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.
‘I’m hard to kill, Abbot Aifric, for the Devil protects his own,’ Lyall replied, leaning down to kiss the man’s shiny tonsure
‘Hush with your talk of the Devil now, or I’ll not admit you to God’s house.’
The Abbot caught sight of Giselle and frowned as he took in her bedraggled state. She looked back with wide eyes, for the Abbot could be a jarring sight with his deformity, not to mention the expression of naked disapproval all over his face.
‘And who may I ask is this?’ he said as Giselle looked down at the ground in mortification.
‘Giselle de Villers is her name, and she is my hostage. She is accompanying me to Beharra, where she will remain until her father pays me a fat ransom for her return.’
‘Hostage, you say? De Villers? That is an English name?’
‘Aye, ‘tis, what of it?’
‘What on earth…’
Lyall leant in close to the Abbot’s ear. ‘We need to speak in private, Abbot, and the girl needs food and a warm bed for the night. Can that be arranged? ‘T’is best she is not privy to our conversation.’
‘I can’t have a woman in the abbey, and a comely one at that.’
‘But she is exhausted.’
‘Women are of the devil, Jezebel’s all, and she will turn the monks’ minds to base things, thoughts not in keeping with their holy orders and vows to God. Look at her, she has the face of a wee angel.’
‘All the more reason to give her sanctuary for the night, Abbot.’
‘Those are the worst kind of women. All innocence and temptation rolled into one cursed, little bundle. If she is currently warming your bed, I suggest you find another place to corrupt her.’
Lyall glanced at several monks, who had started to spill forth from the abbey’s mouth and were now gathering around Giselle, smiling shyly at her. Indeed, their heads seemed turned by her beauty already. They looked at her as if she were some exotic bird, something to lighten the tedium of a grinding and wretched existence, which reduced their manhood and urges to dust. Lyall found he did not like their eyes on her. But he had a matter to attend to, and Giselle needed to be made secure.
‘If you are frightened of her womanly charms, Abbot, then all I ask is that you feed the lass, give her the means to wash herself, and lock her up somewhere. I assume I can be assured of her safety from your monks? And in answer to your question, no, Abbot, she is not warming my bed, nor will she.’
The Abbot frowned up at Giselle, whose cheeks were beginning to burn under all the scrutiny.
‘She is shivering more with every moment spent out in this wind,’ said Lyall. ‘This lass needs your charity.’
‘Very well, she shall have it, as it would be unchristian of me to send her out into the night, though I dearly long to. I will send her off with Brother Tamhas. He is to be trusted around women. I’ll swear the poor wretch must be at least a hundred years old and can barely stand, let alone harbour lustful thoughts. As to her safety when she leaves this place, if she stays with you, of that, I am more doubtful.’