The Forest Laird

by Jack Whyte

  I was mystified as he guided my hand to replace his own, my fingers curling beneath Andrew’s.

  “Feel that, and tell me if I’m wrong.”

  As soon as I felt Andrew Murray’s fingers against my own, my confusion vanished. I turned our new friend’s hand palm upward to see the ridges of callused skin that coated his first two fingers. I felt my eyebrows rise.

  “You’re a bowman?”

  “What?” He pulled his hand away, clenching his fist and grinning again, uncertainly, I thought. “Aye, after a fashion. I am. It’s not a knightly pastime, but I enjoy it from time to time.”

  “It’s not a pastime at all.” Will’s voice was flat. “And you don’t get finger pads like that by practising from time to time. That comes only from years of work with a taut bowstring, as these ones did.” He held out his own right hand, his first two fingers extended and parted in a V.

  Andrew’s lips pursed in a soundless whistle as he gazed at the marked difference between Will’s calluses and his own. “By Saint Stephen’s martyred wounds, another bowman.”

  “No, not so.” There was no speck of humour in Will’s denial. “You are a bowman. So is Jamie. I am an archer.”

  The other’s lip quirked. “Bowman, archer … Is there a difference?”

  “Aye—about two hundred paces.”

  Andrew blinked. “What? You can hit a mark at two hundred paces?”

  “Sweet Jesus, aye. Nine times out of ten. And so can Jamie here, six of those times. But I meant I could hit a mark two hundred paces beyond any you can reach.”

  “I think not,” Andrew said, his tone reflecting disappointment that his new friend would lie so blatantly.

  “Think what you like, my friend, but I will prove it to you once you tell me what kind of bow you use.”

  “Elmwood. Five feet long.”

  “Go, then, and fetch it. I will get mine and meet you here again in a half-hour.”

  Murray’s face tightened. “Sweet Jesus! What hour is it?”

  I glanced at the sun and shadows. “About the fourth after noon.”

  “I lost track of the day! Now I must get back. Lord John might be looking for me.” He bent down to gather up his cloak, then looked at Will again as he straightened. “You have a yew bow, don’t you? A longbow.”

  “I do.”

  “A round one.”

  “Yes.”

  “Aye, I see it now … those calluses. So be it, then, I believe your claim. But where in the name of God did you find it? Yon’s an English weapon, and English archers don’t part with their bows. There are not many big yew trees in Scotland.”

  Will smiled. “I didn’t need many—just the one. But in truth my teacher found it near our home in Elderslie. He cut the stave, cured and dried it, and taught me how to make the bow from that point on.”

  “A full longbow of your own! Can you be here tomorrow? I would like to test it.”

  Will grinned. He had been using his huge yew bow for more than two months by then and knew its power, and I knew the anticipation of demonstrating it to his new friend must be more than he could bear. “Aye, if you’re still here and your master keeps the Abbot and his brethren in conference.”

  “We will be here. The same time?”

  “I’ll be waiting,” Will answered.

  2

  The following morning I went directly to Brother Duncan and asked to be relieved of my tasks that day. He gave me a stern look, though I had learned long since that his air of disapproval was but a sham. I had never asked for such a dispensation before, though, and he asked me what I was about. I told him of our meeting the day before with the visiting Andrew Murray, and he merely nodded and granted me leave. I ran to find Will, and we had time to collect our targets and set them up in the glade by the river bridge well in advance of Andrew’s arrival.

  He could not stay long, he told us when he came, for Lord John had need of him that afternoon, but there was ample time for Will to demonstrate his new bow’s power and for Andrew to try it for himself. Try as he would, though, the lad from Moray was incapable of pulling the powerful weapon to its full stretch, and he finally surrendered it to Will and watched ruefully as my cousin sank six arrows into the centre of the farthest target, two hundred paces away.

  “How far will it reach fully flexed?” Andrew asked as we went to fetch the arrows.

