The Forest Laird(173)
Wee Mungo had been the only one of his retainers left with him, and he had managed to achieve that by demonstrating to his English captors that the big man was utterly harmless and could be left to himself all day long without ever getting into any more mischief than a young boy would. And so when the time came to escape, Andrew Murray and his giant companion walked out through the fortress’s main gate as part of a work party, as they did every day, but on this day they had surprised and overcome their lackadaisical guard, tied the fellow up, and simply walked away. From Chester, the two men had made their way north and east to the Solway Firth, and thence north to Glasgow. It had taken them seven days.
“But didn’t they come after you? They must have tried to catch you, surely?”
Andrew sipped at his wine, his face serious. “Aye. They did. They were in better condition than we were from the outset, and seven of them caught up to us between Carlisle and the Firth.”
“They caught you, but you’re here. How did you escape?”
“They didn’t catch us. I said they caught up to us. Mungo killed them. All of them. He does that sometimes.”
That silenced me for a spell, as I thought about the childlike giant who had sat so bemusedly in front of me just a short while before. I stared hard at Andrew Murray and he stared equally hard into his cup, as though examining his reflection in the wine.
“Mungo is two very different people,” Murray explained. “One of those is the innocent, gentle soul you met tonight. The other is the antithesis of the first. A warrior, but a warrior unlike any you have ever seen. When that person takes over, Mungo becomes a killer, savage, merciless, and implacable.”
“To everyone?”
“God, no, Heaven forbid! No, he knows which side he is on at all times, and he would never turn on a comrade, but to anyone facing him on the wrong side, he is Death incarnate.”
I made the sign of the cross upon my breast. “May God forgive him.” I reached down and collected the wine jug, and divided what remained between us. “So what will you do now that you’re back in Scotland?”
“Back in Scotland and outlawed, you mean. I’m a fugitive from the King’s Peace.”
“The King of England’s Peace.”
He grinned. “Aye, but to Edward, there’s no difference. What will I do? I’ll fight him to my last breath. My lands in Moray and elsewhere are vast, and largely empty, with ample space for fighting. If Edward of England wants to seize them, he will have to come and do so in person, and I will not be standing idly by, watching him from some far mountaintop. So I am heading home, as quickly as I can, and once I’m there I intend to raise the men of Moray and stir up Hell itself against these arrogant English overlords, as they like to call themselves. I intend to teach them that Scotland is ours, that they have no place in it, and that they never have had legitimate claim to any part of it. Who do they think they are, these strutting bantam cocks? And who does this benighted king of theirs believe gave him the right to come up here and impose his will upon free folk who have no need of his interference, no desire to suffer his attentions, and no intention of lying down and allowing him and his thieving, ignorant bullies to trample them and their rights? I swear to you, Jamie, by the living God, that if no other man in Scotland will stand up against this aging, braggart crusader from a bygone day, I, Andrew Murray, will defy him alone and die, if I must, with my spittle soaking his grizzled beard—” He broke off and laughed. “Do I sound overeager? You did ask me! First, though, before I tackle any of that, I have to talk to Will Wallace. The Bishop tells me you can take me to him.”
“Aye, I can. But why do you need to talk to him?”
“Can you not guess, Father James? I need to conscript him to my cause, to help me drive these English oafs out of my country.”
“But he cannot.” It came out as a blurt, and it earned me a disconcerting look from his level blue eyes.
“He cannot?”
I flapped my hands, feeling foolish. “He cannot. He has sworn an oath not to become involved in the fighting—”
“Until Scotland produces a leader he can trust and follow. Yes, yes, Bishop Wishart did tell me.” He grinned, and the sight of his flashing white teeth almost made me feel better about what I instinctively knew he was going to say next. “Well, that has been taken care of, because Scotland now has a leader whom I will swear William Wallace can trust, a leader born on the battlefield at Dunbar, this year, and raised to maturity these past few months in England’s prisons. Andrew Murray of Petty, Lord of Avoch and Moray and commander of at least five thousand fighting men, every one of them dedicated to watching the arse of the last Englishman in Scotland vanish back over the border into England. Let us drink to that, Father James.” He raised his cup and emptied it at a gulp, then set it down and smiled at me again. “Now, when can we leave for Selkirk?”