The Forest Laird(11)

Will sat rapt, gazing at Ewan’s massive bow as he ran his hands, first one and then the other, up and down the planed, polished surface of the unstrung stave. It was far taller than he was, and perfectly circular in section, too thick in the middle for his ten-yearold hand to grasp, but tapering gently towards either end, where it was less than a finger’s width in diameter and carefully notched to hold the looped ends of the string of braided sinew that would transform it from a simple but beautiful staff into the deadly weapon that could hurl an arrow for hundreds of yards to pierce steel plate and heavy, linked-ring mail.

He somehow sensed me watching and hefted the weapon parallel to the floor so that I could see the flames reflecting along its polished length. “Have ye ever seen the like, Jamie?” His voice was filled with wonder. “Have ye ever seen anything like this? I want to learn to use one o’ these, to use it like Ewan.”

Our host had not been sleeping, for he spoke now without moving his head or opening his eye. “Then you have a long road ahead of you, Will Wallace, for it will take you years to grow big enough to grip it properly, and longer still to build the thews to pull it. That is from my mother’s people’s land of Wales. It is not meant for ordinary men, and ordinary men have neither the strength nor the skills to pull it, let alone use it.”

“I’ll learn,” Will answered, “though it take me all my life from this day on. My name cames from the Welsh—Uallash. That’s the Gaelic word for Welsh. Will you teach me?”

Ewan opened his single eye. “Teach you! How can I do that? I am an outlaw, and now a wanted murderer. I slew fourteen men today.”

“You killed fourteen men who murdered your mother.” Will looked directly back at him, his face strangely solemn, his words emotionless, and as he spoke it struck me that my carefree friend and cousin had changed greatly in the past few days. “Forbye four dogs that sought to kill you,” he added in that same tone. “You didna murder anybody.”

Ewan grunted something deep in his chest that might have been a sardonic laugh. “I doubt the folk who find Laird William and his men will see it that way.”

“That was Laird William? The knight?” Again I noted the flatness in my cousin’s voice.

“No knight, that one,” Ewan replied. “Nobly born, but base in all things else. Aye, that was William, Laird of Ormiston, the craven who kept far off, then tried to kill you two when he thought himself safe from me. Who else did you think it might have been?”

Will still wore that expression that was new to me, a stillness marked by cold and angry-looking eyes.

“It matters not. He’s dead, and so he should be. Where will you go now?”

“Back to the forest, to Ettrick. There’s nothing to keep me here now. And if they hunted me before, they’ll really hound me now.”

Will stared into the fire, and what he said next came as a surprise to me as much as it did to Ewan.

“Come with us, then, to Elderslie. To our kinfolk there. No one there will ken you for an outlaw. They winna know you at all. We’ll say you worked for my father and werena there when the farm was attacked. Afterwards you found us, then brought us to Elderslie. They will be grateful for that, and my uncle Malcolm will find a place for you. He’s a good man, for I’ve heard my father say he set great store by him. And you, you’re strong—worth your wage to any man that hires you. You’ll be better off there, working for us, than hiding in the forest a’ the time.”

The big man produced what I now knew to be a smile. “Working for you, eh? How old did you say you are?”

“I’m ten. But I’ll soon be eleven. And I didn’t mean working for me. I was talking about my uncle Malcolm.”

“And what about my face?”

“It’s a good face … once you get over the fright of it. You can wear your mask at first, if you like, till folk get to know you.”

“Hmm.” Ewan’s broad brow, the only unmarred surface on his face, furrowed. “How am I to know if I would like it there?”

“The same way we’ll know. We’ve never been there either, so we’ll find that out thegither. But you’ll like it. And besides, I’ll need you there to teach me to be an archer.”

Ewan Scrymgeour placed one massive palm across his eyes and shook his head, then inhaled a great breath. “Well, William Wallace, that might be a good idea, and it might not. I’ll ha’e to think on it. Now get you two to bed, the both of you. I’m going back outside to talk to my mother about it.”