CHAPTER FIVE

1

“Where first we find love, there also we encounter grief.”

I cannot remember who said that, but it springs into my mind unbidden whenever I think of Mirren Braidfoot and my cousin Will, and it never fails to grip me like a fist clenching around my heart. I am a priest, and although that in itself is no guarantee of chastity or lack of prurience, I have never known the love of a woman, either physical or emotional. I have known temptation, certainly, for that is the common burden of mankind, but I have always managed, somehow, through no strength of my own and most often by the power of fervent and sustained prayer, to avoid yielding to it.

That said, however, I have been fascinated all my life by the overwhelming strength of the love one sometimes finds between certain men and women, and I have always found the power of it, for both good and ill, to be close to frightening. Had King Alexander not yearned for the welcoming warmth of his young wife, for example, he would not have died as he did on his way to join her. And had William Wallace never met Mirren Braidfoot, he would not have died as he did in London’s Smithfield Square.

I do not mean this to be taken as a condemnation of Mirren. In all the years that passed after that first meeting in Elderslie, neither Will nor she did any wilful thing to harm the other. As a courting pair, two young people discovering each other, they were the very essence of God’s intent for His beloved children; as a married couple, they knew bliss together; and as supporters of each other’s dreams, even when apart, they were unshakable. There was no weakness in their love, no inborn flaw, no fault; merely perfect love and fidelity. But as these attributes buttressed their love, they also left them open to their enemies.

It had already begun that day of their initial meeting, though none of us would learn of that for months to come.

Will told me many times about being swept away by love that day, about what he saw and how he felt when he was smitten by the woman who would quickly come to mean all the world to him, and as I listened to him over the first few months of such outpourings—for by then Mirren had returned to her home in Lanark—I was struck by the resemblance between the way he spoke of her and the ardour with which Andrew Murray had described his own love, the young woman with the liquidly beautiful name Siobhan. Both young men burned with the same ardent passion, and from the lambent purity of Will’s enthusiasm I came to see, through his eyes, what my own eyes had missed that afternoon.

I had arrived in Elderslie at mid-morning, mere hours before they met, and as soon as I had delivered the letter that had brought me there to Sir Malcolm, I set out to where he had told me I would find Will, a good half-hour’s walk from the main house. I found him near the westernmost edge of Sir Malcolm’s lands, close to the village of Elderslie itself and hard by the wagon road that led to it from Paisley. He was crouched over a narrow track through the long grass that lined the roadway, pawing at the grass with spread fingers, his head moving from side to side as he inched forward. He heard me coming, glanced up, then returned his attention to the ground ahead of him.

“Good day, idle Forester,” I greeted him. “Have you lost something?”

He swept his open hands through long grass, then looked at his palms and shrugged to his feet. “Not lost, nor found,” he said. “I’m looking for blood. But there doesna seem to be any.” It had been two weeks since last we met, but he spoke as if we had parted no more than an hour earlier; no greeting, no acknowledgment, no surprise.

“And should there be?”

He stooped then to pick up the strung bow in the long grass and then unstrung it, bracing the stave with his foot as he pulled it down to free the loop from its end.

“Aye, there should. I shot at a doe here … Throw me my case, there.” He caught the case easily and flipped off its cap, then turned completely around, his eyes scanning the surrounding grass as he slid the long stave into its tube. He replaced the cap and slung the case over his shoulder, shaking his head. “She should be lying here dead, but my eyes tell me I missed her from sixty paces.”

I made no reply to that, not knowing what to say, for I had never known him to miss any target from that range. He was still looking about him, his eyes now checking the line of flight from the base of an ash tree sixty paces away and passing his right side, right over the road and into a dense thicket of brambles.

“Anyway, she ran, and I thought I’d gut-shot her and would have to hunt her down, but there’s no blood. And no sign of my arrow. Mind you, I felt it flutter as it left the string. I must have torn the fletching without noticing and it flew off course. But God be my witness, I hate losing arrows.”

“What was wrong with the doe?”

Will sniffed and pulled several broadhead hunting arrows from the bag at his side, peering closely at the fletching on each one. “Old age and a lame leg. She’ll no’ last the winter and might no’ even reach it. I thought it would be kinder to kill her now and end her pains … But she’s well away from here by now.” He dropped the arrows back into his bag. “What brings you here this fine morning, then? You’re like to shrivel up and blow away in the brightness out here if you’re no’ careful, after being cooped up in your old, dark library.”

“Came to see you, and to deliver a letter to Sir Malcolm.”

“In that order, eh?” His thickening beard almost concealed the quirk of his grin. “Well, you see me now, and you seem to be in fine fettle. Though you look more like a damn priest each time I see you.”

It was true. Since taking up residence at the Abbey I had worn the grey habit of the resident monks. “I am a damn priest—or I soon will be.”

He grunted, then took hold of my right wrist and held my hand up to examine my fingers. “Ink … Are you still practising wi’ your bow? I don’t see any calluses.”

I freed my hand and wiggled my fingers, looking at them almost ruefully. “No, I never seem to find the time nowadays. And besides, it’s no fun if you’re not there. I’ve lost nearly all my calluses this past year.” I glanced across the road to the bramble thickets. “Are you not going to look for that arrow?”

“Nah, we’d never find it. It was moving flat across the ground. It could have passed right through that whole thicket without hitting anything. Did you bring anything to eat?” I shook my head and he grimaced. “Damn. Neither did I. Ran out and forgot all about eating this morning, wanting an early start. Looked for this wee doe for hours before I found her, and then missed her completely from close enough to touch her. Not a good morning’s work … Ach well. Let’s go into the village and find something to eat. It’s no’ far, and I’m famished.”

We talked about trivial things as we walked the half mile into the village and made our way directly to the sign of the Boar’s Head by the side of the common, where a few of the loiterers sitting by the entrance nodded to us as we entered. The dim interior reeked of stale beer, bad food, and smoky, guttering lamps even at noon. Supposedly a hostelry, as announced by the crudely painted sign of the mightily tusked boar’s head that hung above the front door, the place was in reality what the local folk called a howff—a drinking hole that could not even claim the respectability of a tavern. It was a den where men came at night to whore and gamble, drink and blaspheme, but it was also the only place in the village that sold food for instant consumption during the day, and as such it attracted a wider variety of customers in daylight than it did by night.

