Pickering sat back and calculated. If their infiltrator had already joined the Scottish rebels, then he was with them during the ambush. So they would trust him. He could get close to Wallace. The plan was working.
It would not be so bad to have to tell the king that he had lost so many men to ambushes and raids by these rebels if he could present to the king the head of this man that so many Scots were looking to as their savior.
Pickering felt better. He went back to his berries. After a few minutes, he called for more wine and some cheese.
28
DURING THE TIME HE HAD SPENT WITH HIS UNCLE ARGYLE, William Wallace had studied all of the terrain of Scotland. Uncle Argyle had told him that the survival of any man who fought against outrageously superior numbers would depend on that man’s knowledge of the land through which he would be hunted. William had learned his lessons well. In a time when many people had never left their home village and could never find their way back to it if they were carried but ten miles away, William had crisscrossed his country with his uncle by his side, stopping here and there at the home of one of Uncle Argyle’s follow ecclesiastics to examine a new book or even at a monastery’s library, riding on to discuss the knowledge gleaned from those volumes, but always, always, studying the terrain.
So it was that after the ambush of Dolecroft’s cavalry, William Wallace led his men north into a deep woods, where they would find more shelter and protection. They needed rest and were laden with the booty they had taken from the English cavalry; extra weapons, clothing, food. Many of the men with Wallace, including old Campbell and his son Hamish, were experienced sheep rustlers and were familiar with the north-south trails that led across the ridge tops, but they found these forests that William led them into to be mysterious, mystical places. They did not see the trails that William saw. They didn’t like the unfamiliar noises they heard when they tried to sleep. They didn’t like the way the moon, especially when it was full as it was this night, seemed to be walking with them, looking down on their every move. Wallace realized their discomfort; as Uncle Argyle had told him, men will choose the familiar way, even when it appears less favorable. But they were safe here — or so William thought.
He walked along through the trackless forest, his heavy sheathed broadsword across his shoulders. They were all on foot; the horses they had taken from the cavalry were already on their way to be sold in the Highlands. William began to think of trade — another topic of discussion with Uncle Argyle. England wanted to control Scotland’s trade with other countries, but here was so much Scotland could produce that traders in other places might—
One of the men close behind Wallace staggered and fell from exhaustion. The men who tried to help him could barely find the strength to lift him to his feet. Angry at himself for forgetting the fatigue of his men, Wallace said to Hamish, “Stop here and rest.”
They collapsed to the leaves and loam and greedily squeezed water from the sheep belly canteens.
Wallace sat down on a pad of moss and leaned back against the trunk of a tree. He tried to think, to remind himself to keep thinking, but he as so tired. He had not realized it before.
Suddenly he froze; a shaft of moonlight illuminated a cloaked woman standing twenty feet ahead of him. Something about her was familiar, and then she pulled off the hood and revealed her auburn hair, cascading in the moonlight. It was—
It couldn’t be! But it was! Murron! Her pale gray eyes held him, watching in absolute peace, a half smile on her lips, as if she had been anticipating his reaction to this surprise and had already played it out in her mind.
“Murron! Is—is it you?” William cried out.
Joy exploded on his face; he heaved himself heavily to his feet and ran to her but stopped before he touched her, as if she might evaporate. But it was Murron without question! Overwhelmed, he clutched her.
“I need you so much!”
She smiled at him, softly, sadly.
“Murron! I love you! I love you! Do you know it? Do you?”
“William…,” a voice said. But it was not Murron’s voice, it was someone at William’s shoulder. “William!” the voice insisted. It sounded like Hamish. And Murron began to fade.
“Stay, Murron! I need you! Stay!” William pleaded.
Murron smiled softly at William, but his arms couldn’t enclose her. He wept as he understood, even before he awoke. He was lying on his new tartan, in camp, as Hamish shook him. Hearts were puddle in William’s eyes, and Hamish didn’t have to ask what he was dreaming.
William looked up into Hamish’s face and saw that his friend was alarmed. “What is it?” William asked, pretending he had not slept, much less dreamed.
“A noise, William! Listen! Hounds!”
Wallace jumped up, and heard the distant yipping of a dog pack. Stephen, the new Irish recruit, raced up and said, “We must run in different directions!”
“We don’t split up!” Hamish said sharply.
“They used hounds on us in Ireland. It’s the only way!” Stephen shot back.
“He’s right, Hamish!” Wallace looked around him; old Campbell already had the men roused up. Wallace darted to him and grabbed his arm. “Divide them and run!”
Wallace, Hamish, and old Campbell shoved men in different directions, then ran themselves. Wallace’s group was about a dozen; they raced through the woods, dodging trees, fleeing deeper into the forest. If was hard going, but the dogs were no threat without armed handlers, and if William knew the English, they would not come into this woods without strong numbers. The run would be as hard on them as it was on the Scots, and with so many on them as it was on the Scots, and with so many men scattering, the dogs would soon grow confused and discouraged.
They stopped and listened. The barks were getting closer.
“Split again!” William ordered.
The twelve divided into two groups of six and raced away in opposite directions.
But no matter how they ran and dodged, the barks grew nearer.
Hounds. They had to be following some scent! William looked for a stream to run along to try to mask the smell of the men from the noses of the dogs, but there was no running water near. He jumped up, grabbed a low branch, and pulled himself into a tall tree. He worked himself up the branches and peered into the woods beyond. This high in the tree the hounds sounded louder and more numerous; and through breaks in the tree, he could see the glimmer of many torches. To the English it was like a fox hunt, and William Wallace was the fox.
He scrambled to the ground where Hamish, old Campbell, and several of the others were waiting. William could see that old Campbell was ready to give up on running and make a stand here, but that was hopeless. The hounds would drag them down and the swordsmen that followed would finish what the dogs did not.
And so they ran. The barks were getting very close. Wallace could feel the rising instincts of panic. The blood beat in his ears, his breath scalded his lungs.
And the hounds were relentless. Wallace’s group was down to Hamish, old Campbell, and the two new recruits; Faudron and that insane Irishman who called himself Stephen.
Suddenly William Wallace stopped running and turned on those with him.
“What is it?” Hamish said, “Come on, William, run!” The barks were getting closer and closer, but suddenly William was ignoring them.
“No matter how we go, they follow,” he said, “They have our scent. That is, they have my scent.”
Run!” You must not be caught!” Faudron pleaded.
But William Wallace just stood there.
“We can’t stop!” the Irishman insisted.