The Forest Laird: A Tale of William Wallace

by Jack Whyte

  We had arrived at the top of a long moorland gradient and crouched there behind a tall clump of bracken ferns, looking back down the way we had come and astonished to discover that we could see for miles and that no one was chasing us. We strained our eyes for signs of movement on the sloping moor, but all we saw were hares and what might have been a wild boar, more than a mile below us. We finally accepted that no ravening murderers were hunting us.

  Ahead of us, the hillside swept gently down for half a mile towards a grassy plain that was bounded on the right by the deepcut, tree-filled gully of a mountain stream.

  Will pointed towards the trees. “We’ll go down there. No one will see us there and we can sleep.”

  As we set off, I felt myself reeling drunkenly, unable to think of anything except the fact that we would soon be able to sleep. It was late afternoon by then, and the sun was throwing our shadows far ahead of us. The grass beneath our feet was short and cropped here, and the going was easy. We soon reached the edge of the defile and jumped down into the first depression we found, a high-sided, grass-filled hollow enclosed by the tops of the trees that stretched up from below us in the steep, sheltered cleft. Within moments we were both asleep.

  How long we slept I do not know. But something struck my foot, and I opened my eyes to see the most hideous face I had ever seen, glaring down at me, and I screamed, startling Will awake and sending us both scrambling to escape up the steep bank behind us, but the monster caught us easily, snatching me up to tuck me beneath one arm while pinning Will to the ground with a massive, booted foot. He silenced us with a mighty bellow of what I took to be raging blood lust, and then he thrust me down to huddle at his feet, after which he stepped back a pace and eyed both of us together. I reached out for Will and he squeezed my hand tightly, and we both prepared for the mutilation and death the apparition would surely visit upon us. But then the gargoyle turned its back on us, and we heard it speak.

  “I thought you were thieves at first, bent upon robbing me. I was far away from you and thought you men.”

  It was a strange voice, unexpectedly gentle, and the words were carefully articulated. He spoke in Scots, but with an alien lilt. We knew not what to think, and, still gripped by terror, stared at each other wild-eyed. Now that the giant’s back was to us, though, I was able to see that there was nothing supernatural about him. From behind, he was a man like any other, though enormous in his bulk. It was only when he faced you squarely that you saw him as hideous. He was dressed from head to foot in shades of green, his head concealed by a hooded cap that was a part of his tunic, and as I watched now, my heart beginning to slow down, he reached up and tugged, it appeared, at his forehead.

  When he turned back to us, his face was covered by a mask of green cloth that he must have pulled down from his hooded cap. It was drawn tight beneath what chin he had, its only openings three ragged-edged holes, one for breathing and one for each eye. The right eye gleamed at me from its opening.

  “There,” he said. “That’s better, no?”

  “Better?” My voice was no more than a squeak.

  “My face. It’s one to frighten children. So I keep it hidden—most of the time.” He tilted his head so he could look at Will. “So now that I can tell ye’re no’ here to rob me, I have some questions to ask you.” He bent suddenly and grasped my ankle and I stiffened with fear, but all he did was twist it gently and pull it up so he could look at the back of my leg. “Your legs are covered wi’ dried blood, caked with it. And so are yours,” he added, nodding at Will. “Why just your legs, and why just the backs of them?”

  “You know fine well.” Will’s voice was little louder than my own, but I could hear defiance in it. “You did it—you and your friends. Used us like women … like sheep.”

  “I did what?” The giant stood for a moment, opening and closing one massive, craggy fist, and then he quickly stooped and grasped Will’s ankle as he had mine. “Lie still,” he growled as Will started to kick. “I’ll no’ hurt you.”

  I had tensed, too, at his sudden move, ready to hurl myself to Will’s defence, but then I remained still, sensing that there was no malice now in the man’s intent. And so I watched as he flipped Will over to lie face down, then pinned him in place with a hand between his shoulders while he pulled up the hem of my cousin’s single garment, exposing his lower back and buttocks and the ravages of what had been done to him. I had not seen what now lay exposed to me, for neither of us had spoken of what had happened, but I knew that what I was seeing was a mirror image of my own backside. I vomited painfully, hearing the giant say again, “Lie still, lad, lie still.”

