by Robyn Young
David shook his head.
“Keep moving,” ordered one of the men, forcing Ysenda to face forward, leaving David walking at Will’s side.
Almost an hour later, as the golden light dappling the ground began to fade and the snatches of sky above them turned dusky purple, they began to hear distant sounds of civilization. The burly man gave three sharp whistles. Hearing an answering sound, Will noticed indistinct figures half-hidden in bushes and behind trees. He caught glimpses of bows and the glint of knives and guessed that if the man hadn’t signaled they wouldn’t have made it much farther. Ahead, the low hum of many voices was punctuated by calls and laughter, the thock of an axe blade, the barking of dogs and whinnies of horses. Through the trees, they saw people moving, smelled woodsmoke and food. Ysenda gathered her daughters closer as their captors led them into the midst of a huge camp that stretched off between the pines.
Men clad in many different styles of dress, bearing all manner of weapons, stood about in groups by fire pits, or sat on logs eating from wooden bowls. Some tended animals: pigs, sheep, goats and cattle, penned in corrals. Others lounged on the mossy ground beneath cloth canopies strung between trees. More permanent structures, fashioned from bound branches and twigs and covered with turf, were visible farther in. There were even a few tents. Many eyes followed Will and his family as they were led through the fringes of the camp, heading deeper in. One man whistled lewdly at Margaret, raising a laugh from his companions. Margaret lowered her head and Ysenda threw a barbed look over her shoulder at Will. Her look changed when a young woman ducked out from a shelter, clouted the whistler on the arm and nodded apologetically to her. Ysenda frowned curiously after the woman as they continued on, making for a circle of tents in the center of a clearing. Glancing back, Will realized some of their captors had melted away.
As they approached the tents, the burly man called out and a boy scrabbled out of one of them. The archers handed the boy the reins of the horses, then moved off as the burly man pushed his way into a large green and white striped tent, leaving Will and the others guarded by the two Highlanders. Their escort reappeared a few moments later with a short, stocky man. He looked to be no more than thirty, although his hair, cut brutally close to his head, was already dusted white. His brown, weathered face was almost as scarred as his comrade’s and he wore a leather gambeson, and had a keen-looking dirk strapped to his belt. His gaze moved uninterestedly over Ysenda and the girls, lingered briefly on David, then came to rest on Will.
“They had this on them, Gray,” said the burly man, handing over the pouch he had taken when he searched their packs. It was the pouch Will had cut from the tax collector’s belt and was bulging with coin, Duncan’s money having been added to it before they fled the estate.
The man called Gray hefted it appreciatively. “A good weight.”
“That’s my father’s,” said David, taking a step forward.
The burly man lifted his club and Ysenda made a sharp sound at her son.
“Your father should tell you to mind your mouth,” said Gray, his gaze moving back to Will.
David scowled. “He’s my uncle.”
“What brings such an unlikely company into the wilds of Selkirk, with bags stuffed with gold, two horses and a knight’s armor? These are dangerous times to be moving abroad without protection.” Gray glanced at his companion with a crooked grin. “Never know who you might run into, eh, Adam?”
“We have protection,” retorted David, before Will could answer.
“Who?” Gray laughed as David’s eyes darted toward Will. “Him? Looks like he’s three winters short of a graveyard. Of course, it’s hard to tell under all that beard. Lost your razor, old man?”
“We mean no trouble here,” said Will, placing a warning hand on David’s shoulder. He could feel the tension coiled in his nephew’s body. “We were forced to seek shelter in the forest after an altercation with an English tax collector.”
“Must have been some altercation to bring you in here with your women.”
“The collector was killed, along with his men.”
The man smiled, but caution showed in his eyes. “By you?”
When Will inclined his head, Adam gave a snort. “And what army?”
“He doesn’t need one,” said David roughly. “He’s a Templar.”
Gray’s smile vanished. He stared at Will, then motioned to his comrade. “Guard them.” Turning, he strode into the gloom.
