The Hammer of the Scots

Chapter XII THE ADVENTURES OF WILLIAM WALLACE

William Wallace had always hated the English. When he had sat in the study over his books in the home of his uncle he had dreamed of glorious battles, of driving the English overlords out of his country, of forcing Edward to make an ignominious retreat behind the border and stay there.

So much did he dream of this that it had become an obession with him, and his hatred was the biggest force in his life. He only had to hear the word ‘English’ for the blood to rise to his temples and a fury would seize him. When he saw an Englishman he had to restrain the desire to attack him on the spot; and he did see Englishmen fairly frequently because the King of England had set them to guard the garrison towns; and when he rode into Stirling he would encounter them in the taverns or strolling through the streets, lords and masters of the place – and letting anyone who offended them know it. It was not uncommon to see a dead Scotsman hanging from a gallows. What was his crime? he would ask. There would be a shrug of the shoulders, a lift of the eyebrows, a tightening of the lips expressing hatred which dared not be spoken. ‘Oh, he was a bold laddie. He offended the English.’

William was filled with love for his country and hatred for the oppressors. As he wandered through the streets of Stirling he would say to himself, ‘It shall not always be so. One day …’ He was waiting for that day. It would be a day of fulfilment for William Wallace.

He would ride back to Dunipace, the dream of military glory with him. He would sit over his uncle’s table when they had eaten and talk with him. He had been with his uncle since his early boyhood because his father had thought that his brother, the priest of Dunipace, would be a good mentor for his son. William had shown from an early age that he was inclined to be rebellious; he had led his brothers – Malcolm his senior and John his junior – into trouble now and then. If he thought he had suffered from an injustice he would always have to avenge it and his father, Sir Malcolm Wallace, had decided that his brother, who was in the Church, and a quiet life at Dunipace might have a sobering effect on his son. The priest was also a scholar and could be entrusted with the boy’s education.

So William had left his parents and his two brothers and gone to his uncle. He had been attentive to his lessons and done well, but his wild nature had never been tamed and the boy who had gone to Dunipace was very much like the young man of eighteen who in his uncle’s study had heard of the plan to marry Edward’s son to the Maid of Norway and how when the little girl died Edward had made himself a kind of overlord and allowed weak John Baliol to be crowned King of Scotland.

He raved against the state into which his country had fallen. He cursed Edward.

His uncle, a peace-loving man, had warned him. ‘What is to be will be,’ he said. ‘It is no use railing against fate.’

‘What is to be will be, yes,’ retorted William. ‘But there is no reason why those of us who love our country should not help to make it proud again. We are the ones who will make it what it was intended to be.’

‘Leave well alone,’ advised his uncle. ‘You could go into the Church …’

‘Into the Church! Uncle, you know me.’

‘I know you well,’ replied his uncle sadly. ‘And I know this, that if you persist in speaking so freely to all you meet, if you show so clearly your hatred for the English, you will be in trouble.’

‘I’d welcome it,’ cried William. ‘And you will see what trouble I shall make for them.’

‘Edward is a mighty king. All know that. He is very different from his father. If he were not so concerned in his differences with France it would go ill with us.’

‘I will never sit happily under the tyrant’s heel.’

‘If you do not provoke them …’

‘Not provoke them! They occupy our towns! They swagger through our streets pushing us aside when they pass, taking our women, acting like conquerors. And you say, “Don’t provoke them!” They will learn they have not conquered Scotland … and never will.’

‘Wild talk,’ said his uncle soberly, ‘and it will take you to trouble.’

But William had never been one to turn away from trouble.

‘No,’ said his uncle, ‘we live in comparative peace. ’Tis true the English King stands over us. He wants to govern this land. He wants to take us as he has our fellow Celts in Wales. I see his reasoning. He wants to make this island one country.’

‘To be governed by him.’

‘He governs the English well.’

‘By God, Uncle, I believe you are on his side.’

‘Do not take the name of the Lord in vain in my house, I pray you, nephew. I am on the side of peace and I see a time when, if our countries were as one with one king, much bloodshed could be saved.’

‘Indeed it is so, if we would be subdued by this tyrant.’

‘If we did not revolt, if we were placid under his rule, we should enjoy the good rule which prevails in England. It is because he fears revolt that he is harsh.’

‘And good reason he has to fear it. He will discover that we too can be harsh.’

His uncle shook his head. He would never change William. He was as wild as he was when he had first come to Dunipace.

It was soon after that conversation that William’s father, Sir Malcolm Wallace, came in haste to Dunipace, and his eldest son – named Malcolm after him – came with him.

The priest welcomed his brother and nephew with pleasure, but he quickly learned that they brought no good news.

William came hurrying down to greet his father and elder brother, and his father, after embracing him and assuring himself of his good health and that of his brother the priest, said he was in great haste and must talk in secret.

In the study Malcolm Wallace told why he had come.

‘We can no longer tolerate the rule of the English in Elderslie,’ he explained. ‘I have made that very clear, and I have placed myself and our family in danger through so doing.’

‘Father, I am proud,’ cried William.

His father held up his hand. ‘It may have been folly. But they are after me. I have sent your mother with your brother John to Kilspindie in the Carse of Gowrie and I want you, William, to follow them there with all speed.’

‘And you, sir?’ asked William. ‘Where will you go?’

‘I and your brother Malcolm are going on to the Lennox. There is a plan to form a body of troops to move against the English.’

‘Father, I shall come with you.’

‘No, my son. I have a more important mission for you. I want you to go to Kilspindie and protect your mother and young brother.’

William hesitated. He longed to go into battle against the English but the task of protecting his family was, he could see, of the utmost importance.

‘When shall I set out?’

‘At the earliest possible moment. There will soon be a price on my head, depend upon it, and members of my family will not be safe.’

‘I will go at once, sir,’ cried William.

The priest shook his head and said that he would tell the servants to serve a meal, and while it was being prepared William could get ready to leave. The priest was sad. He felt in his heart that no good could come of this rebellion, and he would have been happier if they could have worked the matter out in a conference between the Scots and the English.

William arrived in Kilspindie to find his mother and young brother John eagerly awaiting him.

His mother was anxious. ‘I did not want your father to go off with Malcolm in this way.’

‘Oh, Mother,’ cried William, ‘you are like my uncle. You are ready to pay any price for peace.’

‘Peace is the most desirable thing on earth to a woman with a husband and sons.’

‘Nay, Mother,’ replied William. ‘Honour is more. I tell you this. One day we are going to drive the English out of Scotland, and I …’

He paused. He did not want to talk of his dream. It was too precious and he felt that if he talked of it it might be unlucky. He did not want to say that he saw himself at the head of an army, leading the Scots to victory, crushing the might of Edward. But that was the dream and it grew more vivid as he grew older.

Kilspindie! How dull it was. There was no danger there. John had lessons from a tutor but William was too advanced for that. His mother worried about his interrupted education. She was safe enough in Kilspindie, she said. She wanted him to go to Dundee to a brother of hers who would house him and he could attend the school which was attached to the monastery there.

When he assured her that he was old enough to have done with schooling she shook her head. She was anxious that he should complete his training and she persisted in her efforts to persuade him. He had been sent to her to protect her, he reminded her. There was no need, she had said. In fact she was safer without a son who had a habit of speaking his thoughts about the English aloud. If she lived quietly she would need no protection.

It was a fact that the quiet life of Kilspindie had no great appeal for him. If he could have joined his father he would have done so, but he had not heard where he was, so he finally agreed to leave Kilspindie and go to Dundee to his maternal uncle.

This proved to be a fatal decision. His uncle received him with warmth, and he was soon installed in the school where he worked hard hoping to complete his education as soon as was possible so that he might devote himself to his destiny. He longed to join his father but he knew he should not go out and look for him, but stay where he could easily go to the aid of his mother if she should need him.

He was soon very popular in his uncle’s house, particularly with the housekeeper who irritated him mildly at times with her constant attentions, for she would insist that he did not go out into the cold winds without his warm jacket and that he eat every scrap of his porridge. He teased her and she enjoyed his teasing and she was clearly delighted to have a young man in the house.

The castle of Dundee was in the hands of Governor Selby, one of the worst of Edward’s deputies, and this man was very unpopular in the town. His punishments for insubordination were exceptionally harsh and being an arrogant man he insisted on the utmost respect from the Scottish inhabitants. When William strolled through the streets of the town he burned with fury. He would sit in the taverns and listen to the tales of injustice and he was ripe for trouble.

It so happened that one day he attired himself in his best cloak and tunic of green, the fashionable colour, and setting his dagger and sword in his belt went out to meet his friends in one of the taverns.

In the narrow street he saw a young man coming towards him accompanied by two friends, and it was clear at once that the young man was someone of importance by the sycophantic manner of his attendants. William did not need to be told who he was. He had seen him before, riding with his father, Governor Selby.

The young man expected William to doff his hat and bow low. Instead of which William barred his way and showed clearly that he had no intention even of stepping aside to allow him to pass.

Young Selby looked William up and down with an insolence which set William’s Scottish heart beating with rage and excitement. At last he was face to face with one of the enemy.