  When I finished wiping my mouth they were both watching me, Will sitting up, ashen faced, and the giant leaning back, his shoulders against the steep bank at his back.

  “Sweet Jesus,” our captor said, in what we would come to know as his curious soft-edged and sometimes lisping voice. “Listen to me now, both of you. I know the sight of me frightened you. That happens often and I’ve grown used to it. But know this as well. I had no part in what was done to you, and no friend of mine would ever do such a thing. I know not who you are, nor where you came from, and I never saw you before you came across that ridge up there.” He flicked a finger at Will. “When did this happen?”

  “Yesterday.” Will’s voice was a whisper.

  “When? Daytime or night?”

  “Daytime. In the morning.”

  “Where?”

  “At home, near Ellerslie.”

  “Near Ellerslie? That’s in Kyle, is it no’?”

  Will nodded. “Aye, near Ayr.”

  “Carrick land. Bruce country. But that’s thirty miles and more from here. How did you get here?”

  “We ran.”

  “You ran? Thirty miles in two days? Bairns?”

  “Aye, we ran,” Will snapped. “They were chasing us. Sometimes we hid, but mostly we ran.”

  “Who was chasing you?”

  “The ones who— The ones who murdered my father, Alan Wallace of Ellerslie. And my mother. My wee sister Jenny, too.” Now the tears were pouring down Will’s cheeks, etching clean channels through the caked-on dirt.

  “Christ!” The green mask swung back to face me. “And who are you? His brother?”

  I shook my head, feeling the tears trembling in my own eyes. “No, I’m his cousin Jamie, from Auchincruive. I came to live with Will when my family all died of the fever, two years ago.”

  “Aha.” He looked back at Will. “Your name’s Will Wallace?”

  “William.”

  “Ah. William Wallace, then. My name is Ewan Scrymgeour. Archer Ewan, men call me. You can call me Ewan. So tell me then, exactly, what happened yesterday to start all this.”

  It was a good thing he asked Will that and not me, for I had no idea what had happened. Everything had been too sudden and too violent, and all of it had fallen on me like a stone from a clear blue sky. Will, however, was two years older, and more than accustomed to being able to think for himself, since he had been taught for years, by both his parents, that knowledge and the ability to read and write are the greatest strengths a free man can possess. Will came from a clan of fighting men and women, as did I, but his father’s branch of our family had a natural ability for clerical things, and two of his uncles, as well as several of his cousins, were monks.

  “They were Englishmen,” Will said, his voice still low, his brow furrowed as he sought to recall the events.

  “Englishmen? They couldn’t have been. There are no English soldiery in Scotland.”

  “I saw them! And I heard them talking. But I could tell from their armour even before I heard them growling at each other.”

  “Jesus, that makes no kind of sense at all. We have no war with England and they have no soldiers here. Unless they were deserters, come north in search of booty and safety. But if that’s the case, they’d have been safer to stay in England. King Alec’s men will hunt them down like wolves. How many were there?”
<
br />   “Ten on foot and a mounted knight in command of them. He had a white thing on his surcoat. A turret or a tower. Some kind of castle.”

  “And what happened?”

  “I don’t know.” Will wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. “We were down by the old watchtower hunting squirrels, Jamie and me. We heard the noise and ran to see what was happening and we met my sister Jenny running away. She was witless, out o’ her mind wi’ terror. She couldna speak, didna even try. She just wailed, keenin’ like an old wife at a death. I knew something terrible had happened. So I left her there wi’ Jamie and ran to see.” He fell silent, staring into emptiness, and a bleak look settled on his face.

