CHAPTER THREE

1

One Friday morning in February 1286, we were released from our lessons at mid-morning and informed that there would be no more classes that day. This was a rare enough occurrence to be welcomed boisterously by the Abbey’s small student body, and there followed a frantic exodus as almost two score of boys sought to escape the premises before some joyless monk could come along and set them all to work at other tasks.

Will and I had been forewarned by Brother Duncan, who had heard from Father Peter what was happening that day, and so we knew that we had no need to run and hide. On those rare occasions when the Abbey was visited by distinguished guests, the entire complement of the brotherhood turned out to honour them and to participate in the ceremonies attending the visits. Today’s visitors had come to the Abbey as representatives of the King of Scots, Alexander III. We knew little more than that the Bishop of Glasgow headed the religious element of the deputation.

It was a bright, beautiful day for the time of the year, the third one in succession and a harbinger, everyone hoped, of an early, welcome spring. We made our way contentedly to one of our favourite spots, far enough away from the Abbey buildings to be secure from interruption and yet close enough for us to be able to return quickly in the unlikely event of an alarum being sounded on the iron triangle that hung by the main entrance. Our destination was an oxbow loop in the small river that ran through the heavily wooded area to the north of the Abbey, a place of dappled shadows on a sunny day but one that could be cold, boggy, and treacherous in inclement weather. The loop of the river there was wide and placid, the dry land within the oxbow covered with lush grass. Below an outcrop of rock was a long, chest-deep swimming hole for our personal enjoyment. There were fish in there, speckled trout that hovered, barely visible, at the edge of the current below the falls, and the soft earth of the banks showed the cloven hoof marks of the deer that came there daily to drink.

The main attraction of the place for us was a recent modification, the result of a violent windstorm that had brought down an enormous ash tree athwart the stream the previous spring. At first we had been dismayed, thinking our favourite place ruined. It had taken us several days to become aware that the collapse of the giant had resulted in a double bridge over the deepest part of our swimming hole, the main trunk splitting in such a way as to lay two major limbs side by side and less than three feet apart. We lopped off all the trailing branches, leaving only the two bare poles of the main limbs in place, the thinner of the two resting slightly less than a foot below the level of the other. It was perfect for our purposes, and we had put it to good use throughout the summer and autumn months that followed.

That February day was the first time we had returned to the spot that year, and we wasted no time. Will ran lithely out into the middle of the lower limb and leaned against his staff, propping it on the upper pole and looking down into the water as I sprang up and across the narrow gap to the upper log.

“Sunshine or no,” he said, “that water’s cold enough to kill the first man in.” He leered up at me. “And guess what? It’s not going to be me.”

“Then we’ll both go home dry, for it won’t be me, either,” I said, grinning back at him.

I remember I felt strong and confident that day, highly aware of my own physique and conditioning. It was true that I was a librarian now and spent much of my time cooped up indoors and out of the sun, but I was far fitter than any of my contemporaries and most of the brotherhood’s younger members. Five years and more of constant drill and exercise with the heavy quarterstaves had made a man of me, in physical size at least. I was broad and strong, nimble and sure-footed and filled with energy and stamina. I can see, looking back now, that I was quite proud of myself, but I had good reason. I also had a constant reminder that I should never crow too much, for Will dwarfed me. He towered a full head over me, and his shoulders seemed twice the width of mine. He had legs like tree trunks and arms to match, and his chest was almost as broad and deep as Ewan’s though he was not yet seventeen.

It was that difference in our sizes that made the twin bridges perfect for our needs, because the extra height I gained by standing on the upper log fairly cancelled out Will’s advantage, and the few extra inches of girth in the log beneath my feet accorded me an added measure of stability and foot room, so that when we faced each other across the narrow gap we were as close as we could come to being evenly matched.

We began slowly—not cautiously, for we knew what we were doing, but we had not stood on the logs for months and they had become coated with a thin film of moss, so our opening moves were tentative, each of us gauging his own balance and ease of mobility rather than paying attention to the other. Finally Will straightened his back.

“Are you ready?”

In reply I hefted my staff in both hands and snapped my arm straight in front of me, rapping one end against the centre of his weapon, but even as I made contact he was whipping his staff away to the side, raising it high and bringing it straight down in a tightly controlled, two-handed slash that would have cracked my skull had I been there to receive it. But I had already swayed back on my heels and raised my own staff in a horizontal block that stopped his attack but left both my hands stinging. He grinned at me and dropped one end of his staff to rest against the log by his feet.

“I almost had you there, Cuz,” he said, in that quiet voice I had long since come to recognize as signalling a coming attack, and I took two quick steps to my left, placing myself to the right of his natural swing, fully prepared to take revenge if he lunged at me and missed. He grinned again and shifted his staff to a two-handed grip, and for several moments we manoeuvred opposite each other in watchful silence, each waiting for the other to make an error and invite destruction. When neither of us did, though, and it became plain that neither would, Will straightened up again.

“Basics, then,” he murmured, and we went into the fundamentals of our daily drill, our early movements stiff and formal, exactly as we had learned them in the beginning, each move and countermove precise and cleanly executed. As we progressed through the familiar exercises our ease and speed increased, until our staves rang loudly and rhythmically against each other, the intervals between the strikes growing shorter and shorter until the noise was an incessant rattle and the sweat began to roll down our bodies.

