by Jack Whyte
That February day was the first time we had returned to the spot that year, and we wasted no time. Will ran lithely out into the middle of the lower limb and leaned against his staff, propping it on the upper pole and looking down into the water as I sprang up and across the narrow gap to the upper log.
“Sunshine or no,” he said, “that water’s cold enough to kill the first man in.” He leered up at me. “And guess what? It’s not going to be me.”
“Then we’ll both go home dry, for it won’t be me, either,” I said, grinning back at him.
I remember I felt strong and confident that day, highly aware of my own physique and conditioning. It was true that I was a librarian now and spent much of my time cooped up indoors and out of the sun, but I was far fitter than any of my contemporaries and most of the brotherhood’s younger members. Five years and more of constant drill and exercise with the heavy quarterstaves had made a man of me, in physical size at least. I was broad and strong, nimble and sure-footed and filled with energy and stamina. I can see, looking back now, that I was quite proud of myself, but I had good reason. I also had a constant reminder that I should never crow too much, for Will dwarfed me. He towered a full head over me, and his shoulders seemed twice the width of mine. He had legs like tree trunks and arms to match, and his chest was almost as broad and deep as Ewan’s though he was not yet seventeen.
It was that difference in our sizes that made the twin bridges perfect for our needs, because the extra height I gained by standing on the upper log fairly cancelled out Will’s advantage, and the few extra inches of girth in the log beneath my feet accorded me an added measure of stability and foot room, so that when we faced each other across the narrow gap we were as close as we could come to being evenly matched.
We began slowly—not cautiously, for we knew what we were doing, but we had not stood on the logs for months and they had become coated with a thin film of moss, so our opening moves were tentative, each of us gauging his own balance and ease of mobility rather than paying attention to the other. Finally Will straightened his back.
“Are you ready?”
In reply I hefted my staff in both hands and snapped my arm straight in front of me, rapping one end against the centre of his weapon, but even as I made contact he was whipping his staff away to the side, raising it high and bringing it straight down in a tightly controlled, two-handed slash that would have cracked my skull had I been there to receive it. But I had already swayed back on my heels and raised my own staff in a horizontal block that stopped his attack but left both my hands stinging. He grinned at me and dropped one end of his staff to rest against the log by his feet.
“I almost had you there, Cuz,” he said, in that quiet voice I had long since come to recognize as signalling a coming attack, and I took two quick steps to my left, placing myself to the right of his natural swing, fully prepared to take revenge if he lunged at me and missed. He grinned again and shifted his staff to a two-handed grip, and for several moments we manoeuvred opposite each other in watchful silence, each waiting for the other to make an error and invite destruction. When neither of us did, though, and it became plain that neither would, Will straightened up again.
“Basics, then,” he murmured, and we went into the fundamentals of our daily drill, our early movements stiff and formal, exactly as we had learned them in the beginning, each move and countermove precise and cleanly executed. As we progressed through the familiar exercises our ease and speed increased, until our staves rang loudly and rhythmically against each other, the intervals between the strikes growing shorter and shorter until the noise was an incessant rattle and the sweat began to roll down our bodies.
And then I saw something from the corner of my eye, and in the instant my concentration broke, Will smashed the staff from my hands, sending it flying to the grassy bank.
“Hold!” I shouted, and he hesitated, his staff already drawn back to push me off my log.
“What?”
“There.” I pointed to a cloaked and hooded figure watching us from the trees along the riverbank.
Will glanced over his shoulder and spun immediately to face the silent presence, twirling the heavy quarterstaff in one hand so that it spun in his fingers. “Get your staff,” he said to me over his shoulder, and I ran to obey him, not looking at the figure on the other bank again until I had rearmed myself and returned to stand by Will’s side. The watcher had not moved, and the shadows of the trees in which he stood obscured him sufficiently that we were unable to tell whether we knew him or not.
“Come out, then, and let us look at you.”