  “They were all dead,” he said in a dulled voice I’d never heard before, “scattered in the gate yard. Jessie the cook, Angus the groom. Timothy and Charlie and Roddy and Daft Sammy. All dead … split open and covered in blood an’ …” He sobbed then, a single, wrenching sound. “My da was sitting against the wall by the door with his head to one side and his eyes wide open, and I thought he was just lookin’ at them, but then I saw the blood on him, too, all down his front … And then I saw that his head was almost off, hangin’ to one side. My mother was beside him, lyin’ on her face, wi’ a big spear sticking up between her shoulders. I could see her bare legs, high up. I’d never seen them before.” He hiccupped and shuddered. “The ones alive were a’ strangers, what the English call men-at-arms, a’ wearin’ helmets and jerkins and mail, forbye a knight on a horse. The men were a’ talkin’ and laughin’, but the knight was just sittin’ on his horse, cleanin’ his sword on something yellow. And then one o’ them saw me watchin’ and gave a shout and I ran as fast as I could back to where I’d left Jamie and Jenny.”

  When he stopped this time, I thought he would say no more.

  “What happened then?” Archer Ewan prodded.

  “What?”

  “What happened after you ran back to Jamie and your sister?”

  “Oh … We ran back the way we had come, but I had to carry Jenny and they caught us near the old watchtower. Five o’ them. One o’ them killed Jenny. Chopped off her head and didna even look at what he’d done. He was watchin’ Jamie, wi’ a terrible look on his face. And then they … they did what they did to us and then they tied us up and left us there, in some bushes against the tower wall. They said they’d be back.”

  “How did you escape? You did, didn’t you?”

  Will nodded. “Aye. I kept a wee knife for skinnin’ squirrels under a stone by the tower door, close by where they left us. Jamie was closer to it than me, so I told him to get it for me. He rolled over and got it, then he crawled back, holdin’ it behind his back, and I took it and managed to cut his wrists free. It took a long time. Then he cut the ropes on his legs and set me loose. And then we ran.”

  “And are you sure they chased you?”

  Will looked up at the giant in surprise. “Oh, aye, they chased us, and they would ha’e caught us, too, except that there was a thunderstorm and you could hardly see through the rain and the dark. But we knew where we were going and they didna. So we gave them the slip and kept movin’ into the woods, deeper and deeper until we didna even know where we were. We ran all day. Then when it got dark we slept for a wee while and then got up and ran again. But they found our tracks and we could hear them comin’ after us, shoutin’ to us to gi’e up, for a long time.”

  “Hmm.” The big man sat mulling that for a time, studying each of us closely with his one good eye, and I began to fear that he doubted all that Will had said, even though he must surely see our terror and exhaustion were real. “Well,” he said eventually, “all that matters is that you escaped and you’re here now and well away from them. Who were they working for, do you know?”

  Will frowned. “Who were they workin’ for? They werena workin’ for anybody. They were Englishmen! There’s no Englishmen in Carrick. The men there are all Bruce men. My da’s been the Countess o’ Carrick’s man all his life. He’s fierce proud o’ that.”

  “Aye, no doubt. Then if you’re right, and they were Englishry, they must have been deserters, as I jaloused. Either that or your father must have crossed someone important. And powerful. Was he rich?”

  “My da?” Will blinked. “No, he wasna rich. But he wasna poor, either. We’ve a fine herd o’ cattle.”

  “That might have been what they were after. But whether yea or nay, those cattle winna be there now.” He sighed loudly and then clapped his hands together. “Fine, then, here’s what we’re going to do. I have a camp close by, down at the bottom of the gully, by the stream. We’ll go down there, where there’s a fine, sheltered fire, and I’ll make us a bite to eat, and then you two can wash yourselves in the burn and I’ll show you how to make a bed of bracken ferns. In the morning we’ll decide what you should do from here onwards. Away with you now.”

  2

  The water was frigid, but the rushing coldness of it against my heated body was intense enough to dull the worst of the searing pain in my backside. I gritted my eight-year-old teeth and grimly set about washing away the evidence of my shame and the sin I had endured. I could hear Will splashing close by, and hear his muttered curses, for he ever had a blazing, blistering way with words. When I could feel that my legs and buttocks were clean again, I did a brave thing. I knelt in the stream, bending forward to splash water over my face and head and scrub at both until I felt they too must be clean.

