He looked up and saw one of Murron’s suitors—the broad, muscled young man who had just tossed the stone in William’s way.
Suddenly every young man, every old man, every young woman and her mother, every child in the whole village, seemed to be watching to see how William would handle the challenge.
He first tried to move around the bigger man, but the broad young farmer cut him off. Then William seemed to think he recognized the big redhead.
“Hamish?” William asked.
And it was his old best friend, Hamish Campbell, but Hamish wouldn’t admit it or be put off from the challenge. He pointed to the huge stone. “Test of manhood,” Hamish declared in a voice grown deep and full and threatening.
“You win,” William said.
“Call it a test of soldiery, then. The English won’t let us train with weapons, so we train with stones.”
“The test of a soldier is not in his arm. It’s here,” William said and tapped his finger to his temple.
Hamish stretched out his hand as if to show William something in his palm. “No. It’s here,” Hamish said and with a sudden movement he slammed his fist into William’s jaw, which dropped him to the wet ground.
A few men moved to interfere, but Campbell, MacClannough, and the other farmers who were the true leaders here stopped their neighbors from interfering. Hamish stood over William and waited for him to get up.
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.