by Tessa Murran
Giselle squinted out to sea. In the distance, through gaps in the trees, she spotted a lone sail, bobbing about on the choppy water close to shore - a fisherman bringing in his catch? There was a broad stretch of sand between her and the boat. As far as she could tell, they were still in England, and that fisherman was her countryman. Here, the rocky bank leading down to the sand was not too steep, but the track rose upwards, towards cliffs, not too far ahead.
The Scot had drawn some distance ahead of her. She glanced at his back and hesitated. What was she to do, follow meekly along with this man to Scotland, like a lamb to the slaughter? There was no ransom coming, and eventually, this man would realise it, and then what? He would be angry, she would be punished or killed, or worse - sold off, so he could be rid of her.
Young and sheltered though she was, Giselle had heard that women were often traded like animals, or sold into marriage, well, they called it marriage, but it was more a form of slavery. Agnes’ words came back to her. ‘Find a man and cling to him,’ she had said. What a ridiculous notion that was. She had no idea how to beguile a man, or even talk to one. Hadn’t Edric held her in contempt for her lack of fortune, even though he had called her pretty? If she had any feminine wiles, she certainly had no idea how to use them on this Scot, who made her heart thump every time he looked in her direction. She was not up to the task of seducing him, and she knew it.
Giselle glanced desperately out to sea again. The boat was coming in to shore, the sail gathered, and it was cresting the waves and about to scrape up the shingle at the sand’s edge. This might be her only chance.
Giselle swallowed hard and slipped down off her horse, which carried on plodding after the Scot’s. She hurriedly pushed through a tangle of bushes and over the edge of the bank, lifting her dress and picking her way down the rocks. Halfway down, she heard a loud curse from above, and scurried faster. Giselle looked out to sea and the boat was ashore now, its owner staring at her in alarm.
In her haste, she did not look where she was going, her foot rolled on a loose rock and suddenly, she was on her backside, sliding and falling, scraping against stones and loose pebbles. Giselle tried to hold onto tussocks of grass, but they slipped from her grasp, and she rolled all the way down the bank, until she landed in a flurry of skirts onto hard, wet sand. The breath was almost knocked out of her, but she did not falter. Dragging herself to her feet, Giselle ran as fast as her shaking legs could carry her, towards the surf and freedom.
Rocks clattered behind her. He was coming.
She was halfway across the sand. A pounding noise, getting closer. How could he be so fast? He must have ridden down that bank, oh God, he was going to catch her. She daren’t turn around. Almost there.
Giselle’s lungs were screaming by the time she reached the man and ran up to him, into the surf. Waves lashed against her feet with bone-numbing cold, filling her shoes.
‘Help me, please,’ she gasped. The pounding was getting louder over the sound of the water and the wind.
The man looked at her in horror, and Giselle’s heart fell. He was old and weathered, far too frail to fight the Scot, and he backed away from her, up against his boat, shaking his head.
‘You must help me, please,’ she gasped, but his gaze went over her head, and she turned, to see the Scot thunder up on his horse and wrench it to a halt, right in front of her, making the big beast rear up. She staggered backwards, and a moment later, he leapt off and rushed at her, with a face like thunder.
‘No, no,’ she screamed as Lyall grabbed her arm in an iron grip. Giselle tried to pull away, but he was too strong. His fingers hurt where they dug in, and he jerked her against his chest, his forearm around her body, pinning her to him.’
The fisherman stared at them in horror.
‘I’ve no quarrel with you, my friend,’ said the Scot, in a cold and chilling voice, as he slid his knife out of its scabbard.
‘I don’t want no trouble,’ gibbered the man.
‘Good, then go, turn your boat back out to sea, and you’ll come to no harm.’
‘Please, help me,’ screamed Giselle. ‘This Scot is holding me prisoner. I am English, please.’ But the man was hopeless, and in no time at all, and without one word to her, he had launched his boat and was rowing like hell, back out to sea and safety.
Giselle squirmed and twisted, consumed with anger and frustration, but the Scot held her tightly until the boat was some distance off.