‘And who is this?’ asked Selby, turning to one of his friends. ‘He is uncouth enough to be a Scot.’

‘And you are arrogant enough to be English,’ retorted William hotly.

‘You heard him,’ cried young Selby. ‘He insulted our King.’

‘What, that tyrant!’ cried William, his blood up, so that he was in his most reckless mood.

‘By God’s body,’ cried young Selby. ‘You heard him. He speaks thus of great Edward!’

‘I would I could do more than speak against him.’

‘Methinks we must teach the Scot a lesson,’ drawled Selby. ‘When he is hanging by his neck from the gallows he will not be so bold nor look so pretty in his good green clothes.’

Selby had his hand on his dagger, but William was before him. He seized Selby by the neck, shook him and then plucking his dagger from its sheath he thrust it into the young man’s breast, withdrew it, and threw the young man to the ground. It was clear from one look at the Governor’s son stretched out on the cobbles that he was dead.

William had killed his first Englishman and it had all happened in a few seconds. For a moment Selby’s attendants were stunned, but not for long. William, however, was quicker to act than they were. The son of the Governor killed by his hand! This would be certain death for him – probably torture. If he were caught now he would never live to save Scotland. He turned and mustering all his strength fled from the scene.

He had run back to his uncle’s house before he realised the folly of this. He was known. He had been seen. It was the first place they would come to look for him.

He must go. But where?

His uncle’s housekeeper seated at her spinning wheel stared at him in horror for his green tunic was spattered with blood.

‘I cannot stay,’ panted William. ‘They will be after me. This is the first place they will come to. I have to get away … quickly.’

‘You have killed someone!’

‘The Governor’s son.’

‘May God preserve us. You were seen?’

He nodded. ‘Farewell, Goody. I dare not stay.’

‘Wait! I have a plan.’

‘They are already on their way here,’ he said.

‘You would meet them if you tried to leave. One moment. Here.’ She had stripped off her dress. ‘Put that on …’

He protested but she cried angrily, ‘Do as I say. It is your only chance.’

He saw the reason of that and obeyed. The dress was far too small.

‘Wait,’ she said and ran from the room. A few minutes later, having put on a gown, she returned with a shawl and a cap similar to the one she always wore.

‘Put these on,’ she commanded. ‘The shawl will hide the ill fit of the dress and the cap will make a woman of you. Then sit at the wheel and spin.’

He saw the wisdom of her reasoning and obeyed. He was just in time for as he turned to the wheel Selby’s men burst into the house.

‘Where is he?’ demanded the leader of the men. ‘Where is young Wallace?’

‘Young William …’ said the housekeeper. ‘How should I know? In the town most likely. That’s where the lazy young lad spends most of his time. ’Tis lassies and taverns for him and ’tis there you’ll find him.’

The men looked round the room and scarcely gave a glance to the one they thought was the servant at the spinning wheel.

‘He may well be hiding here,’ said one of them. ‘Search the place.’

They went over the house. They looked in every room, and all the time William went on spinning.

When they came down they said to the housekeeper: ‘If he comes send to us at once. He’s a wanted man.’

‘I will, my lords, I will. Oh sir … my lords, what has he done then?’

‘Murder, Goody. That’s what he has done. And he’ll hang for this. But not before we make him suffer. The Governor’s son …’

‘Oh, no, my lord … oh no …’ The housekeeper had flung her apron over her face and was rocking to and fro.

‘Cut down in his youth. By God, blood will flow for this. Wait till the Governor recovers from his grief.’

‘’Twas murder … ’twas murder … the wicked young man,’ sobbed the housekeeper.

‘Aye, ’twas murder. Remember. If that murderer comes here … which it seems he will at some time. Keep him … come to us and let us know. You’ll be rewarded, good woman. And you will see justice done.’

‘How could he? I always knew he was wild. I knew he’d come to no good.’

The men went out. She went over to the spinning wheel.

‘Go on. Don’t stop. Go on for a while. Till I know it will be safe.’

William obeyed her, exulting in the manner in which they had deceived the English.

She sat beside him. ‘We must bide our time. Meanwhile prepare yourself to leave. Where will you go?’

‘I must go to my mother in Kilspindie. I must assure myself that she is safe.’

‘You will have to be careful. When you reach her you will not stay there. It would be as well if you took her away. Oh, my laddie, what have you done? Why did you have to kill the Englishman?’

‘My task in life is to kill Englishmen and to drive them out of our fair land.’

She shook her head. ‘I would that we could live in peace.’

‘You talk like my mother.’

‘Aye, laddie, ’tis women’s talk. We see no good in dying but there’s much good in living.’

‘To be humiliated … to be insulted …’

‘Hush. We should be thinking of getting ye away. You must wait till nightfall. Then you must slip out. We will go to the stables where your horse will be ready. Until that time you are my servant Tabbie …’

‘And my uncle!’

‘I will tell him what you have brought on yourself. He’d never betray you. For what has happened, should we be caught, I’ll take the blame.’

‘You are good to me. You risk your life for me, you know.’

‘Do ye think I would side with the English?’

‘Never. But to risk yourself …’

‘Tish!’ she snapped. He stood up from the wheel and kissed her.

Riding through the night to Kilspindie he was thinking of what lay ahead. He had at last entered the battle. He would be a wanted man. The murder of a governor’s son would be regarded as treachery to the King of England. John Baliol, King of Scotland, would be no help to him. He was Edward’s man. What Scotland needed was a king worth fighting for. But Edward had allowed them to put old Toom Tabard on the throne because he knew he was a weak man and that suited wily Edward, for who was the real ruler of Scotland? Edward. Edward was the enemy.

William’s coming was received with some dismay at Kilspindie, for when it was learned that he had killed Governor Selby’s son, his mother’s relations were horrified and feared that his recklessness would bring trouble to them all. He could not stay at Kilspindie, they said. That much was clear for the hue and cry would soon follow them there.

There was an immediate gathering of the family to discuss what could be done and William realised that in coming here he had placed his mother and all of them in danger.

‘You must go at once,’ said his relations, and they added: ‘It would be unwise to leave your mother behind.’

After some discussion it seemed that it might be safe to leave John at his school, but certainly Lady Wallace must go with her son. And immediately at that, because it could not be long before their searchers came to Kilspindie, for they would guess he would come to his family.

‘Let there be no delay,’ said their host, whose great concern seemed to be to get them out of his house and with all speed. It was agreed that they should disguise themselves as pilgrims on the way to the shrine of St Margaret; and having no desire to stay any longer than they need, where their presence inspired such fear, they set out immediately.

Their disguise was good and they were accepted in the hamlets and villages through which they passed for what they pretended to be and in due course they reached Dunipace.

William’s uncle was amazed to see them. He shook his head. He had known William’s hot blood and violent hatred of the English would bring trouble to him and his family. However, they must rest and be fed and discuss with him what their next action should be.

When they had eaten he took them to that study where William had worked and dreamed in the past, and there he bade them sit down.

‘I have ill news for you,’ he said gravely, ‘which I did not want to tell you until you had eaten and rested a little. I fear it will be a great shock to you.’

‘Pray do not keep us longer in suspense, Uncle,’ begged William, and he went to his mother and took her hand because he guessed that the grave news concerned his father.

‘Your father engaged the English at Elderslie,’ said his uncle. ‘It was a foolhardy thing to do. He and his retainers were outnumbered.’

‘They have taken him,’ cried Lady Wallace in horror.

‘Nay. He died in battle and with him … Malcolm.’

Lady Wallace stared straight ahead of her. William put an arm about her and drew her to him.

‘The devils!’ he cried. ‘So they have killed my father and my brother!’

‘Your father and Malcolm took some of them too, nephew. They inflicted losses on the English in losing their lives.’

‘Gone,’ whispered Lady Wallace. ‘My husband … and my son …’

‘By God,’ cried William. ‘They shall pay for this. I will not rest till I have slain twenty English in repayment for those two lives.’

‘Nothing can repay,’ said his uncle. ‘It is a pity your father engaged in such a battle. He was certain to lose.’

‘I am proud of him,’ cried William. ‘I shall avenge him and my brother.’

‘You must first concern yourself with saving your own life. You are a wanted man … and you are Sir William now. You must care for your mother and brother.’

William faltered as the implication of what this meant came to him. His father … his brother … dead in one day. And he the head of the family. He looked at his mother. She seemed frail in her misery.

‘Mother,’ he said, ‘I must get you to some place of safety. You have done nothing.’

His uncle said, ‘Do that as soon as you can. Take her to her brother, Ronald Crawford. He is a friend of the Governor of Ayr and I doubt not can persuade him that your mother is innocent of what they would call treason. But he cannot save you, William. Nothing can save you. You are a wanted man.’

‘I know it well,’ said William.

‘Then take your mother from here. Make sure of her safety and then … take heed for yourself.’

It was sound advice. They left Dunipace that night and in due course they arrived at Lady Wallace’s brother’s home in Crosbie. When he heard the story he said his sister must stay under his protection, but there was nothing he could do to save William. So William, feeling his mother was in good hands, rode on. But he did not go far, for he wanted to be close to his mother in case she should need his help, and he came to rest at Auchincruive on the banks of the Ayr, about two miles from the town of that name. Here lived some distant relations and he thought to himself how fortunate he was to have so many family connections who could be relied on to give him a helping hand when he needed it. The owner of the place was Sir Duncan Wallace and of course he could not deny shelter to a relative.