And then I saw something from the corner of my eye, and in the instant my concentration broke, Will smashed the staff from my hands, sending it flying to the grassy bank.

“Hold!” I shouted, and he hesitated, his staff already drawn back to push me off my log.

“What?”

“There.” I pointed to a cloaked and hooded figure watching us from the trees along the riverbank.

Will glanced over his shoulder and spun immediately to face the silent presence, twirling the heavy quarterstaff in one hand so that it spun in his fingers. “Get your staff,” he said to me over his shoulder, and I ran to obey him, not looking at the figure on the other bank again until I had rearmed myself and returned to stand by Will’s side. The watcher had not moved, and the shadows of the trees in which he stood obscured him sufficiently that we were unable to tell whether we knew him or not.

“Come out, then, and let us look at you.”

Will’s voice was quiet yet pitched clearly enough for his words to carry to the fellow, who straightened up from the tree he had been leaning against and stepped into the light. He was a stranger, and as he came into full view he reached up and slipped the hood from his head, exposing a full head of thick, golden, shoulder-length hair that caught the sunlight. The face was young and beardless, barely older than Will’s own, and unsmiling as it gazed at us. But it was the size of the fellow, the immense width of the shoulders beneath the cloak, that made me catch my breath. He was almost of a height with Will, I thought, though I could not be sure from the distance that separated us, but he was slimmer somehow. The legs beneath his kilted tunic were long and well formed, bare above the knees and swathed in furlined leggings below, the latter secured by criss-crossed leather straps attached to heavily soled, ankle-high boots. His tunic was richly made, some thick, green fabric that marked him as well born; Will and I had never owned, and seldom seen, anything so fine. A heavy, supple leather belt that held a long, sheathed dagger cinched in his narrow waist.

“Have you no manners, then?” Will said in Scots. “Or are you a thief, creeping up on folk to steal whatever takes your fancy?”

I stiffened at the calculated insult of the jibe, but the yellowhaired stranger merely smiled, flashing brilliantly white teeth, and came to stand at the edge of the bank, beside the bridge. He moved like a cat, lithe and flowing, his arms hanging loosely by his sides.

“You have nothing worth stealing,” he answered easily, the lilt of his voice proclaiming him a Highlander from the North. “I saw that at first glance.” He was still smiling. “I merely wished to cross this bridge and decided to wait until you had thrown the poor wee fellow off before I bothered you for passage.”

I drew myself up, stung, but before I could say a word Will waved me to silence. “The poor wee fellow, as you’ve seen, is no’ so easily budged,” he replied, his voice dangerously quiet to my ears.

“Aye, I know that now. He is stronger than he looks beside your bulk and he fights well. Well enough to withstand the flailings of an oaf twice his size.” His eyes moved to me and I saw that they were startlingly bright blue. “Well done, lad,” he said, and then looked back at Will. “Now, if I ask you civilly, will you move off and let me cross?”

I saw the wolfish grin light up Will’s face and my stomach churned. I sensed that nothing good could come of this.

“Let him cross, Will.”

Will bared his teeth in what I thought of as his mad grin. “Let him cross? I’ll do that, Jamie. I’ll let him cross. But he’ll have to climb over me first.” He turned back to the stranger. “Well, Saxon, d’ye think you can do that?”

The stranger pointed at the staff in Will’s hand.

“What?” Will asked, all innocence, hefting his staff. “Does this bother you? Think naught o’ it. I’ll throw it on the bank there and we’ll settle this bare-handed, just you and me.”

“No, you misunderstand me,” the stranger said quietly. “And misjudge me. Mine is Norse blood, not Saxon. My folk were Vikings, on a time. And you may keep your stick, so be it I can borrow your friend’s.”

“Borrow it?” Will’s grin seemed to grow even wider. “Aye, I think you could borrow it. Jamie, hand the man your staff and show him how to hold it.”

“No need,” said the Viking, as I had already named him. “Throw it to me. I’ll manage.”

“Will …”

“Just throw it, Jamie. You heard the man.”

I bit my lip, knowing this was wrong, and lobbed my quarterstaff across the gap. The stranger caught it easily in one hand, and as I left the bridge he hopped up effortlessly to stand on the upper log, facing Will, who was suddenly frowning, his mad grin vanished. He was now aware, I realized with relief, of the grossly excessive advantage he would have over his unsuspecting opponent.

“Do you know how to use one of these things?” Will’s voice was rough now with concern, and I began to feel better, but the Viking merely flicked the hair off his forehead with a toss of his head and took the staff in both hands, holding it as though it were a felling axe.

“I’ll manage,” he said again, flexing his knees. “Don’t worry about me. Look to yourself.”

With that he launched a swift attack that left me open-mouthed with shock, a spear-like thrust so fast and well executed that Will had to spring back to avoid it, whipping his staff up in a defensive block that the stranger immediately used against him, dropping to one knee and hooking a vicious crosswise blow under Will’s horizontal guard, aiming for his knees and almost connecting as Will leapt back again, giving ground for the second time.

From that point on, their battle was hard and heavy, each of them giving the other the respect due to an opponent who was his match and neither of them taking foolish risks, ever conscious of their footwork on the curved, moss-coated surface of the log beneath their feet.

