Braveheart (10 page)

At the base of the precipice beside the mountain loch stood the ruins of an ancient church. Two horses were already tethered outside when she rode up. Peaks of the stone walls that once had supported a roof now caught yellow flecks of candlelight from within the windowless shell. Murron tied her horse beside the other two and, carrying her bundle, pushed herself through the crack of the old door, its hinges rusted in place.

Up by the altar, lit by three candles, knelt William in prayer. He turned to look at her as she made her way in, and with a smile he lifted his eyes to heaven as if to thank God that she had finally arrived. Beside the candles stood Uncle Argyle.

Murron had seen the old man only once, when she was but a child and he had appeared as such an imposing, commanding figure. Now, in the candlelight of the church, with the stars bright in the unobstructed sky above their heads, he seemed no less a manifestation of the awesome hand of God. His hair was all gray but still long and wild. His shoulders were broad, like William’s, though perhaps the old man had grown a bit thicker around the middle. Yet it was a sign of wisdom and prosperity that any man could live so long and have enough to eat through every season. Argyle’s face still bore the same fearsome expression she remembered, enhanced by the wild business of his eyebrows, the aggressive jut of his chin, the fierce squint of his eyes. But when he moved down the aisle to her and lifted his great head and touched it to her hair, she felt not only blessed but loved.

She stepped into the confessional booth, still intact at the back of the church, as Uncle Argyle returned to William, who resumed his prayers.

Murron emerged; she had changed into the wedding dress she had made from the cloth she bought. William rose from his knees and watched her float down the aisle, and on his face was an expression that said his whole life was worth this moment.

Together, the two lovers turned to Uncle Argyle.

The old man cleared his throat and said, “You have come to pledge each to the other before Almighty God. You have brought symbols of your vows to each other?”

From within the folds of his fresh woolen wrappings William withdrew a strip of cloth woven into the checked pattern distinctive to his family. He passed the cloth to Uncle Argyle, who held it at both ends and lifted it up toward the star-cluttered sky and stretched it out before the universe’s Creator. He prayed in silence; William would later explain to Murron that Uncle Argyle sometimes prayed with no words at all, feeling those silent prayers were the purest. Not yet knowing that, she watched the old man in this holy moment and felt as if her heart was being held up to heaven to float there as pure and timeless as a star.

Argyle lowered the cloth and fixed his fierce eyes upon William. “William, do you swear on all that is eternal that you will love Murron with all your heart for all your life?”

“Aye. Oh, Aye.”

“Then tell her.”

“Murron, I will love you with all my heart for all my life.”

“And Murron,” Uncle Argyle said, “will you pledge the same?”

“William,” she said softly, “I will love you with all my heart for all my life.”

“Face each other, and stretch out your arms,” Uncle Argyle commanded.

They obeyed, turning toward each other, and each reaching out with the right hand to grasp the other’s arm almost to the elbow, bringing their inner wrists together, where Uncle Argyle wrapped the strip of tartan and tied it in a knot.

“Have you brought any other signs of your love that you wish now to give?”

With her left hand Murron reached into the bodies of her dress and withdrew a handmade handkerchief, embroidered with a thistle to look like the one she first gave him those many years ago. She watched William’s face for his reaction. The lower edges of his eyes lit in yellow as tears of love caught the candlelight.

Uncle Argyle’s voice was husky as he lifted his hand and said, “May the Lord bless thee and keep thee. May the Lord cause His face to shine upon thee. May the Lord lift high His countenance upon thee and give thee peace, both now and forever.”

The lovers kissed.

Argyle blew out two of the candles and, lifting the third, moved down the aisle with William and Murron behind him, gazing into each other’s eyes. At the door Argyle blew out the last candle and, with a grand grunt of effort, forced his way through the opening there and out into the darkness.

William and Murron, their right wrists still bound together by the strip of tartan, tried to negotiate the narrow opening together and laughed at their awkwardness, as he first tried to let her precede him and she was wedged by her right arm trailing across her body; she backed out so he could go ahead of her and he trapped himself the same way. Finally, giggling like giddy children, he squeezed out with his back toward the darkness and his right arm trailing to her and she edged out facing the opposite direction.

So Murron saw them first. Then Will, turning, saw them too: a dozen of the neighbor farmers in their finest Highland dress, one of them—old Campbell, with Hamish by his side—carrying bagpipes.

Murron felt William’s arm stiffen alongside hers; his face looked pale, even for someone in moonlight. All this had been meant to be the holiest secret; she had been so vigilant in keeping this from her parents, carefully stealing away to embroider the handkerchief in private so they would never grow curious or suspicious. She loved them dearly, trusted them completely, but for their sake and hers, she would keep the secret of this marriage from them until the pregnancy that she prayed would come soon had begun to show, and then she would be free from the threat of
prima noctes
. Now here were men from all over the valley! How did this happen! William would never have let the secret slip; he had fetched Uncle Argyle all the way from—

Then she saw William looking at Uncle Argyle; it must have been he who told these men!

And Murron was right. William stared at his uncle, and Argyle stared back, his face full of admission but showing no guilt. The farmers were smirking, even enjoying William and Murron’s surprise. They were the same men, most of them, that William and Uncle Argyle had seen that midnight long ago, gathered around the graves of William’s family, playing the forbidden pipes in farewell to their friends. William held them in esteem, even affection; but Murron knew, instinctively knew from the silence at the center of William’s soul and the stiffness of his powerful arm, that he was not given to letting his secrets out.

Old Campbell began to play the pipes. The notes were clear and beautiful, drifting up to mingle with the stars. But still William frowned.

Uncle Argyle saw this displeasure in William’s face and moved close to him. “A marriage needs the pipes,” Argyle said, “and the knowledge of some others to seal the pact not only with God but with man.”