“I’m sorry,” murmured David in response to Will’s black expression. He lifted his shoulders stubbornly. “But they would have found out.”
They waited in silence for what seemed like a long time, but was probably only minutes, until out of the trees came two figures. One was Gray, his expression now wary. The other was one of the largest men Will had ever seen.
Not only was the man of exceptional height, but he was also broad; his arms and legs roped with muscle, his neck thick, his head square and rather brutish. Despite his great size, however, he had an agile stride and moved with an almost languid confidence. He wore a plain, dark blue tunic, under which Will picked out the bulk of armor, and his brown hair hung loose, curling with sweat around his temples. He looked to be in his mid-twenties.
“I think it’s him,” David said under his breath at Will’s side, eyes wide with a mixture of respect and apprehension.
The giant came to a halt before them. He appraised Will for an uncomfortable length of time before speaking. “What is your name?”
“Campbell?” questioned the stocky man, when Will answered. “From where?”
“Quiet, Gray,” said the giant.
“My grandfather left his family’s lands in Argyll a long time ago,” replied Will. “And I left Scotland as a boy.”
“Gray tells me you’re a Templar.” The giant glanced at Ysenda, who was hugging Alice to her and biting her lip. “Where is your mantle?”
Will didn’t want to tell this stranger anything about himself. He felt weary, hungry and mistrustful, but he had little choice. Besides, wasn’t this what he had come here for? Ysenda was right: he had wanted to meet these men.
Slowly, he began to speak, telling them of his service in the Holy Land as a Templar commander, his return to the West and his desertion. It was odd, talking to these outlaws of such things, here in the depths of the forest with dusk gathering around them. Now and then, the giant would interrupt and his probing questions reminded Will of the examination during his inception twenty-seven years earlier. This was an altogether cruder, more simplistic interrogation, but the outlaws took it as seriously as if they were knights of an order, checking his worthiness for admission. By the time he had spoken of his part in the siege of Edinburgh and the death of Duncan, the shadows were solid around them and the flickering points of light from torches hovered like fireflies between the trees.
“Why did you come here?”
The giant’s voice hadn’t changed in its gruffness, but Will noticed something new in the young man’s eyes: a spark of recognition, or understanding perhaps.
“I cannot shelter you.” The man spread a large hand at the camp. “Everyone works here. Even those who do not fight have tasks.”
“Does this force not continue to grow, as more men join the resistance? You must welcome them, surely?”
“I welcome able soldiers,” said the giant, nodding at David. He looked to Ysenda and the girls. “But I cannot carry deadweight.” There was nothing malicious in his tone, only frankness. All the same, Ysenda looked wrathful.
Whether that was because he had just recruited her son or abandoned her daughters Will wasn’t sure. “My sister and nieces aren’t without skills. They are well educated. They can cook and sew, read and write.”
The giant didn’t answer.
Gray spoke up in the silence. “We could use a few more to help with the food. Adam’s wife would burn snow if she were cooking it.”
The burly man gave him a bored look.
After a
nother lengthy pause, the giant nodded. “Very well. But you’ll pull your weight. All of you,” he added, with a meaningful glance at Alice, who hid her face in Ysenda’s shoulder. “Gray, show them somewhere they can sleep. Not you,” he said to Will. “You can help me with something first. Come.” He strode off in the opposite direction, ducking his head under the lower branches of the trees.
Giving David an assured nod, Will followed, noticing that Adam fell into step behind him.
“When Gray told me you were a Templar, I thought you might have come for him. We have one from your order here,” the giant explained.
Will halted. “Then it would be best I do not meet him. As I told you, I’m a deserter.”
“He is a captive, not a guest. We were planning to ransom him, but I’d like to know how much he would fetch.” The giant plucked a torch from the ground and headed for an area away from the main encampment.
They passed a few men, who stood to attention at their approach, adding to Will’s speculation that David might be right: the giant, who hadn’t yet offered his name, might well be William Wallace, the leader of the Scottish resistance. Up ahead, Will saw a cage of wooden stakes, built around several trees. Inside, visible as the pool of yellow light from the torch spilled toward them, were about a dozen figures, some slumped on the ground, others sitting with their backs against the trees, to which Will saw they had been roped.