But Wallace was in danger and he must take the utmost care. It might be wise to let it be known that he was merely a weary traveller who had asked for lodging for a few nights before he passed on his way. No one here had seen William so he could disguise himself under another identity, and if he would do this Sir Duncan could offer him shelter.

There was nothing for William to do but accept these terms. He wanted a few days while he could think out his next plan of action. Baliol was very unpopular and Wallace would like to see him replaced. Robert Bruce had at least as good a claim and was Baliol’s deadly rival. Bruce was an old man, but he had a son and Robert Bruce the second had married well, for in doing so he had acquired the lands and titles of the Earl of Carrick. He even had a son – another Robert – who was said to be a fine soldier and a man of ambition. Unfortunately the Bruces had made agreements with England; they had sworn allegiance at Carlisle on the host and sword of Thomas à Becket. If the Bruces had not been so ready to comply with Edward’s demands, if they had taken up arms against Edward, William would have been ready to place himself in their service.

But it was not so. There was no regular army in Scotland. The only protesters were those who, like William Wallace, acted on their own. It was no good. He should assemble an army. If only he could! Instead of which he must skulk under an assumed name, awaiting the opportunity which it seemed would never come.

Overcome with grief at the loss of his father and brother, frustrated by the fact that he was a fugitive, he fumed and raged and suffered in silence while he wondered what he could do next and where he would go.

So frustrated was he by hiding in Sir Duncan’s house that he found the urge to wander out irresistible and making sure that he did not call attention to himself by his dress he often made expeditions into the town. When he saw the English soldiers there he had great difficulty in restraining himself, but the thought that if he betrayed himself and was caught that would avail Scotland little, made him very careful.

The Governor of Ayr was Lord Percy and he was anxious to remind the Scots that he was the master. His English soldiers were in evidence throughout the town and they took a great delight in showing the Scots how superior they were. They enjoyed challenging them to displays of strength in which it was advisable to let them win.

Strolling into the streets one day William came upon a little group watching a giant of a man, stripped to his waist, displaying brawny arms and big muscles.

He was calling attention to his fine physique. He was an Englishman, he cried. There were many such as he in England. Was there one Scot who could compare with him? If so let him come forward. ‘Let two of you stand forth and I will show you how I can lift two at a time off the ground. Come forward. Come forward. What, are you afraid?’

He seized two gaping youths and lifting them from the ground threw them so that they fell against the rough wall. The crowd simpered, and the two young men picked themselves up bruised and bleeding and slunk off as quickly as possible.

‘Brave Scots!’ cried the giant. ‘You stand and gape. Will none others challenge me? Then see, I will challenge you. Here is a great pole. Give me a groat and for that you shall have the privilege of striking me one blow on my bare back. You will see that it will be for me as though a fly has settled there. Come, you …’

He selected a young man from the crowd who shamefacedly produced his groat. The giant took it, examined it, nodded and put the pole into the Scotsman’s trembling hands. The crowd gaped while the Scotsman struck the blow. The giant turned his head. ‘Did you hit me? Why bless you, my little Scottish laddie, I was not sure. I thought a light wind touched me, nothing more.’

The crowd laughed and the discomfited Scot slunk off, the poorer by the loss of his groat and his dignity.

William, watching, felt his palms tingling. He assessed the giant. A strong man, yes, but he himself was as strong. The giant was tall but William was equally so and less fleshy, which meant more agile. By God it would be worth a groat to give him a blow he would remember for months to come.

He stepped forward.

‘Ah,’ cried the giant. ‘Here’s another brave Scotsman.’

‘Here is the groat. Give me the pole,’ replied William.

‘Surely, surely, my pretty gentleman. Here is the pole. Come, I am ready.’

William lifted the pole; every bit of strength was in his arms as he brought it down across the giant’s back. There was a crack; the giant staggered; he fell forward. His back was broken.

There was a shout of dismay. The watching soldiers crowded round their champion. They surrounded William too.

‘By God, he is dead,’ said someone. They rounded on William. ‘You killed him.’

‘In just combat,’ William replied.

‘You … Scot!’

‘You … Englishman.’

It was the sign. They would have seized William but he was too quick for them. He felled two with the pole he was carrying and then throwing it aside he snatched the dagger from his belt. In a short time five of them were lying on the cobbles … dead.

He knew he must get away. He must find his horse, ride like fury and get as far as he could from those enraged men.

But he could not. The crowd was too dense. They surrounded him. They all wanted a glimpse of the man who had killed the giant.

He turned to fight, but there were too many Englishmen against him. He kicked out and one man fell back reeling in pain, but there was another in his place.

He was seized and carried off.

‘To the jail,’ they chanted. ‘Throw him into the jail.’

It was fortunate for him that they did not know who he was or they would have devised a cruel end for him. As it was he was just a Scot who had been challenged and had killed the challenger and then had slain others in the foray. Such bloody fights which ended in death were common enough. But he had killed Englishmen and he was a Scot, and for that he should be thrown into jail until they decided what to do with him.

The old jail in Ayr was a noisome spot. His cell was so small that he could not, being tall, stand up in it. There was no light in it and he who had been accustomed to the fresh air found the lack of it intolerable. He could scarcely move; the smell of the place sickened him; the rats came out and watched him. He could see their yellow eyes in the gloom. He knew they were waiting until he was too feeble to fight them, then they would attack him.

He was in despair. His bright dream had vanished; it had been swept away because of a brawl in the streets of a town. What a fool he was. He should never have challenged the giant; he should never have lost his temper and killed those Englishmen. He should have learned his lesson over Selby’s son.

He could never curb his fury. He felt too deeply the humiliation of his countrymen. It was because of this ardour in him that he had sworn to dedicate his life to his country’s cause; and because of it he was here … in this fearsome prison. And how could he ever escape from it? Once a day his food was pushed through a grating. It was always decaying herring, salt from the barrel … inedible except to a starving man; and with it came a little water … just enough to keep him alive. If it were not for that he would have believed they had forgotten him.

At first he had tried to devise a means of escape. He had pummelled the stone walls with his fists until they had become lacerated; he had tried to prise open the iron bars of the door but even his strength could make no impression. Then on his diet of evil-smelling herring and water his strength began to be sapped away, and despair came to him.

This is the end, he thought. This is all then.

Once as he lay there the door opened and a lantern shone onto his face. He heard two voices. ‘Can’t last much longer,’ said one.

‘Give him another day,’ said the other.

The light went out. He lay there. He tried to interpret their meaning but he was too tired. Later he roused himself. He was dying then. That was what they meant. They would take him out of this hell … when he was dead and he wanted nothing so much but to leave this place.

He was light-headed, unsure of where he was and yet a thought kept hammering in his brain. He would only be taken out of this place if he were dead so he must die … and if he were not dead, he must pretend to be. It was imperative that he get out.

The light was there. He lay still, his eyes half closed.

The voice said, ‘He’s gone this time.’

Someone prodded him with a foot. He did not move. Half conscious, one thought kept recurring: I shall only leave here when I am dead … I must be dead …

‘I’ll take him by the legs … You take the shoulders …’

Vaguely he was conscious. He was leaving the cell; he was leaving misery, hell on earth; he had cheated the rats; he would never again taste barrelled herrings.

‘Over the wall … into the midden …’ said the voice.

Blessed fresh air. It intoxicated him; he was swooning with the joy of it. He was flying through the wonderful heady sweet clean air … then he fell into unconsciousness.

He awoke. It was dusk and he was in a small room lying on a truckle bed. Everything was sweet smelling. That was what struck him first.

He thought, I died then and came to Heaven.

Then he closed his eyes.

He heard voices.

‘He’ll recover.’

‘He’s strong as an ox.’

‘I never thought he could … after the state he was in.’

They were talking of him. He opened his eyes to daylight. A young woman was standing near a window and the light shone on her face. He was sure then that he had come to Heaven because she had the look of an angel. Her long fair hair hung in two thick plaits, one of which fell over her right shoulder; her overdress with wide sleeves to the elbow was of blue and beneath it was a petticoat of buttercup yellow that almost matched her hair; her eyes were blue, her cheeks rosy.

‘He is looking at us,’ said the young woman. ‘He is awake.’

He heard himself ask: ‘Who … are you?’

She moved towards the bedside. ‘Mother,’ she called. ‘Mother, come here.’

There were two of them. A woman and her daughter.

‘Where am I …?’

‘Safe and well,’ said the young woman.

She came to the bed and smiled at him.

‘You are beautiful,’ he said.

The elder woman put a cup of warm broth to his lips and he drank it eagerly.

‘You see, daughter,’ she said, ‘he takes it now.’

He looked from one to the other of them.

‘You look … happy,’ he said faintly.

‘We thought you would die,’ answered the girl.

They would not let him talk much then but gradually he learned from them.