  “Three hundred, probably more,” Will said. “But at full stretch you can lose too many arrows, so I keep my distance to around two hundred. These are target arrows, bear in mind. Barbed warheads and hunting tips make a big difference in flight. The weight of those heads alters everything.”

  “You have warheads?” Andrew sounded impressed.

  Will shook his head. “Nah, but even hunting barbs make a big difference. Man-killers would be heavier yet, but I have no need of those.”

  “Aye … Well, Will Wallace, I have never seen the like of it. I wouldn’t like to have you aiming at me. Not even Siward is that good. But then, Siward is a swordsman above all else. He has a bow, but seldom uses it as you do.” He snorted a laugh. “I wondered yesterday at the shoulders on you, the bulk of you. Now I know it’s from pulling that thing. But what about a sword? Do you use one?”

  “Nah!” Will was retrieving his arrows by then, examining each of them for damage before replacing them in his quiver. “Swords are for knights and I’ll never need one. I ha’e my quarterstaff and a good knife. If e’er I’m in a spot where I’m threatened, the knife should be enough to finish anyone who gets by my arrows and my staff.” He grinned. “I’m no’ that violent, ye know.”

  I knew that what he had said was true. For all his size and fearsome strength, I had never seen Will lose his temper or provoke a fight with anyone. I had seen him fight savagely, but rarely and never with a weapon, and only in response to the kind of provocation that most people, seeing the sheer size of him, were loath to offer. Yet I find myself examining those words of his years later, wondering whether I might have had any presentiment of what the years ahead would hold for him. But of course I did not. We were innocents in those days, incapable of foreseeing the pain and chaos that lay ahead for all of us.

  The remainder of that morning flew by pleasantly, and when the time came for Andrew to return to the Abbey to attend his master, we went with him, all three of us aware that his departure the following day would leave a gap in each of our lives. We walked slowly, our bows slung over our shoulders, as he answered our questions about his life as a knightly squire, and any thoughts Will and I might have had about his lot being one of privileged sloth and luxury were quickly banished. His day-to-day training to become a knight was far more demanding than anything expected of us in the Abbey school.

  We had reached the main entrance to the Abbey proper, and it was plain to see that Lord John and his associates were still in conference, for there was little sign of life other than the routine activities of the resident brothers, and so we stood talking quietly in the forecourt, about fifty paces from the main entrance. I have no memory of what we were discussing, for it was Will and Andrew who were speaking while I was merely looking around, but I saw a figure emerge from a side door and start towards us, then stop suddenly and take careful note of us. The man appeared to be both tall and elderly, stooped with age but walking youthfully enough and wearing a long habit of brown wool trimmed with green edging. I might have paid him no more attention had he not stopped so obviously, and the manner in which he stood there peering at us struck me as peculiar.

  “Who’s that?” I asked, and both of the others looked to see who I was talking about. I heard Murray inhale sharply.

  “Shit!” he said, from the side of his mouth. “It’s Wishart. The Bishop.” He bowed towards the distant figure, and Will and I awkwardly followed his example. The Bishop nodded in acknowledgment, then came sweeping towards us.

  “Master de Moray,” he said as he approached, emphasizing the French pronunciation and then continuing in the same language. �
�I am pleased to see you have been able to find friends with whom to amuse yourself while you are here.” The words were addressed to Andrew, but the Bishop’s eyes were scanning Will and me, taking note of everything about us, including our quarterstaffs and the bows strung from our shoulders. Andrew drew himself up and responded in the same language, gesturing courteously with one hand.

  “I have, my lord. I met them yesterday, by accident. They are local lads, as you can see, but I have enjoyed their company during what might otherwise have been a tedious time.” His French was fluent and polished, and it was clear that neither he nor the Bishop expected Will or me to understand it.

  I was about to speak up, but decided suddenly to hold my peace and give no indication that I understood them. Will, I knew, would barely have registered a word of what they said, for he lacked my facility with languages. I looked at him and found him gazing back at me, his face blank. Wishart, in the meantime, had turned to look more openly at Will, taking in the size of him and looking up and down the thick length of the quarterstaff in his hand and the heavy bow that dangled from his shoulder. I in turn took the opportunity to look more closely at the Bishop himself.

