Braveheart (8 page)

William blew out a long breath and cleared his head. “A contest, then,” he said. He stood. With a deep grunt he hoisted the huge stone, eighteen inches in diameter. Straining with the effort, he lugged the stone to the line the burly young men had scratched in the rocky field. Beyond the lien were the muddy dents from previous tosses. William took a run and heaved the stone.

It arced heavily through the air and landed with a muffled thud, making a new dent well beyond the other marks in the field.

People were impressed, everyone but Hamish, who was pursing his lips in contempt at the toss. William glanced at him and seemed almost to apologize for the length of the toss, saying, “I still say this is no test. A catapult can throw a stone farther than a man can.”

“That depends on the man,” Hamish said sharply. He walked out, lifted the stone, and lugged it back to the line. He retreated a few more steps, took a short run, and heaved with a great groan.

The stone flew and passed William’s mark by a couple of feet. People laughed and whistled. William nodded, impressed.

“Can you do it when it matters? As it matters in battle? Could you crush a man with that throw?” William wondered out loud.

“I could crush you like a roach.”

William walked to the dent made by Hamish’s throw.

“Then do it. Com, do it.”

Hamish scowled at William, at everybody watching. William didn’t move. The green eyes seem to laugh at him. Hamish lifted the stone and carried it back to the line. He glared at William. William stood calmly.

Hamish backed up for his run and looked once more at William. William yawned.

“You’ll move,” Hamish said.

“I will not.”

Hamish backed up a few more feet for a longer run.

“That’s not fair!” Stewart, another of the farmers, called out from among the knot of men around old Campbell, Hamish’s father.

“He’s tired; he should get a longer run!” Old Campbell argued.

William seemed completely unafraid. He leaned down, picked up a small smooth stone, and tossed it up in the air casually, like a boy lost in daydreams on a midsummer’s day.

Stung by this show of calm, Hamish took a furious run and heaved. The stone flew through the air, missed William’s head by inches, and buried itself halfway into the earth behind him.

William never flinched. The people cheered.

“Brave show!” old Campbell called out.

Hamish was miffed; it was as if William had won. But what ad he done except stand there? “I threw longer than last time!” Hamish shouted and glared first at William, then at his father and the other elders.

“An ox is strong but not clever,” his father boomed back.

“An ox is stupid enough to just stand in one place!” Hamish countered. Everyone considered this, while Hamish seemed both surprised and particularly proud of his reply.

“That’s not the point,” William said. He turned, walked double the distance Hamish threw, turned again, and hurled the rock he held! It whistled through the air, hit Hamish in the forehead, and dropped him like a shot.
“That
is,” William said.

Everybody cheered and laughed. They surrounded William. “A fine display, young Wallace!” Campbell shouted.

William took a tankard of ale from a farmer, walked over, and tossed the cold liquid into Hamish’s face. He awoke and, his eyes uncrossing, saw William’s hand outstretched to him. Hamish accepted it, and William groaned, pulling his huge friend to his feet.

“Good to see you again,” William said.

“I should’a remembered the eggs,” Hamish said.

They grinned and embraced. Music played and the dancing began again. For several minutes William accepted the greetings of his father’s old friends, nodding to each. Then, when he had paid respects to all, he began to move across the clearing to the knot of young ladies.

Again he drew nearer and nearer to Murron—then passed her and moved to the girl with the missing teeth.

“Would you honor me with a dance?” William asked.

The girl was thrilled. The young handsome man danced with the girl with the missing teeth.

“You’ve taken over your father’s farm?” the girl asked as they went spinning along in the dance called strip-the-widow.

William nodded.

“They say he died long ago. Fighting the English,” the girl said.

“He died in an accident with my brother. Their cart turned over,” William said.

The music ended, and William gave the girl a gracious bow of thanks. She glowed. As he escorted the girl back to her beaming mother, it started to rain. Everyone gathered up the food and scrambled for shelter.

Everyone but William. He stood out alone in the rain and watched it fall.

14

THAT NIGHT, WILLIAM WALLACE STOOD IN THE DOOR OF the farmhouse where he had slept as a boy, where he had kept his last vigil waiting for his father and brother, the place he had left long years ago with his uncle Argyle. In the time since then the place had been used by a succession of tenant farmers, and several of the more prosperous of the local farmers had wished to buy it. Uncle Argyle had refused the first two offer without telling William, but the most recent one, coming two years ago, caused the old man to sit William down, tell him about the previous bids for the house and lands, and let him choose for himself what to do with his inheritance. William had refused the offer, sending word that he planned to work the land himself. His return seeming imminent, all the tenants had vacated. The house had been empty since that time; William’s return was delayed for reasons that the select group of local farmers who received communications from Uncle Argyle (through the village priest) never heard explained and found mysterious.

Now one wall, needing daubing, admitted the wind. The table where William had once laid out the dinner of stew that his father and brother would never eat was still there; constructed by his father, it had survived the years of use, and the scars upon its surface made it look sturdier than ever, but it was the only furnishing that seemed usable. The straw sleeping mats were filthy; William had already carried them outside and replaced them with clean straw from the barn. The bedsteads had long ago been removed; he didn’t know who had them, but he was sure that Uncle Argyle or old Campbell had seen to it that someone worthy had them. Other than the wall, the house seemed in good enough repair. Ah, well, the roof leaked, a trickle of cold water had begun to fall on William’s neck. The roof needed thatch, that was to be expected.

