Chapter Eighteen
Lyall surveyed the great hall at Strathgryfe Castle with disdain. What a shabby place. The castle sat on a cliff over the ocean, and seemed to have been situated to catch every gust of icy wind that blew across it. Filthy rushes littered the floor, not changed in months, he reckoned. The whole place smelled of piss and dogs, and the fire was belching smoke out into the room, making his eyes water. The wood hissed and crackled in the hearth, and there wasn’t nearly enough of it to warm the room and drive the misery from his bones. Moist air from the sea mildewed the walls with swathes of green. A body would never be able to feel clean and dry in this place. Worse still, the ale was watery and had a bitter taste, just when he was in the mood to drink himself to a stupor on it.
They would move on tomorrow, once Cormac had bullied what he wanted out of Laird Hugh Gordon, a disreputable, and not entirely dependable, ally. They had come to raise support for King Robert and his planned assault on Berwick. Recapturing the town would be a bold move for a King who had always favoured ambush tactics, a swift attack followed by an equally swift withdrawal, before his forces could be depleted in an all-out, pitched battle.
Berwick would be an altogether more daunting prospect, involving a lengthy siege, with huge potential for loss of men, and so the King wanted as many as possible in his army, to throw at its walls. The assault on Wulversmeade had been much easier. Fight, inflict damage on the enemy, and then grab what you can and get out. He had grabbed Giselle.
How easily she crept into his mind, and she had been keeping him from a good night’s sleep for these last two weeks since they’d been on the road. How did she fare at Beharra? Did she miss his presence, as he missed her unwilling company? No matter that he fought the memory, it came at him again, making his loins burn. Her mouth responding to his, small hands clutching at his back, the bronze hair between her legs, soft as down under his fingers, tears in her eyes as she asked to go home. Christ’s blood, she put an ache in his belly. Perhaps he should find a way to ease it and banish her from his thoughts.
A hand came to rest on his forearm. Hugh’s eldest daughter was smiling up at him and pawing him again, like a pet. It was irritating. Lyall longed to fling her hand off, but he couldn’t be discourteous. Surely her father would not approve of such behaviour, but he seemed indifferent to it so far.
Isla Gordon was buxom, blonde and pink-cheeked, all thrusting bosoms and wide, swaying hips. She was comely, in a fleshy sort of way, and she was certainly friendly. She’d been hanging on his every word since they had sat down to supper, constantly staring at him, like a slavering wolf eyeing a juicy haunch of pork. Hugh’s other daughters hadn’t taken their eyes off him either, and there were many of them, at least five more, as far as he could tell. He shifted uncomfortably under their adoring gaze.
Hugh Gordon was droning on, at great length, about the sacrifices he had already made for the cause of a free Scotland. The wily, old goat had sent some men and arms, along with coin and grain, to feed Robert’s army, but it was like getting blood out of a stone. The miserly rascal wanted freedom, but he wasn’t prepared to pay a penny more than he had to, in order to get it. His own sons could not be spared for the re-taking of Berwick, he kept insisting.
A vein was pulsing in Cormac’s temple as a sign of his anger, though he kept his tone reasonable and calm. ‘This could be the tipping point for us,’ Cormac said to Hugh. ‘If Berwick falls to us, we will have a great port from which to bring the war to the English forces. But we need every man, every sword, to do it.’
‘I cannot spare men, and certainly not my own sons, who are needed here.’
‘Lead your clansmen then, Hugh, for the glory of Scotland.’
‘Clan Drummond, Clan Lamont, they are not to be trusted, you know this Cormac, and they constantly nip at my heels. If I deplete my strength for the King’s cause, they will take advantage. Once the farmer’s back is turned, the fox raids the henhouse and slaughters all.’
‘So, you are happy for Buchanan blood to be spilt, but not your own,’ said Lyall.
Cormac shot him a sour look, but Hugh did not seem to care. ‘Insult me all you like, Lyall Buchanan, but until you have a clan of your own and people to feed and protect, don’t seek to school me in matters of politics or warfare or courage.’
‘What my brother means,’ said Cormac, ‘is that every clan has to make a sacrifice and pledge. This war is dragging on. We must strike a decisive blow against England to force the Pope to recognise our own King. Those who pledge now will be rewarded, with lands in England. Those who do not, well, the King will turn his back on them, and you know what that means.’
‘Is that a threat, Cormac Buchanan, in my own hall?’
‘No, it is a promise. You haven’t survived this long without knowing that.’
Hugh leaned forward in his chair. ‘Aye, ‘tis true, but I also know this. Never make a bargain without squeezing out an extra drop for yourself.’
Hugh glanced over at Lyall. ‘How do you like my daughter, Isla, Lyall? A bonnie lass, is she not?’
Lyall smiled at the girl. ‘Aye, she’s very bonnie. A man would have to go a long way through the Highlands to find such a face.’ May as well show some courtesy to the poor girl in return for Hugh’s hospitality, he thought.
Isla’s cleavage swelled as she took in a prideful breath.
‘I am glad she meets with your approval. I remember when your father, Fearghas, used to bring you here as lads. We always said that it would be a fine thing one day, to join our two houses by marriage.’
Lyall froze. What the hell was the old fool getting at?
‘If I am to pledge and sacrifice men at your behest, Cormac Buchanan, then I need something in return.’
‘At the King’s behest, Hugh,’ replied Cormac evenly.
‘Aye, whichever it is, I want something in return. I have six worthless daughters. Look at them, cluttering up my keep. It is hard to find worthy husbands in times of war - too many stout, young lads dying all over the place. My girls are lonely and not getting any younger. If Lyall takes one for a bride, I will pledge all to King Robert. How about it, eh?’
Lyall swallowed hard. Finding the right words to reject all six of Hugh’s daughters, while they looked on, would not be easy.
‘You honour me with your proposal, Laird, but I have no intention of marrying. Given that I am soon to besiege Berwick, and will, in all possibility, lay down my life for my King, I would hate to turn any daughter of yours into a widow.’
‘Ah, don’t be such a grim one,’ replied Hugh. ‘If you survive, which you surely will, with the support of all the clans and a vast force raised, you can return to put a smile on my daughter’s face.’
‘With respect, I must decline, I am all for war and have no time for love or marriage.’