  I could not even guess at his age, for he was one of those rare men whose appearance changes little with the passing of years. I could see he was not young, but whether he was forty or seventy I could not say with any confidence. His face was gaunt and weathered, swarthy and deeply lined beneath the sparse covering of a wispy, square-cut beard, and he had a high, broad forehead, emphasized by a close-cropped widow’s peak of dark brown hair that he wore short and cut bluntly at the back, well above his shoulders. Dark, intelligent eyes gleamed keenly beneath his bushy brows, and a large, bony beak of a nose made his entire appearance fierce and hawk-like. His lips appeared to be smiling, but I could see no humour in his eyes.

  “Unless I miss my guess,” he said in Latin, “and judging merely by the size of you and the bow you carry, you must be Sir Malcolm Wallace’s nephew, William. Am I correct?” The Bishop’s smile grew wider, and this time the warmth of it reached his eyes. “I am no mind reader,” he continued, his voice deep and level. “Nor, I fear, has fame yet marked you as being worthy of compelling notice. I come directly from a meeting with your uncle Father Peter, and he spoke to me about you, describing you and your longbow and telling me of how you keep the brotherhood supplied with the best of meat. My sole surprise was in finding you in the company of Master Murray.” His eyes came back to me. “And you must be James Wallace, the cousin who is such an asset to Brother Duncan in the library.”

  It was a flattering moment but an awkward one, for neither Will nor I knew how to respond properly to such an informal approach from the man who was the senior prelate of Scotland and personal confessor to King Alexander himself, but somehow we found ourselves strangely at ease in speaking casually with one of the most powerful men in the realm. I noticed, nonetheless, that Andrew Murray stood wide-eyed, his eyes darting from one to the other of us as Bishop Wishart catechized us closely for the next quarter of an hour about our lives in the Abbey, our feelings for our Elderslie kin, my own deceased family, and the slaughter of Will’s family. He even asked us about our tutor, Ewan, and our studies with the bow. He included me graciously in everything he said, but it was plain to me that his consuming interest lay with Will and that he was not showing such interest out of simple courtesy.

  And then suddenly he nodded, grunted deep in his chest, and bade all three of us farewell, informing Andrew at the last that Lord John was still deep in his discussions with the Father Abbot and was unlikely to require his services for at least another hour and perhaps even longer. With that, he walked away, already deep in thoughts of something else, leaving us staring after him.

  “What was all that about, I wonder?” Murray sounded troubled, and Will cocked his head.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “That friendliness. I have never seen the old man behave so … so amicably. The revered Bishop Wishart is not a friendly man. Not like that, with utter strangers.”

  “Should I beware, then?” Will drew the backs of his fingers along the soft down on his jawbone, smiling. “Does he like boys?”

  “What? Oh, no, I meant nothing like that. Sweet Jesus, no! But he is …” Murray searched for words. “This is the fifth time I have travelled in the company of Bishop Wishart, as part of Lord John’s train. It’s also the briefest. I rode with him for three months last year and I know him to be a notedly silent man, solitary and self-guarded. He has few friends. He is no man’s puppet and I’m told he was once a fearsome warrior. But he is dour and largely without humour, close-mouthed and famed for being niggardly with words.”

  “Mayhap he likes me, sees me for what I truly am. Had you thought of that? Just because it took you an hour and more to grow to love me, that doesna mean that more gifted folk shouldna see the gold in me sooner.”