He owed his life again to his uncle’s housekeeper, who had made him sit at her spinning wheel and spin when they came to look for him. She had sent her nephew to find out what had befallen him and when she had heard the description of the young man who had killed the giant in the streets of Ayr she had known it was he. He had been thrown into the prison and she had sent to her sister who lived in Ayr and begged her to find out all she could. Ellen, her daughter, was a beautiful girl who was friendly with many of the men in the town – English and Scottish. She was intrigued by the story of the young man in jail and when she was told in secret that he was William Wallace, who was becoming something of a legend, she was very excited and determined to do all she could to help him.

When she went into the town she lingered by the jail gates. The guards were only too happy to talk to her. Ellen was known as a very desirable young woman who, while she would not bestow her favours on all and sundry, could be very generous to those she liked. She was very much sought after, and she and her mother lived well in their cottage because of the good things which her admirers brought to her. Thus, when she lingered at the jail gates, the guards were only too happy to talk to her, and from them she learned about the giant slayer and how he lay now in his cell from where, they joked, he could kill no more Englishmen. She knew that he was near death. She knew that when he was dead they would throw him into the midden, and when they did so for the sake of her aunt she would retrieve his body and if it were possible give it a decent burial.

They were waiting; they knew it was at the hour of dusk when bodies were disposed of and they saw this one thrown out; they rescued it and carried it home and there to their amazement they discovered that there was still life in it. The secret nursing appealed to Ellen’s nature. She loved intrigue. Moreover she saw that when he was in health William Wallace must have been a very fine figure of a man indeed.

She and her mother vied with each other for the honour of tending him. First they cleaned off the filth of the prison which was no easy task.

‘He is all they say of him,’ said Ellen, and her mother agreed.

They took a pride in finding nourishing food for him, and gradually they brought him back to health. They were delighted that they had played a small part in preserving the life of the man whom people had said might well be the saviour of his country.

Sir William Wallace. When his name was mentioned Scotsmen rejoiced. One day William Wallace was going to lead them against the English.

Once he had turned the corner they knew he would live, for his recovery was rapid, and when he heard what had happened he was deeply moved.

‘It is good to have friends,’ he said. ‘Ellen, you might have been thrown into prison yourself for what you have done for me.’

‘Our Ellen would have found a way out,’ said her mother fondly. ‘Our Ellen has friends.’

Ellen laughed and Wallace wondered about her. As the days passed he wondered a great deal. She would sit beside his bed and tell him how she had fed him, and on more than one occasion when he was distressed she had lain beside him in his bed and soothed him in his delirium.

‘It seemed to comfort you,’ she said.

‘I can think of no greater comfort,’ replied William.

‘You were as a child,’ she told him. ‘It was difficult to believe this was the great Wallace.’

‘I was a child,’ he said, ‘completely dependent on your goodness.’

She nodded and, leaning over him, kissed him.

‘Ellen,’ he said, ‘I am dependent on you still.’

There was something warm about Ellen – warm and generous. It was the very essence of her attraction. Ellen loved easily though not deeply; but when she loved she gave freely.

It was inevitable that as Wallace’s health improved they became lovers.

Her mother knew but to her, knowing Ellen, that had been inevitable from the beginning. Ellen had always had lovers from the time she was fifteen. It was a natural way of life with her. She was no prostitute and she generally took one lover at a time. It was part of her generous serene nature. She never said, ‘What shall I get from this relationship?’ but she took what came as generously as she gave.

William was enchanted with her. He was glad that he was too weak yet to leave the cottage and carry on with his mission, for he could dally with a good conscience. It was the first time that there was something he wanted to do rather than fight the English. He was amazed at himself.

Theirs would be a transient relationship. They both knew this and accepted it, but they both wanted it to go on and on, and for each of them the wrench of parting would cause some sorrow. Hearts would not be broken – they both knew that. Ellen’s heart was so resilient and William’s was given to a cause. But that did not mean that they did not long for this pleasant state of affairs to go on and on.

Between sessions of lovemaking he talked to her of his plans. She could help him, he said. He would trust her. She knew so many people; she knew what was going on in the town; she could draw secrets from the English, for naturally they were as charmed with her as the Scots were. ‘You will have your share in the plan to set Scotland free,’ he told her.

She told him that should be her pleasure, but in fact she was more eager to satisfy her lover and herself than concerned with Scotland’s plight. Such as Ellen would always find a comfortable way of life whoever ruled.

But she was fond of William Wallace. He was different from any lover she had had before, and while he was with her she was all his. She brought scraps of news from the town. Her friends often let drop items of interest. That was a comfort to William. He did not feel he was wasting so much time after all.

There were some friends with whom he wished to get in touch. They were two young Irishmen – one named Stephen, the other Karlé – whom he had known long ago and who had been inspired by his talk of saving Scotland. While he had been lying bodily exhausted in his bed, his mind had been active. What he needed to do was gather men like himself together. It was folly to become involved in brawls with the English, especially when they could end in almost fatal results. What he should do was gather together a strong force and go into battle against them. A small band of friends could become the nucleus of an army. He wanted to talk of this with Stephen and Karlé; and if Ellen could make enquiries as to their whereabouts and bring them to him that would be a beginning.

This might not be the difficult task it appeared to be at first because he was sure that news of his exploits had reached them. They would question his uncle’s housekeeper, and as she knew very well that they were his good friends she might send them to him.

Of all this he could talk to Ellen, and with the passing of each day he was growing in strength and they both knew – while rejoicing in his return to health – that this spelt the end of their idyll. It gave a bitter-sweet flavour to their relationship. Ellen knew it could not last. Already her friends in the town were complaining that they saw little of her and asking why it was she stayed at home. It would not be possible to keep the secret much longer, the fact that they harboured a young man in their house. Ellen knew how to live in the present. She had been doing it all her life.

In due course she was able to bring Stephen and Karlé to him and how he rejoiced to see them! They talked together, the four of them, of the injustices of the English and how Selby still raved about the death of his son and swore to reward any who brought William Wallace to him dead or alive.

‘So I am an outlaw!’ cried William, laughing.

‘Do not joke about it,’ begged Ellen.

‘What else is it but a joke?’ he demanded.

‘It was not a joke when they had you in Ayr jail,’ Stephen reminded him.

‘They did not know that I was Wallace.’

‘Thank God for that,’ replied Ellen.

She brought ale and bread for them and they went on talking of how they would sound out men and build an army. ‘That is what we need,’ cried William. ‘Arms and men!’

There was intense excitement in the little attic of the cottage, which was approached through a trap door and an ideal place in which to hide a secret guest. There it was agreed that Stephen and Karlé should travel around the garrison town, being careful not to become involved in trouble, and to discover when convoys of supplies were being delivered as they were often.

‘Our first plan,’ said William, ‘would be to waylay one of these. If we were successful we could capture many of the things we need. That would be a beginning.’

‘We need more men,’ said Stephen. ‘But it should not be difficult to find them. It seems that there are many Scotsmen now looking for a leader.’

‘Scout round,’ said Wallace. ‘Find a company of men but we must be sure that we can trust them. Better to have but a few loyal Scotsmen than an army and one traitor among us. We will capture one of the English convoys, and when that is successful another and another. That will set us up with arms and what we need for battle. The first should be easy for we shall take them unawares.’

So they planned carefully.

He took his leave of Ellen.

‘You will come back,’ she said.

‘Aye,’ he answered. ‘I shall come back. Methinks I shall be in need of your special comfort often. Then – if it be possible – you will find me at your door.’

He was strong again and he would never forget he owed his life to Ellen and her mother. They had rescued him from the foul midden and he shivered to contemplate what state he must have been in when they found him. They had nourished him, they had cosseted him and they had been good friends to him, and Ellen had been mistress as well. He owed them a great deal and he meant it when he said he would never forget his debt to them.

The Irishmen, Stephen and Karlé, had been energetic in their efforts and they found fifty men who were ready to serve William Wallace, swearing that their dedicated desire was to drive the English from Scotland.

Moreover they had discovered that Captain Fenwick was to lead a convoy through Loudoun to Ayr and in this convoy were horses, food stuffs and arms which were being taken to Lord Percy, the Governor, at Ayr.

If they could capture this it would be a beginning, for with these goods in their possession they could begin to build up their army. If they were successful there would be such a shout about it that men would flock to join Wallace. They would see.

With great exultation Wallace assembled his men in the woods where they camped throughout the night. As dusk was falling he spoke to them. He talked of what the English had done to the Welsh and how they must all stand together to prevent the same humiliation falling on Scotland. They were aware of the arrogant English in the garrison towns. Their King, old Toom Tabard, chosen by Edward of England, was now in English hands, completely subservient to them. William’s father and his brother had been killed by Captain Fenwick’s company so this looked like a sign from Heaven. Captain Fenwick was now being delivered into his hands – along with all the supplies and ammunition they needed to start their campaign.

They were with him to a man – loyal to Scotland, all of them. There was not one who was not ready and willing to give his life for that country.

It was early morning when the convoy appeared. Wallace watched its approach and noted that there were somewhere in the region of two hundred men guarding it. Two hundred against fifty! On Wallace’s side, however, was the element of surprise which was always useful. He hoped none of his men quailed at the sight of those well-equipped soldiers on their splendid horses while they had only humble equipment and were on foot.