Will’s voice was quiet yet pitched clearly enough for his words to carry to the fellow, who straightened up from the tree he had been leaning against and stepped into the light. He was a stranger, and as he came into full view he reached up and slipped the hood from his head, exposing a full head of thick, golden, shoulder-length hair that caught the sunlight. The face was young and beardless, barely older than Will’s own, and unsmiling as it gazed at us. But it was the size of the fellow, the immense width of the shoulders beneath the cloak, that made me catch my breath. He was almost of a height with Will, I thought, though I could not be sure from the distance that separated us, but he was slimmer somehow. The legs beneath his kilted tunic were long and well formed, bare above the knees and swathed in furlined leggings below, the latter secured by criss-crossed leather straps attached to heavily soled, ankle-high boots. His tunic was richly made, some thick, green fabric that marked him as well born; Will and I had never owned, and seldom seen, anything so fine. A heavy, supple leather belt that held a long, sheathed dagger cinched in his narrow waist.
“Have you no manners, then?” Will said in Scots. “Or are you a thief, creeping up on folk to steal whatever takes your fancy?”
I stiffened at the calculated insult of the jibe, but the yellowhaired stranger merely smiled, flashing brilliantly white teeth, and came to stand at the edge of the bank, beside the bridge. He moved like a cat, lithe and flowing, his arms hanging loosely by his sides.
“You have nothing worth stealing,” he answered easily, the lilt of his voice proclaiming him a Highlander from the North. “I saw that at first glance.” He was still smiling. “I merely wished to cross this bridge and decided to wait until you had thrown the poor wee fellow off before I bothered you for passage.”
I drew myself up, stung, but before I could say a word Will waved me to silence. “The poor wee fellow, as you’ve seen, is no’ so easily budged,” he replied, his voice dangerously quiet to my ears.
“Aye, I know that now. He is stronger than he looks beside your bulk and he fights well. Well enough to withstand the flailings of an oaf twice his size.” His eyes moved to me and I saw that they were startlingly bright blue. “Well done, lad,” he said, and then looked back at Will. “Now, if I ask you civilly, will you move off and let me cross?”
I saw the wolfish grin light up Will’s face and my stomach churned. I sensed that nothing good could come of this.
“Let him cross, Will.”
Will bared his teeth in what I thought of as his mad grin. “Let him cross? I’ll do that, Jamie. I’ll let him cross. But he’ll have to climb over me first.” He turned back to the stranger. “Well, Saxon, d’ye think you can do that?”
The stranger pointed at the staff in Will’s hand.
“What?” Will asked, all innocence, hefting his staff. “Does this bother you? Think naught o’ it. I’ll throw it on the bank there and we’ll settle this bare-handed, just you and me.”
“No, you misunderstand me,” the stranger said quietly. “And misjudge me. Mine is Norse blood, not Saxon. My folk were Vikings, on a time. And you may keep your stick, so be it I can borrow your friend’s.”
“Borrow it?” Will’s grin seemed to grow even wider. “Aye, I think you could borrow it. Jamie, hand the man your staff and show him how to hold it.”
“No need,” said the Viking, as I had already named him. “Thro
w it to me. I’ll manage.”
“Will …”
“Just throw it, Jamie. You heard the man.”
I bit my lip, knowing this was wrong, and lobbed my quarterstaff across the gap. The stranger caught it easily in one hand, and as I left the bridge he hopped up effortlessly to stand on the upper log, facing Will, who was suddenly frowning, his mad grin vanished. He was now aware, I realized with relief, of the grossly excessive advantage he would have over his unsuspecting opponent.
“Do you know how to use one of these things?” Will’s voice was rough now with concern, and I began to feel better, but the Viking merely flicked the hair off his forehead with a toss of his head and took the staff in both hands, holding it as though it were a felling axe.
“I’ll manage,” he said again, flexing his knees. “Don’t worry about me. Look to yourself.”
With that he launched a swift attack that left me open-mouthed with shock, a spear-like thrust so fast and well executed that Will had to spring back to avoid it, whipping his staff up in a defensive block that the stranger immediately used against him, dropping to one knee and hooking a vicious crosswise blow under Will’s horizontal guard, aiming for his knees and almost connecting as Will leapt back again, giving ground for the second time.