There were few customers inside, and we seated ourselves in a dark corner at the end of the plank table that served as a crude counter and sipped at flagons of thin, sour ale while we waited for the slatternly wife of Big Rab, the owner, to slop two platters of the day’s meat pie in front of us. Neither of us made any remark on the food or its delivery; we had been there many times before and were familiar with the way things were done. To my surprise, though, the pie that day was the best I had ever tasted there, hot and savoury and well stuffed with chunks of onion, turnip, and meat, and topped with a well-made crust. We ate without comment, neither of us daring to wonder aloud what kind of meat was in the pie, or where it came from, although I fancied that I could detect both venison and wild hare in the well-spiced mixture. We both knew that if it were venison, it had been taken illegally, so I kept silent and merely enjoyed it while Will, the forester and keeper, ate it without expressing either curiosity or enjoyment.

I could see he was far from happy with the situation, and at the same time I was aware of Big Rab loitering anxiously in the background, glancing worriedly at us from time to time and plainly expecting Will to say something. As we drained our flagons and stood up to leave, Rab’s wife came bustling towards us, the look on her face holding sufficient guilt to condemn both her and her man. Will muttered a gruff word of thanks and threw a coin on the table. I followed him wordlessly out of the place, noting the look of relief on Big Rab’s face as he scuttled away into the rear of the establishment.

As soon as we were outside I noticed that the loiterers had all gone. “Good pie,” I said. “I wonder who cooked it.”

“I don’t want to know,” he growled. “No more than I want to know where the deer came from.”

As he spoke, someone called his name in the distance, and we both turned to see one of Sir Malcolm’s tenants, a man called James Laithey, waving to us from the butts on the common. Here, as in any town or village, anyone who owned cattle had the right to graze them on the common, but in Elderslie, a strip of ground along the longest side was set aside in the summer months for archery. It was barely wide enough for three men to stand side by side and shoot towards the far end, some two hundred paces distant, but it was sufficient for the needs of the archers who used it, none of whom owned a longbow. The normal bow of Scots huntsmen and archers was broad and flat in section, sometimes laminated with layers of horn or sinew, and made from local ash or elm or even beech, and their average length was a yard and a half. One sometimes saw a five-foot bow being used, but those were usually in the hands of visiting bowmen, travellers who roamed the countryside matching their skills against the local marksmen and usually prospering. Will’s bow was an entirely different weapon from all of those, and he was generally reluctant to demonstrate its power in competition, a delicacy that was accepted gracefully by others once they had seen its power, and Will’s accuracy, for themselves.

I noticed strangers among the usual gathering of villagers, including a noisy group of about ten young people of both sexes and an unknown bowman who stood apart from the crowd and seemed to be the centre of attention. It was obvious from the height and width of both him and his long, broad bow that he was a wandering archer, looking to win money from the local marksmen.

“Shit,” Will muttered. “I suppose I’d better see what James wants. I could do without knowing, though, for I’m guessing at it already and I don’t like it.”

We waited for the other man to reach us.

“What is it, James? I have to get back to work.”

Laithey wasted no time in telling us. The stranger’s reputation had preceded him, for he had been making the rounds of the neighbouring villages and was far more proficient at his art than he professed to be. He would compete, appear to falter, lose several bouts, and then, on the point of paying his losses, would ask for one more match at double the stakes, at which point he would rally, and finish up with deadly precision, winning everything.

Will shrugged. “What do you want of me, James? You know I don’t shoot for money. This fellow will take one look at my bow and walk away.”

Laithey nodded. “He might. But he’s awfu’ cocksure and pleased wi’ himsel’. He likely thinks he can beat you.”

“How does he even know me? I’ve never seen him before.”

“Some of the fellows saw ye goin’ into the howff. They were talkin’ about ye, and the fellow was listenin’. And besides, if he walks away now, he’ll take every coin in the village wi’ him, for they’re a’ in his pocket already.”

Will sighed and looked sideways at me, rolling his eyes. “Who are those other folk, the young ones?”

“Just visitors, frae Paisley,” Laithey told him. “They’re here to visit young Jessie Brunton—her sisters and their friends.”

Will sighed. “Well,” he said at length, “I’ll offer him a match, but I doubt he’ll take it. If he’s won everything already I’m surprised he’s still here.”

“Don’t be. He was interested in what the lads had to say about ye. That’s why he’s waitin’.”

“Then he’s wasting his time. I’ve no money other than a groat or two.”

Laithey, who was known for both sobriety and thrift, grinned, for he had admired Will’s skill for years. “I’ll put up the coin,” he said. “Just this once, to see you beat this thief. And when you win, I’ll gi’e back the winnings to the fools who lost them.”

“You will? I’ll hold you to that. But what if I lose?”

The other man shrugged, still smiling. “You willna. But ’gin you do, I’ll take it as God’s judgment on me for gambling.”

Will dipped his head. “So be it. Let’s try him, then. But I doubt he’ll take the wager.”

The stranger, who introduced himself as plain Robertson, agreed to Will’s challenge with apparent reluctance, eyeing the long leather case that hung from his shoulder. But as the one being challenged, he had the setting of the terms, and it was immediately obvious he knew what he was doing. The most effective range of the yew longbow was between two hundred and two hundred and twenty paces, shooting at a six-inch target centre or a similarly thick fence post; beyond that distance, the yew archer tended to lose accuracy, and at lesser ranges the arrow flight was constrained by the bow’s huge strength, and the inaccuracy became even greater.

“Targets,” Robertson said. “Split posts, three inches thick, two feet high.” He watched narrow-eyed as Will considered that before nodding slowly, but then he could not hold back a wolfish grin as he continued. “At a hundred.”

It was an outrageous proposition, the short distance and halfwidth targets putting Will at an enormous disadvantage with his great yew bow. Will pursed his lips, appearing to think long and hard and be on the point of refusal, but then he sniffed and nodded. “Agreed. Even bets?”