One of them tried to stand, but the tether around his leg was too short and he could only get to his knees. “I demand to speak to your leader! Do you have any idea who I am?”
“Shut your hole, English dog,” growled Adam, coming up behind Will.
“Wake him,” said the giant, motioning to a figure curled on the ground a little way from the others.
One of the men guarding the cage went over and poked his spear through the stakes at the prone form. As the spear prodded him, the figure jerked upright with a shout.
Will caught a flash of red on a black tunic, saw terrified brown eyes under a thatch of hair, a face smudged with dirt and an unkempt bushy beard. He started forward. “Simon?”
“You know him?” demanded the giant, at once alert.
Will looked around, feeling Adam close in behind him, brandishing his club.
“Are you here to rescue him? Are there more of you?”
“No.” Will glanced at Simon, who was on his knees, staring at him in amazement. He turned back to the man he thought was Wallace. “I haven’t seen him since I left Paris, eighteen months ago. You have my word.”
Wallace scrutinized him, his eyes glittering in the torchlight, then nodded to Adam, who lowered the club.
“Where did you find him?” Will found he couldn’t bring himself to look at Simon, who was calling to him, his voice hoarse with relief.
“A scouting party picked him up a few months back. He refused to tell us what he was doing on his own in the wild and so we took him for a spy. Fortunately, my men had the foresight to bring him blinded into our camp for questioning. We may have got nothing but screams for our efforts, but it will mean we can still exchange him for gold without compromising our position. I was going to ask you how much you thought a sergeant would be worth to them, but as you know him you can tell me if he is favored in the order.”
“He is a groom. Not a spy.”
“What would a groom from Paris be doing here?”
Now Will did look at Simon, his face hard. “I expect he was looking for me.”
Simon was too far to hear what they were saying, but he strained forward as Will turned to him. “Will! Tell them to release me!” The other prisoners were stirring now, some adding their pleas to Simon’s.
“I can vouch for him,” Will told Wallace. “He’ll cause you no trouble.”
“He’s English,” growled Adam, “he can cause nothing else.”
Wallace said nothing.
“You have the money I brought, along with my brother-in-law’s horse and armor,” continued Will. “That’s worth ten sergeants at least.”
“Like you say, we have that,” responded Adam. “And with him, we can get more. You said he was a groom. That must make him valuable.”
“Exactly.” Will thrust a hand at Simon, but kept his eyes on Wallace. “No one knows horse lore like he does. You said you’ve had him for a few months, so you cannot be that desperate to ransom him. At least let him prove his worth. He would be an asset. If not, you can keep my gold and sell us both back to the Temple with nothing lost.”
“Unchain the prisoner,” said Wallace, gesturing to one of the guards by the cage.
“William, no,” protested Adam.
“I’ve been around English soldiers long enough to know something of deception, cousin,” Wallace said. “I believe he is telling the truth.”
The other prisoners began to complain as Simon was released, but were soon silenced by the guards’ spears.
Simon limped out of the cage. Faded bruises on his face were visible as darker patches beneath the dirt as he entered the sphere of torchlight. “Will. Thank God.”
Will grasped him by the arm, ignoring his wince at the contact, and led him as far as he dared from Wallace and the others, who continued to watch him closely. “What are you doing here?”
“I came looking for you. Robert got me transferred to Balantrodoch.”
Will gritted his teeth at the way Simon said it, as if the groom were surprised he would even ask this; as if it were a foregone conclusion. “Why?”
Simon’s relief turned to puzzlement. “You left the Temple, Will. Did you think I wouldn’t want to know the reason?”
“I had hoped you would respect my decision.”
“Respect?” demanded Simon, puzzlement giving way to anger. “What was there to respect? You abandoned the order, your brothers, your friends, your daughter. I know you were grieving for Elwen, but that’s no cause for you to desert your duties like a coward and—” Simon’s words were cut off as Will struck him in the face. He reeled back into a tree, which he clung to for support.