From that point on, their battle was hard and heavy, each of them giving the other the respect due to an opponent who was his match and neither of them taking foolish risks, ever conscious of their footwork on the curved, moss-coated surface of the log beneath their feet.
The tempo increased suddenly as Will’s foot caught on a slight bump on the log, throwing him off balance just long enough for his opponent to seize the advantage. As Will swayed, the Viking swung a short-handed, chopping blow that caught him high on his right shoulder. I thought it was all over as soon as I heard the solid thump of the hit, for I knew Will’s arm must be deadened, but he surprised me by dropping to one knee, still clutching the right end of his staff with now lifeless fingers, and brought the other end sweeping inward for a crashing blow as powerful as a swung axe, hammering towards the Viking’s knees and pivoting through chest and shoulders for added impetus.
It was a prodigious effort, but the Viking’s response to it was miraculous to me. Like a threatened cat, he sprang into the air with both feet, drawing his knees clear up to his shoulders as Will’s staff whistled through the air where his legs had been a moment earlier, and the blow that would have shattered his knee almost missed him completely. But the tip of the scything staff struck the edge of the thick sole on the Viking’s left boot and smashed it sideways, tumbling him violently while he was still close to the top of his mighty leap. He fell headfirst in a sidewise somersault and his skull struck solidly on the log before he slipped into the deep water of our swimming hole. He sank instantly, his eyes closed and blood streaming from his yellow hair.
“Will!” I threw myself forward in a running jump, but even before my feet had left the ground I saw the arc of my cousin’s body as he dove ahead of me, and we landed together, one on either side of the sprawling body.
“I have him!” Will shouted, surfacing with his hands beneath the floating shoulders. “Take his legs.”
We hauled the inert body onto the bank and knelt beside it, staring in horror at the blood that oozed through the sodden yellow hair. But then the Viking snorted and coughed and writhed away from us, spewing up water, and I thought I had never seen or heard anything so beautiful. He pushed himself up shakily on straight arms, spitting the sour taste of vomit from his mouth, and then sat hunched, clutching his head, his elbows supported on his raised knees.
He groaned after a moment and cocked his head to squint painfully at Will. “You hit me?”
“Aye, but not on the head. Christ, man, I thought I’d killed you. I caught the sole o’ your boot and cowped ye sideways and your head hit the log. Are you all right?”
“Sweet Jesus, no, how could I be? My head’s broken. Let me be for a minute.” We did as he wished and he sat silent for a spell, groaning quietly from time to time and cradling his head in his hands, rocking it tentatively from side to side. But then he took his hands away, still grimacing, and gazed at the blood on the fingers of one while he probed gently at his scalp with the other.
“Ye’ve got a bump there like a goose egg,” Will told him, “but it doesna seem like a deep cut. Just a dunt.”
“Aye, the bone stopped it frae bein’ deeper.” He looked down at himself. “Was I in the water?”
“Aye, for a bit. We pulled ye out.”
“I’m freezing!”
“Aye, well, so are we. It’s February.” All three of us were shivering, and Will stood up. “I’ll light a fire, ’gin my tinderbox is still dry.”
“Ah, Jesus!” Another hiss of pain and a gentle dab at the swelling on his head. “Mine will be, if yours isna. It’s in my scrip, sealed wi’ wax. Let’s do it quick then, for I’m turnin’ blue.”
Half an hour later the three of us sat naked by a roaring fire, and the pale warmth of the sunlight felt cold on those parts of us the flames could not reach. Will and I had cut willow sticks and stuck them in the soft earth to support our wet clothes, and the garments were steaming steadily, closer to the fire than we could sit.
Will reached out and took the Viking’s chin in his hand, tilting it to where he could see the large swelling beneath the still-wet mat of yellow hair. “Can you see right?”
The Viking twisted his head away and glared at Will. “Of course I can see. My eyes are open, are they not?”