“What? D’ye take me for a fool? Against that thing?” Robertson nodded at the longbow’s case as though he were not convinced that he had already crippled Will’s chances of winning. “Two to one. On your side.”

Will gazed for a long time at Robertson’s own bow, a flat, layered weapon of wood and sinew that flared to a hand’s breadth wide above and below the grip before tapering to the ends. Five feet long, I estimated. Will nodded, stone faced. “Accepted,” he said. “Set them up.”

Laithey shouted the terms to the waiting crowd, and a cluster of men quickly set about making the targets from the pile of six-inch posts at the edge of the butts, some of them splitting the lengths of wood into quarters and others hammering the stakes firmly into the ground until they were of uniform height, their freshly split wedged faces towards the archers. The crowd along the edges of the range grew denser as others were attracted by the activity. To my eyes the target stakes, barely projecting above the ungrazed pasture of the narrow strip, were barely visible from a hundred paces, and for the first time I could remember, I found myself doubting Will’s ability to hit them, recalling his missed shot at the sick doe earlier.

Will was by now stringing his bow and pulling target arrows from among the broadheads in his bag. The target arrowheads were long and heavy, solid and round and tapered like armour-piercing bodkins, shorter but no less sharply pointed; hollowed out, they fitted tightly over the arrows’ shafts, and were fletched with grey goose feathers. When he was satisfied with his six selections, he stepped forward to the firing line and thrust the arrows point first into the ground in a row by his right side.

Robertson had defined the range and the targets; Will’s was the choice to shoot first or last, and the right to determine the number of casts.

“One flight,” he said to his adversary. “Six shots only. You first, then me.”

Robertson nodded, plainly having expected this. “Six each, then. All at once, or shot by shot?”

“All at once. Straight count. Your six first, then mine. The winner the man who leaves most arrows in the marks. No repeats. I ha’e to get back to work.”

“Right. Let’s be about it.”

The crowd had separated in anticipation of the contest, a few of them flanking the firing line to watch the bowmen, but the majority crowding near the targets at the end of the narrow firing lane. I could see they had no fear of being killed by a stray shot. They were accustomed to such contests and they knew the skill of the contestants.

Robertson stepped forward to his side of the aiming line, nocking his first arrow to his string, and Laithey raised his arms and shouted for silence, bringing a hush to the crowd. Will’s eyes were narrowed, taking stock of his opponent’s stance and missing no single element of the man’s preparation.

The targets were small and the distance to them was short, but no one there, man or woman, would have thought to criticize. Every one of them knew how difficult the contest was, precisely because of those constraints.

Robertson stood stock-still, his eyes narrowed to slits as he stared at the first mark, its bottom half obscured by waving fronds of seeding grass. He held the bow loosely, resting horizontally across his left thigh, the fingers of his right hand gripping the string above and below the nocked end of the arrow. Then, still slit-eyed, he spread his feet, taking a half-step back with his right, and brought the bow up smoothly, leaning into it and drawing the taut string to his cheek as though it was weightless. He released quickly. The sound of the arrow’s flight was lost in the snap of the bowstring against the shaped guard of bull horn that protected his forearm, and the crowd hissed as his shaft struck solidly, within a palm’s width of the top of the distant mark. The peg was deeply buried, almost twothirds of its length firmly seated in the earth, but the force of the arrow’s impact moved it visibly and split it; the arrow was gripped there, pointing sideways and down.

Without pausing, Robertson drew and loosed again, nocking a fresh arrow within seconds of each shot until he had fired all six within the span of a single minute. As the sixth hit home, some of the distant watchers clapped and whistled. Only his third shot had missed its mark. Another, his fourth, caught the very top of its stake, where the wood was flattened and frayed by the maul that had hammered it into the ground; the point lodged in the damaged wood, but the arrow hung precariously in place. The other four missiles were firmly lodged in the target stakes. He turned to Will with a tiny smirk.

“Five, you agree?”

“Aye, five hits. A fine try. Not bad at all. I’ve seen far worse.”

“Not bad?” The smirk widened. “Let’s see you do better, then.”

Will’s six arrows were still where he had set them in the ground, about a pace behind the firing line, and now he moved to stand beside them, plucking up the first of them and laying it across his horizontal bow stave, holding it in place with his left index finger while he nocked the end slot securely onto the taut string. His arrows were longer than Robertson’s by a full finger’s length, thicker and therefore heavier than the other man’s. He flexed his fingers on the bow’s grip, then froze, concentrating.

For long seconds he stood there, looking at the first slender target. Robertson harrumphed and muttered something. It was surely intended as a distraction, but Will ignored it. He drew a deep breath and went to work.

He stepped forward, leaning into his pull as his left foot went forward to the line, his straight left arm pushing the arcing bow stave forward while his massive chest, back, and shoulder muscles pulled the thick string of densely braided hemp back smoothly to his ear. The release was immensely powerful, and the line of flight was low, the arrow sinking so swiftly that I thought, for an instant, that it had fallen short. But then the target stake whipped violently and the arrow in its cleft sprang free and spun to the ground, its fall accompanied by a great shout from the crowd.

Will had already nocked another arrow by then, and before the shout could die away he stepped into his second shot. His movements were a joy to watch, a sacred dance to a rhythm known only to himself, and he loosed all six of his arrows in less time than Robertson had taken for his. But Will struck five marks close above the ground, within a hand’s breadth of their bases, and two of them dislodged arrows that Robertson had already placed. The sixth arrow had struck the ground at the base of the mark the other man had missed, but on closer examination it was found to have pierced the stake beneath the surface. Even without it, though, Will’s tally stood at five to Robertson’s remaining three.

To his credit, the other archer said nothing. He walked the hundred measured paces to the line of target posts, where he stood looking down at Will’s handiwork. He shook his head in disbelief, for Will’s grouping truly was astounding. Of the five shafts that had struck above the ground, the highest was less than an inch above the lowest. Robertson reached into the pouch at his waist and brought out a small leather purse; he hefted it in his hand, then lobbed it underhand to Will.

“I’ve never seen the like,” he said. “And I’ve never been so outmatched. I’ll stay out of your way, ’gin we ever meet again, Will Wallace.”

