“Did you meet her father, speak with him?”
He glanced away from my eyes. “No. Mirren thought it best not to.”
“Because he would disapprove.”
“Aye. Her mother is very ill, near death in fact, and with that on his mind, he had already decided in favour of Alexander Graham.”
“The forester? He was in Lamington?”
“Woodsman, Jamie. But aye, he was there when I arrived. But then he left, the same day.”
He told me everything that had happened during his visit, but when he had finished and I asked him what he thought the Graham fellow might be up to, he merely shrugged. He had decided that Graham was an indolent ne’er-do-well, unworthy of further attention.
“So what will you do next?”
He stood up, facing me and smiling again as he collected his bow case and the quiver of arrows that leaned against the wall. “I’m for Glasgow, as soon as I’ve made sure all’s well at home and the forest’s still as I left it. I have a cartload of arrows for sale and I need the money now more than I thought I might.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I have a wife to see to now, Jamie. A man needs money even to contemplate such a thing. I won’t bring a new wife to an empty, bare-floored hut.”
It took me several moments to absorb what I had just heard.
“You married her? Mirren?”
“I did.” He looked at me with an expression of utter seriousness. “It seemed like the right thing to do, while I was there …”
“But how—? I thought her father didn’t like you.”
“He didn’t, when he thought I was just another tomcat circling around his daughter. But he changed his mind once he discovered I was a tomcat with influential friends and could support a wife. Bishop Wishart knows the man and he vouched for me.” He paused, then asked, “Is that all right?”
“Of course it is.” I realized how stupid that sounded and raised my hands. “Forgive me, Will. That took me by surprise and it should not have. I hope you will be very happy together. Will you take her with you to Glasgow?”
“I will. ‘Whither thou goest …’ I know I have no need to tell you where that comes from.”
“No, you don’t. But it was Ruth who said it to her mother-in-law, not to her spouse. But I know what you mean … You’ll see the Bishop while you’re there?”
“Aye, as soon as I get there, as I promised him. And he said he would see to it that my arrows were sold for the best price. Besides, Murray once said he keeps a fine table, and I enjoy good food while I’m listening to anything profound … Speaking of which, I’m starved. I’ve been on the road since before dawn and it’s close to noon. Have you eaten this morning? Can we go by the kitchens while we talk?”
Time passed as quickly as it always did in his company, and when the bell for nones summoned me to noonday prayer we parted, me to my duties and him to Elderslie and Sir Malcolm. I had not the slightest doubt that I would see him again very soon, but in those days I had not yet learned the folly of expecting anything in life to turn out as we expect.
CHAPTER SIX
1
They came for him in Elderslie the following Saturday at first light. Sir Malcolm himself heard the hammering at his doors and roused himself from his bed to cross to the window, where he could look down into the grey dawn from his upstairs room. The yard was full of soldiers wearing the red saltire on gold of Bruce of Annandale. Ordering his startled wife to stay where she was, the knight charged out of his bedroom and made his way downstairs, shrugging hastily into a thick robe to cover his nakedness. He shouldered his way past his steward, who was holding the door open while attempting to bar entry to the men outside, and found himself face to face with a large, glowering man clad all in black.
“Who in Hades are you, and what madness brings you here like this to Wallace’s door? D’you come seeking criminals in my house, or are you merely looking to provoke my wrath?”
The stranger raised a gauntleted hand, holding out a rolled parchment stamped and sealed with a broad wafer of heavy, red wax. Sir Malcolm frowned suddenly, recognizing the elaborate seal.
“What is this?”
“A warrant for the arrest of one William Wallace. Are you him?”
Sir Malcolm’s fury had vanished and he drew himself up and answered mildly, his voice pitched low. “No, I am not. And I think you know that. I am Malcolm Wallace, knight of the realm and lord of this estate. Who are you?”
“Walter Armstrong, bailiff to Robert Bruce, Lord of—”
“I know who Robert Bruce is, man. He has held my oath and my loyalty all my life, as he held my father’s before me. I have already asked you what nonsense brings you hammering so damnably at my door at this hour, for I cannot believe Bruce himself would send you thus. Did he?”