Will held up his first two fingers. “How many fingers?”
“Two. D’ye think I’m daft?” The Viking shut his eyes and rolled his head carefully on his neck. “My head aches hellishly, but I’m fine otherwise. So … who are you two, and what are you doing here?”
“We live here. Or close by. We’re students at the Abbey.” Will introduced the two of us, naming us the nephews of Sir Malcolm Wallace of Elderslie. “And you?”
“Andrew Murray. That’s our family name today, but it was once de Moray, and before that de Moravia.”
The name was familiar to me. “There’s a Sir Andrew Murray who is the King’s justiciar in the North, is there not?”
“Aye, Sir Andrew Murray of Petty, on the Moray Firth. My father.”
“You have a firth named for you?” Will was impressed, but the other shook his head, smiling.
“No. It was we who took our name from the firth, back in the days of King David, when first we came from Normandy.”
Will whistled. “How come you here, then?”
“I came with my master, Lord John Balliol. He is now in conference with your Abbot, on the business of the King.”
“Your master?” Will contrived to sound amused. “Are you a servant, then?”
Murray shrugged. “Of a kind, I am. I am squire to Lord John. His senior squire. I am to be knighted come my eighteenth birthday, in three months.”
“You are to be a knight?”
The other looked surprised. “Aye. Aren’t you?”
Will laughed then, but did not pursue the topic. Instead, he reached sideways to pick up one of the quarterstaves we had rescued from the river. “Where did you learn to use this?”
“Lord John. He spent much time in England when he was a boy and learned the skills of it there. He has used one ever since, and watching him and Siward training with them when first I joined his service, I asked to be taught it, too.”
“Who’s Siward?”
“Lord John’s Master-at-Arms. An Englishman. He’s also my instructor.”
“He taught you well. You almost had me off the bridge.”
Murray sniffed. “I hate ‘almost.’ It never wins. I was the one who went down.” He glanced then at me and smiled. “Are you two brothers, then?”
From that point on the day passed quickly, with Andrew feeling better all the time and soon losing the ache in his head. We discussed a surprising number of things, sitting there waiting f
or our clothes to dry sufficiently to be worn again.
It was obvious to me early on that Will and Andrew would be firm friends, and it pains me, looking back, to admit that my first reaction was one of intense jealousy. The logical part of my mind told me at once that this new friendship must surely be a transient thing, since Andrew Murray would move on within days, returning with his master to his home in the far north. But the wrench of recognition that I would no longer be Will’s single boyhood friend came hard and brought with it a bitter resentment of the newcomer.
But then, thank God, my sourness vanished as quickly as it had arisen, for I saw that their attraction to each other was as natural as sunlight. They were almost equally sized, and only a year separated them in age, and they both thought similarly about many things, including physical prowess, of which the quarterstaff was merely the first symbol. Of course these two would be friends, I thought, for they were equals, in athletic prowess at least, and Will could no more resist Murray’s natural grace and charm than I myself could.
I was spared from thinking too deeply about it that day, however, when the talk turned to archery.
We were all dressed again by that time, our clothing dried but stinking of woodsmoke, and Will had surged to his feet, making a point of some kind. I had been sitting cross-legged, and I stood as soon as he did, pushing myself up using only my legs. Andrew tried to do the same, but as he tensed to make the effort his eyes flew wide and he blanched. He groaned and brought both hands to his temples, squeezing his forehead between them. Will and I froze, watching him with alarm, but his face cleared quickly and he took his hands away from his brow cautiously.
“My head started to spin,” he said, a little shamefacedly. “I didn’t expect that.”
“Why not?” Will said. “You almost broke your skull but a short while ago, and that’s the first time you’ve tried to stand up quickly since. Here.” He held out a hand and Andrew grasped it, pulling himself up easily this time. I noticed that Will did not release his hand, but instead shifted his grip on it, an odd expression on his face, and then he raised his other hand to me, beckoning with his fingers. “Jamie, your hand.”