The two nodded to each other, in mutual respect, then bent to gather up their spent arrows as the crowd surged forward, and there was pandemonium as every man there wanted to shake the hand of each of the contestants. Will turned his back on the well-wishers and caught my eye. He threw the purse to me. “Take that to James while I finish up here.”

I took the money to Laithey, and as I turned away I saw the group of young people who had come to visit Jessie Brunton now thronging around Will. Jessie, I knew, had been recently married to a friendly young fellow called Tam Brunton, a miller who worked on Sir Malcolm’s estate. I had known her by her unmarried name, Jessie Waddie. She was the eldest daughter of Ian Waddie, a prosperous Paisley wool merchant. Waddie, it now turned out, was married to Margaret Braidfoot of Lamington, near Lanark, whose brother Hugh, a successful sheep farmer and therefore a valued associate of Ian Waddie, had a daughter called Mirren, whose presence was the underlying reason for today’s visit from all these young people. Mirren, aged seventeen, had come to Paisley on what had become an annual visit, to spend the summer with her beloved Auntie Meg and her daughters.

Jessie herself was standing close by, a slightly bemused smile on her face as though at a loss to explain her sudden popularity even to herself, and I went and spoke to her for a few moments, asking about her visitors. When I turned away from her again, I saw the tallest youth in the party struggling to pull Will’s bow, and I was amazed that Will would permit such a thing. It was only later—much later—that Will gave me his own slightly dazed account of what had happened while my back was turned.

2

“Who was the fellow trying to pull your bow? The big fellow the girls were all admiring?”

“Who? I don’t know. He’s one of Mirren’s friends.”

“He was dressed as a forester. Had you ever seen him before?”

“No, but he’s a Bruce man. He’s a woodsman, though, not a forester.”

“Is there a difference?”

That earned me a stare from beneath slightly raised eyebrows. “Aye, there’s a big difference, and fine you know it. A woodsman patrols the woods, looking for poachers, but that’s all he does. He has a forester to tell him what to do and where to go and when. He wears the green and he works in the woods, but he knows nothing of forestry, beyond being able to move quietly in the thickets.”

“Which Bruce does he work for, Annandale or Carrick?”

“The old man, Annandale. He owns the land alongside ours, to the south and west.”

We were sitting together by the fire in Sir Malcolm’s main room, late that same night. Sir Malcolm and Lady Margaret were long since abed, and we would have been, too, save that I was enjoying my time away from the Abbey too much to want to sleep, and Will was too tightly wound over the events of the afternoon. If he had mentioned Mirren Braidfoot once since we came home that day he had mentioned her a score of times; her name was rarely absent from his conversation, what little there was of that. I was perplexed, for I could hardly remember him ever mentioning any girl by name twice in the same day. But there he was, sitting across from me yet barely there, his gaze focused on whatever vision he was seeing in the leaping flames in the grate.

“So you don’t know this fellow’s name, the one who had your bow?”

“No.”

“Why did you let him take it?”

“What? Oh, because he wanted to.”

“He wanted to. And you just let him? Will, you won’t even let me carry that bow. Why would you give it to someone you didn’t know, and let him play with it?”

“Mirren wanted me to.”

“Mirren wanted … I think you’d better tell me— Will? Are you listening? Tell me what happened when you met this Mirren. How did you meet her?”

He frowned, blinking. “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I don’t remember. She was just there, suddenly, yellow and blue …”

It was enough for me to see her clearly. She had been wearing a yellow kirtle over a blue gown, and Will’s eyes were wide again with the recollection of it.

“I’d seen them there,” he continued, “the folk from Paisley, but I hadn’t noticed her before they all came flocking around me, and then there she was. Sweet Jesu, Jamie, but she’s bonnie. She was looking right at me, her eyes on mine, and I swear I near fell into them, they were so big. And so blue, like her gown. They were all talking to me, shouting at me, but I could hardly hear them and she never said a word. She just stared at me, and then she smiled. I thought she was going to laugh at me and my heart nearly stopped for shame, but she didn’t. She just looked and smiled. And God help me, I couldna smile back at her. I tried, I wanted to, but my face felt as though it was made of wood. I couldna make it work. And I just stood there, gawking at her like some daft wee laddie …

“And then that fellow tried to take my bow, wanted to try it. She saw me start to turn on him and stopped me … with her eyes. She didn’t speak. Her eyes … they flashed at me, warning me, I thought, though I didn’t know against what. Then she looked at him, and at the bow, and back at me, and nodded. And I let him take it, along with an arrow from my bag, a broadhead. Then he walked away and all the others followed him to see how he would do. And we were left alone, the two of us.” He looked at me, and his eyes were wide with wonder.

“What did she say to you?”

“That her name was Mirren. She knew mine already. Someone must have told her. She asked me where I lived, and when I told her, she said that I should come and look for her within the week, at her uncle’s house in Paisley, in the evening when my work was done … It was the strangest thing, Jamie. She told me how to find her, and when to come, and yet she never looked at me. She kept her eyes on the young fool with the bow the whole time, as though watching him and leaving me ignored, like a log on the ground. And then she said I should take my bow back, so I did. The poor gowk hadn’t even drawn it to half pull. I took off the string, put the stave back in its case, and when I turned around again he was helping her up onto the wagon, and they left. She never looked at me again. Just left me standing there like a witless stirk.”

“But she told you when and where to find her, Will. And did it privily, with no one being the wiser. Plainly she wanted none of them to know. Women do that sometimes.”

He looked at me as though I had crowed like a cockerel. “Do what?”

I shrugged, aware of my own witlessness. “Behave strangely.”

“How would you know that? Who told you such a thing?”

“Nobody told me … I must have heard it somewhere.”

“Hmm. Then did you happen to hear what I should do now?”

“No, but I know … You should do as she bade you. Look for her in Paisley at her uncle’s house the next time you are free of an evening.”

