The Forest Laird (10 page)

We hauled the inert body onto the bank and knelt beside it, staring in horror at the blood that oozed through the sodden yellow hair. But then the Viking snorted and coughed and writhed away from us, spewing up water, and I thought I had never seen or heard anything so beautiful. He pushed himself up shakily on straight arms, spitting the sour taste of vomit from his mouth, and then sat hunched, clutching his head, his elbows supported on his raised knees.

He groaned after a moment and cocked his head to squint painfully at Will. “You hit me?”

“Aye, but not on the head. Christ, man, I thought I’d killed you. I caught the sole o’ your boot and cowped ye sideways and your head hit the log. Are you all right?”

“Sweet Jesus, no, how could I be? My head’s broken. Let me be for a minute.” We did as he wished and he sat silent for a spell, groaning quietly from time to time and cradling his head in his hands, rocking it tentatively from side to side. But then he took his hands away, still grimacing, and gazed at the blood on the fingers of one while he probed gently at his scalp with the other.

“Ye’ve got a bump there like a goose egg,” Will told him, “but it doesna seem like a deep cut. Just a dunt.”

“Aye, the bone stopped it frae bein’ deeper.” He looked down at himself. “Was I in the water?”

“Aye, for a bit. We pulled ye out.”

“I’m freezing!”

“Aye, well, so are we. It’s February.” All three of us were shivering, and Will stood up. “I’ll light a fire, ’gin my tinderbox is still dry.”

“Ah, Jesus!” Another hiss of pain and a gentle dab at the swelling on his head. “Mine will be, if yours isna. It’s in my scrip, sealed wi’ wax. Let’s do it quick then, for I’m turnin’ blue.”

Half an hour later the three of us sat naked by a roaring fire, and the pale warmth of the sunlight felt cold on those parts of us the flames could not reach. Will and I had cut willow sticks and stuck them in the soft earth to support our wet clothes, and the garments were steaming steadily, closer to the fire than we could sit.

Will reached out and took the Viking’s chin in his hand, tilting it to where he could see the large swelling beneath the still-wet mat of yellow hair. “Can you see right?”

The Viking twisted his head away and glared at Will. “Of course I can see. My eyes are open, are they not?”

Will held up his first two fingers. “How many fingers?”

“Two. D’ye think I’m daft?” The Viking shut his eyes and rolled his head carefully on his neck. “My head aches hellishly, but I’m fine otherwise. So … who
are
you two, and what are you doing here?”

“We live here. Or close by. We’re students at the Abbey.” Will introduced the two of us, naming us the nephews of Sir Malcolm Wallace of Elderslie. “And you?”

“Andrew Murray. That’s our family name today, but it was once de Moray, and before that de Moravia.”

The name was familiar to me. “There’s a Sir Andrew Murray who is the King’s justiciar in the North, is there not?”

“Aye, Sir Andrew Murray of Petty, on the Moray Firth. My father.”

“You have a firth named for you?” Will was impressed, but the other shook his head, smiling.

“No. It was we who took our name from the firth, back in the days of King David, when first we came from Normandy.”

Will whistled. “How come you here, then?”

“I came with my master, Lord John Balliol. He is now in conference with your Abbot, on the business of the King.”

“Your
master
?” Will contrived to sound amused. “Are you a servant, then?”

Murray shrugged. “Of a kind, I am. I am squire to Lord John. His senior squire. I am to be knighted come my eighteenth birthday, in three months.”

“You are to be a knight?”

The other looked surprised. “Aye. Aren’t you?”

Will laughed then, but did not pursue the topic. Instead, he reached sideways to pick up one of the quarterstaves we had rescued from the river. “Where did you learn to use this?”

“Lord John. He spent much time in England when he was a boy and learned the skills of it there. He has used one ever since, and watching him and Siward training with them when first I joined his service, I asked to be taught it, too.”

“Who’s Siward?”

“Lord John’s Master-at-Arms. An Englishman. He’s also my instructor.”

“He taught you well. You almost had me off the bridge.”

Murray sniffed. “I hate ‘almost.’ It never wins. I was the one who went down.” He glanced then at me and smiled. “Are you two brothers, then?”

