was big and broad with startlingly fierce eyes and a belligerent air about him. His face was long, made devilish by a dark, close-cropped beard and he was not old, like Hugh and not fat, like Edric. No, this man was hard-looking, as if he were made of iron. Her father had told her about men like this, fighting men, hounds of hell, with no fear, only a thirst for death and blood.
The Scot looked up at the walls for the longest time in an insolent, leisurely way. Giselle guessed he was delaying to better spy out the castle’s defences. More fool him. Any minute now he would get an arrow in his heart for his trouble.
Sir Hugh leant over the edge of the bailey. ‘Speak villain, say your piece and then be off with you, before I cut you down where you stand,’ he snarled.
For the longest time the man did not speak, he just stared up at the walls, and then he drew a little closer. “Who are you old man?’ he said, bluntly. His words had a rolling quality to them.
‘I am Sir Hugh de Mawpas, Lord of this castle and the land you trespass on, you insolent wretch.’
The man looked Sir Hugh straight in the eye. ‘I am here at the command of King Robert the Bruce of Scotland,’ he shouted, in a voice that was low and arrogant. It made Giselle’s heart thump in her breast.
‘There is no King in Scotland, there is only Edward, King of England and Scotland,’ snarled Sir Hugh, with a worried glance at Edric, who stood at his side.
‘As a Scot, I must disagree with you,’ replied the man, ‘for Robert the Bruce is the only King I will ever kneel to. He is the only man fit to claim that title, not that cowering weakling you snivel and scrape before.’ He drew himself up on his horse. ‘Or does he not bid you kneel, Sir Hugh, do you bend over instead, like Hugh le Despenser?’
Giselle gasped. She had heard gossip that Hugh le Despenser, Earl of Winchester, was not only Edward’s most trusted advisor but also his lover, a fact so shocking that Giselle could not quite comprehend it. They would strike him down for such an insult.
‘How dare you, filthy barbarian,’ screeched Hugh. ‘King Edward will hear of this, and he will seek retribution for your hostility towards a peaceful castle.’
‘Peaceful castle, surely you jest? Have you not raided into Scotland time and time again, stealing and burning and raping at your pleasure, while Edward’s army stood at your back, protecting you?’
‘I will not parley with villainous scum. Leave my land now, along with the rest of you dogs waiting in the trees, while you still have your miserable life, or my men will send you back in pieces.’
The Scot leant forward on his horse and smiled.
‘What men? The ones you sent out to greet us yesterday?’ He looked down at his blood-soaked tunic and then looked up and smiled. ‘Gone, I’m afraid, every last one of them. I’ll wager they were your best men too. You’ve grown soft Sir Hugh, like those men, who didn’t even see us coming and who, sadly, didn’t put up much of a fight.’
‘Your so-called King is a traitor, and so are you, and you will have a traitor’s death,’ shrieked Sir Hugh. ‘King Edward will hear of this and…’
‘Aye, I am sure he will, and it will please me greatly if he does,’ shouted the Scot. ‘Shame he’s not here now. Shame he’s not here with his army to protect you. Shall I tell you who is here, just yonder, in those trees? My master, whose name is Lord James Douglas, you may know him as Black Douglas and…’
There was a whistle in the air, and an arrow thudded into the ground, right at the feet of the Scot’s horse, sending it rearing up in alarm. The rider pulled hard on the reins and brought it back under his control. Amazingly, he laughed.
‘It’s lucky for me your man’s aim is as woeful as his nerve, Sir Hugh. Get him to stay his hand, or you’ll not hear the terms of your surrender and, trust me, it is in your best interest to do so.’
‘We will never surrender Wulversmeade to you filthy swine. Go home, sink back into whatever rotten midden you crawled out of, and we might let you leave with your heads.’
From her perch in the shadow of the bailey wall, Giselle thought she heard Sir Hugh’s voice waver a little. Who was this man the Scot spoke of, this Black Douglas, to strike such terror into Sir Hugh?
‘Fighting words,’ replied the Scot, ‘for a man with a dried-up moat and not particularly high walls.’ He pointed up at the battlements, eyes still scouring the walls for any weakness.
