by Tessa Murran
The hand to hand fighting amidst Berwick’s narrow streets was intense and exhausting. Desperate townsfolk hid inside their homes, or tried to flee out of the town. Lyall ignored the old, the weak, the defenceless, and those who did not put up a fight. It was the men of the English garrison he was after.
How many men had he killed today? He had lost count in his raging anger, and he no longer cared. For hours, Lyall had been fighting like the furies, dodging and ducking, rallying those around him, his throat raw from shouting and from the smoke pouring out of buildings.
He rounded a corner in the narrow, cobbled street, and his men ran ahead of him. For the briefest of moments, all was deserted, even the shouts and screams of fighting seemed muted by the houses, leaning towards each other, packed in tightly, their roofs almost touching. The lull in the fighting gave him time, so he cupped a hand in a horse trough to quench his thirst and took a deep breath as he poured some over his head. It was a sweet moment of respite.
He closed his eyes for just an instant, in the grip of an awful weariness. When he opened them, Banan was standing across the other side of the street. In his hands, he held a poleaxe, capable of taking a man’s head clean off with one blow.
Banan cocked his head to one side and smiled, the gape of a wolf before it goes for the throat.
A chill ran down Lyall’s spine. There was such a look of implacable hatred on his enemy’s face, something repulsive and elementally evil. Banan had the look of a mad dog, his enmity so personal, so visceral that there would be no reasoning with him, no mercy in his cold soul. At that moment, Lyall thought of Giselle. His stomach roiled at the thought of her being at the mercy of such a man.
All-consuming rage took hold of Lyall, making his hands shake, bringing a rushing sound of blood in his ears. He was going to put this bastard down, and wipe that smile off his face forever.
Tightening his grip on his sword and hammer, Lyall braced himself to clear the ground between them and avoid the swing of the poleaxe.
Banan’s smile faltered.
Just as they ran at each other, two horses galloped out of nowhere, one with a tail ablaze. They were followed by a crowd of people, put to rout by the Scots. The horses reared and stamped in utter panic, hooves flying out, barging into each other. One struck Lyall, and he felt himself falling, the smell of burnt hair in his nostrils, the rushing sound of flames, the shrieks of terror from the beast in front of him. His head struck the edge of the horse trough with sickening force, water splashed onto his face, and his eyes went black for a moment.
Lyall rolled instinctively to get out of the way of the hooves pounding perilously close to his limbs. He wriggled away and got his back up against a wall. Shaking his head, he tried hard to stave off unconsciousness. By gripping hard onto his weapons, he used them to lever himself back up onto his feet, struggling to rise through a cloud of dust and stomping feet. When Lyall felt the back of his head, it was wet with blood.
He looked around frantically and spotted Banan, some distance off, limping away, pushing past desperate townspeople running away from the Scots pouring through the town. Lyall staggered after him, trying to clear his head.
Banan was heading for the main gates, he could see them up ahead, now flung wide open. Beyond them lay horses, boats to carry the bastard away downriver, a chance to escape vengeance. He could not let him get away. If he followed, it might be a trap, but Lyall didn’t care.
The rasp of his own breath, ragged with exhaustion, filled his head, but still, Lyall ran and pushed and shoved his way towards his enemy. He was soon through the gates and out onto the wharf, running alongside the river. He saw Scots, faces he recognised, some Buchanan men, but he ignored them, focussed only on Banan, who ran into the doorway of a stone building up ahead. Lyall burst through seconds after him.
The building had three solid walls, but to the front, it was wide open to the river, which was grey and wide and fast-flowing, lapping at the wharf’s edge.
Like a cornered rat, Banan cast desperate eyes around to find a way out,
‘We have a score to settle, Banan. Stop running and be a man,’ snarled Lyall. Though he barely had a voice left, he put menace into it.
Banan limped to the edge of the water. His ankle sat at an odd angle, and his face was deathly white.
