They obeyed, turning toward each other, and each reaching out with the right hand to grasp the other’s arm almost to the elbow, bringing their inner wrists together, where Uncle Argyle wrapped the strip of tartan and tied it in a knot.
“Have you brought any other signs of your love that you wish now to give?”
With her left hand Murron reached into the bodies of her dress and withdrew a handmade handkerchief, embroidered with a thistle to look like the one she first gave him those many years ago. She watched William’s face for his reaction. The lower edges of his eyes lit in yellow as tears of love caught the candlelight.
Uncle Argyle’s voice was husky as he lifted his hand and said, “May the Lord bless thee and keep thee. May the Lord cause His face to shine upon thee. May the Lord lift high His countenance upon thee and give thee peace, both now and forever.”
The lovers kissed.
Argyle blew out two of the candles and, lifting the third, moved down the aisle with William and Murron behind him, gazing into each other’s eyes. At the door Argyle blew out the last candle and, with a grand grunt of effort, forced his way through the opening there and out into the darkness.
William and Murron, their right wrists still bound together by the strip of tartan, tried to negotiate the narrow opening together and laughed at their awkwardness, as he first tried to let her precede him and she was wedged by her right arm trailing across her body; she backed out so he could go ahead of her and he trapped himself the same way. Finally, giggling like giddy children, he squeezed out with his back toward the darkness and his right arm trailing to her and she edged out facing the opposite direction.
So Murron saw them first. Then Will, turning, saw them too: a dozen of the neighbor farmers in their finest Highland dress, one of them—old Campbell, with Hamish by his side—carrying bagpipes.
Murron felt William’s arm stiffen alongside hers; his face looked pale, even for someone in moonlight. All this had been meant to be the holiest secret; she had been so vigilant in keeping this from her parents, carefully stealing away to embroider the handkerchief in private so they would never grow curious or suspicious. She loved them dearly, trusted them completely, but for their sake and hers, she would keep the secret of this marriage from them until the pregnancy that she prayed would come soon had begun to show, and then she would be free from the threat of prima noctes. Now here were men from all over the valley! How did this happen! William would never have let the secret slip; he had fetched Uncle Argyle all the way from—
Then she saw William looking at Uncle Argyle; it must have been he who told these men!
And Murron was right. William stared at his uncle, and Argyle stared back, his face full of admission but showing no guilt. The farmers were smirking, even enjoying William and Murron’s surprise. They were the same men, most of them, that William and Uncle Argyle had seen that midnight long ago, gathered around the graves of William’s family, playing the forbidden pipes in farewell to their friends. William held them in esteem, even affection; but Murron knew, instinctively knew from the silence at the center of William’s soul and the stiffness of his powerful arm, that he was not given to letting his secrets out.
Old Campbell began to play the pipes. The notes were clear and beautiful, drifting up to mingle with the stars. But still William frowned.
Uncle Argyle saw this displeasure in William’s face and moved close to him. “A marriage needs the pipes,” Argyle said, “and the knowledge of some others to seal the pact not only with God but with man.”
“But… ,” William said, “we discussed why this must be in secret.”
“And it is in secret still,” Argyle said. William frowned at him again, but Argyle was unshaken. “You must know who to trust. Yes, a secret is worthless if not kept—but it is equally worthless if it doesn’t find another worthy of trust to share its load. These men stayed faithful to you and to the memory of your traded the story of your father’s death for a share of those lands that would then be forfeit. Here, now, you are trusting them with the secret of your love, a secret even greater than life, for if you know what a man values even more than life, for if you know what a man Argyle wrapped his still strong arms around William and drew him to his chest, speaking even through the embrace. “I have taught you everything I know, but this much you must learn on your own: know whom to trust. Not everyone you trust can be loved; not everyone you love can be trusted. But your life is full when you find that place to share your secrets. That is my wedding gift to you.”
Argyle rode away and held back the tears of farewell. William and Murron rode the path to the top of the precipice, where, in the shelter of the grove, they spent their honeymoon.
Still sweaty from their lovemaking, they rode to her house and reached it just before dawn. He stayed with the horses in the shadows of the Caledonia trees and watched her as she ran across the grass, growing bright with the coming dawn, and slipped soundlessly through the window of her parents home.
He wanted to linger and watch her there forever. But the sun was just below the mountaintops. He lifted his hand. He didn’t know if she saw him, but she waved just before she closed the window.
William rode away alone, leading her horse behind him.
19
FOR SIX WEEKS THEY STOLE TIME WHENEVER THEY COULD; and yet the long nights of the coming winter were never long enough. When the moon was down or hidden behind clouds, they went to his home—their home—and shared moments—literally but moments—beside the hearth. And in those stolen moments William Wallace understood his uncle’s old truth that shared warmth was greater warmth. On other nights, when the sky opened and the moon sailed high and proud, they rode to the grove and celebrated again in the newness of their love.
Days they pretended—or thought they did—that the flowering romance everyone had witnessed had wilted before it bloomed. On church days they never spoke; on market days they passed on the road and William would nod, once for her whole family, and never speak her name. Murron thought it was remotely possible that her mother knew that something far greater was going on, but she was certain her father was completely in the dark. In fact they had been aware of every time Murron had slipped out the window. They had known, and in their hearts, they had approved.
The farmers they—or rather Uncle Argyle—had entrusted with their secret kept it far better than they. They pretended not to notice the unnaturalness of the community’s most desirable bachelor refusing to even look in the direction of its most beautiful maiden. But they never elbowed each other about it, never whispered and hid smiles. And they always pretended not to see it when William and Murron passed each other in the crowded streets of the village and exchanged words without ever crossing glances.
Such a moment occurred as Murron moved through the village of Lanark on a market day. It was a pleasant, sunny morning; the air was alive with the music of flutes and the laughter of children entertained by a juggler. English soldiers were there, too; they admired Murron as she walked among stalls of dangling birds, piles of farm vegetables, woven wool laid out on planks. She stopped to admire a cart full of fresh flowers. When she looked up she saw William on the opposite side of the cart, seeming to study the rose petals spread before him and never looking to the beautiful face beyond them. “I’ve missed you,” he said toward the flowers.
“Shush!” She lifted a whole red rose and smelled it. Putting it down again, she whispered, “It’s only been a day.”
“It’s been forever.”
“Aye. To me as well.”