Throughout it all, I lay unconscious in the junction of the crossroads, bleeding from my ears.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
1
In the general discussion surrounding the disappearance of Hugh Braidfoot, we learned later, someone in Lanark had let slip that the missing man was the same Braidfoot whose daughter Mirren had married the outlaw William Wallace. That story had very soon reached the ears of the sheriff, William Hazelrig.
Hazelrig had been singularly unsuccessful in putting down any of the local Scots outlaws or even interfering with their illegal activities, which consisted mainly of poaching venison, and because he had been unable to stop them—they insisted upon some imagined right to refuse to die of starvation—he was afraid people were laughing at him, and so he pounced on this new information as a means of salvaging his name. He anticipated that the dutiful daughter might at this difficult time be tempted to return to visit her ailing mother, and it seemed likely to him that she might even be accompanied on such a visit by her outlawed husband. And so he had dispatched Sir Lionel Redvers to take the mother into custody.
What Hazelrig had hoped to achieve by doing that was unclear to me at the time, and even now, decades afterwards, it still makes me shake my head in disbelief. Had he chosen to keep a discreet watch on the Braidfoot household, he would easily have taken Mirren when she arrived, and even had Will not been with her, he might thus have been able to lure him out of the forest on a mission of rescue. But by instead arresting the blameless Miriam Braidfoot, the sheriff was giving clear warning to Will and his wife to stay well away from Lanark if they valued their freedom. Had Sir Lionel Redvers’s little expedition passed by that crossroads even one-quarter of an hour earlier, we might never have encountered them, and much might have been different. We would have turned towards Lamington and discovered that the lady Miriam had been taken, and we would then have returned to Will in the forest, to initiate inquiries through Bishop Wishart. But Fate decided to abet Hazelrig’s efforts.
As soon as the English left, Ewan ran over to where I lay, expecting to find me gravely wounded because of the blood he could see on the side of my head, but he found me to be merely unconscious, with a strong pulse and breathing easily. He made me as comfortable as could be and set Andrew and Father Jacobus to watch over me while he and the other six archers hurried after Redvers’s departing force, to be within sight of them before the enemy had any chance to do anything further with Mirren and her mother. He had lost custody of Mirren, he would tell me long afterwards, but he was prepared to die before losing track of her altogether.
By the time Ewan arrived back, I had regained consciousness, though I could barely move against the pain of my broken ribs. It hurt even to breathe shallowly. Besides which the pain in my head was like a throbbing drum beat, and my vision had not yet returned to normal, so I still saw two of whatever I happened to be looking at. Despite all of that, though, I was fully compos mentis and I was pleased to see Ewan step into the light from our fire that night. It was to be the last pleasure I experienced for months, and it was snuffed the instant I saw the look on his face.
I was flat on my back, lying close to the fire, and for the first few moments he ignored me, speaking quietly to Andrew, and the tone of his voice told me he thought I was still unconscious. When he finally asked if my condition had improved at all, the little man nodded towards me. “See for yourself,” he said. “He’s been awake for more than an hour. But he can’t talk and he can’t move. His jaw’s broken, along with several other things. Nothing too serious, but he’s not going to be running around for a month or two.”
A moment later, Ewan was kneeling above me.
“How are you? Can you get up?”
“No.” I was as startled as he was to hear my voice emerge in a cracked, feathery whisper, but it was the first sound I had made since being injured and I could not believe how much pain and effort it had caused me to utter that single syllable. I tried to grit my teeth and regretted it immediately. Then, when my heartbeat had slowed down again and I thought I could control myself, I forced myself to speak gently, whispering, almost breathing the words as I asked, “What’s wrong?” It emerged, almost inaudibly, as Oss ong?
He had been peering at me with concern, but now he scowled. “What’s wrong with what? With your face? You’ve been worked over with heavy boots. I’m surprised you can even open your eyes, let alone whisper.”
I closed my eyes and the pain started to dissipate immediately, but I forced myself to look at him again, seeing the agony in him, and mouthed, “Where’s Mirren?”