The Forest Laird: A Tale of William Wallace

by Jack Whyte

  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 y
ou. 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?”