The tempo increased suddenly as Will’s foot caught on a slight bump on the log, throwing him off balance just long enough for his opponent to seize the advantage. As Will swayed, the Viking swung a short-handed, chopping blow that caught him high on his right shoulder. I thought it was all over as soon as I heard the solid thump of the hit, for I knew Will’s arm must be deadened, but he surprised me by dropping to one knee, still clutching the right end of his staff with now lifeless fingers, and brought the other end sweeping inward for a crashing blow as powerful as a swung axe, hammering towards the Viking’s knees and pivoting through chest and shoulders for added impetus.

It was a prodigious effort, but the Viking’s response to it was miraculous to me. Like a threatened cat, he sprang into the air with both feet, drawing his knees clear up to his shoulders as Will’s staff whistled through the air where his legs had been a moment earlier, and the blow that would have shattered his knee almost missed him completely. But the tip of the scything staff struck the edge of the thick sole on the Viking’s left boot and smashed it sideways, tumbling him violently while he was still close to the top of his mighty leap. He fell headfirst in a sidewise somersault and his skull struck solidly on the log before he slipped into the deep water of our swimming hole. He sank instantly, his eyes closed and blood streaming from his yellow hair.

“Will!” I threw myself forward in a running jump, but even before my feet had left the ground I saw the arc of my cousin’s body as he dove ahead of me, and we landed together, one on either side of the sprawling body.

“I have him!” Will shouted, surfacing with his hands beneath the floating shoulders. “Take his legs.”

We hauled the inert body onto the bank and knelt beside it, staring in horror at the blood that oozed through the sodden yellow hair. But then the Viking snorted and coughed and writhed away from us, spewing up water, and I thought I had never seen or heard anything so beautiful. He pushed himself up shakily on straight arms, spitting the sour taste of vomit from his mouth, and then sat hunched, clutching his head, his elbows supported on his raised knees.

He groaned after a moment and cocked his head to squint painfully at Will. “You hit me?”

“Aye, but not on the head. Christ, man, I thought I’d killed you. I caught the sole o’ your boot and cowped ye sideways and your head hit the log. Are you all right?”

“Sweet Jesus, no, how could I be? My head’s broken. Let me be for a minute.” We did as he wished and he sat silent for a spell, groaning quietly from time to time and cradling his head in his hands, rocking it tentatively from side to side. But then he took his hands away, still grimacing, and gazed at the blood on the fingers of one while he probed gently at his scalp with the other.

“Ye’ve got a bump there like a goose egg,” Will told him, “but it doesna seem like a deep cut. Just a dunt.”

“Aye, the bone stopped it frae bein’ deeper.” He looked down at himself. “Was I in the water?”

“Aye, for a bit. We pulled ye out.”

“I’m freezing!”

“Aye, well, so are we. It’s February.” All three of us were shivering, and Will stood up. “I’ll light a fire, ’gin my tinderbox is still dry.”

“Ah, Jesus!” Another hiss of pain and a gentle dab at the swelling on his head. “Mine will be, if yours isna. It’s in my scrip, sealed wi’ wax. Let’s do it quick then, for I’m turnin’ blue.”

Half an hour later the three of us sat naked by a roaring fire, and the pale warmth of the sunlight felt cold on those parts of us the flames could not reach. Will and I had cut willow sticks and stuck them in the soft earth to support our wet clothes, and the garments were steaming steadily, closer to the fire than we could sit.

Will reached out and took the Viking’s chin in his hand, tilting it to where he could see the large swelling beneath the still-wet mat of yellow hair. “Can you see right?”

The Viking twisted his head away and glared at Will. “Of course I can see. My eyes are open, are they not?”

Will held up his first two fingers. “How many fingers?”

“Two. D’ye think I’m daft?” The Viking shut his eyes and rolled his head carefully on his neck. “My head aches hellishly, but I’m fine otherwise. So … who are you two, and what are you doing here?”

“We live here. Or close by. We’re students at the Abbey.” Will introduced the two of us, naming us the nephews of Sir Malcolm Wallace of Elderslie. “And you?”

“Andrew Murray. That’s our family name today, but it was once de Moray, and before that de Moravia.”

The name was familiar to me. “There’s a Sir Andrew Murray who is the King’s justiciar in the North, is there not?”

“Aye, Sir Andrew Murray of Petty, on the Moray Firth. My father.”

“You have a firth named for you?” Will was impressed, but the other shook his head, smiling.

“No. It was we who took our name from the firth, back in the days of King David, when first we came from Normandy.”

Will whistled. “How come you here, then?”

“I came with my master, Lord John Balliol. He is now in conference with your Abbot, on the business of the King.”

“Your master?” Will contrived to sound amused. “Are you a servant, then?”

Murray shrugged. “Of a kind, I am. I am squire to Lord John. His senior squire. I am to be knighted come my eighteenth birthday, in three months.”

“You are to be a knight?”

The other looked surprised. “Aye. Aren’t you?”

Will laughed then, but did not pursue the topic. Instead, he reached sideways to pick up one of the quarterstaves we had rescued from the river. “Where did you learn to use this?”

“Lord John. He spent much time in England when he was a boy and learned the skills of it there. He has used one ever since, and watching him and Siward training with them when first I joined his service, I asked to be taught it, too.”

“Who’s Siward?”

“Lord John’s Master-at-Arms. An Englishman. He’s also my instructor.”

