Chapter Twenty-Seven
Stirling Castle sat atop its rocky perch, dominating the valley around it. After their victory at Bannockburn, it had been a haven, a mighty fortress where the Scots could take refuge and resist any attack by the English from the south.
Now, as Lyall craned his neck to look at it, a dizzying height above him, it seemed a place of doom and darkness, an impregnable stronghold screaming of death and destruction. His love, his life, was somewhere inside that cold edifice if Ramsay’s paid eyes and ears inside the castle were to be believed. The thought of it made him feel sick to his stomach. Giselle would be frightened, she would be hurt, and, with each passing day, she would think he did not care for her.
As they wound their way along the steep road curling upwards to the castle gates, Lyall felt along his swollen jaw. It was tender, but there was no break. He was lucky, for being punched by Cormac was like being smashed in the face with an anvil, and, had his brother really meant that punch, his jaw would be in pieces.
‘Are you on the mend, brother?’ said Cormac, regarding him steadily.
‘Aye, with no thanks to you. You didn’t have to tie me up for days, either.’
‘It was necessary, to stop you behaving like the worst fool and rushing off to commit treason and get yourself killed. It gave me time to find out where Giselle was taken. Has your temper cooled sufficiently for you to think straight?’
‘Aye, it has.’
‘Good, then I can rely on you holding your tongue when we go before the King. We are here to lay our plans to attack Berwick, not to plead your cause to free Giselle. That, we will do by more subtle means. Agreed?’
‘Agreed. But when I see Banan, with the rage inside me, I don’t know what will stop me from ripping his head off his shoulders.’
‘The fact that Giselle’s life depends on you not doing that, the fact that mine does too. I have favour with the King, and I’ve had his trust in the past, but it has been some time since I was at court and things have changed. It was never wise to defy Robert, no matter what the cause. Trust me, Lyall, I have seen too many good men fall by the wayside when they did just that. So, I need your word.’
‘You have my word. I will not challenge Banan openly. I swear it.’
Lyall pulled his horse to a stop on the flat plateau of ground before the gates of Stirling. He sighed as he looked down to the valley below and the snow-capped mountains beyond. The wind was a little chill now that autumn was approaching, sucking the life out of the trees. The first leaves were falling, and swirled, gold and red, around his horse’s hooves.
If they were going to lay siege to Berwick, they had to do it soon, before winter set in, for men pressed into the service of their laird would need to return home to gather the harvest. It was either that or have their families starving come winter if crops were left to rot in the fields. A month or two, that was all the obligation they had to fight for their Lord, and their King. Mercenaries were too expensive and unreliable to fill the void left by clansmen who had returned home.
So, with every leaf that fell, their army would evaporate, and every day Giselle was in Banan’s grasp, was a day when she was hurt and frightened. Lyall felt his soul slowly withering under the burden of his grief and what he must yet face.
Time was running out for everyone.
***
Giselle stood in a corner in the throne room. The ale and wine were flowing, and the King seemed to be in a good mood as he tapped his foot along to minstrel’s music. From time to time, he would beckon men forwards to speak to him, and then wave them away. His nobles all fawned and bowed low. Giselle could scarce contain her hatred for King Robert the Bruce.
That man had handed her this awful fate without a thought of the pain he would cause, just because it served his purpose. To him, she was no more significant than a gnat. How ordinary he was in the flesh, this Scots warrior king, sickly looking, with jaundiced skin, stretched thin, over his face, and yet he had the power of life and death over so many.
Giselle glanced up at the vividly painted ceiling, emblazoned with carved flowers, edged with gilt. There were stunning tapestries gracing the walls, of mystical unicorns, hunting scenes, wild game and birds - all brought vividly to life. She had never seen anything so splendid. Around her was a bustling throng of richly dresses courtiers, servants in fine livery and the King’s personal guard, bristling with arms. It signified nothing. It was just a show of power and arrogance, all underpinned by cruelty.
Despite the chill outside, it was warm and bright in the hall with so many bodies pressed close together. Banan had already abandoned her in favour of toadying up to the many lairds and high courtiers with whom he hoped to curry favour. He was now in the middle of the throng, no doubt aggrandizing himself to his new allies. They did not respect him. They feared him, for what he had done to his father. How malevolent did you have to be to condemn your own flesh and blood to such a brutal end, they were surely thinking? Giselle knew what kind of fiend Banan was, but they could only guess.
Banan would ignore her amongst all these powerful people, for he saw her only as an ornament, not a person with feelings. It gave her some respite from his company, but she could feel other eyes on her. Men stole furtive glances at her, full of undisguised lust. Those who knew Banan a little better looked on her with pity. Others stared with contempt, so far was she beneath their notice. A few of the women were kind, and came to talk to her, wafting over with a rustle of silk and the glint of jewellery, smelling of wealth and perfume of roses, graceful, refined and at ease. Giselle could think of nothing to say to them that did not sound trite and meaningless, given her situation, and they soon wandered off in search of more stimulating company. She wanted to scream at them to help her, but they could not. Giselle wore her misery as they wore their fine clothes and courtly manners, and she was shunned because of it.
A small commotion came from the back of the room, and Banan appeared at her side and took her hand.
The crowd before the King parted, and suddenly, there he was - tall, dark and fine. When Lyall’s eyes met hers, she saw her own infinite pain mirrored there.
There was no time to prepare herself. Giselle was sure her legs would not hold her. Banan stared at her intently, eager no doubt to gauge her reaction, then he squeezed her hand, almost tight enough to break bones, and hissed, ‘Steady now, don’t give yourself away, harlot. Don’t sign his death warrant.’
Giselle was vaguely aware of the King shouting a greeting, and Cormac coming forward to kneel, but she did not really see anyone but Lyall. He followed his brother and knelt, and, to keep herself from crying, she kept her eyes fixed on his dark head, bowed in supplication before the man who had shattered his life and hers.
Banan’s grip intensified, but she did not cry out in pain. She steeled herself to ignore it. He would not take this from her, this last chance to see her love. And love him she did, her heart swelled to bursting with it, her chest ached with longing, a dull, clinging pain, deep inside her. Giselle thought she might die from wanting him.
‘Rise, Buchanans. It has been a long time, Cormac,’ boomed the King in genuine delight as he came forward to grip Cormac’s hand, taking his forearm and pulling him close.
‘Too long, Your Grace, but I had word you are about to give the English another lesson in conquest, and I could not bear to miss it,’ said Cormac warmly. A murmur of approval spread around the room.
‘With you in my army, I have no doubt of victory. Your clansmen?’ asked the King.