3

The woodsman’s name was Graham, and he came from a village called Kilbarchan, some twelve miles from Elderslie, though he now lived in a bothy on the Bruce lands south of us. Will learned his name quickly, for Graham of Kilbarchan was forever underfoot—like dung on a new boot was how Will put it—whenever he went to Paisley to see Mirren, and he soon grew to loathe the sight of the man. A week elapsed before he could wind up the courage to go and look for her at the home of her uncle, Waddie the wool merchant. He found her without difficulty, for she had been expecting him and was watching for him, but there his true difficulties began.

Mirren’s uncle took his responsibilities seriously, and the safety and moral welfare of his sister’s only daughter while she was in his care was one of his main concerns that summer. The girl was beautiful, and wealthy by Paisley standards, so she attracted admirers and suitors as a blooming bank of flowers draws bees, and Ian Waddie had to deal with all of them.

Unfortunately for Will, he dealt equally with all of them save one, treating them uniformly with hostile disapproval. The sole exception was the young woodsman from Kilbarchan, who was the only son of Alexander Graham of Kilbarchan, another of Master Waddie’s prime suppliers of fine wool. This Graham had amassed sufficient wealth and property in a lifetime of hard work and sharp dealings to make his son appear as a supremely qualified suitor, despite the young man’s general fecklessness, and that impression was greatly enhanced by the father’s advanced age and rapidly failing health. Young Sandy would inherit everything, and for that reason alone, according to Mirren, Ian Waddie would have encouraged his suit even had the young man been a drunkard and a leper.

We spoke about this, Will and I, when next we met, about three weeks after his first encounter with Mirren, and I asked him, naively I suppose, why he put up with the fellow instead of sending him packing. He glanced at me sidelong, and I immediately saw how his involvement with Mirren had already changed him. The Will I had known all my life would have purged the young woodsman from his life as soon as Graham began to be a nuisance. The Will eyeing me now, though, was another person; he flushed slowly, and admitted, sheepishly, that it was Mirren’s idea to keep young Graham close by. The woodsman had her uncle’s goodwill and his full approval to spend time with her, and Mirren was clever enough to know that she could benefit thereby, simply by including Will in their excursions whenever he could arrange to visit Paisley. And when Will could not be there, to keep up the appearance of both consistency and propriety, she invariably invited another from her coterie of admirers to join her and Graham on their evening walks. It worked, of course.

By being unfailingly pleasant and congenial with Graham, yet keeping support and moral guidance close to hand at all times in the form of a third, amorously interested presence, Mirren managed to avoid awkwardness or entanglement with any of the young men, and by the time her stay in Paisley was half over she had overcome all her uncle’s suspicions and won grudging acknowledgment from him that she was more than capable of protecting herself against the blandishments of the local swains. Waddie came to accept that there was nothing he could do to overcome his niece’s refusal to encourage Sandy Graham’s attentions, since it was obvious she did nothing to discourage them, either. Much as he was attracted to the idea of bringing Graham’s wealth into his own family, and by association into his own purview, he was realistic enough to accept that he was not the girl’s father and that the best way to promote his plans must be to gain her father’s support in favour of a union between his daughter and the young woodsman.

I discovered that by merest happenstance, for Master Waddie came to the Abbey one day in search of assistance in composing and writing an important letter, and I was the one assigned to the task by Brother Duncan, since I had performed similar clerical services in the past for several of the town’s merchants. By the time Master Waddie’s letter began to take shape and I began to discern what was involved, I could hardly stop the work in progress. Besides, I judged the content harmless, apart from the sole consideration that its effect might have a bearing on the affairs of my closest friend. And so, in the spirit of the confessional, I resigned myself to keeping its content to myself. Will would never know of its existence, and I would use my knowledge of it only if such knowledge should ever be of benefit.

The letter was, of course, to Master Waddie’s goodbrother Hugh Braidfoot, and it extolled the shining virtues of a potential husband he had found for young Mirren, namely Master Alexander Graham. The letter was duly signed and sealed and sent off to Mirren’s home in Lamington, a few miles outside Lanark town. I no longer wondered about Will’s tolerance of the woodsman Graham.

In the meantime, to Will’s appalled disbelief, the summer weeks sped by and Mirren returned home to her family, leaving him close to despair at the thought of the empty year that yawned ahead of him before she would return to Paisley. He could talk for hours on end, and often did, about the wonders and the exploding complexities of their burgeoning love. Many times I listened to his outpourings almost in disbelief, confounded by the intensity and the passion in what he was telling me and by the mysterious changes the experience had provoked in him. He had kissed her once, he confessed to me in breathless bliss; just once, and fleetingly, seizing a moment when they were alone, and he swore that the taste and textures of it lingered on his lips and in his very vitals weeks later. Floundering with what that could mean, I found myself regretting, almost painfully, that I would never experience such strange and tempestuous sensations.

But then, as time swept onwards, a degree of sanity returned to my cousin’s world, and he became engrossed again in the work that he loved. I became his ex officio liaison with Mirren then, serving as postmaster for the bulky letters he inscribed to her almost daily and ensuring that they were forwarded to Lanark in the custody of the regular procession of brothers travelling on the Church’s affairs. Mirren, on her own behalf, had arranged to have her responses returned to me by the same route, though she was far less regular in her correspondence.

Beyond our little world of church and greenwood, much was happening, and none of it, it seemed at first, had anything to do with Will and Mirren. At the Abbey we learned that the magnates of the realm had been successful in their approach to England’s King and had enlisted his aid in assuring the succession to the Scots throne of the child heir Margaret, whom people were already calling the Maid of Norway. A treaty to that effect had been signed at Salisbury in January of the new year, 1289, and a conclusive part of the same agreement was to be added the following year. Under the terms of these twin treaties, which would become known collectively as the Treaty of Birgham, Margaret’s succession was guaranteed by her betrothal to Edward of Caernarvon, the English Prince of Wales. Wondrous news for all who cared, but Will Wallace was much more concerned with his own betrothal, a secret pact about which I had learned only very recently, when his frustration with the slowness of time boiled over.

