Chapter Two
Lyall Buchanan watched the rider speed away down the road south from Wulversmeade. ‘Steady man, take your time, and for God’s sake don’t miss,’ he said.
The archer beside him pulled his bow taut and squinted into the weak sun before firing his arrow. It struck the rider square in the back with a shock which made him wrench backwards and fall sideways off his horse. A blow to the heart or a lung pierced, most likely, meaning instant death.
Lyall hoped so, for the rider’s foot was still in the stirrup, and his horse wasn’t stopping. It was now dragging the man’s body along behind it, the head bumping over the ground. His attempt to run from the fight and warn Wulversmeade Castle that they had been overcome, had failed. The man now had the same fate as the other corpses lying in the long grass all over the hillside, about a mile away.
‘Let’s get back,’ Lyall said to the archer with a jerk of his head, and they turned their horses towards the trees.
It was but a short gallop back to the woods surrounding Wulversmeade Castle. Lyall turned his horse to a spot where the trees thinned out, affording him a good view of the place without being seen
The castle’s occupants had not mobilised to defend it with any energy. A few guards were pacing the battlements, but they did not look particularly watchful. He spotted a couple of men with longbows, but they were spread too thin. There would be no concentrated fire to withstand on the approach. Complacent bastards, these English. Years of having it all their own way as they raided into Scotland, and then retreated behind their high castle walls, had softened them to life’s realities.
Though there were no war machines capable of hurling missiles, as far as Lyall could see, the gates were stout and more than capable of withstanding a battering ram. If his men did attempt to break through, it would be hazardous, they’d be easy prey for archers firing down on them, or crushed by rocks dropped over the edge of the bailey. The castle’s defenders would pour hot fat at the very least, or tar, or even worse, quick lime, to burn the skin, choke the throat and blind those exposed to it.
To take Wulversmeade, they had to do it quickly, with brutal force, or not do it at all.
Lyall rode his horse over to Lord James Douglas, right-hand man to King Robert the Bruce, leader of this raid into Northern England, and a hard-nosed, ruthless bastard to boot. He was known as Black Douglas in England because of his dark deeds, and if he wanted this castle, he would have it, no matter what it cost in lives. Soon, he would order his men out of the trees, so that they were visible to those inside it. There was no need for stealth as ‘Black’ Douglas had a way of achieving more through fear and cunning than strength or valour.
He turned flinty eyes to Lyall. ‘The one who fled?’
‘We caught up with him, Lord. Word of our presence will not reach the garrison at York, and no one will be coming to the rescue for quite some time. They’ll get no warning and no relief.’
‘Good, so I can enjoy myself.’
‘It was foolhardy of de Mawpas to send out so many men to take us on. He threw their lives away,’ said Lyall grimly.
‘That is English arrogance, always underestimating our Scots’ will to fight.’
‘Are we attacking today, Lord?’ asked Banan MacGregor, his voice full of blood lust. It grated on Lyall’s nerves.
‘Aye, we might, but first, I need to see how many archers are inside and what their range is. Don’t want my men skewered as we storm the walls or while we get into position.’
‘I’d say three hundred yards, on a good day with a standing target, but they will be afraid and, most likely, disorganised. Hard to hit a moving target when your hand is shaking, and you’re shitting your braies,’ said Lyall.
‘Would you wager on it?’ asked Lord Douglas, smirking and then turning back to the castle walls. ‘I do wonder at it not being better defended if our information is correct, and she is within. I don’t think this lot have the stomach for a dirty fight, they are under-manned and too comfortable on those walls. I would have expected hundreds of men at arms to protect her, seasoned knights at the very least.
‘This might be a ruse to trick us, to draw us into losing men and arms. We have our spies, and so do they. We should wait, and not rush in,’ said Banan.
Lord Douglas gave him a filthy look from eyes as black as coal. ‘I didn’t come all this way just to sit on my arse while the English have time to discover us and drive us back to the border. If Queen Isabella is inside those walls, I will have her, and King Robert will have the leverage he needs to make the English acknowledge his right to the throne. King Edward can hardly leave his lovely, French wife in the hands of filthy, Scottish barbarians can he, not unless he wants a war with France? He will have to concede to Robert’s claim to the throne of Scotland if he wants her back.’
‘Maybe he will be happy to be rid of that she-wolf,’ said Banan. ‘They are rumoured to hate each other, and it is said the bitch has a lover. She is cunning and ruthless, more so than her soft husband.’
‘So it is with all woman, can’t trust any of them.’ Lord Douglas turned to Lyall and gave him a wicked grim, turning his dark face to the devil. ‘Enough of this blathering,’ he said, sitting forwards on his horse in excitement. ‘Shall we see if these English bastards have heard of me?’
‘Would you like me to do the honours, Lord?’ said Lyall.
‘Aye, go out and deliver my terms for surrender, and Buchanan, when you tell them what I want, there’s no need to be polite about it.’
‘I will be direct, as ever, Lord.’
‘Oh, and Buchanan, one more thing. Try not to get an arrow through that pretty face of yours. Those archers look a bit twitchy.’
***
Giselle climbed the winding stairway to the top of one of the high towers flanking the bailey. Her perch afforded her a view of woodland straight ahead, where the tops of the pine trees swayed back and forth in a brisk wind as if the forest were alive with some huge beast moving through it.
Gently sloping hills spread out behind the castle and, to the south, the sun was turning a distant river to a silver ribbon. How she longed to follow it all the way back home. She pulled her hood tighter against her face as the wind picked up.