“He taught you well. You almost had me off the bridge.”

Murray sniffed. “I hate ‘almost.’ It never wins. I was the one who went down.” He glanced then at me and smiled. “Are you two brothers, then?”

From that point on the day passed quickly, with Andrew feeling better all the time and soon losing the ache in his head. We discussed a surprising number of things, sitting there waiting for our clothes to dry sufficiently to be worn again.

It was obvious to me early on that Will and Andrew would be firm friends, and it pains me, looking back, to admit that my first reaction was one of intense jealousy. The logical part of my mind told me at once that this new friendship must surely be a transient thing, since Andrew Murray would move on within days, returning with his master to his home in the far north. But the wrench of recognition that I would no longer be Will’s single boyhood friend came hard and brought with it a bitter resentment of the newcomer.

But then, thank God, my sourness vanished as quickly as it had arisen, for I saw that their attraction to each other was as natural as sunlight. They were almost equally sized, and only a year separated them in age, and they both thought similarly about many things, including physical prowess, of which the quarterstaff was merely the first symbol. Of course these two would be friends, I thought, for they were equals, in athletic prowess at least, and Will could no more resist Murray’s natural grace and charm than I myself could.

I was spared from thinking too deeply about it that day, however, when the talk turned to archery.

We were all dressed again by that time, our clothing dried but stinking of woodsmoke, and Will had surged to his feet, making a point of some kind. I had been sitting cross-legged, and I stood as soon as he did, pushing myself up using only my legs. Andrew tried to do the same, but as he tensed to make the effort his eyes flew wide and he blanched. He groaned and brought both hands to his temples, squeezing his forehead between them. Will and I froze, watching him with alarm, but his face cleared quickly and he took his hands away from his brow cautiously.

“My head started to spin,” he said, a little shamefacedly. “I didn’t expect that.”

“Why not?” Will said. “You almost broke your skull but a short while ago, and that’s the first time you’ve tried to stand up quickly since. Here.” He held out a hand and Andrew grasped it, pulling himself up easily this time. I noticed that Will did not release his hand, but instead shifted his grip on it, an odd expression on his face, and then he raised his other hand to me, beckoning with his fingers. “Jamie, your hand.”

I was mystified as he guided my hand to replace his own, my fingers curling beneath Andrew’s.

“Feel that, and tell me if I’m wrong.”

As soon as I felt Andrew Murray’s fingers against my own, my confusion vanished. I turned our new friend’s hand palm upward to see the ridges of callused skin that coated his first two fingers. I felt my eyebrows rise.

“You’re a bowman?”

“What?” He pulled his hand away, clenching his fist and grinning again, uncertainly, I thought. “Aye, after a fashion. I am. It’s not a knightly pastime, but I enjoy it from time to time.”

“It’s not a pastime at all.” Will’s voice was flat. “And you don’t get finger pads like that by practising from time to time. That comes only from years of work with a taut bowstring, as these ones did.” He held out his own right hand, his first two fingers extended and parted in a V.

Andrew’s lips pursed in a soundless whistle as he gazed at the marked difference between Will’s calluses and his own. “By Saint Stephen’s martyred wounds, another bowman.”

“No, not so.” There was no speck of humour in Will’s denial. “You are a bowman. So is Jamie. I am an archer.”

The other’s lip quirked. “Bowman, archer … Is there a difference?”

“Aye—about two hundred paces.”

Andrew blinked. “What? You can hit a mark at two hundred paces?”

“Sweet Jesus, aye. Nine times out of ten. And so can Jamie here, six of those times. But I meant I could hit a mark two hundred paces beyond any you can reach.”

“I think not,” Andrew said, his tone reflecting disappointment that his new friend would lie so blatantly.

“Think what you like, my friend, but I will prove it to you once you tell me what kind of bow you use.”

“Elmwood. Five feet long.”

“Go, then, and fetch it. I will get mine and meet you here again in a half-hour.”

Murray’s face tightened. “Sweet Jesus! What hour is it?”

I glanced at the sun and shadows. “About the fourth after noon.”

“I lost track of the day! Now I must get back. Lord John might be looking for me.” He bent down to gather up his cloak, then looked at Will again as he straightened. “You have a yew bow, don’t you? A longbow.”

“I do.”

“A round one.”

“Yes.”

“Aye, I see it now … those calluses. So be it, then, I believe your claim. But where in the name of God did you find it? Yon’s an English weapon, and English archers don’t part with their bows. There are not many big yew trees in Scotland.”

Will smiled. “I didn’t need many—just the one. But in truth my teacher found it near our home in Elderslie. He cut the stave, cured and dried it, and taught me how to make the bow from that point on.”

“A full longbow of your own! Can you be here tomorrow? I would like to test it.”

Will grinned. He had been using his huge yew bow for more than two months by then and knew its power, and I knew the anticipation of demonstrating it to his new friend must be more than he could bear. “Aye, if you’re still here and your master keeps the Abbot and his brethren in conference.”

“We will be here. The same time?”

“I’ll be waiting,” Will answered.

2

The following morning I went directly to Brother Duncan and asked to be relieved of my tasks that day. He gave me a stern look, though I had learned long since that his air of disapproval was but a sham. I had never asked for such a dispensation before, though, and he asked me what I was about. I told him of our meeting the day before with the visiting Andrew Murray, and he merely nodded and granted me leave. I ran to find Will, and we had time to collect our targets and set them up in the glade by the river bridge well in advance of Andrew’s arrival.