Suddenly the wind rose and plucked Giselle’s hood off her head, sweeping her bright hair out sideways. The Scot’s head jerked towards her, and their eyes met. She wanted to look away but was too frightened.
Sir Hugh continued to hurl insults at the man, but the Scot appeared not to hear them, as he slowly pulled the hood back from his head.
Now that she could see him more clearly, Giselle gasped, not just in fear, but in surprise. This Scot was not a monster, not a twisted brute as she’d heard the Scots described by those who feared and loathed them. No, this one had a face she wanted to stare at all day long, so beautiful was it.
Large, hooded eyes dominated a rugged face. Everything about the man was dark, his hair, his brows, dramatic, against his pale skin. That mouth was too sensuous for a man, and suddenly it broke into a broad smile, right at her, and the villain winked. Giselle could scarcely believe it.
She smiled back hesitantly, for it seemed impolite not to. The impulse was gone as quickly as it had come, but her face burned at her stupidity.
The man turned his attention back to Hugh and continued speaking as if nothing had happened. ‘As I said, it is in your best interests to surrender this castle, so do you want to hear terms, or shall we send you all to hell? All but that bonnie redhead up there,’ he said, pointing at her. ‘I may just spare her.’
‘You insolent dog, you…’
‘Surrender now, Sir Hugh, and my Lord will show mercy. He will let you crawl away south with your tail between your legs.’
‘On my honour, I will never let you take my castle.’
‘Honour you say. What honour did you English ever show when you ravaged Scotland, when you put innocent women and children to the sword, when you came into our country and set it to burning? Don’t hide behind your honour and your grand name. Think of your own women and children. You have a choice, and it is simple, for we want no needless bloodshed here. Give up, before the damage is done, and you will have your life, if not your precious honour.’
Giselle felt her legs go from under her and pressed back against the tower wall. She should never have come up here, and now that man had seen her. What kind of fool was she to smile at an enemy? She heard the sound of footsteps rushing up the stairs behind her.
Suddenly there was a whooshing sound, and Giselle looked up to see a cloud of arrows flying through the air. She peered over the stone walls to see the Scot, unharmed, with several arrows in the ground just a few feet short of his horse. He rode up and down insolently, just out of range of the archers, and then turned around and sped back to the trees as the archers reloaded.
Edric burst from the stairway and grabbed hold of her arm. He pulled back his forearm and lashed her across the face, sending Giselle reeling. Her cheek burned as Edric dragged h
er back down into the stairway. The Scot was shouting from far away. His voice was still menacing as it carried over the walls.
‘Resist, and we will storm your battlements and kill every fighting man in the castle, and then we will burn it to ashes, and you with it. This is a promise.’
***
Lyall rode back to Lord Douglas with a big grin on his face.
‘Lord, it is as I said. Range is three hundred, give or take.’
Lord Douglas laughed and shook his head. ‘I have said this before, and I will say it again, you have a death wish Buchanan, you mad bastard. Just like your brother, Cormac, he’s a mad bastard too.’
‘The gates aren’t as firm as I first thought, Lord, we can ram them, but we will have to be quick about it.’
‘And the woman on the tower wall, the red-head?’
‘Not Queen Isabella, too young.’
‘Got a good look at her did you, Buchanan, while you were flirting?’
‘Aye, I did, and she’s bonnie enough up close, but she’s not what we’re after.’
‘Is it today? Will we fight, Lord?’ said Banan MacGregor.
‘Aye, we’ll fight soon enough. But not today. Let de Mawpas sweat a while,’ said Lord Douglas.
‘But we should not give them time to prepare a defence. We should strike now before…’
Lyall sighed in irritation. Must they always suffer this fool’s opinions? ‘They’ve no real defence, MacGregor, for we’ve killed all the men Sir Hugh sent out to fight us, and I’ll wager they were his best fighters. Sir Hugh is bluffing, holding out for help that won’t come. All we have to do is sit around and watch their resolve crumble and save our strength.’
‘But we can’t stay here, are we not vulnerable to attack out in the open?’