From that point on the day passed quickly, with Andrew feeling better all the time and soon losing the ache in his head. We discussed a surprising number of things, sitting there waiting for our clothes to dry sufficiently to be worn again.

It was obvious to me early on that Will and Andrew would be firm friends, and it pains me, looking back, to admit that my first reaction was one of intense jealousy. The logical part of my mind told me at once that this new friendship must surely be a transient thing, since Andrew Murray would move on within days, returning with his master to his home in the far north. But the wrench of recognition that I would no longer be Will’s single boyhood friend came hard and brought with it a bitter resentment of the newcomer.

But then, thank God, my sourness vanished as quickly as it had arisen, for I saw that their attraction to each other was as natural as sunlight. They were almost equally sized, and only a year separated them in age, and they both thought similarly about many things, including physical prowess, of which the quarterstaff was merely the first symbol. Of course these two would be friends, I thought, for they were equals, in athletic prowess at least, and Will could no more resist Murray’s natural grace and charm than I myself could.

I was spared from thinking too deeply about it that day, however, when the talk turned to archery.

We were all dressed again by that time, our clothing dried but stinking of woodsmoke, and Will had surged to his feet, making a point of some kind. I had been sitting cross-legged, and I stood as soon as he did, pushing myself up using only my legs. Andrew tried to do the same, but as he tensed to make the effort his eyes flew wide and he blanched. He groaned and brought both hands to his temples, squeezing his forehead between them. Will and I froze, watching him with alarm, but his face cleared quickly and he took his hands away from his brow cautiously.

“My head started to spin,” he said, a little shamefacedly. “I didn’t expect that.”

“Why not?” Will said. “You almost broke your skull but a short while ago, and that’s the first time you’ve tried to stand up quickly since. Here.” He held out a hand and Andrew grasped it, pulling himself up easily this time. I noticed that Will did not release his hand, but instead shifted his grip on it, an odd expression on his face, and then he raised his other hand to me, beckoning with his fingers. “Jamie, your hand.”

I was mystified as he guided my hand to replace his own, my fingers curling beneath Andrew’s.

“Feel that, and tell me if I’m wrong.”

As soon as I felt Andrew Murray’s fingers against my own, my confusion vanished. I turned our new friend’s hand palm upward to see the ridges of callused skin that coated his first two fingers. I felt my eyebrows rise.

“You’re a bowman?”

“What?” He pulled his hand away, clenching his fist and grinning again, uncertainly, I thought. “Aye, after a fashion. I am. It’s not a knightly pastime, but I enjoy it from time to time.”

“It’s not a pastime at all.” Will’s voice was flat. “And you don’t get finger pads like that by practising from time to time. That comes only from years of work with a taut bowstring, as these ones did.” He held out his own right hand, his first two fingers extended and parted in a V.

Andrew’s lips pursed in a soundless whistle as he gazed at the marked difference between Will’s calluses and his own. “By Saint Stephen’s martyred wounds, another bowman.”

“No, not so.” There was no speck of humour in Will’s denial. “You are a bowman. So is Jamie. I am an archer.”

The other’s lip quirked. “Bowman, archer … Is there a difference?”

“Aye—about two hundred paces.”

Andrew blinked. “What? You can hit a mark at two hundred paces?”

“Sweet Jesus, aye. Nine times out of ten. And so can Jamie here, six of those times. But I meant I could hit a mark two hundred paces
beyond
any you can reach.”

“I think not,” Andrew said, his tone reflecting disappointment that his new friend would lie so blatantly.

“Think what you like, my friend, but I will prove it to you once you tell me what kind of bow you use.”

“Elmwood. Five feet long.”

“Go, then, and fetch it. I will get mine and meet you here again in a half-hour.”

Murray’s face tightened. “Sweet Jesus! What hour is it?”

I glanced at the sun and shadows. “About the fourth after noon.”

“I lost track of the day! Now I must get back. Lord John might be looking for me.” He bent down to gather up his cloak, then looked at Will again as he straightened. “You have a yew bow, don’t you? A longbow.”

“I do.”

“A round one.”

“Yes.”

“Aye, I see it now … those calluses. So be it, then, I believe your claim. But where in the name of God did you find it? Yon’s an English weapon, and English archers don’t part with their bows. There are not many big yew trees in Scotland.”