They emerged from the wood.

He heard Fenwick shout, ‘On guard. ’Tis the outlaw.’

The outlaw was Wallace and Fenwick was exultant. What glory for him to be able to capture the man and take him to Lord Percy!

Then he saw the men emerging from the wood, and though they were more than he had at first thought, they were a straggly band. What good would they be among trained soldiers?

At their head was one who was unmistakably Wallace – tall, distinguished, handsome, a leader in every way.

Wallace recognised Fenwick and made straight for him.

‘Charge!’ cried Fenwick and the horses galloped towards Wallace’s men.

Wallace drove his spear through the body of a horseman. It broke and he snatched his sword from its scabbard. He turned towards Fenwick shouting: ‘Murderer! This is for my father!’ Before Fenwick could lift his arm Wallace’s sword pierced his heart and he fell from his horse. Great exhilaration filled William. His father was avenged. So should Scotland be. He was as one inspired. They said afterwards that Heaven had sent angels to protect the Scots. It was not easy to imagine how it could have happened otherwise.

Many of the Englishmen’s horses lay writhing on the ground as the battle ensued. William, shouting encouragement to his followers, hacking right and left, felling the English as he went, miraculously escaped all harm, though sometimes narrowly. Before the battle was over a hundred English bodies lay on the Loudoun field.

Those who had been set to guard the convoys attempted to join in the fight and that gave the Scots the opportunity to seize the booty.

The English lost heart and those who remained, seeing the convoy lost and so many of their companions dead and wounded, seized what horses were left, their great object being to get away.

This was triumph indeed. The saddle horses were led into the wood, their burdens joyously examined.

‘It is a sign from Heaven!’ cried William. ‘This day we have begun to turn the English out of Scotland.’

They dared not stay in the Loudoun woods for they knew there would be immediate retaliation. They must hide their booty and find headquarters where they could safeguard the spoils of their victory.

‘It is of the utmost importance that we keep our secrets,’ William told them. ‘Depend upon it they will double their guards after this. And they will come looking for us and in particular myself. Remember though: this is a glorious beginning. We have seen that God is on our side. Let us thank Him now for this victory, and when we have done that we will take our booty to a safe place and I’ll swear to you that after this, loyal Scotsmen will come flocking to our banner.’

They hid in woods during the day and travelled by night, and William decided that the forest was the best place for their headquarters. Now and then some of them went into the town to listen to the talk, and they came back to report that everywhere the raid on the convoy was discussed and Wallace’s name was on every lip.

‘There is a glint in the eyes of Scotsmen when your name is mentioned,’ William was told.

‘That is good, but we must beware of traitors. We can be sure the English will set their spies everywhere.’

‘Lord Percy is furious,’ was the report. ‘He has reprimanded the guards at Ayr prison for throwing what they thought was your dead body over the wall. He calls them idiots because first, they did not ascertain who you were and secondly, did not satisfy themselves that you were dead.’

William was delighted; his head buzzed with plans.

‘A beginning,’ he cried. ‘We are on the road.’

During the next few weeks they made forays into the town; they attacked bands of Englishmen and took what they could from them. They were beginning to collect a store of ammunition. They had ‘won’ as they called it many fine horses. They had arms of all descriptions. Nor did they need to go hungry.

William did not wish them to stay in one place too long as he considered that dangerous and they moved around constantly, and he trusted his men – in particular Stephen and Karlé who became his closest friends and associates. That was not all. His uncles – and other members of his numerous family who were too old to join him – sent him money and goods for his cause. He was by no means merely the outlaw who could make himself a nuisance to the intruders; he was a name to be reckoned with.

‘It may not be long,’ he told his men, ‘before we go into real battle.’

Moving from forest to forest they came near to Ayr and he immediately thought of Ellen and his desire for her was so strong that he found it difficult to resist. There was no reason why he should not disguise himself and slip into the cottage, after dark. He could leave again before dawn.

He would go. He could not stop thinking of Ellen and until they had been together he would go on doing so. He persuaded himself that it would be folly to allow himself to be obsessed by her. The best thing was to see her and get the longing out of his system.

He must disguise himself and the idea came to him that he would go as a priest. No one would molest a priest and it was the last calling which would be connected with William Wallace. The idea amused him and he decided to put it into practice.

It turned out to be an unfortunate choice. For as he approached the house he was seen by one of Ellen’s admirers. This man was coming to visit Ellen, but when he saw a priest going to the house he hung back and waited, not wanting to come face to face with the holy man who, he suspected, might have been going to remonstrate with Ellen on her way of life.

The priest knocked at the door. He was let in. Ellen would surely not keep him long. He would wait until the man came out.

Meanwhile Wallace was received with surprise by Ellen. Then he threw off his habit and she was in his arms and they were laughing at the efficaciousness of his disguise.

‘And you came as a priest!’ It seemed a great joke to them. ‘And such a one that I believed you to be of the Church.’

He told her that his longing to be with her had been so great that he had had to take the risk of coming to her.

She said she had hoped he would some day and whenever he came there would always be a welcome for him.

They went up to the attic where she and her mother had sheltered him all those weeks and they lay together on the truckle bed as they had in the old days.

He told her afterwards that he with his men were in the nearby forest and that they planned to be there for some days.

‘So,’ she said, ‘it may well be that I shall have another visit from you, sir.’

‘That could well be,’ he replied.

‘Perhaps tomorrow night?’

‘Why should it not be?’

‘I shall look for you.’

‘Are you still my true friend, Ellen?’ he asked.

‘Until we die,’ she answered.

So they made love again and again, but he was wary for the first streak of light was in the sky. He did not want to be seen in or near the town of Ayr by daylight for, good though his disguise might be, there was a price on his head.

Meanwhile the man from the town waited outside Ellen’s house for the priest to emerge. He wondered why he did not. A priest … to spend the night in the house of a light woman! It was unbelievable!

He had an impulse to knock at the door to discover what was happening but he decided not to. He would wait there until the priest came out and then he would follow him.

He was watching when the door opened and the priest came out. Ellen was with him – beautiful Ellen – with her hair streaming about her shoulders and a loose robe scarcely covering her nakedness. She and the priest embraced in a manner which left no doubt as to their relationship and then the priest lifted his long robes and ran.

He followed him to the edge of the forest. He saw him throw off the robe. There was something familiar about the man who emerged.

Could it be … Wallace!

What should he do? There was a price on Wallace’s head. What riches, what glory for the man who delivered him into the hands of his enemies!

The night had not turned out as he had fancied it would. He had missed the charms of sweet Ellen. But who knew, perhaps there was a better way in which it could have been spent and this was it.

Ellen opened the door. Two guards stepped into the house.

‘What do you want?’ she asked.

‘We want you, Mistress.’

‘What, now?’ she demanded, thinking they had come to take her by force. That, she would fight against with all her might. She liked men; she enjoyed her pleasures with them; but they should never be taken by force if she could help it.

But she was mistaken. They were on another mission.

She was to go with them, they told her, because their masters had something to say to her.

She was taken to stand before Captain Heron and his aide, Butler. They surveyed her coldly with none of that admiration to which she was accustomed.

‘You are on good terms with the traitor Wallace,’ said the Captain.

‘Wallace?’ she wrinkled her brows. ‘Who is he?’

‘Come, Mistress, that will not do. He is your lover. He slept in your bed last night. He came disguised as a priest. We know of this.’

‘You are mistaken.’

One of the guards caught her arm and twisted it backwards. She cried out in pain. ‘How dare you—’ she began.

Her face was slapped.

That to Ellen, who had never had anything but the desiring hands of men laid on her, was a violent shock. She knew then that she was in serious trouble.

‘Listen to me, woman,’ said the Captain, ‘we know that you are a friend of William Wallace. We know that he visits you. Do not deny it. If you hold anything back from us, it will go ill with you. Do you know what we do to women like you? I will tell you. We shall roll you up in a bale of hay and set fire to it.’

‘You could not,’ she stammered.

‘Could we not? We shall see. Bring in the hay.’

It was true. They had it ready. ‘It would be a waste of such pleasant flesh,’ said the Captain wryly. ‘Come, be sensible, girl. Wallace visited you in the guise of a priest last night. When does he come again?’

‘He … will not come again.’

‘He came last night did he not?’

She did not speak and he signed for them to bring the hay.

‘Yes … yes,’ she said quickly. ‘He came last night.’

‘And when does he come again?’

She was silent. They seized her and two of them threw the bale of hay at her feet.

‘Tonight,’ she cried. ‘He comes tonight.’

They released her.

‘When he comes,’ the Captain said, ‘you will hold him there. Divest him of his clothes … That will be no difficult task, I am sure. Then when he is in your bed, before you join him put a rush light in your window. It shall be our signal to come and take him.’

She stammered, ‘I cannot do it …’

‘You will do it,’ she was told. ‘And if you do not you know what awaits you. Do your duty and we shall not forget you. You will be rich. We shall not forget. There is a high price on his head. It is time a woman like you had a husband so that she does not have to rely on any pleasant-looking man who comes her way. Deliver Wallace to us and Lord Percy himself will want to thank you. He will find a man who will marry you. A knight no less, and he shall be a man of your choice. So you see, Mistress, great good can come to you … great good or cruel death. Remember it.’