He could not stay long, he told us when he came, for Lord John had need of him that afternoon, but there was ample time for Will to demonstrate his new bow’s power and for Andrew to try it for himself. Try as he would, though, the lad from Moray was incapable of pulling the powerful weapon to its full stretch, and he finally surrendered it to Will and watched ruefully as my cousin sank six arrows into the centre of the farthest target, two hundred paces away.

“How far will it reach fully flexed?” Andrew asked as we went to fetch the arrows.

“Three hundred, probably more,” Will said. “But at full stretch you can lose too many arrows, so I keep my distance to around two hundred. These are target arrows, bear in mind. Barbed warheads and hunting tips make a big difference in flight. The weight of those heads alters everything.”

“You have warheads?” Andrew sounded impressed.

Will shook his head. “Nah, but even hunting barbs make a big difference. Man-killers would be heavier yet, but I have no need of those.”

“Aye … Well, Will Wallace, I have never seen the like of it. I wouldn’t like to have you aiming at me. Not even Siward is that good. But then, Siward is a swordsman above all else. He has a bow, but seldom uses it as you do.” He snorted a laugh. “I wondered yesterday at the shoulders on you, the bulk of you. Now I know it’s from pulling that thing. But what about a sword? Do you use one?”

“Nah!” Will was retrieving his arrows by then, examining each of them for damage before replacing them in his quiver. “Swords are for knights and I’ll never need one. I ha’e my quarterstaff and a good knife. If e’er I’m in a spot where I’m threatened, the knife should be enough to finish anyone who gets by my arrows and my staff.” He grinned. “I’m no’ that violent, ye know.”

I knew that what he had said was true. For all his size and fearsome strength, I had never seen Will lose his temper or provoke a fight with anyone. I had seen him fight savagely, but rarely and never with a weapon, and only in response to the kind of provocation that most people, seeing the sheer size of him, were loath to offer. Yet I find myself examining those words of his years later, wondering whether I might have had any presentiment of what the years ahead would hold for him. But of course I did not. We were innocents in those days, incapable of foreseeing the pain and chaos that lay ahead for all of us.

The remainder of that morning flew by pleasantly, and when the time came for Andrew to return to the Abbey to attend his master, we went with him, all three of us aware that his departure the following day would leave a gap in each of our lives. We walked slowly, our bows slung over our shoulders, as he answered our questions about his life as a knightly squire, and any thoughts Will and I might have had about his lot being one of privileged sloth and luxury were quickly banished. His day-to-day training to become a knight was far more demanding than anything expected of us in the Abbey school.

We had reached the main entrance to the Abbey proper, and it was plain to see that Lord John and his associates were still in conference, for there was little sign of life other than the routine activities of the resident brothers, and so we stood talking quietly in the forecourt, about fifty paces from the main entrance. I have no memory of what we were discussing, for it was Will and Andrew who were speaking while I was merely looking around, but I saw a figure emerge from a side door and start towards us, then stop suddenly and take careful note of us. The man appeared to be both tall and elderly, stooped with age but walking youthfully enough and wearing a long habit of brown wool trimmed with green edging. I might have paid him no more attention had he not stopped so obviously, and the manner in which he stood there peering at us struck me as peculiar.

“Who’s that?” I asked, and both of the others looked to see who I was talking about. I heard Murray inhale sharply.

“Shit!” he said, from the side of his mouth. “It’s Wishart. The Bishop.” He bowed towards the distant figure, and Will and I awkwardly followed his example. The Bishop nodded in acknowledgment, then came sweeping towards us.

“Master de Moray,” he said as he approached, emphasizing the French pronunciation and then continuing in the same language. “I am pleased to see you have been able to find friends with whom to amuse yourself while you are here.” The words were addressed to Andrew, but the Bishop’s eyes were scanning Will and me, taking note of everything about us, including our quarterstaffs and the bows strung from our shoulders. Andrew drew himself up and responded in the same language, gesturing courteously with one hand.

“I have, my lord. I met them yesterday, by accident. They are local lads, as you can see, but I have enjoyed their company during what might otherwise have been a tedious time.” His French was fluent and polished, and it was clear that neither he nor the Bishop expected Will or me to understand it.

I was about to speak up, but decided suddenly to hold my peace and give no indication that I understood them. Will, I knew, would barely have registered a word of what they said, for he lacked my facility with languages. I looked at him and found him gazing back at me, his face blank. Wishart, in the meantime, had turned to look more openly at Will, taking in the size of him and looking up and down the thick length of the quarterstaff in his hand and the heavy bow that dangled from his shoulder. I in turn took the opportunity to look more closely at the Bishop himself.

I could not even guess at his age, for he was one of those rare men whose appearance changes little with the passing of years. I could see he was not young, but whether he was forty or seventy I could not say with any confidence. His face was gaunt and weathered, swarthy and deeply lined beneath the sparse covering of a wispy, square-cut beard, and he had a high, broad forehead, emphasized by a close-cropped widow’s peak of dark brown hair that he wore short and cut bluntly at the back, well above his shoulders. Dark, intelligent eyes gleamed keenly beneath his bushy brows, and a large, bony beak of a nose made his entire appearance fierce and hawk-like. His lips appeared to be smiling, but I could see no humour in his eyes.