Will smiled. “I didn’t need many—just the one. But in truth my teacher found it near our home in Elderslie. He cut the stave, cured and dried it, and taught me how to make the bow from that point on.”

“A full longbow of your own! Can you be here tomorrow? I would like to test it.”

Will grinned. He had been using his huge yew bow for more than two months by then and knew its power, and I knew the anticipation of demonstrating it to his new friend must be more than he could bear. “Aye, if you’re still here and your master keeps the Abbot and his brethren in conference.”

“We will be here. The same time?”

“I’ll be waiting,” Will answered.

2

T
he following morning I went directly to Brother Duncan and asked to be relieved of my tasks that day. He gave me a stern look, though I had learned long since that his air of disapproval was but a sham. I had never asked for such a dispensation before, though, and he asked me what I was about. I told him of our meeting the day before with the visiting Andrew Murray, and he merely nodded and granted me leave. I ran to find Will, and we had time to collect our targets and set them up in the glade by the river bridge well in advance of Andrew’s arrival.

He could not stay long, he told us when he came, for Lord John had need of him that afternoon, but there was ample time for Will to demonstrate his new bow’s power and for Andrew to try it for himself. Try as he would, though, the lad from Moray was incapable of pulling the powerful weapon to its full stretch, and he finally surrendered it to Will and watched ruefully as my cousin sank six arrows into the centre of the farthest target, two hundred paces away.

“How far will it reach fully flexed?” Andrew asked as we went to fetch the arrows.

“Three hundred, probably more,” Will said. “But at full stretch you can lose too many arrows, so I keep my distance to around two hundred. These are target arrows, bear in mind. Barbed warheads and hunting tips make a big difference in flight. The weight of those heads alters everything.”

“You have warheads?” Andrew sounded impressed.

Will shook his head. “Nah, but even hunting barbs make a big difference. Man-killers would be heavier yet, but I have no need of those.”

“Aye … Well, Will Wallace, I have never seen the like of it. I wouldn’t like to have you aiming at me. Not even Siward is that good. But then, Siward is a swordsman above all else. He has a bow, but seldom uses it as you do.” He snorted a laugh. “I wondered yesterday at the shoulders on you, the bulk of you. Now I know it’s from pulling that thing. But what about a sword? Do you use one?”

“Nah!” Will was retrieving his arrows by then, examining each of them for damage before replacing them in his quiver. “Swords are for knights and I’ll never need one. I ha’e my quarterstaff and a good knife. If e’er I’m in a spot where I’m threatened, the knife should be enough to finish anyone who gets by my arrows and my staff.” He grinned. “I’m no’ that violent, ye know.”

I knew that what he had said was true. For all his size and fearsome strength, I had never seen Will lose his temper or provoke a fight with anyone. I had seen him fight savagely, but rarely and never with a weapon, and only in response to the kind of provocation that most people, seeing the sheer size of him, were loath to offer. Yet I find myself examining those words of his years later, wondering whether I might have had any presentiment of what the years ahead would hold for him. But of course I did not. We were innocents in those days, incapable of foreseeing the pain and chaos that lay ahead for all of us.

The remainder of that morning flew by pleasantly, and when the time came for Andrew to return to the Abbey to attend his master, we went with him, all three of us aware that his departure the following day would leave a gap in each of our lives. We walked slowly, our bows slung over our shoulders, as he answered our questions about his life as a knightly squire, and any thoughts Will and I might have had about his lot being one of privileged sloth and luxury were quickly banished. His day-to-day training to become a knight was far more demanding than anything expected of us in the Abbey school.

We had reached the main entrance to the Abbey proper, and it was plain to see that Lord John and his associates were still in conference, for there was little sign of life other than the routine activities of the resident brothers, and so we stood talking quietly in the forecourt, about fifty paces from the main entrance. I have no memory of what we were discussing, for it was Will and Andrew who were speaking while I was merely looking around, but I saw a figure emerge from a side door and start towards us, then stop suddenly and take careful note of us. The man appeared to be both tall and elderly, stooped with age but walking youthfully enough and wearing a long habit of brown wool trimmed with green edging. I might have paid him no more attention had he not stopped so obviously, and the manner in which he stood there peering at us struck me as peculiar.