Ellen went thoughtfully back to her home. Marriage with a goodly knight. A fortune. Never again to wander through the town returning the glances which came her way … looking for a handsome gentleman. A steady husband, a man who could give her fine clothes … that for the betrayal of Wallace.

She knew what she had to do. They were afraid of him. They wanted him bereft of his clothes so that they could take him easily. So had Delilah betrayed Samson.

She waited for him. He came as he said he would. She opened the door and there stood her priest.

‘It was dangerous to come,’ she said.

‘Would I not risk danger for a night with you? ’Tis worth it, fair Ellen.’

She led him to the bedchamber. Her heart was beating fast. It would soon be over. She thought of him as he had been when they brought him in from the midden. Her mother had said: ‘He is William Wallace, the greatest man in Scotland’; and they had been proud of him. She had been proud of him. Her mother was now sleeping in her room. She knew of course that men visited her daughter. It was a way of life and it brought them comforts. She had not told her mother that Wallace had come last night. She would have done so, of course, but they had taken her off to be questioned, and when she came back she did not want to alarm her mother.

They went to her attic. It would all be so easy. She could feign ignorance. But he would say, ‘Why do you put a light in your window?’ and she would answer, ‘Because I wish to see you. I see so little of you. I want to feast my eyes on you while I can.’

Then soon they would come to take him …

She had loved him in her light and easy way as she had loved many men, but never one quite like William Wallace. She did not like to think of men being tortured. Men were not meant for that. Why could they not all live comfortably together? There was so much in life that was good.

He lay there naked on her bed. Now was the time. Set the rush light in the window … and wait.

They could not be far off now. They were out there looking at her window waiting for the sign.

‘I cannot do it,’ she cried suddenly. She sat on the bed and covered her face with her hands.

‘What ails you, Ellen?’ he asked.

‘They are coming to take you. They have threatened to burn me in a bale of hay if I do not deliver you to them. I am afraid … but I cannot do it.’

He was off the bed. ‘They are coming for me! When?’

‘Now. There is no time. They are waiting for the signal.’

In a second he had grasped the situation. He had the answer as she had known he would. ‘Strip off your clothes, Ellen,’ he said.

She did so and he put them on. They were too small of course but he covered their inadequacy with a big cloak as he had once done with a shawl at the spinning wheel. Then he set one of her hats on his head.

‘They will kill me,’ she said.

‘No, they will not. I am going to tie you to the bedpost. You must tell them that I had wind of the plot and that I made you strip and give me your clothes. I then put them on and tied you up. So that you could not give the signal. Now I will leave you. There is nothing to fear. I’ll see you again before long.’

He went out of the cottage. He ran shouting to the guards in a falsetto voice remarkably like that of Ellen.

Two of them appeared. He pointed to the cottage. ‘He is in there. He is naked … Go in and take him.’

The alarm was given. The two guards were not going in alone. They knew Wallace. As speedily as they could they got a band of them together and stormed the cottage.

Ellen told them how she had been following their instructions when Wallace had suddenly seized her and tied her up. So well did she tell her story and so appealing did she look half dressed and in distress that they untied her and reassured her that no harm would come to her, before making off to catch the impudent fugitive. Before they were assembled he had reached his horse, untethered it and was galloping off to join his faithful band in the wood.

It was a warning. He could not go on chancing to luck to extract himself from such situations. It could quite easily have been the end. It would have been easy for Ellen to have put the light in the window and for them to come and take him.

If they had, what would be happening to him now? It would be the end of his dream as it had come very near to being when they had thrust him into jail.

He must take care. He must not involve himself in these reckless situations.

Thank God, Ellen had been loyal to him at the end – but Heaven knew how near she had come to betraying him. The devils, to threaten her with burning – and it was a sentence they would have carried out, too.

He discussed the affair with Stephen and Karlé, who were horrified. There would be a bigger hue and cry after him than ever, so he must lie low for a while. They should leave this place at once and find another wood to shelter them.

He agreed and they left the woods with all speed and made their way towards Lanarkshire.

There he with his men remained in obscurity for some time, and the English deceived themselves into thinking that his near-capture had subdued him to such an extent that his one desire was to keep out of their way. When no more convoys were robbed for a few weeks a rumour was circulated that he had been drowned while attempting to cross the Forth near Stirling for it was said if he had crossed by the bridge there he could not have failed to have been seen.

He liked to go into the town though, and found it difficult to stay away, and when they were encamped near Lanark he often went in disguised, sometimes as a pilgrim, sometimes as a farmer. He enjoyed sitting in the taverns and listening to the talk.

It was thus he heard of the unpopularity of Sheriff Heselrig who was as harsh a man as could be found throughout the country, he was told. King Edward should have been more careful of the men he sent to guard the garrison towns, for so many of them were such as to breed rebellion wherever they went.

‘Tell me of this Heselrig,’ he said. ‘Tell me what he has done to make the townsfolk of Lanark hate him so much.’

‘Hush, be careful what you say,’ was the answer. ‘Speak in whispers.’

He immediately lowered his voice and his informant went on. ‘There is a beautiful maiden – the heiress of Lamington – living here. She is renowned for her wealth as well as her beauty.’

‘Tell me more of her.’

‘The Sheriff persecutes her. She is a brave lassie and will not agree to his demands.’

‘And what does he demand?’

‘Her hand for his son.’

‘What, a good Scottish lassie to marry an Englishman!’

‘Oh, aye, if she is rich enough.’

‘And she is very rich.’

‘Heiress to old Hew Bradfute. Hew died three years back and young Hew was to have inherited … and would have … had he lived.’

‘Young Hew …?’

‘The beauty’s brother. He met his death one dark night … His body was found lying in an alley. A brawl, they said, but it is whispered …’

‘Yes, please tell me what is whispered.’

‘Who are you? You ask too many questions.’

‘Just a man with a little land to farm who comes into the town now and then and likes a bit of chatter. Come, sir, tell me about young Hew and how you think he met his death.’

‘Oh, ’tis not for me to say, sir. It’s just in the mind – that’s all.’

‘Come tell me more.’

‘Well, ’tis whispered here that Sheriff Heselrig, wanting the Bradfute money, had the idea that if it belonged to the maiden, his son might marry her and so it would pass to his family. That weren’t possible while young Hew lived for he was his father’s right and natural heir.’

‘And how goes this matter?’

‘She is a bold brave maid, is Marion Bradfute. She swears she’ll have none of the Sheriff’s son.’

‘I should like to see her.’

‘Then you should go to the kirk one Sunday. She is always there.’

The story of the brave Scots lassie and the importuning English Sheriff appealed to Wallace’s imagination. He didn’t trust that Sheriff. Sooner or later he would force his son on the lass.

The next Sunday he was in the church. He did not need to ask who was Marion Bradfute. It was obvious. She was richly gowned as became an heiress and indeed she was beautiful. He had never seen such a beautiful girl. Ellen, who had seemed so desirable, was common clay beside her.

She was aware of his scrutiny and blushed a little, but it was clear that he had made some impression on her.

The next Sunday he was in church again; he noticed that she whispered with her maid and he guessed they were talking of him. When they left the church he followed them at a discreet distance. They went through a gate, beyond which lay the fine mansion which had aroused the cupidity of the Sheriff. He knocked boldly on the gate.

It was opened by an old man who demanded his business and he replied that he required to see Mistress Bradfute on an urgent mater. Who was he? was the question. He answered that he would tell that to Mistress Bradfute and he believed that she would then know him.

The old man shook his head and went away leaving William outside the gate. In a few moments the maid who had accompanied her mistress to the church came out. She did not seem greatly surprised to see him. They must have known that he had followed them.

She bade him enter and he followed her into the house.

In the hall with its vaulted roof and high table at one end on the dais, Marion Bradfute was waiting for him.

‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘And why do you come here?’

He hesitated only briefly and said: ‘I am William Wallace.’

Her eyes opened wide and he noticed how beautifully blue they were, set off by long dark lashes.

She smiled suddenly. ‘I think I knew,’ she said. ‘You are welcome. I should like to talk to you.’

She looked about her. ‘Let us go to the solarium,’ she said. And she called to her maid to bring refreshment for them.

She led the way up a ladder-like staircase to the solarium, a sunny room as its name suggested because of the two big windows cut into a bay at either end. It was indeed a grand place such as he had rarely seen in Scotland.

She went to the window and sat down implying that he might sit beside her, which he did.

She said, ‘You know of me?’

‘I know that you are Mistress Bradfute, noted for your beauty.’

‘And my wealth,’ she answered. ‘I have come to be afraid of that.’

‘You are in some trouble, I know that too. I have chatted in taverns and learned what I could.’

‘What are you, the hero of Scotland, doing in taverns?’

‘Biding my time when I can rise up and turn the English from our country.’

‘You come here in disguise.’

‘That is necessary, Mistress. There is a price on my head and you are unwise to let me into your house.’

‘In a way there is a price on mine. Sir William Wallace, I have long admired you along with thousands of Scots.’

‘I want more from Scots than admiration, Mistress. I want them to join my banner. When I have an army I promise you Scotland’s humiliation will be over.’