Will went still as Simon clutched his face. Blood trickled onto his tunic, loose on a frame wasted by ill-treatment and lack of food. Shame rose in Will and his fists unclenched. “Simon.” He took a step toward him, then stopped, the apology sticking in his throat. To utter it would admit that Simon was in some way right. And he couldn’t do that, not after all this time; after the supreme effort it had taken to bury his past. He hadn’t asked him to come searching for him like some pining hound. He didn’t want him here. Leaving Simon sagged against the tree, Will turned and walked away.
13
Selkirk Forest, Scotland
AUGUST 25, 1297 AD
Simon walked purposefully through the camp, heading for Will’s shelter. Even before he reached it, he could see that it was empty, a coarse blanket lying crumpled under the screen of twigs and leaves. He halted outside and stared around. Here and there men sat in groups, tending fires, or else moved between the rows of shelters, carrying wood or pails of water. There was no sign of Will. After a moment, Simon sat down on a patch of dewy grass and slumped against a tree. He had been awake for hours going over what he would say and he had been ready, eager even, to talk. Now all the words were gumming up inside him.
It was over a month since Will had entered the rebels’ camp and secured his release from Wallace’s prison. In the weeks that followed, his friend had hardly said two words to him, avoiding his gaze at mealtimes, sitting on the opposite side of the fire. Secretly, Simon had taken this for guilt. The bruise on his face took some weeks to heal and he had hoped that when it faded so too would Will’s detachment. But, if anything, Will just avoided him more, until Simon began to realize his hope had been unfounded. Will truly did not want him here and that punch had been intentional.
Last night, going over what he should do, he had pondered, briefly, the idea of returning to Paris, but however much he would rather be back in the stables, in comfort and safety, he knew he couldn’t make
that choice. If he left now, he doubted he would ever see Will again and that wasn’t something he wanted to live with. He loved Will as a brother and in other ways he had never fully understood, and a life without him in it seemed unthinkable. The only thing he could do was to persuade Will to return with him to Paris and the only way to do that was to gain his trust again.
In the early hours, it had dawned on Simon that to do this he would have to submit to Will’s choices. He would have to go where he went and do what he did, even if that meant fighting in the battle everyone said was coming. He had followed Will into a war before and survived. His experiences in Acre, as well as his torture and imprisonment at the hands of the Scots, had toughened him. True, he wasn’t a skilled fighter, but he had more strength than many men and knew how to use it. He hadn’t come all this way to turn around now.
Simon looked up as a shadow fell across him.
It was David. The young man was holding a bow. “Do you want to come hunting?”
Simon glanced at the empty shelter, then pushed himself up and brushed down his hose. He would come back later to tell Will his decision.
The water splashed on Will’s face and neck, numbing his skin. He let it drip onto his bare chest as the water in the bowl grew still and his reflection settled. Slowly, he raised the blade and set it to his cheek, the metal colder than the water. He scraped it against his jaw, removing the last of the black bristles, drawing beads of blood whenever he pressed too hard.
When it was done, he cleaned the blade, feeling strangely naked and exposed. He hadn’t seen himself without a full beard since he was eighteen. But only old men wore them, old men and Templars, and he was neither.
Picking up his shirt, Will walked down through the quiet glade and along the banks of the river. Dawn had brought a mist and an amber haze lingered between the trees, the sun struggling to pierce the canopy. The air was humid, fragrant with the smell of grass. Ahead, he heard laughter and splashing. A group of women were gathered on the rocks around one of the deep pools into which the river bubbled, washing clothes. There were a fair number of women in the camp and not a few children, most of them wives and daughters of those men who had been proclaimed outlaws and who feared for their families’ safety in the towns they left behind, crawling with English soldiers. Alice and Margaret were sitting together, rubbing wet shirts on the stones, each pass and press of their hands making slap-slapping sounds on the rocks. Ysenda was a little way away beside a young woman with red hair, plaited thickly down her back.