Chapter Twelve
One man pulled forward from the group and dismounted, with his hand on his sword hilt. He was a big brute, tall, his arms heavy with muscle, but light on his feet as he cleared the distance between them. Two fingers on his left hand were stumps. The man boasted a scar near one eye but still, it was a handsome face, though it wore a scowl that could curdle milk. If it came to a fight, this man was a formidable opponent.
The man came closer and narrowed his eyes.
‘I seem to have you at a disadvantage, my friend.’
‘Not for long,’ Lyall replied, unsheathing his sword.
The man looked downwards and smirked insolently.
‘Is the water very cold?’ His companions sniggered behind him, and the brute took a step closer. ‘I’ve no wish to kill a man while his cock swings in the breeze. Put on your braies.’
Lyall place his sword on the ground and wriggled into his braies, all the while locking eyes with the man. He was painfully aware of Giselle still in the water behind him.
‘Do you know who I am?’ said his tormentor.
‘Someone swollen with his own importance,’ replied Lyall.
‘Aye, unlike your cock.’
More laughter.
The man glanced sideways to where Lyall had left his mail and bloody tunic slung over a rock. ‘Who are you? One of King Robert’s stray, hunting dogs?’ he asked, with a smirk of contempt.
‘My name is Lyall Buchanan, and if you are looking for a fight, take one step closer, and you will find it.’
The man flexed the fingers of his sword hand and tightened his grip. ‘Buchanan, you say?’ His scowl deepened. ‘I knew a Buchanan once, and she was a deal prettier than you, my friend.’
‘I’m not your friend. I’ve told you my name, now tell me yours.’
‘Why?’
‘Easier to boast of killing you, if I know your name.’
‘Hah, you have courage, Buchanan, I’ll give you that. We outnumber you, in a fight, you would lose.’
‘Not before I take you with me.’
‘Very well, scrapper. I am William O’Neill.’ There was a deal of arrogance in his words.
Something stirred in Lyall’s mind, a memory, a fragment of that name. ‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’ he replied.
‘Well, if it doesn’t, maybe I should work harder at building a reputation.’ The men at his back sniggered again.
‘What do you want from us, O’Neill?’
‘We are on our way back to our ship and bound for our home in the Western Isles.’
‘I hear the Western Isles are full of pirates and cutthroats who prey on innocent villages up and down this coast.’
‘You hear correctly, and I have no shame in admitting it.’
‘We passed a burnt-out village on our way here,’ said Lyall. ‘Did you attack it?’
‘I might have. It was an English village, so what of it? Now it’s my turn for questions. I have heard tell of Scots raiding over the border, and you look like you’ve been in a fight, my friend. The King’s justice will be swift, and many Scottish villages will suffer his retribution.’
‘Robert the Bruce is King of Scotland, last I heard,’ replied Lyall.