‘You will subdue the English, I know it. I am proud to have spoken to you.’

‘I have never seen a girl as beautiful as you,’ he replied.

She smiled, well pleased. ‘It is my fortune the Sheriff wants for his son.’

‘I have heard that you resist him.’

‘Yes, but I fear him very much. I believe he killed my brother.’

‘I had heard this too.’

‘I wonder what ruse he will employ to trick me.’

‘You are surrounded by good servants?’

‘Yes, they have been with my family for many years. They hate the English oppressors.’

‘Has he threatened you?’

‘No. I have warded him off with crafty talk. I have not said I will not marry his son – but I am determined not to.’

‘I shall gather together a force and march into the town.’

‘Have you such a force?’

‘I have followers … as yet not enough. But the time will come when I have an army behind me.’

She put out her hand: he took it and kissed it.

‘How glad I am that you came. I feel less afraid already.’

She had risen, implying that it was time he went. She did not wish the servants to gossip – even though she trusted them.

He saw that he must take his leave though he longed to stay.

‘I will be back,’ he said. ‘May I come tomorrow? We will discuss this matter further and if you should need me urgently send a man you can trust to the Lanark woods. There he will find me.’

He was amazed that he had trusted her so deeply. But afterwards he understood, for he could not stop thinking of her.

On the next day he called again and they discussed her affairs at length. He talked glowingly of his plans and recounted his past adventures.

She listened entranced. So these legends she had heard of William Wallace were true.

By the end of the week they were in love.

They walked together in the enclosed garden.

He said, ‘You know I love you.’

She nodded.

‘And you?’ he asked.

‘I love you,’ she answered.

‘What bliss this is … to be together! I would we could be together always, but failing that we must make the most of what time there is together.’

But she was no Ellen.

‘If we were married you could not live as you do now,’ she reminded him.

Marriage! He had not thought of marriage. How could a man dedicated as he was, settle down to a normal married life with a wife and family?

He was silent and she said, ‘Ah, I see you do not want to marry me.’

He said, ‘I would I could. But I am a man dedicated to a cause and it would be no good life for the woman who married me.’

‘Then,’ she replied firmly, ‘we must say goodbye, for though I love you truly I would never be your leman. If we cannot marry then that is the end for us. We cannot meet like this if our love is to be unfulfilled.’

William was plunged into deepest melancholy. ‘Oh, my God,’ he cried, ‘if I had not vowed to drive the English from my country … how happy I should be to marry you. But I have vowed solemnly that I shall not rest until I have saved my country.’

‘I understand well,’ she said sadly. ‘Marriage is not for you, William Wallace, and as no other course will do for me, let us say goodbye. Let us make it short. There is no point in lingering.’

‘I shall never leave you to the Sheriff’s son.’

She laughed bitterly. ‘It is strange that he whom I hate should be so eager to marry me and he whom I love reject me for a cause. Goodbye, William.’

‘Nay,’ he cried. ‘It is not goodbye. I shall watch over you. If you are in need you have only to send for me. I am going to avenge your brother. I am going to capture Lanark and drive Sheriff Heselrig out of it. I will be back.’

She shook her head in melancholy and he left her and galloped back to the woods.

He was wretched. He was melancholy. He had lost his interest in life.

Stephen and Karlé were worried about him. They begged him to tell them what was on his mind.

Accustomed as he was to letting them share his confidences he told them the whole story, how he had heard of Marion and had gone to the kirk to see her, had spoken to her and fallen in love with her.

‘’Tis dangerous to adventure with women,’ Stephen reminded him. ‘Remember Ellen.’

‘Ah, I remember Ellen. Ellen was a wonderful woman. I could never regret my friendship with her.’

‘And now there is Marion Bradfute. You trifle with danger, William.’

‘I act as I must. Having heard of a beautiful woman in distress what could I have done? Her brother slain at the instigation of this villain Heselrig. I tell you this: I shall not rest until I have his blood.’

‘You have said that it is unwise to concern yourself with these small adventures. You have said you will stay in hiding until we can gather a force to work with us. That is coming to pass … gradually. William Douglas has sent word that he is on his way to join us and has a considerable force. Sir John Menteith has sent word that he will come to us. We have to be patient, William, and ere long we shall have a strong enough force to go against the English.’

‘This is no small adventure. I love Marion Bradfute.’

‘It is but a short time ago that you loved Ellen and most indiscreetly visited her and came within an inch of losing your life.’

‘Marion is no Ellen. She refuses to be my mistress. She wants marriage … or nothing.’

‘How could you marry?’

‘That is what I told her. I should be constantly leaving her.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Stephen, ‘she could be made to understand that.’

The other two looked at him in amazement.

‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘suppose William married this woman. It would solve her problem and his. The Sheriff’s son then could not have her, and how could he complain because she already had a husband. She knows who William is. She will understand that he has a mission to perform. I am coming to the opinion that it might be good for William to have a wife. She would be a woman he could trust, as he could not trust some leman he might otherwise take up with.’

William was wild with joy. Of course it was possible. She would understand that being who he was he could not settle down to a normal married life. It would not be for long. When Scotland was free then they could make plans together, raise a family and return to the quiet life.

They discussed it together and the more they did the more plausible it seemed.

The very next day William rode over to the Bradfute mansion and asked Marion to marry him.

By the end of that week they were married. A priest had been brought into the house and there in the solarium where they had talked together so recently, the ceremony was performed with only a few faithful servants as witnesses.

For several days he stayed in the mansion. He was a proud and happy husband. He had for a bride the most beautiful girl he had ever seen and she adored him. He was the great Wallace, already a hero. She told him that she wanted to join with him in the struggle, she wanted to do everything she could to help. She knew that there would be times when he would have to leave her. She would bear his absence with fortitude; she would do everything she could to help. She was growing as enthusiastic for the cause as he was. And she was proud of him. She was sure he was going to be the general whose name would go down in history as the man who had brought freedom to his country.

He was loath to leave her but he knew he must return to the woods and while he stayed in her house it was important that his presence should be kept as secret as possible. Who knew what would happen if Heselrig discovered that not only was William Wallace in their midst, but he had married the heiress he wanted for his son?

So he went back to the woods. He was delighted to find John Menteith was there with a few men. Menteith was eager to hear all that was happening and said that he had sounded out friends of his and there would soon be an army large enough to make an attack possible.

Sheriff Heselrig came knocking at the gate and it was more than the gatekeeper’s life was worth to refuse him entrance.

He went into the house calling to the servants to bring their mistress.

Marion came to him, her heart beating fast with fear and anger at the sight of this man. His smile was pleasant enough. He had so far stopped short of threats and attempted to win her by cajolery.

He was unsure of the people of the place. They were sly, they paid lip service to him but he fancied it would need very little to put them into revolt. If he forced Marion to marry his son that might be the very spark to set the blaze alight. He needed men and arms. That outlaw Wallace had played havoc with the convoys. He was not quite ready to force the girl. But he thought, By God I am getting near it.

He bowed to her and she returned his greeting coldly.

‘You look in good health, Mistress Bradfute,’ he said.

‘Thank you, sir, I find myself so.’

‘Such beauty and to live alone!’

‘I live as I prefer to,’ she answered.

‘You need a husband, Mistress. Many have remarked on it.’

‘Thank you, sir, but I know best my own needs.’

‘Oh come, Mistress, do not be coy. You know my son is mad for love of you.’

She was silent.

‘You will take him,’ he said.

Still she did not speak.

He wanted to slap her face, to call his men, to drag her to the priest. He had gone to so much trouble to bring about the marriage he desired. All would be well if she, the silly girl, would but say yes.

‘I shall send my son to call on you tomorrow,’ he said.

‘I am not receiving tomorrow. I have other plans.’

‘The next day then.’

‘The same applies … and to every day when your son decides to call.’

‘You are uncivil, Mistress.’

‘I speak as I feel.’

‘You will change your mind. I have been over-lenient with you.’

‘I will choose my own husband.’

There was something triumphant about her as she said those words and the Sheriff paused. There had been gossip … servants always tattled. He had not believed it … not of the virtuous Marion. It had been whispered that a man had been coming to the house. Someone had seen him. It must be one of the serving wenches taking a lover. God knows that was common enough.

And yet … there was a look about her which set the warning jangling in his mind.

Tomorrow. It should be tomorrow.

He bowed and took his leave. Now she was afraid. She had seen the purpose in his eyes. He was tired of waiting. He was going to do something desperate if she did not take action.

She did so without delay and sent one of her servants riding to the secret hiding place of her husband.

It was dusk when William rode into the town. This time he did not come in disguise.

There could be no doubt who he was, as he rode at the head of his troops. William Wallace, the hero of Scotland.

People ran into the streets. ‘Wallace is here,’ they cried. ‘He has come at last.’

The sentinels saw him. They gave the alarm.

‘Good people,’ cried William. ‘I come to release you from chains. No more slavery. Rally to my banner and we will drive the English out of Lanarkshire.’

But the people were afraid. They knew what had happened to Scottish rebels before. It was death of a terrifying kind. It had been done to Davydd of Wales and it was now the recognised reward of treason. And to fight for Scotland was treason in the eyes of the English.