  Murray nodded judiciously. Then he gently took the quarterstaff from Will and removed the long yew bow from where it hung on his shoulder. He handed both to me along with his own weapons. Then he hooked his arm about Will’s neck and tripped him with one leg, dropping him to the ground and leaping on top of him to rub a handful of dirt into Will’s hair. Will, with a roar of mock rage, heaved valiantly against the weight pinning him and managed to turn on his side while keeping Murray’s arms away from his throat and the chokehold the other was trying to assert. I cannot say how long the struggle might have gone on had not Brother Brian, one of the brawniest of the Abbey brethren, emerged from the main door of the church and caught all three of us in sacrilegious ignominy. He dragged the two wrestlers apart and preached us a stern warning on the evils of fighting, then growled that we should get ourselves well out of sight.

  We contrived somehow to suffer straight-faced through the dressing-down, but by then the fight had gone out of both contestants, and so we collected our bows and staves and for the following hour we merely walked and talked about whatever came into our minds. Andrew mentioned his lady love, a beautiful young woman from his own lands called Siobhan. He pronounced it Shivonn, and from the moment I heard it I was enamoured by the name’s beautiful sound. Her full name was Siobhan MacDiormid—I heard it as Shivonn Macdermid—and she was the niece of Alexander Comyn, the Earl of Buchan, from whom Andrew’s father held the lordship of Petty. It was plain that our new friend saw in her the sun and moon of his existence, and from the self-same moment both Will and I were captivated by what we heard.

  There was nothing prurient or even mildly provocative in anything Andrew had to say of the young woman; on the contrary, he spoke of her in terms that rendered her almost superhuman in her virtues and ethereal in her beauty, his voice ringing with that ardour and conviction that is the shining characteristic of young men in the flush of first love. And Will and I listened, entranced because we had never heard the like of it. To us, girls were alien creatures, seldom if ever seen within the Abbey precincts. The mere sight of a woman, it was feared, might induce sinful thoughts among the brethren, and therefore women were forbidden entry to the community, save to attend services in the Abbey church, at which times they were heavily swathed, their faces, heads, and bodies covered, and they were accompanied by their God-fearing menfolk. Femininity was anathema within the Abbey precincts, even when the women concerned were old or middle-aged, shapeless and unattractive. Girls and young women inhabited the outside world, and they were matter for endless conjecture among the body of students at the Abbey school.

  I knew beyond a doubt that, at almost sixteen, William Wallace had never known, nor spoken more than a few words to, any young woman who was not related to him by blood. Nor had I. But neither of us had ever suffered by that. Our lives were governed in every aspect by the rule of the Abbey community and the activities that filled our daily life, in school by day and away from it by night, and it never occurred to either one of us that we might ever fall into the company of young, attractive women. The key word, of course, was
attractive. The two elderly women who ran our household on the farm were simply there, shapeless, sexless creatures whose sole purpose was to cater to our comfort and whom we scarcely noticed. Similarly, the young women who sometimes came to visit them, their daughters, nieces, and neighbours, were all but invisible to us. Plain, largely unwashed and sour smelling, ill dressed and unkempt, coarse spoken and generally repellent, they possessed none of the attributes that might have attracted our eyes or our thoughts.

  This girl whom our new friend now depicted so eloquently came to us therefore as a revelation. We were enraptured, hanging dewy eyed on Andrew’s every word as we strove to picture the radiant beauty he described. Small wonder, then, that our reaction was less than courteous when a voice from behind us interrupted our fantasies, speaking Andrew’s name.

  Will and I both spun around peevishly, prepared to send this interloper packing, but our first sight of the newcomer struck us mute.

  To say that he was splendid is simply inadequate. The man was magnificent, dressed entirely in white and red, from knee-high, red-dyed boots and matching leather breeches, to a lustrous, blindingly white tunic surmounted by a white, open-fronted surcoat with a plain red shield, inset with a smaller outline of another, in white, on the left breast.

  “Lord John!”

  I had not needed to hear Andrew’s shocked response to know at whom I was gaping. Sir John Balliol, King Alexander’s personal envoy and an heir to the kingdom in his own right, was unmistakably a man of power, with wealth and privilege stamped into his every feature. He had come to a sudden halt, looking at us with one fine dark eyebrow raised high in surprise, occasioned, I had no doubt, by the ferocity with which Will and I had spun to face him.