“Unless I miss my guess,” he said in Latin, “and judging merely by the size of you and the bow you carry, you must be Sir Malcolm Wallace’s nephew, William. Am I correct?” The Bishop’s smile grew wider, and this time the warmth of it reached his eyes. “I am no mind reader,” he continued, his voice deep and level. “Nor, I fear, has fame yet marked you as being worthy of compelling notice. I come directly from a meeting with your uncle Father Peter, and he spoke to me about you, describing you and your longbow and telling me of how you keep the brotherhood supplied with the best of meat. My sole surprise was in finding you in the company of Master Murray.” His eyes came back to me. “And you must be James Wallace, the cousin who is such an asset to Brother Duncan in the library.”

It was a flattering moment but an awkward one, for neither Will nor I knew how to respond properly to such an informal approach from the man who was the senior prelate of Scotland and personal confessor to King Alexander himself, but somehow we found ourselves strangely at ease in speaking casually with one of the most powerful men in the realm. I noticed, nonetheless, that Andrew Murray stood wide-eyed, his eyes darting from one to the other of us as Bishop Wishart catechized us closely for the next quarter of an hour about our lives in the Abbey, our feelings for our Elderslie kin, my own deceased family, and the slaughter of Will’s family. He even asked us about our tutor, Ewan, and our studies with the bow. He included me graciously in everything he said, but it was plain to me that his consuming interest lay with Will and that he was not showing such interest out of simple courtesy.

And then suddenly he nodded, grunted deep in his chest, and bade all three of us farewell, informing Andrew at the last that Lord John was still deep in his discussions with the Father Abbot and was unlikely to require his services for at least another hour and perhaps even longer. With that, he walked away, already deep in thoughts of something else, leaving us staring after him.

“What was all that about, I wonder?” Murray sounded troubled, and Will cocked his head.

“What d’you mean?”

“That friendliness. I have never seen the old man behave so … so amicably. The revered Bishop Wishart is not a friendly man. Not like that, with utter strangers.”

“Should I beware, then?” Will drew the backs of his fingers along the soft down on his jawbone, smiling. “Does he like boys?”

“What? Oh, no, I meant nothing like that. Sweet Jesus, no! But he is …” Murray searched for words. “This is the fifth time I have travelled in the company of Bishop Wishart, as part of Lord John’s train. It’s also the briefest. I rode with him for three months last year and I know him to be a notedly silent man, solitary and self-guarded. He has few friends. He is no man’s puppet and I’m told he was once a fearsome warrior. But he is dour and largely without humour, close-mouthed and famed for being niggardly with words.”

“Mayhap he likes me, sees me for what I truly am. Had you thought of that? Just because it took you an hour and more to grow to love me, that doesna mean that more gifted folk shouldna see the gold in me sooner.”

Murray nodded judiciously. Then he gently took the quarterstaff from Will and removed the long yew bow from where it hung on his shoulder. He handed both to me along with his own weapons. Then he hooked his arm about Will’s neck and tripped him with one leg, dropping him to the ground and leaping on top of him to rub a handful of dirt into Will’s hair. Will, with a roar of mock rage, heaved valiantly against the weight pinning him and managed to turn on his side while keeping Murray’s arms away from his throat and the chokehold the other was trying to assert. I cannot say how long the struggle might have gone on had not Brother Brian, one of the brawniest of the Abbey brethren, emerged from the main door of the church and caught all three of us in sacrilegious ignominy. He dragged the two wrestlers apart and preached us a stern warning on the evils of fighting, then growled that we should get ourselves well out of sight.

We contrived somehow to suffer straight-faced through the dressing-down, but by then the fight had gone out of both contestants, and so we collected our bows and staves and for the following hour we merely walked and talked about whatever came into our minds. Andrew mentioned his lady love, a beautiful young woman from his own lands called Siobhan. He pronounced it Shivonn, and from the moment I heard it I was enamoured by the name’s beautiful sound. Her full name was Siobhan MacDiormid—I heard it as Shivonn Macdermid—and she was the niece of Alexander Comyn, the Earl of Buchan, from whom Andrew’s father held the lordship of Petty. It was plain that our new friend saw in her the sun and moon of his existence, and from the self-same moment both Will and I were captivated by what we heard.

There was nothing prurient or even mildly provocative in anything Andrew had to say of the young woman; on the contrary, he spoke of her in terms that rendered her almost superhuman in her virtues and ethereal in her beauty, his voice ringing with that ardour and conviction that is the shining characteristic of young men in the flush of first love. And Will and I listened, entranced because we had never heard the like of it. To us, girls were alien creatures, seldom if ever seen within the Abbey precincts. The mere sight of a woman, it was feared, might induce sinful thoughts among the brethren, and therefore women were forbidden entry to the community, save to attend services in the Abbey church, at which times they were heavily swathed, their faces, heads, and bodies covered, and they were accompanied by their God-fearing menfolk. Femininity was anathema within the Abbey precincts, even when the women concerned were old or middle-aged, shapeless and unattractive. Girls and young women inhabited the outside world, and they were matter for endless conjecture among the body of students at the Abbey school.