So they waited and watched and showed no allegiance to either side and if their hearts were with the Scots they made no attempt to join them.

Soon the streets were swarming with English soldiers – trained men, as Wallace’s were not, and even faith and their belief in a righteous cause could not stand against such discipline and superior weapons.

It did not take the English long to beat back the Scots. Wallace refused to retreat and he was left with a small body of them and they were close to Marion’s house. The others had fled back to the woods. Marion had opened her gates and stood watching, and when she saw the English bearing down on her husband and the few men who remained with him, she shouted to him, ‘Quick … Come in and I’ll lock the gates.’

It could save their lives, Wallace saw that. He shouted to his men, ‘Do as she says.’ They were only too glad to obey. He followed and Marion hastily bolted the door.

They could break it down, but that would take time and by then the Scots would have had the opportunity to escape.

William embraced her. ‘You have saved us, my love,’ he cried, but she pushed him aside.

‘There is only a little time. You must be gone. Come. I will show you a way through the garden where you can escape to the woods.’

She was right of course. It could not be long before the English had broken down the gate and were swarming in.

They followed her across the grass. She opened a door in the wall and they were gone.

Now the English were battering at the gate. She went into the house and up to the solarium. They could come now. William and his men were safely on their way to the woods.

She picked up a piece of needlework and tried to stitch but her hands were shaking. She was alert, listening for the sound of the English coming into the house.

She did not have to wait long. She heard the great shout as the gate stove in and this was followed by the clatter of feet in the courtyard.

Now they were in the house. She could hear their voices. It would be any moment now.

Someone was mounting the stairs. She guessed who it would be and she was right. Heselrig himself.

‘Where is he?’ he demanded. ‘Where is the traitor Wallace?’

She leaped to her feet and stood facing him. ‘Far out of your reach,’ she cried.

‘You have him here.’

‘Search. You’ll never find him.’

‘By God, you let him through your gate and barred it against us. That’s treason.’

‘I do not see it as such, sir.’

‘But I do. I would run you through this moment if it were not that my son is to make you his bride.’

‘That he will never do.’

‘You fool. Do not anger me now. I could harm you. Be sensible. Marry my son and we will forget your conduct tonight.’

‘I shall never forget it as long as I live. I am proud of it.’

‘You are mad.’

‘Nay, I am not. Happy I am that this night I saved my husband’s life.’

‘Your husband! You are saying …’

She did not care now. She was proud of Wallace, proud of herself. She wanted the whole world to know.

‘You are speaking to Lady Wallace, Sheriff. Show due respect, I pray you.’

He stared at her disbelievingly.

‘You think I would take your son when there is Wallace? I have been his wife two weeks since. You have lost your fortune, Heselrig.’

The stunning truth hit him like a sword thrust. He knew she was not lying. There had been gossip. A man had been visiting her. Wallace! The wanted man! And he had let him slip through his fingers. He had let her slip through his fingers.

It should not happen again.

He lunged towards her, his sword ready to thrust …

She looked at him in some surprise as the blade pierced her bodice. Then she was falling and her last thoughts were: ‘I died for William Wallace.’

William was roused from his sleep. Karlé was telling him that there was a woman to see him. Karlé was looking distraught. It was trouble, he knew.

The woman stood before him, her eyes wide with horror, her mouth twisted with grief. He recognised her as Marion’s personal maid.

When she saw him she covered her face with her hands and wept silently.

‘What is it?’ cried William. ‘Pray tell me. Your mistress …’

The woman lowered her hands and stared blankly at him. ‘Dead, my lord.’

‘Dead!’ He would not believe it. He could not. It was too much to bear.

‘The men came in … after you had gone. Heselrig was at their head. He went to her room. She told him she was your wife … and he ran her through with his sword.’

He could not speak. He could not move. He was too stunned by the grief which overwhelmed him. Reproach was uppermost. He should never have involved her in his affairs. He should have stayed to protect her.

That would have meant capture, said his common sense, and what good could you do to her if you were their prisoner?

But dead! Never to see her again. His wife of two weeks.

Karlé was at his side. ‘’Tis grievous news,’ he said.

‘It can’t be true. It must be wrong.’

There was silence, broken only by the twittering of the birds and the sudden gurgle of a stream as it trickled over the boulders.

‘It is true,’ said Karlé. ‘We must accept it. Come with me. Talk to me. Let us see what can be done.’

He watched the woman as she turned and went sorrowfully away.

‘Marion is dead,’ said William blankly. ‘I shall never see her again.’

‘You will recover from your grief,’ said Karlé soothingly. ‘Remember there is the cause.’

William turned on him angrily. ‘Do you think I shall ever forget her? My wife … Marion … She was so beautiful … she was all I ever wanted …’

‘Remember what you want most is the freedom of Scotland.’

‘I want only her … safe and well in my arms.’

‘That is for today,’ replied Karlé. ‘But there is tomorrow. William, it was disastrous from the first. Something like this had to happen. You have chosen the dangerous life and you must live it.’

He was silent for a few seconds. Then he turned to Karlé. ‘There is something left,’ he said. ‘Revenge. Yes, that is what I shall live for now. My sword shall not rest happy in its scabbard until I have had his blood. Vengeance,’ he cried in a voice of thunder. ‘Vengeance!’

He would not listen. They were a goodly company. They had failed before because they were so few. More had joined them. They were ready now to go into the town.

‘Heselrig for me. No man must slay him. His blood is for me.’ He was living for the moment when he should run his sword through that body, when Heselrig should die.

He planned carefully. They must succeed. He would never have a moment’s peace until he had avenged Marion’s death. But both Stephen and Karlé had warned him, he must plan with care. This time they must succeed.

They would creep into the town by night. They would go to Heselrig’s house. He would be in bed like as not – so much the better.

Wallace would divide his forces. But he with his own picked men should take Heselrig.

It was dark as they came into the town. There was no sign of activity. Only a few guards to give the warning but they were speedily despatched before they could utter a sound.

Into the streets they went. All was quiet. Everything had gone according to plan.

He was standing at Heselrig’s door. He knocked on it imperiously. ‘Open … open on the King’s business.’ He laughed exultantly. It was indeed King Edward’s business for he was going to find himself a sheriff the less after this night.

The bolts were drawn. The startled face of one of the guards looked at him only briefly before he was felled to the ground.

Wallace started up the stairs shouting: ‘Sheriff. Come forth. It is an urgent matter.’

Heselrig appeared at the top of the stairs, a robe hastily thrown about him.

‘Who comes?’ he asked in consternation.

Wallace was before him. ‘Death comes,’ he answered, and lifting his dagger plunged it into the Sheriff’s heart.

For a moment Heselrig looked startled. Then he shouted, ‘Help me. Assassins …’ as he fell to the floor, the blood gushing from his mouth.

William bent over him and stabbed him several times.

‘For Marion,’ he cried. ‘For my lost love.’

There was a sound above him. He heard a voice.

‘Father, what’s wrong? Where are you?’

William stood up, laughing inwardly. The son! The one who had aspired to become Marion’s husband!

Let us have a look at this brave young fellow, he thought.

The young man appeared on the stairs. He looked at the body of his father and screamed.

William caught him by the arm and he saw the terror leap into the young man’s eyes.

‘What …?’ he stammered. ‘Who …?’

‘Wallace,’ answered William, ‘husband to Marion Bradfute. She was murdered by your father. He has paid the price and so shall you.’

He lifted his dagger.

The lifeless bodies of the Sheriff and his son lay side by side on the stairs.

There were shouts in the town.

‘Heselrig is dead! The tyrant has been slain. Wallace is here.’

The people came running into the streets. Some had weapons which they had previously managed to conceal. Now was the time. The Sheriff could harm them no more and Wallace was here.

There was slaughter in the streets of Lanark that night and the English, who had been taken by surprise, were defeated. By the morning William Wallace had won his first town for Scotland. Those English who were not killed had fled. Wallace had come for revenge and he had won victory as well.

It was unhoped-for success.

They must make the most of it. He garrisoned the town for fear the English should return. The citizens were with him. They would fight with Wallace against the oppressor. Heselrig the tyrant was dead and could no longer harm them.

They rallied round William Wallace, calling him their saviour, their deliverer.

It was a beginning. Wallace had killed Heselrig and taken Lanark. Throughout the country there was a call to arms. At last there was a hope of driving out the English. Even Wallace, in his wildest dreams, had not imagined such success.

This was just what he needed to take his mind off his misery; he could throw himself into the fight; it was magnificent. All over the country people talked of Wallace. He had become a legendary figure and it was said that the English shuddered at the mention of his name.

He was acclaimed as commander of the Scottish armies. He declared he was acting on behalf of the King, John Baliol whom he called the prisoner of the English, and more and more flocked to his banner.

William Douglas joined him and they took Scone together. They overran the Lennox. Volunteers were joining the victorious army by the thousand.

Within the space of months the whole of Scotland was free and the Scots had even made forays over the Border into Westmorland and Cumberland.

This was the state of affairs when Edward returned from France, free of his commitments there, and married to the sister of the King of France.

He decided at once that he must subdue Scotland for ever.