None of that was important. He could take care of all that. But now something else occupied his thoughts—or rather drew all his thoughts away, so he couldn’t think at all.

He stood at the open door of the farmhouse and gazed out at the rain.

Hard again a steep hillside, beside a meadow ringed with trees, stood the MacClannough house, a thatched cottage with wood plank windows closed against the storm. The aromatic smoke from a cozy fire in its hearth curled up out of its chimney and mingled with the rain. Inside the house, the old man was in the chair, the wife was sewing, their daughter Murron was embroidering something, and there was knock at the door.

“Who can that be in this rain?” Mrs. MacClannough wondered.

Her husband stood and opened the door to—a horse! The animal stood just outside his doorway as if the beast wished to come in! then the farmer recovered from his surprise and saw that the horse had a rider: none other than William Wallace.

Both man and horse were drenched with rain; huge steady drops exploded over them. Young Wallace smiled as if he had just come calling on a bright, warm Sunday and said, “Good evening, sir. May I speak with your daughter?”

Mrs. MacClannough stood bug-eyed at her husband’s shoulder, and then Murron appeared behind her stunned parents.

Wallace persisted. “Murron, would you like to go for a ride on this fine evening?”

“The boy’s …the boy’s insane!” Murron’s mother sputtered.

“It’s good Scottish weather, madam. The rain is fallin’ straight down,” William said and grinned again, but he was losing hope.

Farmer MacClannough was still stunned, but his wife’s words were all the quicker. “She absolutely may not, she’ll—
Murron!”

Murron had grabbed a cloak off the back of the door; she ran out and hopped up behind William, and they galloped away. Her parents stood in the doorway and looked at each other.

In a long, wordless, exhilarating gallop, William and Murron raced along the heather, up hills, and through streams swollen with the rain. Then the rain stopped; the moon came out behind broken clouds, and a billion stars, washed clean by the storm, shone in the black depth of heaven. William pulled the sodden reins, drawing the horse to a halt, and they sat there together on the warm horse’s back, the mare breathing and blowing yet seeming to feel the sudden beauty of the night, and Murron still pressed against William’s back. They just sat there together, the two of them, neither saying anything, neither feeling the need to.

Then, at last, William spoke without turning to face her.

“Thank you for accepting,” he said.

“Thank you for inviting,” she said.

“I’ll invite you again. But your father thinks I’m crazy.”

“You are,” she said. “And when you invite again, I’ll come again!”

He lingered; he seemed to want to say something more, or perhaps it was just that he didn’t want the night to end. Finally he nudged the horse with his heels, and the mare made her way back down into the valley.

They reached the door of her house. William hopped off the horse and reached up to help her down.

The moment she touched the ground, they looked into each other’s eyes…

But the cottage door was snatched open so quickly that there was no time for a kiss. “Murron, come in!” Mrs. MacClannough snapped.

William walked Murron closer to the door. They turned and looked at each other again. She waited for him to kiss her.

“Murron,
come in!”
Mrs. MacClannough said even louder.

Still Murron hesitated, and when even then he did not kiss her, she knew he was not going to. She lowered her eyes and started into the cabin, but then William grabbed her hand and into it he put something he had taken from deep inside the long woolen fabric wrapped around his body. It was something small and long, wrapped carefully in flannel. He hopped on his horse, glanced at her, and galloped away.

She stood in the open doorway and looked down at what he left her. Her mother stood beside her, all reproach gone, two kindred souls bounded in womanhood, both staring in wonder at the curious gift.

Murron unwrapped the flannel.

Hidden within its folds was a dried thistle flower, the one she had given him at the graveside many years before.

15

THE NEXT DAY DAWNED CLEAR AND FOUND WILLIAM rethatching the roof of his house. Standing there on the high bracing timbers, he could see off in the distance a column of English soldiers marching through the countryside, training. He stared at them a moment, then went back to work, spreading out the long yellow strands of thatching grass. He heard a rider approach and looked down to see that it was MacClannough.

“Young Wallace—“ MacClannough said.

“Sir, I know it was strange of me to invite Murron to ride last night. I assure you, I—“

“My daughter is another matter. I came to fetch you to a meeting.”

“What kind of meeting would that be, sir?”

“The secret kind.”

There was a pause then of barely two seconds, yet it seemed long to both of them. “I’ll get my horse,” William said.

They rode together deep into the hills and reached a cave tucked in a corner sheltered by trees and shadow. They looked to be sure they weren’t watched, and then dismounted, leading their horses with them as they entered.

The inside of the cave was very dark, but as William and MacClannough got in, someone struck a match, then lit a candle. Its flame illuminated twenty men, farmers of the shire.

“You all know William Wallace,” MacClannough told them.

They did. Among the men were Hamish and Campbell, his father, who seemed to be the leader here. “We risk our lives bringing you here, because we are willing to risk our lives for the son of Malcolm Wallace. You understand?” Campbell asked him.

William nodded. He knew rebels when he saw them.

“Every day, they send in more troops. Our country becomes an English playground, a place to harvest our sons as soldiers and our daughters as whores,” Campbell explained.

“That’s a bit too vivid, Campbell!” MacClannough bristled.

“Vivid but true! When Malcolm Wallace was alive, we met here for every raid.” He turned his wild gray eyes on William. “Your coming back made us remember your father. And made us ask if we are still men.”