Royal betrothals were, of course, affairs of state, and ordinary people knew little or nothing about them. We of the Abbey fraternity learned a little more as the proceedings developed, since the treaties were drafted by our religious and clerical brethren in various locations, and the word, privileged and close held as it was, spread quickly through our communities. In those early days everyone was happy with what was happening because it served multiple purposes, not the least of which was a settlement of the increasingly rancorous rivalry between the two noble Houses of Bruce and Balliol—including by extension the House of Comyn, inextricably linked with Balliol through blood and marriage—over their competing claims to the succession. Fostered by those feelings of goodwill, and unbelievable though it seems now from more than fifty years’ distance, no one in Scotland objected strongly to Edward Plantagenet’s claim to acknowledgment as feudal overlord of Scotland in return for his services as arbiter. That was perceived to be a matter of semantics rather than literal interpretation, for the feudal laws of the time attested to the spirit of that convention of overlordship—most of the Scots magnates had held lands in England for generations under feudal grants from English monarchs—and the Treaty of Birgham clearly stated that the realm of Scotland would remain “separate and divided from England according to its rightful boundaries, free in itself and without subjection.” No man in Scotland could even have imagined that Edward of England might soon insist upon the letter of that unwritten accord and claim the throne of Scotland for himself.

In the eyes of the Scots populace, the single noticeable thing to grow out of those preliminary agreements was an increasing presence of English soldiery and men-at-arms within the realm. It began quietly and with all the appearances of legitimacy; England’s King had declared his goodwill in the matter of the Scots succession and was involved with the magnates of the noble houses in ensuring their commitment to the Birgham agreement. To that end, and on his regal behalf, detachments of English soldiery soon began to move freely throughout the land, tending to King Edward’s affairs and safeguarding his interests, and in the beginning no one, including our little circle of family and friends, paid much attention to their comings and goings.

But within a half year of the Birgham agreement, disquieting stories of English misbehaviour began to circulate, and although many of those were discounted at the outset, the reports became more frequent. All of them described English abuses and transgressions against the common law and the Scots folk, quickly forming a pattern that could not be denied.

Will showed no interest as these reports came to us. I tried more than once to coax out his opinions on the matter, but only once did he respond, on a night after dinner, when Peter and Duncan had been in Elderslie with me. He had refused to be drawn into their debate around the table. Afterwards, though, when only he and I were left in front of the fire, he spoke eloquently, and the quiet fury underlying his words shook me to my core.

“What d’you want me to tell you, Jamie?” He spoke in Scots, not in Latin, and that alone told me something of the depth of his emotions. “That these stories are no’ true? That folk are just makin’ them up to cause trouble? That the English wouldna do such things? For the love o’ Christ, these are the people who cut off wee Jenny’s head and used two wee boys as women. And now they’re doing things folk dinna like … What did anybody expect, can ye tell me that? The only thing that surprises me about it is that it’s ta’en so long for folk to see it. The English treat the common folk like slaves, here for their pleasure, and they’ve done it frae the outset. They don’t think we’re human. What was it Peter said? They lord it over us because they believe, deep down in their bones, that we’re … what in the hell was it? A subservient people. Aye, that’s what he said. They see us as a secondary race inferior to anything that’s English. Shite. Don’t get me started on it, Jamie.”

“I thought you were already started.”

He flexed his shoulders. “Well, what did you expect? Are you surprised? You’ve been asking me for weeks what I think of all this, and I’ve been trying not to get involved because I know there’s nothing I can do about it.” He had switched back to Latin.

“So why are you talking about it now?”

“Because I can’t believe how blind people are.”

“Explain.”

“I don’t know if I can, but I shouldn’t need to. Like this nonsense about the Englishry only doing what they do because their local commanders are too lenient. Everybody’s tripping over themselves to make excuses for the poor soldiers, blaming it all on the attitudes of the officers. In God’s name, Jamie, are they all mad? They sound like it, whenever I listen to them. There’s not a single knight, not one petty commander among all the English forces in Scotland, who would dare attempt any of this rubbish unless he knew beyond a doubt that his masters, the barons and earls of England, up to and including their King, would approve of it. And there’s the nub of it. Whatever is happening here, from general disregard for the common law to the organized arrogance with which they swagger through our land, has the support of the English lords and barons. Nobody seems to believe it yet, but you mark my words, Jamie, they will, and by then it could be too late to change it.”

“Then why don’t you speak up?”

‘Me, speak up? Who would listen to me? I’m a forester, Jamie, a verderer. I have no voice that anyone would hear, let alone listen to.”

“Uncle Malcolm would listen.”

“Aye, he might, because I’m family and he likes me, but would he change his mind? That would mean thinking about doing something to change things … and that’s a daunting thought.”

“More people than you think are starting to grow angry, Will. There’s a great swell of discontent spreading everywhere in Scotland nowadays, I’m told.”

“Told by whom?” His eyes were suddenly wide with interest.

I shrugged. “Travellers, visiting priests.”

“Aye, well you know what I think of most priests. They’re great talkers, but they don’t often do much more that that. I put more faith in my opinion of visiting soldiery, and it’s plain to me what that opinion is. The English are here apurpose, and they won’t leave until they have achieved whatever is in their minds, and that means in the mind of their King, this Edward Plantagenet.”

“He is a noble and most Christian monarch, Will. A Crusader.”

He looked at me for long moments and then he hawked and spat into the dying fire. “He’s an Englishman, Jamie, so I mistrust him. If he’s so hotly bound on the welfare of our realm, why has he sent so many of his people here? What’s his intent? And what does he want of us? Today he claims the title overlord of Scotland. What will he claim tomorrow, when his troops are everywhere from Berwick to Elgin?”

4

Will’s love for Mirren, and hers for him, had seemed invincible by the time she left Paisley that first summer, and neither of them had doubted that they would soon be man and wife. Since then, however, it seemed to both of them that Fate itself was conspiring to keep them apart.

Will spent the winter making arrows, not only yard-long shafts for his own enormous weapon but hundreds of shorter missiles for the smaller, flat bows in common use among the Scots, and he had planned to sell them in Glasgow or Edinburgh that autumn, once they were fully cured and fletched, adding the proceeds to his marriage fund. He bore the news stoically when Mirren’s letter arrived, telling him she would not be coming to Paisley that summer because of her mother’s failing health, but I could see that he was devastated, faced with another yawning year before he would see her again. But then, being William Wallace, who thrived in adversity, he resolved to go to her instead. He sought a month-long leave from Sir Malcolm, who granted it without hesitation since his estates had never been in better condition, and Will set off for Lanark.

