‘We both know you can’t. I’ve always been a better fighter than you, quicker, stronger. That’s why you hate me, isn’t it?’
‘My ankle is broken, Buchanan. A horse slammed into me, and I heard it snap. I can barely stand, let alone fight.’
Any other man’s suffering may have given him pause, but Lyall was past such softness, a long way past it. ‘I don’t care,’ he said.
‘But you should. It is not honourable to kill a wounded man. You can’t live with yourself if you do. I have studied all your weaknesses you see, Lyall Buchanan, your foolish fondness for women - vipers all of them, your loyalty – blind, like a dog, and your precious honour. Always doing the right thing, no matter what it costs you,’ he spat. Banan smiled through his pain. ‘No matter what it costs those you love.’
‘Enough. If you beg, I will give you a quick death, you whoreson.’
‘Ah, let us talk about whores.’ Banan sucked in an agonised breath. ‘There’s something about Giselle that is so precious. The fullness of that mouth, the light in her eyes, so blue, so very blue, and the paleness of her skin. How easily it bruises.
‘Choose your next words carefully, for they will be your last.’
‘Wait, Buchanan, for I must tell you the most exquisite thing about Giselle. It is her love for you. She suffered all sorts of degradations so that you may live, and every time I took her, I knew I was hurting you. Every time I bruised her flesh, it was as if I was bruising yours. Whatever death you give me, it will be worth it, for she brought more pleasure to my loins than the most skilful whore or the most reluctant virgin I ever forced. You know what they say, the greater the resistance, the sweeter the conquest.’
Banan’s words brought such a rush of anger that Lyall felt his whole body shake with it. He took a deep breath to calm himself and tightened his grip on his sword hilt.
‘I will not fight you, Buchanan,’ said Banan, flinging his weapon to the ground. ‘If you kill me, the wrath of King Robert will lay waste to you and your house. Your brother, your sister and that evil whore of a wife of his, will all hang, and it will all be on you.’
‘I’ll take my chances and, Banan, the King will not mourn you, for he does not trust you, nor does anyone at court.’
I am Lord Banan MacGregor, my father…’
‘Was butchered as a traitor, and a traitor’s son can never be fully trusted. You are nothing but a coward and a violator of women. You are a pathetic fool, drowning in his own madness.’
‘Judge me, and you judge yourself. I take what is my due as a warrior. It is in our nature to force, to brutalise, to overcome the weak. We are bred for it. What is one woman’s disgust against that? Don’t you know by now that it is the lambs who go to slaughter, not the wolves? And we are not so different you and I. We are both killers. Did you not take Giselle by force as your prisoner, a helpless lass with no protection? Aye, you took what you wanted, just like I did, but you did it with a smile and pretty words of love, while I did it with my fist to her belly. Yet you think you are an honourable man. You are not.’
‘I never forced her.’
‘Only because you didn’t have to. What if Giselle had resisted? Would you have pushed her down, wouldyou have squeezed her throat until her face went blue and she gave in?’
‘How many times did you hurt her, Banan?’
‘Hurt? That is too soft a word for what I did.’
‘How many times dog, say it?
‘A hundred times over, and I was not gentle.’
Lyall raised his sword and clutched it in both hands. ‘Then a hundred cuts you shall have until you bleed out.’
‘Do what you will, Buchanan. It won’t change anything,’ said Banan putting his arm out. His voice quaked. ‘I had her, brutally, over and over and, in the end, I think she liked it that way.’
Lyall slashed his sword downwards and saw Banan’s skin tear open at the knees and gush red. His enemy fell down screaming, but it did nothing to ease the black rage tearing at Lyall’s guts, and so he slashed, again and again, in a blind fury. He did it a hundred times, until Banan was a wet heap of butchered flesh at his feet.
Blood, warm and sticky, ran down his face. It soaked into his boots, his hands were slick with it, his sword hilt sliding against his palm. In a daze, Lyall set down the weapon and wiped his hand on his tunic, but it was soaked already, and his hand just got bloodier.
Outside, the muted screams, the clanging of swords, the squeals of horses, rushed back into his senses through a red haze. He had been in a trance, and now everything was too loud, making him flinch.
Lyall held up his hand, dripping red. It was as steady as a rock, for the first time in months.
A hand came down hard on his shoulder, and he started. Owen’s face was in his, shouting at him, as if from far away.
‘Lyall, what did you do? Who is that? Owen shook him hard. ‘What did you do?’
When Lyall looked down at the pathetic remnant at his feet, he did not see Banan’s corpse. All he saw, was an ocean of red, and still, it did not wash away what this man had done to him. Perhaps it never would.