‘Jump in, Banan, you bastard, it will do you no good, for I will follow you, to the bottom of the river if I have to.’
Banan glanced at the river and then back at him. There was no madness on his face, nor anger - just fear, and deathly pallor. He swung the poleaxe out wildly, but his grip was limp, and the blade hit the floor with a clatter.
Lyall took a few steps closer. ‘Can you not swim? I thought all dogs could swim. Not you?’
Banan spat on the ground. ‘My father threw me in a loch once,’ he replied, through teeth gritted in pain. ‘He let me go under, again and again, to make me hard, he said. Bastard nearly drowned me. I can still remember the pain of it, like being thumped in the lungs, my eyes swelling with holding my breath.’
Lyall shook his head in disdain. ‘Am I supposed to pity you?’
‘I spit on your pity, Buchanan.’
Lyall took a step forward. ‘Time to die.’
‘Perhaps I’ll kill you.’
‘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, would you 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.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Lyall rode through the gates of Stirling Castle buoyed up by a sense of hope. How strange it was to feel the opposite of what he had felt some weeks before. Today, he was riding in at the head of a victorious army, with a great prize won. It was not Berwick, and its strategic port and great wealth, not a step closer to recognition for Scotland as a country free of tyranny, and not glory in the field of battle. His great prize was vengeance, washing clean his heart and his soul from the rage and humiliation which had besmirched them. Already, Banan’s blood-soaked death was fading from his mind. He had put down a mad dog, that was all. It was as it should be, and now, she would be his again. Beautiful, kind Giselle would be his. He lived and breathed for that.
Lord James Douglas had proclaimed him a hero of the assault on Berwick and had assured him of the King’s good graces. He had also hinted that a reward was in the offing.
When they swept into the throne room, with their clothes still muddy from the road, the King rushed forwards in great haste to welcome them. He was keen to praise their victory and, of course, to crow over another English defeat. Lyall felt a prick of anxiety, for Giselle was nowhere to be seen, and he could not leave and go and find her with the King before him.
For hours, he was forced to stand, as the King basked in his success, greeting all his worthy nobles and clansmen of Scotland, as they knelt before him to hear what reward was coming to them, what lands and fortune they would get for their service. Waiting was torture.
‘Lyall Buchanan,’ the King boomed at last, and Lyall stepped forward and knelt at his feet.
‘I hear you fought like a man possessed at Berwick. To hear my Lord Douglas here tell it, you were almost berserk with your eagerness to kill Englishmen.’
‘It was an honour to fight for my clan, my country and for you, Your Grace,’ said Lyall steadily.
‘I am honoured to have such a man as you champion my cause. The Buchanans have a long and distinguished history of loyalty to Scotland. I applaud your part in this great victory. My Lord Douglas feels you should be rewarded, and I value his wise counsel. So, Buchanan, you shall have the stewardship of Corryvreckan Castle. It is on the edge of my influence, and the clans thereabouts are a rowdy, quarrelsome, thieving lot. They will need a firm hand but, since Berwick, well, your reputation will go before you. It is your task to unify them, settle their petty quarrels and bring them into the fold. When I call on you, I expect men and arms and, when I am not calling on you, I expect you to bring peace and safety to the folk there. Villages along that coast are prey to attacks by sea, as are our ships, which trade along that coastline.’
‘I can be relied upon, Your Grace.’
‘Excellent.’
The King waved him away, but Lyall remained on his knee.
‘Your Grace, forgive me, but there is something more I would ask of you.’ He held his breath. This was risky, but he could not delay.
The King laughed in pretend outrage. ‘What is this? The insolent dog is not satisfied with his land and wealth, he would squeeze me to my pips for an extra reward. A true Scot is he not?’
The whole court laughed along with the King.
‘Stand, Buchanan, and face me with your demands, if you must.’
Lyall rose and looked into Robert’s eyes - shrewd, calculating, flinty.