I knew beyond a doubt that, at almost sixteen, William Wallace had never known, nor spoken more than a few words to, any young woman who was not related to him by blood. Nor had I. But neither of us had ever suffered by that. Our lives were governed in every aspect by the rule of the Abbey community and the activities that filled our daily life, in school by day and away from it by night, and it never occurred to either one of us that we might ever fall into the company of young, attractive women. The key word, of course, was attractive. The two elderly women who ran our household on the farm were simply there, shapeless, sexless creatures whose sole purpose was to cater to our comfort and whom we scarcely noticed. Similarly, the young women who sometimes came to visit them, their daughters, nieces, and neighbours, were all but invisible to us. Plain, largely unwashed and sour smelling, ill dressed and unkempt, coarse spoken and generally repellent, they possessed none of the attributes that might have attracted our eyes or our thoughts.

This girl whom our new friend now depicted so eloquently came to us therefore as a revelation. We were enraptured, hanging dewy eyed on Andrew’s every word as we strove to picture the radiant beauty he described. Small wonder, then, that our reaction was less than courteous when a voice from behind us interrupted our fantasies, speaking Andrew’s name.

Will and I both spun around peevishly, prepared to send this interloper packing, but our first sight of the newcomer struck us mute.

To say that he was splendid is simply inadequate. The man was magnificent, dressed entirely in white and red, from knee-high, red-dyed boots and matching leather breeches, to a lustrous, blindingly white tunic surmounted by a white, open-fronted surcoat with a plain red shield, inset with a smaller outline of another, in white, on the left breast.

“Lord John!”

I had not needed to hear Andrew’s shocked response to know at whom I was gaping. Sir John Balliol, King Alexander’s personal envoy and an heir to the kingdom in his own right, was unmistakably a man of power, with wealth and privilege stamped into his every feature. He had come to a sudden halt, looking at us with one fine dark eyebrow raised high in surprise, occasioned, I had no doubt, by the ferocity with which Will and I had spun to face him.

“Forgive me, my lords,” he said in a voice that matched his smile. “I had no wish to impose myself, merely to speak a moment with Master Murray. But since he is clearly occupied, I will return later.” And with that he turned on his heel as though to walk away.

Will and I were speechless, appalled by our own ill manners, but fortunately that was not the case with Andrew. “My lord,” he said quickly, his voice tinged with desperation. “My lord, forgive me. We were deep in talk and did not see you coming.”

Lord John swung back towards us, still smiling. “That much was obvious,” he said. “But I find myself wondering about what you found so engrossing. When I was your age, the only topic that could inspire such dedication and reverence was consideration of the beauties of young women.”

None of us was capable of responding to that, but from the corner of my eye I could see the wave of colour that engulfed Andrew’s face as his mouth opened and closed. Balliol, however, was merciful and allowed his squire to slip easily off the gaff.

“I am new come from a meeting with the Abbott and his staff, which means I have spent the entire day talking about affairs of state and bruising my backside through a too-thin cushion, and so I thought to take some fresh air.” He reached behind him and kneaded his buttocks. “I had been thinking about you, young Andrew—guiltily, I suppose—imagining you waiting and fretting somewhere and no doubt cursing me, and so when I saw you here I thought to bid you good day and tender my regrets for having summoned you only to leave you waiting, since even a squire has the right to a little freedom.” He glanced sideways at Will, who had finally managed to close his open mouth. “You have made friends, I see.”

“Yes, my lord, I have.” Close to stammering, Andrew made us known to his master, who extended his hand to each of us in turn, nodding and smiling and making us feel at ease, a feat I would not have thought possible mere moments earlier. He was neither as tall nor as broad as Will, but such was the impression of confidence that radiated from the man that he seemed to occupy no less an amount of space, and I noticed now that he was eyeing Will’s staff.

“That looks like a quarterstaff,” he said. “Or is it simply a big walking stick?”

Will actually smiled. “My tutor tells me it is a quarterstaff, my lord.”

“And who is your tutor?”

“A man called Ewan Scrymgeour.”

“Scrymgeour … A Scots name.”

“Aye, sir, but his mother’s family is Welsh. He was an archer with King Edward, until the Welsh wars.”

“Hmm.” Lord John glanced at Murray, then looked quickly over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the deserted forecourt behind him. “Good. Then walk with me, if you will, to where the air is even fresher.”

The three of us fell in behind him as he walked steadily towards the fringe of mature elms and oaks that began some hundred paces from where we had been standing. He seemed to float ahead of us, moving easily and gracefully with long, confident strides, the red and nested white shields of the great House of Balliol emblazoned across his wide shoulders and the wind of his passage making the long skirts of his surcoat billow at his heels. None of us spoke, though all three of us boys exchanged curious looks as we followed him. He led us into the trees until we were concealed from any eyes that might be watching from the Abbey behind, then stopped in a clear space between the boles of two enormous elms. There he shrugged out of his beautiful white surcoat, allowing it to fall from his shoulders. He caught it in one hand and threw it aside, all the while smiling at Will.

“This will suit, no?” he said. “A fine spot to test your skills and permit me some exercise.” He extended his hand. “Andrew, your staff, if you will.”

Murray looked mystified, but he held out his staff, and his master took it, spun it easily in one hand, then moved gracefully into the opening stance for combat.

“You want to fight me?” Will asked, wide-eyed.

“Not fight—to try you. So come.”

