All night she had tossed and turned and bemoaned her fate while disappointment crushed her. It seemed her life was over before it had even begun. Marriage to Edric would be a misery, for he seemed to have no redeeming qualities. All he had to offer was lust and resentment. Already, she thought she hated him. Giselle looked down at the drop from the walls and, for an instant, contemplated hurling herself off. There was no way back and no joy ahead, so why bother trying to go on? She had walked up to this tower in a daze of misery, feeling only the longing of a bird, desperate to fly its cage.
A flash of something bright caught her eye, and a hooded rider, in a blue and red tunic, sped out from the edge of the trees. He pulled his horse to an abrupt stop within shouting distance of the castle walls. It was then that she realised he was covered in blood.
One of Sir Hugh’s men? Was he injured?
Giselle glanced down at the bailey below where men began to shout in alarm. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked back at the rider. His horse bucked and kicked under him, but he paid no heed to the beast and seemed to have no fear of the archers, now lining him up in their sights.
The shouting grew louder and more anxious. ‘Scots, arm yourselves! Make haste!’ Men rushed upwards from the yard, carrying with them screams of panic. ‘Make fast the gates, be quick about it.’
She should go inside, find Agnes, but her legs would not move. It was as though she were glued to the spot. How could Scots be this far south? Surely this man was but a lone soldier, but if that was the case, why was Sir Hugh himself now running out onto the bailey below?
Giselle risked another glance at the Scot. He was big and broad with startlingly fierce eyes and a belligerent air about him. His face was long, made devilish by a dark, close-cropped beard and he was not old, like Hugh and not fat, like Edric. No, this man was hard-looking, as if he were made of iron. Her father had told her about men like this, fighting men, hounds of hell, with no fear, only a thirst for death and blood.
The Scot looked up at the walls for the longest time in an insolent, leisurely way. Giselle guessed he was delaying to better spy out the castle’s defences. More fool him. Any minute now he would get an arrow in his heart for his trouble.
Sir Hugh leant over the edge of the bailey. ‘Speak villain, say your piece and then be off with you, before I cut you down where you stand,’ he snarled.
For the longest time the man did not speak, he just stared up at the walls, and then he drew a little closer. “Who are you old man?’ he said, bluntly. His words had a rolling quality to them.
‘I am Sir Hugh de Mawpas, Lord of this castle and the land you trespass on, you insolent wretch.’
The man looked Sir Hugh straight in the eye. ‘I am here at the command of King Robert the Bruce of Scotland,’ he shouted, in a voice that was low and arrogant. It made Giselle’s heart thump in her breast.
‘There is no King in Scotland, there is only Edward, King of England and Scotland,’ snarled Sir Hugh, with a worried glance at Edric, who stood at his side.
‘As a Scot, I must disagree with you,’ replied the man, ‘for Robert the Bruce is the only King I will ever kneel to. He is the only man fit to claim that title, not that cowering weakling you snivel and scrape before.’ He drew himself up on his horse. ‘Or does he not bid you kneel, Sir Hugh, do you bend over instead, like Hugh le Despenser?’
Giselle gasped. She had heard gossip that Hugh le Despenser, Earl of Winchester, was not only Edward’s most trusted advisor but also his lover, a fact so shocking that Giselle could not quite comprehend it. They would strike him down for such an insult.
‘How dare you, filthy barbarian,’ screeched Hugh. ‘King Edward will hear of this, and he will seek retribution for your hostility towards a peaceful castle.’
‘Peaceful castle, surely you jest? Have you not raided into Scotland time and time again, stealing and burning and raping at your pleasure, while Edward’s army stood at your back, protecting you?’
‘I will not parley with villainous scum. Leave my land now, along with the rest of you dogs waiting in the trees, while you still have your miserable life, or my men will send you back in pieces.’
The Scot leant forward on his horse and smiled.
‘What men? The ones you sent out to greet us yesterday?’ He looked down at his blood-soaked tunic and then looked up and smiled. ‘Gone, I’m afraid, every last one of them. I’ll wager they were your best men too. You’ve grown soft Sir Hugh, like those men, who didn’t even see us coming and who, sadly, didn’t put up much of a fight.’
‘Your so-called King is a traitor, and so are you, and you will have a traitor’s death,’ shrieked Sir Hugh. ‘King Edward will hear of this and…’
‘Aye, I am sure he will, and it will please me greatly if he does,’ shouted the Scot. ‘Shame he’s not here now. Shame he’s not here with his army to protect you. Shall I tell you who is here, just yonder, in those trees? My master, whose name is Lord James Douglas, you may know him as Black Douglas and…’
There was a whistle in the air, and an arrow thudded into the ground, right at the feet of the Scot’s horse, sending it rearing up in alarm. The rider pulled hard on the reins and brought it back under his control. Amazingly, he laughed.
‘It’s lucky for me your man’s aim is as woeful as his nerve, Sir Hugh. Get him to stay his hand, or you’ll not hear the terms of your surrender and, trust me, it is in your best interest to do so.’
‘We will never surrender Wulversmeade to you filthy swine. Go home, sink back into whatever rotten midden you crawled out of, and we might let you leave with your heads.’
From her perch in the shadow of the bailey wall, Giselle thought she heard Sir Hugh’s voice waver a little. Who was this man the Scot spoke of, this Black Douglas, to strike such terror into Sir Hugh?
‘Fighting words,’ replied the Scot, ‘for a man with a dried-up moat and not particularly high walls.’ He pointed up at the battlements, eyes still scouring the walls for any weakness.
Suddenly the wind rose and plucked Giselle’s hood off her head, sweeping her bright hair out sideways. The Scot’s head jerked towards her, and their eyes met. She wanted to look away but was too frightened.
Sir Hugh continued to hurl insults at the man, but the Scot appeared not to hear them, as he slowly pulled the hood back from his head.
Now that she could see him more clearly, Giselle gasped, not just in fear, but in surprise. This Scot was not a monster, not a twisted brute as she’d heard the Scots described by those who feared and loathed them. No, this one had a face she wanted to stare at all day long, so beautiful was it.