Robert grinned as if Mornay had just joked with him; he did not want these men to see them whispering, for private exchanges tended to make the hands of some men—and especially of these men—seek the handles of their swords. He climbed into his saddle and waited as Mornay, with as fine a contingent of mounted men as any in Scotland, leaped onto his own horse. They rode side by side to the gates of the city, and then, as their paths home parted, Bruce said to Mornay, “Don’t worry. The time for you and me is coming.”
13
BARELY A DAY’S JOURNEY FROM EDINBURGH, BUT IN A different world from the royal city with its fine residences overlooked by the noble fortress, lay Lanark, a village of mud streets and stone houses, with thatched roofs and the persistent aroma of peatmoss fires. Lanark was a market for farmers, a gathering place for fairs and festivals. Such a festival, this one of planting was then taking place in the open grassy area at the edge of town. Flutes chortled like birds, notes sparkling hair and bounced and spun to the music; children chased each other; old men laughed. Farmers carted in fresh bread and wheels of cheese; villagers brought out casks of beer or strings of smoked fish.
All of this happened before the guarded gaze of English soldiers. Some were battle-scarred veterans with missing eyes and ears, others were pimply boys away from home for the first time. They had been told from birth that the Scots were little more than animals; they knew that even the Romans, conquering Britain a thousand years earlier, had decided these wild people who went into battle with their bodies painted blue and had been known to strip naked in battle and build defensive walls with their dead, were better left alone. This was a country that could not be subdued; English kings may not have known it, but their occupying troops knew it only too well. They moved about only in groups, rested only with sentries posted, and learned never to turn their backs on anyone. Although Longshanks had decreed that no Scottish civilians could own weapons, even the women carried blades tucked among their clothes. The garrison at Lanark was headquartered in a stronghold near the village center. They were commanded by a man named Hesselrig, who held the official title of sheriff of Lanarkshire.
Hesselrig’s men had standing orders to subdue any disturbance and direct orders not to disturb the festival as long as it was peaceful. Hesselrig himself approved of the celebration. If the countryfolk were enjoying themselves, it implied they were coming to accept English rule. So it was that his soldiers watched the village streets and the roads to the festival, giving all who approached it a careful appraisal.
And so it was that they took special notice of the young man who came riding in from the hills beyond the village. His eyes were that green that only Scots and Irish seem to possess, his hair light brown when he passed the shadows beneath trees and showing blond when in a shaft of sunlight. He sat his horse as if born there, his back straight, his hands relaxed on the reins. He had a look of lean, rippled power. He looked dangerous.
He was in his midtwenties. Many men had fathered entire families by then and already looked old. He had a sheen of health like a man who had eaten selectively and avoided too much drink—rare for a man who appeared capable of taking what he wanted. And, as the apparent owner of a horse—and a fine one, too, with long legs and a deeply muscled chest, clearly capable of speed—he could have been a knight. Knights of the Middle Ages lived on the mercenary cusp between the peasantry and the nobility. Owners of a horse, weapons, and possibly a small stronghold, they were upwardly mobile in a society that knew death well and valued the ability to cause it. This young man wore the smock of a farmer, but his hands, noticed by the first sentry he rode by, bore old nicks and sundry scars about the knuckles, such as one might see on a fighting man.
The soldiers all noticed him and nudged each other as he passed. He carried a dead wild goose hanging across his saddle; he stopped his horse at the edge of the clearing and surveyed the scene of the festival. Farmers were roasting a pig; women were comparing handiwork; young men were tossing a caber—an unbranched tree trunk roughly half the size of a modern telephone pole—in the traditional Highland games. And these people too were noticing the new arrival, especially the farm women with daughters of marriageable age.
Also watching were the fathers, husbands, and suitors of the local women. At the edge of the clearing was Campbell, his red hair and beard now streaked heavily with gray, and with him his old rebel friend, MacClannogh. They watched as the young man dismounted and tied his horse to a willow. And in the way he moved, the way he carried himself, they saw the reflection of the friend they had loved and buried many years before.
“MacClannough…,” old Campbell whispered.
“I see him,” MacClannough said.
“Could that be…William Wallace?”
They watched as one of the English soldiers, backed by three others moved up and shoved the young Scot from behind, determined to provoke him there and then if he had come to make trouble. The young man lurched forward for two quick steps and recovered his balance easily, then turned calmly as if he had expected the provocation. “Hey, boy! You hunt the bird?” the soldier demanded.
The green eyes fixed themselves on the soldier.
“It’s against the law for Scots to own bows. You shot this bird?” the soldier continued. His comrades, enjoying their role as intimidators, surrounded the horse, pulled the goose from the saddle, and began prodding the bird’s feathers for evidence.
“I hit it in the head. With a rock,” answered William Wallace—for William Wallace it was.
The soldiers didn’t believe a goose as plump as this one could be brought down with anything less than a fine bow. But they couldn’t find any puncture wound on the bird. William reached his hand out for the return of the goose. The soldiers dropped it onto the ground. Slowly, William picked it up and headed into the clearing.
The farmers watched him coming and mumbled among themselves.
“He wrote to Dougal, saying he would be taking over the farm again,” Campbell said.
“He wrote Dougal? How did Dougal read it?” MacClannough asked.
“Had the priest read the letter, didn’t he?” Campbell said.
Also among those who noticed William’s arrival—but pretended not to—was Murron MacClannough, grown now into a stunning young woman. Her long auburn hair reminded people of those years long ago; she wore it the same way, straight and full down her back. Her dress was plain, like the grass that surrounded a wildflower. She was the most beautiful girl in the village, maybe in all of Scotland, and the soldiers who hassled William noticed her, too.
William reached the food table; farm women were preparing the feast. He tossed his goose onto the table as his contribution; the women smiled and began plucking right away. One of them spoke up quickly, taking her chance before the others could. “Young William Wallace, back home! How good to see you here! Have you met my daughter?”
The daughter mentioned was missing teeth. William nodded to her.
His smile was gentle, but had it outshone the sun it would not have been as bight as her hopes, and she lowered her head in disappointment. But then she raised her face in surprise as William took her hand and gave her a respectful bow.
He moved away from the table, passing through the crowd like a stranger. Then he glanced toward the knot of girls. He saw Murron. She saw him, then looked away. Did they remember each other? He moved toward her; she was shy, her eyes downcast, but then she raised tem and looked at him.
They moved closer and closer together. Just as they were about to reach each other, a huge round stone thumped to the earth at William’s feet.