Chapter Fourteen
As they crested the hill and looked down into the sweeping valley, Giselle’s heart sank. Before them, was a fortress, dwarfed by high mountains, windswept, remote and hostile. Once she entered its gates, would she ever come out again?
There was nothing remotely welcoming about Lyall’s home. Trees softened its soaring keep of dark walls somewhat, but all around it, lay open moorland, and, where the river slid away into the distance, it was swallowed by high mountains.
If she was not strong, this place would break her, she was sure of it. Giselle wondered what kind of people lived inside this stronghold. Her captivity had been bearable with just the two of them, but now there would be more Scots likely to despise and humiliate her. Would they lock her in a cage and throw away the key? Would they hurt her, or decide she was too much trouble to be worth the ransom that was never coming anyway?
There had been few words spoken between her and Lyall on the long day’s ride. Instead, resentment had tainted the journey, and Giselle feared that Lyall’s anger would only intensify once he was back home. Her captor was sure to want nothing more to do with her. It was likely that he would just go back to fighting for Black Douglas, leaving her behind, without a second thought.
Giselle’s throat tightened as they clattered over a stone bridge spanning the river, and approached the gates. Then they were inside Beharra, into the bustle of the yard, people stopped their work and stared, crowding around Lyall’s horse. The clang of the smithy, the shouting of women and children, the clucking of geese squabbling, a chorus of dogs barking - it was all too much after the vast solitude of the moors they had ridden over to get here.
Lyall was greeted with shouts of welcome and, when he dismounted, his clansmen grabbed hold of him, slapping his back in the rough way that men do. He took time to throw his arm around their shoulders, to draw them into a bear hug. The women smiled warmly at him, with some of the younger ones excitedly nudging each other and eyeing him from under their lashes.
Lyall’s people seemed to love him.
Giselle was left sitting on the horse, unsure what to do as many eyes slowly turned to her. She shifted uneasily in the saddle.
‘What’s this Lord,’ asked one man, gaunt and sour-faced, ‘do you return to us from years of war with a bride?’
‘Bride?’ shouted a big, dark man pushing through the throng. He was tall, with a fierce scowl on his handsome face. Two striking women pushed through behind him, but they hung back. One of them had a belly swollen with child.
The dark man stood before Lyall looking him up and down, and then his scowl melted into a beaming smile. ‘In one piece, I see. You could have sent word of your coming, brother.’ He pulled Lyall to him, and they clutched on to each other in a crushing embrace. ‘It has been too long. No visit in two years, and barely any word of your well-being, you bloody fool.’
Giselle feared bones might snap with the force of his joy. His hand came around the back of Lyall’s head, and he closed his eyes tight. When he opened them, the man’s eyes found hers. He let go of Lyall.
‘What’s this Ramsay says about a bride?’ he asked.
Lyall plucked Giselle off the horse and set her down. Her legs felt weak under the steady, black gaze of the man staring at her, and she was horribly aware of how dirty and dishevelled she looked.
‘Cormac, this is Giselle de Villers, and she is to be our…erm…guest.’
‘De Villers?’
‘Aye, she’s English.’
The man called Cormac sucked in a breath and his mouth set in a hard line. His gaze was intense and unwavering, so much so that Giselle lowered her eyes, and clasped her hands together to stop them from shaking.
‘Your guest looks like she’s had a hard ride,’ he said, in a growl of a voice. ‘Best get her inside and explain yourself, Lyall.’
***
Lyall had looked forward to taking his ease back at Beharra. He imagined himself before the hearth, his brother’s wife, Ravenna, and his sister, Morna, fussing over him. He imagined tasty fare filling his belly, hunting and drinking with his clansmen, re-acquainting himself with several local lasses who had a fancy for him. He had longed for it, these last months, as he had anticipated returning home, because Lyall knew that, before long, the call to war would come again from Lord Douglas, and that he would answer, and be gone. But his restful stay at Beharra was not to be. Instead, he was in the middle of an interrogation, and his brother was relentless in his anger.
‘Did you change while you were away? Have you lost your mind, dragging back prisoners to my keep? That lass is clearly terrified.’
‘One prisoner, just one Cormac, and the only reason Giselle is terrified is because you didn’t exactly give her a warm welcome. All your barking at me, and shouting, and locking her up.’
‘What did you expect? England is our enemy, and she could be a spy. She is dangerous, so she will stay in that chamber until I know what you are about.’
‘She is no spy. I told you, we took Wulversmeade, she was inside, and I won her, fair and square. There’s a fat ransom coming. Her father is a rich baron, and he will pay well to get her back.’
‘Since when did you take women hostage, Lyall?’ said Ravenna.
‘Since she was in danger, and I had no other choice. It was either claim her for myself or leave her to be claimed by another man.’
‘What other man?’ she asked.
‘Banan MacGregor.’