He stopped to visit me on his way though Paisley, riding one of Sir Malcolm’s finest horses, and I could tell he was apprehensive about what he might find upon his arrival in Lanark, for he had not had time to write and tell Mirren he was coming. But he was almost too impatient to sit still as he spoke of his love for her and his determination to ride all the way there without stopping, scoffing at the mere scores of forested miles that separated them.

I laughed with him, and wished him God speed, and then I walked with him to the Abbey gates to see him on his way with my prayers to accompany him. But as he swung around to mount his horse, we heard his name being called and turned back to see the distinctively green-cassocked Bishop Wishart of Glasgow trotting across the grassy forecourt towards us, waving his arms to attract our attention. Will waved back, still holding his reins, then turned to me.

“Did you know he was here?”

“Not at all. He wasn’t expected. He must have arrived this morning, while I was in the library.”

The aging Bishop was slightly breathless by the time he reached us.

“William,” he gasped, eyeing the reins in Will’s hand. “I’m glad I caught you. Are you leaving?”

“Aye, my lord, I’m on my way to Lanark. I stopped by to say goodbye to Jamie.”

His lordship acknowledged me with a smile and a nod, but turned directly to Will again. “I had been thinking of you as I walked, enjoying the day, and then I turned to retrace my steps and there you were. It was most fortunate.”

Will cocked his head. “You were thinking of me, my lord? You’ll pardon me, but you and I have not set eyes upon each other these two years. Why should you think of me today?”

“I shouldn’t have. I had other things to ponder, of great import to this realm, but something that caught my eye reminded me of the occasion when I met you and young Andrew Murray near here, and then I found myself daydreaming.” He glanced at Will’s horse. “Must you leave this minute, or can you grant me a little time?”

“I should be on my way, my lord, for it’s a long ride to Lanark and I am … expected. But another few minutes will make little difference if you think it important.”

“I do, and I thank you. I saw Murray but ten days ago, and when he found I was returning here to Paisley he asked to be remembered to you.” His eyes moved to acknowledge me. “To both of you. He has pleasant memories of his visit here, brief though it was. He is well, though not yet a full knight, for several reasons, and in service to his father as sheriff of his territories.” His mouth quirked into a tiny smile. “You made a strong impression on him, Master Wallace. He asked me—instructed me, in fact—to inform you that should you ever find yourself in need of employment, in any capacity, he will make a place for you at your request. That impressed me, in turn, I must admit. I can assure you, Master Wallace, there are very few men in this land to whom Andrew Murray would make such an offer.”

Will nodded, somewhat stiffly I thought. “I am honoured that you should mention it to me, my lord, and that Andrew should even think of it, but I have a place of my own here now and am content with it.”

“And that is as it should be.” Wishart hesitated, then glanced at me again and changed his tone. “How long will you remain in Lanark?”

“I have a month’s leave. I doubt I’ll return before that. Why do you ask, my lord?”

“Because I have matters I should like to discuss with you—within the month, or as close as may be. Would it be possible, think you, for you to come by Glasgow on your way home? It would take you a day or two out of your way to take the north road, but you will benefit from it if you make the effort, I promise you. I will be there by the end of this coming month and would welcome you.”

Will shook his head. “I can’t promise that, my lord Bishop, for I have already promised Sir Malcolm to come back directly from Lanark at the end of the month. But I will be in Glasgow in September. I have a cartload of fine arrows to sell, and I’ve heard that Glasgow is a better place than Edinburgh for such things—more markets and more archers. I could visit you then. It would be a few weeks later than you asked, but no more than two.”

Wishart nodded. “Done. Come to me as early as you can. And if you come to me first, before going to market your wares, I’ll see to it that your arrows are quickly sold at better than fair prices. Is that acceptable? If so, I’ll leave you two to your interrupted farewells.”

“What was that all about, do you suppose?” Will asked once the Bishop had retreated.

“I have no idea. But he seems to have some kind of liking for you. Hard to understand why anyone would feel that way, let alone a saintly bishop, but there you are. God works in mysterious ways.”

I ducked as he swung a hand at my head, but it was true. Wishart had always shown a keen interest in Will, ever since their first meeting that day with Andrew Murray. For the remainder of his time as a student in Paisley, Will had been summoned to undertake long and intense tutorial sessions with the Bishop each time Wishart visited the Abbey, listening in fascination after his initial reluctance, and absorbing as much as he could of the older man’s thoughts on such arcane matters as patriotism, loyalty, duty, integrity, and honour. Will and I always talked about these encounters afterwards, of course. He called them penances for a while because they seemed much like unwarranted punishments, taking him away from his beloved archery for hours on end, but it did not take long for us to learn to appreciate their true value, although we remained mystified as to the reasons underlying them. Their content, we soon saw, was not nearly as abstract as it first appeared. The Bishop tied everything he spoke of to the reality of the times, expounding upon the manly and patriotic virtues he so admired and relating them to the condition of the realm and the duties of a man to his king and kingdom, He put particular emphasis on the politics and family loyalties of the various magnates and the affiliations of their various fiefdoms within the realm.

It is plain to me now in my old age that even then, when Will was a mere boy, the good Bishop, who was perhaps the greatest and most selfless patriot in all the realm of Scotland at that time, had discerned in him that special quality that would propel him into greatness. That alone, I am convinced, could have induced in Wishart such painstaking efforts to shape William Wallace’s mind to his own way of thinking. He moulded the future Guardian of Scotland, though none of us then knew it, and Will was malleable.

We said no more on the matter after the Bishop had left us, and after bidding each other God speed again, I stood and watched as Will rode away to the east in search of his beloved Mirren.

5

When he returned home a month later, my cousin was a very different person. He had somehow reached full manhood in the interim, and he came back with evidence of a new maturity stamped into his every aspect. He did not tell me that he and Mirren had become lovers or that he had taken her to wife. There was no need. Even I, callow and unworldly as I was, could see the new strength in him, reflected in the way he spoke and acted. The carefree exuberance of love-stricken youth that had marked him before his departure had been replaced by a sober deliberation, and his former preoccupation with the distant, unattainable Mirren had been replaced by a quiet determination to bring her to Elderslie as his wife.