A sharp shake of his head indicated Will’s bewilderment. “I can’t fight you. You are—”

“I am a student of this weapon, which I use for sport, trained in its use but rusty from long lack of practice.” The easy smile was back on Balliol’s face, and he flipped the staff until he held it cross-handed. “You start.”

“You are the King’s envoy, my lord. It would be death to strike you.”

“Pah! What makes you even think you could strike me, a stripling youth like you? I’ve been training with this thing since I was half your age and now I’m twice as old as you. If you can hit me, though, then hit me hard, for I intend to drub you.” He straightened up again quickly and took a step back, his smile now a wide grin. “Besides, would you deny me in my pleasure and my need? The King’s envoy? I need the exercise and you’re the only one here to supply it. I can hardly fight my own squire, can I? Imagine, were he to beat me! You, on other hand, might beat me soundly with no ill effect, if God’s asleep. So come, let’s be about it, shall we?”

Clearly Will had no option other than to appear the buffoon here. He raised his staff reluctantly and shuffled forward.

Lord John Balliol sprang into action, attacking immediately and compelling Will to defend himself. Will responded half-heartedly at first, until the first few solid blows that rattled his defences told him he was facing an expert who was bold and dangerous and determined to thrash him soundly. I saw Will’s face suddenly harden, and from then on the fight was waged between two well-matched rivals. Back and forth they fought grimly, neither seeking nor giving quarter, sometimes standing toe to toe, belabouring each other’s defences without either one scoring, sometimes ranging widely around the small clearing between the trees, scanning each other for signs of weakness or an unguarded opening and prepared to leap and strike.

I recall two solid hits, the first to Will’s left thigh and the other to Lord John’s right shoulder when his foot slipped and he reeled for a moment. By that time, sweat was pouring from both of them, soaking their clothing, and the grass of the clearing was trampled flat, scuffed deeply with the marks of their grinding feet. And then came a flurry of hard, rapping blows too fast to follow with the eye, and Balliol reeled and fell back against one of the two trees. Will swept up his staff to finish it, then hesitated.

Lord John threw down his staff and raised his hands, waving them and labouring for breath. “Enough,” he cried. “I’m done. You have me, by God’s holy beard.”

Will opened his hands and let his own staff fall, then doubled over, his hands on his knees, gasping for breath as hungrily as his opponent. Andrew Murray and I simply stared at each other, wideeyed with awe, fully aware that we had just witnessed our friend defeat one of the most noble men in Scotland.

“Sweet Christ, yon was a tulzie.” Balliol spoke in Scots, straightening up to his full height and wiping his streaming brow with the back of his wrist. “I havena fought that hard in years, and never against a beardless laddie. Andrew, my coat, if ye will.”

Andrew had picked up the discarded garment long since and now he stepped forward, holding it open for his master to shrug into. Lord John flexed his shoulders to adjust the coat until it hung properly, then turned again to Will, who had also straightened up by then, though he was still breathing heavily.

“You flinched,” he said, “at the end there, stopped because of who I was, forgetting what I was: your enemy. That kind of hesitation could kill you in a real fight. You need to learn a truth, William Wallace, so learn it now. When fighting man to man there can be no rank or titles involved. If ever you cross blades with any man in earnest, no matter who, there can be only one outcome. Either you kill him or he will kill you. Never forget that.” He held up his palm to silence Will before he could respond. “Never forget that. Had it been I who had you off balance there, I would have felled you like a tree, and so would any other opponent worthy of his salt. Do you hear me?”

Will Wallace nodded. “Aye, my lord. I do.”

“I pray you’ll heed me then, in future. Mercy can be fatal in a tulzie, so when you have the chance to end things, end them. Never hesitate. Clear?”

“Clear, my lord.”

“So be it, then.” Balliol drew the open edges of his surcoat together and glanced around the clearing. “And now I must go. It was a good bout and I thank you, all of you.”

Then he said a strange thing.

“King Alexander, may God bless him, is hale and strong, newly wed and eager to breed sons to replace the heirs whom God saw fit to take from him these past few years. He will have need of men like you when you are come to manhood. See you hold yourselves in readiness to serve him when he calls on you. This realm—any realm—depends upon the loyalty and strength of good, true men, of any rank, to stand behind their King.”

The edges of a grin flickered about his lips and he nodded, this time in dismissal. “So be it. Fare ye well, William and James Wallace. Andrew, follow me, and seek me in half an hour in the Abbot’s chambers.”

I knew that what Lord John had said would not apply to me, since I would be a priest when I was grown to manhood, a warrior of God, perhaps, but not a fighting man in the world of Will and Andrew. But if God spared me to serve Him and my King, I knew that I could do so as loyally and strongly and perhaps even better in the priesthood than I ever could have in the army.

King Alexander, who had ruled Scotland by then for thirty-six years, had married for the second time, mere months earlier, at the age of forty-four. His first wife, Margaret, had been the daughter of Edward of England, and she had borne Alexander two sons and a daughter. The Queen had died ten years before, and was swiftly and tragically followed by all three of her children, leaving Alexander with one sole, distant heir, an infant girl born to his now dead daughter, who had been married to the King of Norway. Determined to breed other sons, Alexander had wed a high-born, beautiful, and nubile young French woman called Yolande of Dreux. The King was young and in good health; the country was at peace and prosperous; and God seemed content to smile upon the realm of Scotland.