‘Calm down, and I will let you go, Giselle,’ he said quietly.
She went quiet in his arms, but the moment he let go of her, she whirled around and slapped him in the face as hard as she could. He did not seem to feel it. Instead, he grabbed both her wrists.
‘Never do that again, you little fool. As escape attempts go, that has to be the worst plan I ever saw. What the hell did you think you were going to do, get that feeble, old man to row you all the way back to England?’
‘I want to go home. Let go of me, you pig.’
‘Promise you won’t clout me again if I do,’ he said, with a hint of laughter in his voice, which just made Giselle angrier.
Lyall slowly released his grip on her wrists and she took a step away from him. A wave hit the back of her legs with a thump, and almost took her off her feet, making her stagger ungracefully sideways. Giselle was soaked up to her thighs, livid and about to burst into tears.
‘We’d best get back and look for your horse,’ he said cheerfully, smirking at her predicament.
Giselle could only glower at him as he retrieved his horse and flung himself onto its back. Lyall rode over and held out his hand. In a fearful pout, she looked helplessly out to sea at the boat, bobbing away, and then she turned and took hold of it. He hoisted her up in front of him, with his body pressed close.
‘Don’t do anything like that again. Even if that old man had taken you with him, he could be dangerous, and how far do you think you would have gotten before someone else preyed on you, with no coin and no man to protect you?’
‘Is that what you think you are doing, protecting me?’
‘I am trying to, whether you believe it or not. And all I get for my trouble is a slap in the face.’
‘You deserve it, and much worse, for what you have done. I am soaked and freezing and tired.’
‘That is your own fault, for fleeing from me.’
‘I just want to go home.’
‘You can’t.’
Lyall’s arm dug into her stomach, and something snapped inside her. All the humiliation and fear, the helplessness and uncertainty of her situation, crashed in on her. She lost all reason, and blind fury took hold.
She hated this Scot. She hated him, this ignorant, callous, arrogant man.
Giselle elbowed backwards, hitting Lyall in the ribs. She squirmed violently to free herself, alarming the horse, who pushed further into the surf. The Scot tried to jerk the reins around and point the skittish beast back to the sand, but he only had one hand free, and Giselle was not about to make it easy for him. The beast was now hock-deep in the water, and, unnerved by the waves, it began snorting and swerving this way and that.
‘I hope an English sword guts you, as soon as may be,’ she shrieked.
That seemed to affect Lyall for he jerked her up against him and snarled against her ear, ‘One more word from you and, I swear, I will bend you over my knee and thrash you, as I promised to.’
‘Of course, you would, you sick lecher,’ she retorted, scratching at his fingers. ‘You disgust me, you are a thug, you are a miserable grub of a man, and your kiss was vile - slimy and awful and…’
With one tug of his arm, Lyall flung her from the horse, and Giselle landed with a splash in the icy water. As she came up, spluttering with shock, a wave crashed over her head and took her legs from under her, sending her surging into shore in an ungainly heap, face down. Sand went everywhere - in her mouth, down her dress, up between her legs, inside her nose. As she tried to push herself upwards, two hooves appeared
in front of her. Giselle rose to her feet, staggering sideways, sweeping gritty hair off her face and spitting out sand.
‘You remind me of a cat my sister once had, Giselle. I dunked it in the horse trough once, just to annoy her. It had exactly the same look of outraged pride as you have now.’
Lyall’s face was a war of guilt and mirth as he looked down on her, so she glared back at him, hands clenched in fists.
‘My but you’ve a hot temper on you, lass. You look meek, but you’re not, are you? Have you cooled down enough to behave?’
‘Cooled down! I could take a chill and die from this,’ she spluttered.
‘On a fine summer’s day, I think not, though that would give me some respite I suppose,’ he said, smiling arrogantly.
‘You are hateful to throw me in the water.’
‘Aye, perhaps it was a bit unkind, but all of your whining was making my ears bleed.’
Humiliation made Giselle’s bottom lip tremble and the tears welled up in her eyes.
