The Forest Laird(32)

Clearly Will had no option other than to appear the buffoon here. He raised his staff reluctantly and shuffled forward.

Lord John Balliol sprang into action, attacking immediately and compelling Will to defend himself. Will responded half-heartedly at first, until the first few solid blows that rattled his defences told him he was facing an expert who was bold and dangerous and determined to thrash him soundly. I saw Will’s face suddenly harden, and from then on the fight was waged between two well-matched rivals. Back and forth they fought grimly, neither seeking nor giving quarter, sometimes standing toe to toe, belabouring each other’s defences without either one scoring, sometimes ranging widely around the small clearing between the trees, scanning each other for signs of weakness or an unguarded opening and prepared to leap and strike.

I recall two solid hits, the first to Will’s left thigh and the other to Lord John’s right shoulder when his foot slipped and he reeled for a moment. By that time, sweat was pouring from both of them, soaking their clothing, and the grass of the clearing was trampled flat, scuffed deeply with the marks of their grinding feet. And then came a flurry of hard, rapping blows too fast to follow with the eye, and Balliol reeled and fell back against one of the two trees. Will swept up his staff to finish it, then hesitated.

Lord John threw down his staff and raised his hands, waving them and labouring for breath. “Enough,” he cried. “I’m done. You have me, by God’s holy beard.”

Will opened his hands and let his own staff fall, then doubled over, his hands on his knees, gasping for breath as hungrily as his opponent. Andrew Murray and I simply stared at each other, wideeyed with awe, fully aware that we had just witnessed our friend defeat one of the most noble men in Scotland.

“Sweet Christ, yon was a tulzie.” Balliol spoke in Scots, straightening up to his full height and wiping his streaming brow with the back of his wrist. “I havena fought that hard in years, and never against a beardless laddie. Andrew, my coat, if ye will.”

Andrew had picked up the discarded garment long since and now he stepped forward, holding it open for his master to shrug into. Lord John flexed his shoulders to adjust the coat until it hung properly, then turned again to Will, who had also straightened up by then, though he was still breathing heavily.

“You flinched,” he said, “at the end there, stopped because of who I was, forgetting what I was: your enemy. That kind of hesitation could kill you in a real fight. You need to learn a truth, William Wallace, so learn it now. When fighting man to man there can be no rank or titles involved. If ever you cross blades with any man in earnest, no matter who, there can be only one outcome. Either you kill him or he will kill you. Never forget that.” He held up his palm to silence Will before he could respond. “Never forget that. Had it been I who had you off balance there, I would have felled you like a tree, and so would any other opponent worthy of his salt. Do you hear me?”

Will Wallace nodded. “Aye, my lord. I do.”

“I pray you’ll heed me then, in future. Mercy can be fatal in a tulzie, so when you have the chance to end things, end them. Never hesitate. Clear?”

“Clear, my lord.”

“So be it, then.” Balliol drew the open edges of his surcoat together and glanced around the clearing. “And now I must go. It was a good bout and I thank you, all of you.”

Then he said a strange thing.

“King Alexander, may God bless him, is hale and strong, newly wed and eager to breed sons to replace the heirs whom God saw fit to take from him these past few years. He will have need of men like you when you are come to manhood. See you hold yourselves in readiness to serve him when he calls on you. This realm—any realm—depends upon the loyalty and strength of good, true men, of any rank, to stand behind their King.”

The edges of a grin flickered about his lips and he nodded, this time in dismissal. “So be it. Fare ye well, William and James Wallace. Andrew, follow me, and seek me in half an hour in the Abbot’s chambers.”

I knew that what Lord John had said would not apply to me, since I would be a priest when I was grown to manhood, a warrior of God, perhaps, but not a fighting man in the world of Will and Andrew. But if God spared me to serve Him and my King, I knew that I could do so as loyally and strongly and perhaps even better in the priesthood than I ever could have in the army.

King Alexander, who had ruled Scotland by then for thirty-six years, had married for the second time, mere months earlier, at the age of forty-four. His first wife, Margaret, had been the daughter of Edward of England, and she had borne Alexander two sons and a daughter. The Queen had died ten years before, and was swiftly and tragically followed by all three of her children, leaving Alexander with one sole, distant heir, an infant girl born to his now dead daughter, who had been married to the King of Norway. Determined to breed other sons, Alexander had wed a high-born, beautiful, and nubile young French woman called Yolande of Dreux. The King was young and in good health; the country was at peace and prosperous; and God seemed content to smile upon the realm of Scotland.