  “I’m finished,” Will called to me as I was shaking the water from my hair, and we made our way together back towards the bank, stooped forward and fumbling with outstretched hands for river stones that could trip us.

  Ewan’s campfire was well concealed in a stone-lined pit, but we could see the glow of it reflected up into the branches overhead, and soon we were sitting beside it, each wrapped in one of the two old blankets he had tossed to us with a single rough cloth towel on our return.

  “Eat,” he said, and brought each of us a small tin pot of food. I have no idea what it contained, other than the whipped eggs that held it together, but there was delicious meat in there, in bite-sized pieces, and some kind of spicy root that might have been turnip. He had something else cooking, too, in a shallow pan, but it had nothing to do with what we ate that night. He had raised his mask and tucked it back into his hood, perhaps so that he could see better, and was carefully keeping his back to us as he worked. The stuff in the pan was a soggy, black mess of plants and herbs mixed with some kind of powder that he shook liberally into it from a bag he pulled out of a pocket in his tunic. He kept the mixture simmering over the coals in a tiny amount of water, stirring it with a stick and testing its heat with a finger from time to time—though I noticed he never tasted it—until he removed it from the heat and set it aside to cool. Still keeping his back to us while Will and I gorged ourselves on our stew, he then set about ripping up what I took to be a good shirt, tearing it into two large pieces and a number of long, thin strips. Will and I watched his every move, chewing avidly and wondering what he was about.

  Will cleared his throat. “Can I ask you something?”

  The big man glanced up, the ruined side of his face masked in shadow. “Aye, ask away.”

  “What kind of eggs are these? They’re good.”

  “A mixture, but four of them were duck eggs. The rest were wild land fowl—grouse and moorhen.”

  “Are you not having any?”

  “I had mine earlier, while you bathed.”

  Will nodded, then said, “You don’t have to hide your face now. We’re no’ afraid any more.”

  Ewan’s face creased into what I thought might be a smile. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Aye, we’re sure. Aren’t we, Jamie?”

  “Aye, we’re sure, right enough.” Then, emboldened by my youth and the sudden realization that I truly was not afraid of this strange man, I asked, “What happened to it? Your face.”

  The giant drew in a great breath. “How old are you, William Wall
ace?”

  “Ten.”

  “Well, then, when I was a boy just two years older than you are now, I got hit in the face by a mace. You know what a mace is?”

  “Aye, it’s a club.”

  “It is. A metal-headed club. And it broke my whole face and knocked out my eye and all my teeth on the one side.”

  “Who did it?”

  “I don’t know. It was early in a battle, at a place called Lewes, in Sussex in the south of England.” He went on to tell us about how he had gone, as an apprentice boy to a Welsh archer, to join the army of King Henry, the third of that name, in his war against his rebellious barons led by Simon de Montfort. The present King of England, Edward I, Ewan said, had been a prince then, and had commanded the cavalry and archers on the right of King Henry’s battle line, on the high ground above Lewes town, but the enemy, under Simon de Montfort himself, had surprised them from the rear after a daring night march and won control of the heights after a short and vicious fight. In that early-morning skirmish before the battle proper, young Ewan’s company of archers, running to take up new positions, had been caught in the open and ridden down by a squadron of de Montfort’s horsemen, one of whom struck Ewan down in passing.

  “So if you missed the battle,” I said, “why do they call you Archer Ewan?”

  “Because that’s what I am. An archer, trained lifelong on the longbow. They left me for dead on that field, but I wouldna die. And when I recovered I went back to my apprenticeship. I had lost a year and more of training by then, but my apprentice master was my uncle, too. He took me back into his care and I learned well, despite having lost my eye. It changes your sight, you know, having but one eye.” He made a grunting sound that might have been a selfdeprecating laugh. “I adapted to it quickly, though, and learned very well, for I had little else left to divert me from my work. Where other lads went chasing after girls, I found my solace in my bow and in learning the craft of using it better than any other man I knew.”