‘Aw come on, not that, not the tears again. Come,’ he said, holding out a hand once more, ‘we have a way to go before nightfall, can’t tarry here in the wind. Take my hand, Giselle.’
‘No,’ she sobbed.
‘Take it, girl, if you know what’s good for you,’ he said, in a harder voice and Giselle was so tired and miserable she could think of nothing else to do. He pulled her up, behind him this time, and pulled her arms around his belly. ‘Hold on tight, wouldn’t want you falling off again,’ he said cheerfully, as they rode back up the beach and went in search of her horse.
They could not find the wretched beast, it had chosen freedom and wandered off, which irritated the Scot, and many curse words followed. With the sun lowering in the sky, they set off without it. Giselle was forced to lean into Lyall’s back as they pounded along. He seemed in a great hurry.
The tears came as they rode on, hour after hour, and the dress clung, cool and clammy, to her back and legs. Though she hated herself for it, Giselle ended up sobbing against his back.
Lyall slowed his horse to a walk. ‘Giselle, forgive me for tossing you into the water.’
‘I don’t want to talk to you.’
‘Yes you do, ‘t’will pass the time more pleasantly. Are you cold?’
Self-pity overwhelmed her. ‘No, but I’ve got sand everywhere,’ she sniffed.
‘Chafe’s a bit, does it, on your soft parts?’ He laughed. ‘Don’t fash yourself, we’ve not far to go.’
‘I never saw the sea before. I didn’t expect it to be so horrible and so vicious.’
‘How old are you, Giselle?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘Nineteen and you never sighted the ocean? How can that be?’
‘My home, Ravensworth, was inland, far from the sea, in Derbyshire. My father always said that it was the safest place to be, where we were far out of reach of invading armies attacking from the coast, and pirates and such.’
‘He was probably right.’
‘No, he wasn’t, for no one is ever safe, not those villagers back there, living in such a defenceless place, nor Sir Hugh behind his castle walls. And I’m not safe now, am I?’
The Scot was silent for a time, and then he turned a little in the saddle. ‘So you led a sheltered life Giselle, safe in your father’s castle at, what was it called?’
‘Ravensworth.’
‘Did you never travel further abroad from it?’
‘No, my father kept me close to home. My half-sister is older than me and, when she wed and went away, I think he was lonely, and so he held on to me. My mother died suddenly, you see, and the shock of it made him a little fearful.
‘How did she die, your mother?’
‘In childbirth, when I was young - a baby, too late in her life, still trying to give my father the son he so longed for.’
‘I am sorry for you.’ He sighed. ‘So you have little knowledge of the world beyond Ravensworth, and no mother to guide you. Your father has kept you ignorant.’
‘He tried to keep me safe. He loved me.’
‘Loved you? Then why did he send you to the far North to face a terrible marriage to a loathsome man?’
‘That is a harsh way to look at it. My marriage was a long-standing arrangement between Sir Hugh and my father, who has done his best for me, I am sure. But from what I have seen of the wider world these last days, well, I wish I was still ignorant and kept safe at home.’
‘That is no way to go through life, Giselle. You must toughen up and face life’s brutalities, or they will crush you.’
‘Is that what you have done, with all your killing and lawlessness?’
‘Aye, I’ve had my share of brutality, but know this, I would not unleash it on you.’
‘As long as I am meek and ignorant and do as I am told?’
‘Aye, lass. Your protective father will pay the ransom, and you will be back at Ravensworth and away from me, soon enough. We will be at Farne Abbey in no time. There, you can wash yourself, dry your clothes and find a bed for the night.’
‘I’ve never been this dirty in my life. What will they think of me? I must look like the worst slattern.’
Lyall turned, and the expression in his green eyes was strangely warm. Was it pity or admiration? Giselle’s eyes were drawn to his lips, full and beautiful for a man. As his eyes held hers, the heat of the day seemed to intensify.
He reached back and found her leg and patted it. The contact was unexpected and shocking, and a strange thrill surged up in her, warming her heart.
‘You look well enough to me,’ he said softly.
