The Abbot barked orders at an ancient old monk who tottered forward, revealing a toothless, but kind, smile.
Lyall reached up and pulled Giselle gently down. Her legs were unsteady, and she fell against his chest. She looked up at him, brushing hair out of her eyes, which were full of confusion.
‘Go with this man, Giselle, he will take you to a place to rest for the night.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I must talk to the Abbot alone.’
‘About what?’
He pulled her close and whispered in her ear, hearing the Abbot tut loudly beside him. ‘That does not concern you, Giselle. Keep your thoughts to yourself. Say nothing, not one word to anyone. If you think you can use your womanly wiles to get these monks to set you free, you are wrong.’
‘I don’t have any womanly wiles.’
‘There, Giselle, you are quite wrong.’ He looked into her eyes and felt himself soften inside. He quickly recovered his wits. ‘Do not test me by trying to flee again. Now go.’
She clung to him and gave him a filthy look as he prised her fingers off his clothes. ‘Go, do as I command,’ he said in a cold voice, and she relented and followed the old monk inside. Pity choked his breast for a moment, and he took a deep breath, bracing himself for what was to come.
The minute she had gone, the Abbot turned gimlet eyes on him.
‘Come inside, before the altar and explain yourself, Lyall Buchanan, and this had better be good.’
As they approached the altar, Lyall marvelled at the myriad of colours jewelling the floor, as the dying sun streamed through the stained-glass windows facing the sea. There was Christ on the cross, his life’s blood oozing, scarlet, from a wound in his side. Another showed Christ as the shepherd, the protector, with a lamb at his feet. The Devil was there too, mouth pulled into a gaping, lustful grin. Was he that Devil, for what he had done?
‘From whence has that girl been taken,’ snapped the Abbot.
‘We besieged Wulversmeade Castle under the King’s orders and took it. A sad and sorry tale, which I will not bore you with. Suffice to say, Giselle was in danger of violation from a man there and I took it on myself to keep her from harm and gain some coin in the process. She is the spoils of war, and I won her fair and square.’
‘How?’
‘In a fight,’ said Lyall, pointing to his black eye and bruised jaw.
‘Words fail me,’ snapped the Abbot. ‘That girl is terrified and in a state, so what, pray, has been done to her?’
‘Nothing - not by me, anyway.’
‘Don’t lie in God’s house, Lyall Buchanan. You come here, dragging this poor defenceless girl along with you...’
‘The alternative was much worse, trust me, Abbot. We took Wulversmeade, and she was inside it. There were others with evil designs on Giselle, and I rescued her.’
‘Rescued her! Are you expecting some kind of salvation in taking a hostage? To drag her, in your wake, away from her family and into Scotland, is folly. You do know the girl is now ruined.’
‘Not by me, I’ve not laid a hand on her, nor will I.’ That was not entirely true so Lyall felt his lie reverberate around God’s house.
‘How very honourable of you,’ said the Abbot, dripping sarcasm. ‘But she is ruined, all the same, travelling alone with a man who is not her husband. Her family will assume the worst was done, that she has been dishonoured by a Scot, that you have whored her. They may refuse to pay a ransom to get the girl back, and, even if they do, what husband will take her, what prospects for a good marriage does she have, given her ruination?’
‘I claimed her as was my right of battle, and I did so only to save her from a worse fate, rape at the hands of one so evil that…’
‘She is worse off because of it,’ snapped Abbot Aifric. ‘Aye, she would have suffered men’s lust, but she would have been, in all likelihood, set free afterwards, sent back to her family. The shame could have been covered up and not spoken of. She could have been given to a good man as a wife, and none would know the difference. Her ordeal would have been brutal, but swiftly done with, whereas now, it is prolonged, with an uncertain outcome. By dragging her to Scotland with you alone, then folk will assume the worst of you, Lyall Buchanan, why should they otherwise?’
‘You would approve of rape, Abbot? You would have me leave her to that fate? Banan MacGregor would have used Giselle cruelly, for his own sick pleasure.’
‘MacGregor, you say?’
‘Aye, he is Domnhall MacGregor’s son.’
‘A powerful man to cross,’ said the Abbot, with a frown darkening his face. ‘So, you have confounded Banan’s desire for this girl. You have made an enemy of him.’