‘You have secured my wealth with this great honour. I humbly beseech you to also secure my future happiness. With great respect, Your Grace, I ask that the Lady Giselle, who is now widowed, be given unto my care. I would take her as my wife.’
The King frowned. ‘Take her as anything you like, Buchanan. As the daughter of a disgraced, English baron, she brings less than nothing to a marriage. I don’t see a line of worthy suitors beating a path to her door. But, see here, you could do better my friend. As a reward for your bravery, I can gift you any one of a score of women, worthy daughters of rich and powerful men.’
‘I am honoured, Your Grace, but I feel that I should take Banan’s widow, given that he laid down his life for Scotland. It would surely ease his soul in its rest to know that she is well cared for. It would honour his sacrifice.’
‘Aye, his sacrifice was great, indeed. A terrible end at the hands of those English butchers. They tell me his corpse was torn apart and barely recognisable, almost not worth the burial. Such is the blind rage our enemies bring against us.’
How effortlessly Lyall had lied to his King, neither of them fooling the other. Robert knew full well that he had killed Banan. There were few secrets between the King and his good friend, Lord Douglas.
An image slid into Lyall’s mind, of rivers of blood, reaching across the ground and dripping over the edge of a wharf, turning the water to a cloud of red.
The King pondered his request for the longest time, while people craned their necks to hear his answer. There were plenty of rumours at court about Banan’s death, but none voiced them aloud.
‘Banan’s sacrifice was great indeed,’ said the King, ‘and his death at the hands of those English barbarians most grievous. Take his widow then, though I hear she is a quiet, broken thing. Banan’s death must have placed a great burden of grief on her, for she seems to ail. Take her with you to Corryvreckan, and perhaps you can restore her good spirits. I applaud your great sacrifice on Banan’s behalf. It is indeed honourable of you, Buchanan.’
It was nothing of the sort, but Lyall had what he wanted. Giselle would be his wife before the week was out, he would make sure of that.
Once he had excused himself, he rushed off to Giselle. As he left the throne room, he caught the ey
e of Lord Douglas. His master nodded his head slowly, and Lyall nodded back. They understood each other perfectly.
***
Lyall ran to Giselle’s chamber, taking stairs two at a time in his haste. When he burst in, she was standing before a window and turned pale when she saw him. She looked a deal thinner than the last time he had seen her.
‘You heard I was back safe. My messenger brought word?’
‘Yes,’ she breathed.
‘We are to be wed, I have the King’s leave to do so,’ he announced.
‘Wed?’ Her face fell.
‘Aye. You could at least do me the honour of looking pleased.’
‘Is that what you want, Lyall?’
‘Is it not what we both want? Are you not glad?’
‘I am glad you are safe, so glad. I was so frightened for you. But you don’t have to take me out of pity, or obligation, Lyall.’
‘I am taking you out of love, you little fool. Come here to me.’
She came forward, and he took her into his arms. How perfect it was to hold her again. Touching her calmed his soul and gave him ease. It felt like forever since he had been with her in his bed, back at Beharra, and his hands shook as he claimed her mouth with his. She must have been nervous of him too, for she was rigid in his arms, hesitant with her kiss.
Lyall had words to say, but his emotions choked them back. More than anything he wanted to lie with Giselle, hold her, make her his again. So he gathered her up and took her over to the bed. He lay her down gently and pulled her close to him. As he kissed her, over and over, it was like a homecoming and all the horrors of the fighting at Berwick seemed to fall away. The rapid beat of his heart, the nightmares, the feeling of doom which had so long dogged his steps, all were no more. There was just peace, soft and quiet, in her arms.
He leant over her, pressing her down onto the bed.
‘No!’ she whispered. ‘No, no.’ There was desperation in her voice as she pushed him off, and Lyall could do nothing but move aside. Giselle wriggled away from him, her face ashen and terrified. He knew the meaning of her fear, and it was as though Banan reached out icy fingers from the grave and trailed them down his spine.