‘No, never.’
‘No matter. Even if you do go back and spill your secrets, it would make no difference to the Abbot. It is an open secret that, over the years, he has played both sides, and is well rewarded for it too. His fisheries, his gardens, his crops, they are not scoured by invading armies on either side. Farne Abbey sits unmolested, no matter who holds sway in Scotland. Currently, the Abbot gives his loyalty to fight the King’s cause with the Pope. He strives with the rest of the church to support Robert’s claim for legitimacy, to rightfully call himself King. But that can change.’
‘But Robert the Bruce is already named King, in the eyes of the Scots, is that not so?’
‘Aye, but, until the Pope in Rome acknowledges him as such, he will not have the peace he strives for, and Scotland is in jeopardy. King Edward will forever feel it is his right to march back into my country and unleash his violence on it.’
‘Then you should not have given Edward the throne years ago. That is what my father told me.’
‘That is a lie. Edward’s father was trusted to intervene and settle a dispute between the clans as to who had the best claim to be King of Scotland. That was like trusting a wolf to be a shepherd. Edward saw an opportunity, and he took Scotland. We have been trying to get it back ever since. Now he is dead, his son will not yield the cause, no matter how many lives it costs, English and Scottish.’
‘But, surely, if Scotland had no King back then, lawlessness and chaos would have resulted. Someone had to rule, and if the Scots could not decide amongst themselves who was fitting then…’
‘Do you think Edward was ever interested in actually ruling Scotland? Do you think he cared that the clans turned on each other like wild dogs? Do you think he tried to bring order or stop the butchery? No, he was only interested in plundering our land and taking its sons for his armies for slaughter in France, and beyond. He wanted to squeeze higher and higher taxes out of its people.’ Lyall’s arm tightened around her waist with his anger. ‘Scots died in their thousands, fighting his pointless wars, all to feed his pride, his arrogance. He took our country from us, we did not give it. And I would give my last drop of blood to take it back.’
‘Why did you attack Wulversmeade? Was it revenge?’
‘Aye, for years of violence. The men from that castle would come into Scotland and raid and burn, rape and kill, and carry off hostages. Then they would melt back over the border with their spoils before any could stop them.’
‘Did they steal women, like you stole me?’
‘Aye, that too, but I won you lass, remember. Castles such as Wulversmeade have acted as Edward’s fist smashing down on the people of Scotland time and time again so that he could make us all slaves. With a weak and indifferent King in power, Scotland was mired in poverty and hopelessness.’
‘So now all you Scots hate England and everything about it.’
‘Aye, we do, and we always will.’
Giselle could feel the raw anger in him when he spoke of the English.
‘I don’t understand you at all,’ she said.
‘Well understand this. Robert is my King and my master, and while you are on Scottish soil, make no mistake, I am yours.’
It was clear that Lyall Buchanan hated her countrymen and he hated her. Giselle spoke no more after that. His bitterness made her miserable, and she longed for the day to end but, instead, they rode on for many more hours.
The soft, rolling hills slowly gave way to deep glens, cutting through high craggy peaks, around which swirled pillars of cloud. In the distance, the sea, a frigid grey-blue, stretched endlessly away, as if it poured off the edge of the world. Eventually, they left it behind and rode inland. There was no softness there either, only an untameable, brutal wilderness, under a vast sky.
Giselle felt as though she was being swallowed whole by this bleak land. She shivered, as, with each plodding step of the horse, she drew further into her Highland captor’s domain, and further away from safety.
‘Find a piece of flotsam and cling on to it.’ Agnes’ words came back to her time and time again. There must be a way to make this man like her, even care for her a little, or there was no safety. She had to try harder before it was too late.
***
By mid-afternoon, the sun was fierce, and the air had grown heavy with an impending summer storm. Giselle’s hair was stuck to the back of her neck and forehead, and sweat soaked the once fine dress where it clung, tight, to her back.
Their track, which had twisted through shaded, ancient forest, broke open onto a shoreline and, before them, stretching out, seemingly forever, was a glistening waterway. It was narrow where they stood on its shore, but widened, like a sea, into the distance.
‘Are we back at the ocean?’ Giselle risked asking, as Lyall had been silent for many miles and she had been afraid to talk to him.
‘It’s a loch, or a lake, as you English would have it, freshwater, but much bigger than anything you have in your soft country. It goes on for miles, and we will have to ride along its edge to reach Beharra, my home.’
He looked a little sad when he said the word ‘home’. Giselle wondered if he dreaded going back there, or if he was ashamed to have an enemy ride in with him.
‘Come,’ he said briskly, dismounting, ‘let the horse drink.’ He led it to the water’s edge, and it dropped its head eagerly, sucking up the water in great gulps.
Giselle climbed stiffly off its back and looked longingly out at the cool depths of the loch. The water was dark and gloomy, even in the sunshine, but it looked refreshing.
The Scot’s eyes were on her, and she was suddenly shy and could not look at him. She wiped the sweat off her brow. ‘It’s fearsome hot today,’ she sighed.