Those changes were clear as day both to me and to his family, for his aunt and uncle were nothing if not astute. But there were other, even more profound changes afoot by then, as well. Will’s entire life had begun to change in ways that neither he nor I could ever have anticipated, and even though I have been a Christian priest now for half a hundred years, I still tend to think of those changes in terms of intervention by the pagan Fates of whom the ancients spoke in fear and dread. Although these changes did not at first appear to be radical, each one, with hindsight, brought about the end of my plain, hard-working friend and cousin Will and the simultaneous emergence of his alter ego, the implacable, the terrifying William Wallace.

It began during that visit to Lamington, where he arrived to find Mirren under siege from the love-smitten woodsman Graham of Kilbarchan. Mirren had not expected Will’s arrival, and her wholehearted delight at seeing him was witnessed by the hapless Graham, who saw in it the death of his own hopes of winning her. Graham of Kilbarchan vanished that same night, not to be seen again.

It was the suddenness of that disappearance that finally brought both Mirren and Will back to thinking of him again. Days had gone by since either of them had seen him, and that began to alarm Mirren because there had not been a single day in the previous five weeks when she had not seen him everywhere she went. Will, typically, had not given the fellow a single thought, relieved to be rid of the man’s irksome presence. But Mirren knew that Graham of Kilbarchan would not simply fade graciously away; she came to expect he would seek redress for the humiliation he would believe she had thrust on him.

She waited anxiously to be summoned into her father’s presence to explain what Hugh Braidfoot would construe as her disgraceful conduct towards a well-qualified suitor. But the days passed and no summons came. Her father’s treatment of her remained as it had always been, benevolent and even doting; his attitude remained unchanged, at once loving and slightly bemused by her flourishing beauty. And still they saw no sign of Graham.

Days later, filled with guilt, she spoke to Will about how badly she regretted her treatment of the woodsman, though she had intended no harm. Will kissed away her misgivings, assuring her that there was nothing she could have done to alter any of what had happened, and finally she came to believe him and allowed herself to believe that the sorry affair was over.

But it was far from being over.

Will went looking for me in the library on the day he returned through Paisley, and Brother Duncan sent him to find me among the cloisters, where I was studying my breviary, pacing back and forth in the familiar space with my eyes closed much of the time, memorizing the texts set for me that day. I was so engrossed that I did not see him arrive, and I have no idea how long he had been sitting watching me by the time I finally noticed him perched on a stone bench, one foot flat on the seat with his back against an archway and his right knee raised against his chin, enfolded by his arms. The sight of him startled me, and he grinned, his white, even teeth flashing amid the dark curls of his suddenly rich beard.

“Priest,” he said, his eyes flickering with mischief. “When do you start to shave your head?”

“When I’m ordained,” I told him, feeling the glad rush of wellbeing that always hit me at the sight of him. “When did you get back?”

“Today, this minute, and I came to see you first. They’ll be expecting me at home, though.”

“They’ve been expecting you this past week. And Lamington?”

“It’s there, where I’d been told it was. A wee place, like Elderslie. But I enjoyed it.”

“And yet—? It could have been better?”

“It could. I had to leave Mirren there.”

“Ah. And when will she come here?”

“As soon as I can arrange it.”

I detected a hint of uncertainty in his response.

“Can you arrange it?”

“I think I can. I have to. Otherwise life will not be livable.”

“Did you meet her father, speak with him?”

He glanced away from my eyes. “No. Mirren thought it best not to.”

“Because he would disapprove.”

“Aye. Her mother is very ill, near death in fact, and with that on his mind, he had already decided in favour of Alexander Graham.”

“The forester? He was in Lamington?”

“Woodsman, Jamie. But aye, he was there when I arrived. But then he left, the same day.”

He told me everything that had happened during his visit, but when he had finished and I asked him what he thought the Graham fellow might be up to, he merely shrugged. He had decided that Graham was an indolent ne’er-do-well, unworthy of further attention.

“So what will you do next?”

He stood up, facing me and smiling again as he collected his bow case and the quiver of arrows that leaned against the wall. “I’m for Glasgow, as soon as I’ve made sure all’s well at home and the forest’s still as I left it. I have a cartload of arrows for sale and I need the money now more than I thought I might.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I have a wife to see to now, Jamie. A man needs money even to contemplate such a thing. I won’t bring a new wife to an empty, bare-floored hut.”

It took me several moments to absorb what I had just heard.

“You married her? Mirren?”

“I did.” He looked at me with an expression of utter seriousness. “It seemed like the right thing to do, while I was there …”

“But how—? I thought her father didn’t like you.”

“He didn’t, when he thought I was just another tomcat circling around his daughter. But he changed his mind once he discovered I was a tomcat with influential friends and could support a wife. Bishop Wishart knows the man and he vouched for me.” He paused, then asked, “Is that all right?”

“Of course it is.” I realized how stupid that sounded and raised my hands. “Forgive me, Will. That took me by surprise and it should not have. I hope you will be very happy together. Will you take her with you to Glasgow?”

“I will. ‘Whither thou goest …’ I know I have no need to tell you where that comes from.”

“No, you don’t. But it was Ruth who said it to her mother-in-law, not to her spouse. But I know what you mean … You’ll see the Bishop while you’re there?”

“Aye, as soon as I get there, as I promised him. And he said he would see to it that my arrows were sold for the best price. Besides, Murray once said he keeps a fine table, and I enjoy good food while I’m listening to anything profound … Speaking of which, I’m starved. I’ve been on the road since before dawn and it’s close to noon. Have you eaten this morning? Can we go by the kitchens while we talk?”

Time passed as quickly as it always did in his company, and when the bell for nones summoned me to noonday prayer we parted, me to my duties and him to Elderslie and Sir Malcolm. I had not the slightest doubt that I would see him again very soon, but in those days I had not yet learned the folly of expecting anything in life to turn out as we expect.