Chapter Four
Lyall glanced over at the red-haired girl again. Had she cast a spell on him, for he could not seem to tear his eyes away from her where she sat, cowering, on the cold flagstones of the great hall? Christ’s blood, he needed sleep, and for this long day to end. His mind was distracted and numb with exhaustion but, once he closed his eyes, he knew the nightmares would come, and he would wake, screaming and sweating, to some fresh hell.
The red dawn had given way to a hot and humid day, during which, he had been fully occupied, securing the castle and taking stock of their losses. There were men he had to bury, friends who would not be returning home to their families and to Scotland. This raid had cost them dear, and it had all been for nought.
He had eaten but a little, his stomach turned at the blood and violence of the previous night, and now he was dead on his feet. The day was drawing to a close, yet he could not find any ease. He had to be vigilant as he watched Banan MacGregor eyeing the girl from the other side of the hall. Lyall knew full well that she was not his to protect, but he was worried for her all the same. Banan was single-minded in the pursuit of his twisted and dark desires, and he had decided the girl was his to brutalise.
Lyall noticed that she was clinging to an older woman, a servant, most likely, for Giselle de Villers was much more richly dressed than her companion. Her eyes were wide with terror, and she was shaking, as were all the other women they had rounded up in the great hall. He cast a long, furtive glance at her again. Even covered with filth, she was bonnie, her fiery hair drawing the eye along with her fine, gentle eyes, which looked away each time they met his. He wondered what colour they were up close and then cursed himself for a weak fool and looked away.
Little resistance had been offered by the keep’s defenders once they had smashed the door in and threatened to set fire to it. Most of the blazes had been extinguished, though some smaller buildings had been lost. Already, the men were looting and dividing up the spoils, but the main prize did not seem to be there.
Their spies had informed them that Queen Isabella had travelled north with her husband, King Edward, and was staying at Wulversmeade. If she had been there, it would have been a glorious victory for Lord Douglas. What a hostage she would have made.
Lyall watched his Lord flinging down jug after jug of ale and brooding at the women. He had already walked amongst them, staring into their faces and then thrusting each one away in anger as he realised the Queen was not amongst them. His master hated to come away empty-handed, and now he was in a bad temper.
Sir Hugh had died of wounds sustained in the fight for his home, and none of the prisoners seemed to know anything about the whereabouts of Queen Isabella. They had been sorely misled by their spies. Whoever gave them the wrong information should be hanged for incompetence.
Having spent the afternoon beating information out of the male prisoners, Lord Douglas was about to start on Sir Hugh’s son and heir. Lyall had worked on the wretch for hours, but Edric de Mawpas insisted that he knew nothing of any value. He said little, other than to plead to be released, and Lyall had decided he was probably telling the truth.
‘So, Lord Edric, it appears you are now master of Wulversmeade, though I fear not for long,’ said Lord Douglas.
‘How…how do you mean?’ sputtered the hapless Edric.
‘When I string you up for not telling me what I want to know, you can’t be master of anything, can you?’
‘Surely you can’t mean to kill me? I am a Lord’s son. The laws of chivalry demand that I be released, or ransomed.’
‘I don’t live my life by the laws of chivalry, or any other laws, fool,’ said Lord Douglas. ‘Now tell me, where is Queen Isabella?’
‘As I have said repeatedly, under the pounding of that thug’s fists,’ said Edric, pointing at Lyall, ‘I have no idea what you mean. I can’t tell you something I don’t know.’
‘Then you are of no use to me.’ Lord Douglas gestured at Lyall. ‘He looks like a pig, shall we roast him. Build up the fire, Buchanan.’
‘No, please,’ snivelled Edric.
‘Very well. Bring a rope and sling it over that beam up there. We’ll see this one dance.’
‘No, no, please, show mercy,’ screeched Edric, his voice getting more and more shrill as they dragged him forwards and fastened a rope around his neck.
‘Do you have any final words, Lord Edric, before we hang you for a fool? Any last plea for the men, women and children under your care?’
‘Spare me, I beg you, I am no threat. Let me go south, to tell the King what you have done here, that you were merciful to the Lord of Wulversmeade. I give my word I will not return if you would only grant mercy.’
On and on the fool went and, with each grovelling word, Lyall thought him less of a man, especially when there was a wet, gushing sound and a dark stain spread over Edric’s braies.
‘Enough,’ shouted Lord Douglas. ‘I’ve had my fun, let this worm go. He has shamed his house and himself. If all the English were as weak as this one, we would rule this land in a heartbeat.’
Edric fell to his knees in relief and muttered his thanks. ‘God Bless you, Lord, for the mercy you have shown to me,’ he said. ‘I will take a horse and be gone.’
‘You will take nothing. You will walk back to your King with your tail between your legs, boy, and you will take your first step now or feel cold steel up your arse,’ shouted Lord Douglas.
Lyall stole another glance at Giselle de Villers. She was staring at Edric de Mawpas with naked disgust and, as he staggered past, her servant started to talk rapidly at her. He caught a fragment of their conversation.
‘Will he do nothing, make no plea for your release?’ hissed the older woman.
‘Let him go, we are better off without him,’ replied Giselle, shaking her head.
‘Better off! How can we be, left to fend for ourselves at the mercy of these Scots heathens? It is not right. Your father bid me care for your safety, and I will not stand for it.’