They emerged from the trees, and he turned away from her.
‘The Firth,’ he said. ‘A mile or so further along this estuary, and we are in Scotland.’
Giselle stared out at the windswept sweep of silty, brown water. Along its edge spread a teeming patchwork of green vegetation, dotted with still, black pools, and stretching for miles up the coast. Wading birds high-stepped in and out of the foliage, watchful and twitching, as seagulls and terns spun and cawed overhead.
‘However do we cross?’ asked Giselle.
‘We don’t cross, we follow it inland and around. But we need to steer clear of the edge. Salt marshes. Treacherous.’
Everything about the land seemed treacherous to Giselle, including her companion. When they were moving, she felt a degree of safety, but she feared for when they would stop. This man held her life and her virtue in his hands, and he was the only person she knew in the Highlands. The way he had just looked at her made her fearful.
Crossing the Firth was like crossing into another world, one that was bleak and wild. It was the point of no return. Once this Scot had her in his country, she was powerless. Giselle longed to turn the horse’s head for home and Ravensworth. But she was nothing but a prisoner, Lyall Buchanan’s property, for now, at least. When he tired of her, oh but she could not stand to think on that. Sooner or later, he would realise that no ransom was going to be paid, and that she was worthless. What then?
Chapter Ten
Farne Abbey was dramatically situated, high atop a cliff overlooking the sea. As they reached the top of the road winding up to it, a stiff gust of wind hit, taking Giselle’s hair and making it fly out and brush against Lyall’s face. Her head was drooping with exhaustion against his back, and she had not spoken for the last few miles.
As they reached the front of the abbey, Lyall gazed up at its vaulted arches soaring skywards, as if reaching for God’s grace, but Lyall felt so far beyond that now. All day long, he had been trying to shake the feeling that he had taken a wrong turn, one from which he could not recover himself. It had dogged his every step.
It had started when he had gazed over at Giselle, in bed at Wulversmeade, the soft morning light turning her hair ablaze, her face quiet and gentle in sleep, innocent and vulnerable. What evil had he done winning her in a fight, claiming her as the spoils of war? He should have left well alone.
He had
wrestled with his conscience. Giselle was his to do with as he wished, and it would have been the work of a moment to pull the lass underneath him and have her, a few moments of stolen pleasure in a sea of hate and suffering. Many other men would have done so, but Lyall had tried hard to hang on to some kind of humanity in the four years of fighting which had followed the battle of Bannockburn. Those years had not dimmed the remembered horror of what he had witnessed there, as men butchered each other in a frenzy of hate and patriotism.
To hurt Giselle would have made him disgusting in his own eyes, and he would have hated himself, he knew that much. So, last night, he had protected the bonnie lass and chosen an honourable path. Now, confusion was taking hold of him, for he found that he liked her, in spite of her being English. Aye, he liked her, and not just the way she looked. He could see a quiet bravery in the way Giselle tried to stand up to him. He admired that. Lyall dearly wished he hated her, that she was a withered old hag, and not a beautiful temptation. It would be so much easier then.
He dismounted and banged impatiently on the doors of the abbey. They were opened by a wan-faced monk. His eyes widened when he saw the blood on Lyall’s tunic.
‘Summon Abbot Aifric, and, fear not, I am a friend.’
The monk scuttled off, and Lyall went back over to steady the horse. Giselle would not look at him, and her head was hanging with exhaustion. Lyall felt no lust at that moment, only pity.
A squat, middle-aged man with a shorn head, rushed out. He walked towards Lyall in a curious, lopsided gait, his right shoulder held far higher than his left, and his limbs seemingly too long. Despite his crooked back, when he reached Lyall, he beamed and twisted his short body so as to stare up at him.
He threw out his arms in welcome. ‘Lyall Buchanan, as I live and breathe, you are alive and well, but only just, it would seem,’ he said, taking in the sight of Lyall’s blood-encrusted clothes. He grabbed him firmly by the forearms. ‘My, you have bulked up since we last met, are you forged in iron, my son?’ he said, squeezing his biceps.