“But . . . ,” William said, “we discussed why this must be in secret.”

“And it is in secret still,” Argyle said. William frowned at him again, but Argyle was unshaken. “You must know who to trust. Yes, a secret is worthless if not kept—but it is equally worthless if it doesn’t find another worthy of trust to share its load. These men stayed faithful to you and to the memory of your traded the story of your father’s death for a share of those lands that would then be forfeit. Here, now, you are trusting them with the secret of your love, a secret even greater than life, for if you know what a man values even more than life, for if you know what a man Argyle wrapped his still strong arms around William and drew him to his chest, speaking even through the embrace. “I have taught you everything I know, but this much you must learn on your own: know whom to trust. Not everyone you trust can be loved; not everyone you love can be trusted. But your life is full when you find that place to share your secrets. That is my wedding gift to you.”

Argyle rode away and held back the tears of farewell. William and Murron rode the path to the top of the precipice, where, in the shelter of the grove, they spent their honeymoon.

Still sweaty from their lovemaking, they rode to her house and reached it just before dawn. He stayed with the horses in the shadows of the Caledonia trees and watched her as she ran across the grass, growing bright with the coming dawn, and slipped soundlessly through the window of her parents home.

He wanted to linger and watch her there forever. But the sun was just below the mountaintops. He lifted his hand. He didn’t know if she saw him, but she waved just before she closed the window.

William rode away alone, leading her horse behind him.

19

FOR SIX WEEKS THEY STOLE TIME WHENEVER THEY COULD; and yet the long nights of the coming winter were never long enough. When the moon was down or hidden behind clouds, they went to his home—their home—and shared moments—literally but moments—beside the hearth. And in those stolen moments William Wallace understood his uncle’s old truth that shared warmth was greater warmth. On other nights, when the sky opened and the moon sailed high and proud, they rode to the grove and celebrated again in the newness of their love.

Days they pretended—or thought they did—that the flowering romance everyone had witnessed had wilted before it bloomed. On church days they never spoke; on market days they passed on the road and William would nod, once for her whole family, and never speak her name. Murron thought it was remotely possible that her mother knew that something far greater was going on, but she was certain her father was completely in the dark. In fact they had been aware of every time Murron had slipped out the window. They had known, and in their hearts, they had approved.

The farmers they—or rather Uncle Argyle—had entrusted with their secret kept it far better than they. They pretended not to notice the unnaturalness of the community’s most desirable bachelor refusing to even look in the direction of its most beautiful maiden. But they never elbowed each other about it, never whispered and hid smiles. And they always pretended not to see it when William and Murron passed each other in the crowded streets of the village and exchanged words without ever crossing glances.

Such a moment occurred as Murron moved through the village of Lanark on a market day. It was a pleasant, sunny morning; the air was alive with the music of flutes and the laughter of children entertained by a juggler. English soldiers were there, too; they admired Murron as she walked among stalls of dangling birds, piles of farm vegetables, woven wool laid out on planks. She stopped to admire a cart full of fresh flowers. When she looked up she saw William on the opposite side of the cart, seeming to study the rose petals spread before him and never looking to the beautiful face beyond them. “I’ve missed you,” he said toward the flowers.

“Shush!” She lifted a whole red rose and smelled it. Putting it down again, she whispered, “It’s only been a day.”

“It’s been forever.”

“Aye. To me as well.”

“Tonight then.”

“My mother is suspicious already! Not tonight!”

“Then when?”

“Tonight!”

She hurried away from him, leaving him smiling.

Drunken English soldiers were standing by an ale cask, and they spotted Murron moving through the fair, glowing, beautiful. The soldiers smirked at each other; as Murron passed, one of them grabbed her wrist.

“Where are you going,
lass?”
the soldier asked.

“Let go,” she said.

A second drunken soldier piped up. “Why don’t you marry my friend here? Then I’ll take the first night!” The laughter of his friends encouraged him; he pulled Murron into his arms; she shoved him away with surprising strength, and he staggered back to the greater laughter of his friends. For a moment Murron thought they would let it go at that—and then one of them grabbed her from behind, spun her around, and kissed her hard on the lips.

She broke free and slapped him—hard and sharp. It knocked the grin off his toothless mouth. The first soldier she pushed now threw her down against sacks of grain, and they were all over her, pinning her down, ripping her clothes, a full-scale public gang rape. As the townspeople tried to move in, the three soldiers waiting their turn at Murron pulled their knives, and the townspeople backed off.

The soldier pinning Murron to the ground, his breath hot with the stench of ale, growled into her face, “Bitch, who do you think you are?” He jammed his mouth down against hers for a long, awful time.

But then he tried to pull back, his scram muffled; she was biting off the end of his tongue! He pulled away, clawing at his mangled mouth. Now his thoughts of rape were forgotten; he pulled back his huge fist to crush it against her face . . .

But the hand was caught—by William! He jabbed the soldier’s elbow in a direction it was never meant to bend. The soldier, his mouth already bloody, howled in new agony, but William still wouldn’t let him go; he swung the soldier by his rubbery arm into his comrades.

Two of the soldiers leapt forward, swinging their short swords; William ducked and knocked their ale cask into their knees, then lifted the whole table where they were sitting and rammed it into the faces of two more attackers.

“William!” Murron yelled.

Her shout was too late to warn him; as he was facing one soldier with a knife, another grabbed his neck from behind. But William’s strength was great and his adrenalin greater; as the soldier in front stabbed, William whirled and the knife sunk into the soldier holding him. William snatched a leg from the shattered table and crushed the stabber’s skull. All the rapists, the whole gang of them, were bleeding on the ground.