The Guardian (38 page)

“In God’s name, Ewan, he’s going to Dundee to collect a much-needed shipload of weapons and armour. What could be dubious about that? By his own admission he stands in dire need of weaponry. And what nonsense is this about questioning going to Stirling? Wishart’s instructions were clear: collect the weapons, meet up with Murray, and head together towards Stirling.”

“Aye, but it’s the meeting with Murray, after so long a time, wi’ so much having happened in between. Will is wondering if he should be lending him his support.”

I was aware of the silence that stretched out before I heard myself asking, “Will is having doubts about
Andrew Murray
? They’ve been friends since we were boys together.”

“Aye—and that’s what has him so upset. Is the man Andrew Murray the same person as the
boy
was? Or has he changed, growing up?”

I was hearing far more here than I wanted to, and it was not merely unnerving me, it was actually frightening me. I could completely understand why Will might have grave concerns about being so far north of Forth. To the best of my knowledge he had never been in Fife before, nor in Dundee, and so he might well have reservations about being so far removed from his own territories and among people whose language was barely intelligible to him and his folk. It was another thing altogether, however, to hear that Will might be considering abandoning the task set him by Bishop Wishart and returning home to Selkirk Forest. Such a decision threatened not only our own personal endeavours—mine, Andrew’s,
and
Will’s— but the welfare of Scotland’s realm.

My heart was thumping against my breastbone and I knew I was gaping. “This will not do,” I said. “I can’t talk about this here, standing in the woods like a witless goatherd who has lost his kine. Both of us need to think, and with great care, about what we are discussing. Because whether we like it or not, we could soon be talking about treason.”

He nodded, and we walked on together in silence until we came to a place where our path crossed another, wider and deeply rutted by wagon traffic, and we stopped there, hesitating as we heard noises from the encampment close ahead of us. We had barely paused when an errant puff of wind wafted the aroma of fresh spit-roasted meat to where we stood, and Ewan sniffed deeply at it and turned to look at me, cocking his head as he waited for me to make a decision. The area around the crossing itself, while not extensive, was bare of vegetation, and someone had rolled an ancient log close to an equally ancient fire pit. I nodded towards the spot.

“This will do,” I said. “Close enough to camp that we won’t miss dinner, and we won’t be interrupted because everyone else will be eating.”

We seated ourselves quickly, and then sat looking at each other.
I knew it would be up to me to start the conversation, and so I plunged straight ahead.

“Right,” I said. “Andrew Murray … Why is Will suddenly doubting him after all these years? You must have some idea.”

Ewan shrugged. “He’s doubting him not so much for who he is as for
what
he is … or might be,” he added quietly.

I waited, but there was no more forthcoming and I snapped back at him in frustration. “And what is
that
supposed to mean? You make no sense, Ewan.”

“Of course I do, Jamie.” There was no trace of argument in his voice. “You know Will even better than I do. When has he ever been comfortable around magnates?”

“He never has.” I threw the answer out without needing to think. “Doesn’t care for them as a breed and doesn’t trust them.”

“There you go. And Andrew Murray is a magnate.”

I opened my mouth to scoff, but the words died on my lips.

“Aye,” my friend murmured, nodding sagely. “That’s right. He is. One of the most powerful in the land. Or he will be, once his father and his uncle die. He is sole heir to both of them, and they are old men now, locked tightly away in London’s Tower. Since he came home to his northern lands, he has been acting in his father’s stead, as Lord of Petty, and the whole of Scotland knows that de Moray of Petty is one of the proudest, strongest, and most powerful houses in all this realm—bigger, perhaps, than Bruce, and easily as strong as Comyn. And that, vast as it is, is merely Petty,” he continued, unaware of any irony. “But Petty is dwarfed and beggared beside the estates of Andrew’s uncle, William de Moray of Bothwell, William the Rich.” He raised a single finger in warning. “Once Andrew comes into his own, ruling the estates of Bothwell
and
Petty, there won’t be a magnate in Scotland who can come close to him in wealth or power. And
that
is what is worrying your cousin. Will doesn’t know whether Andrew Murray remains true to what he believed in when he was younger. He wonders whether he should consider the possibility that even great men tend to grow corrupt with power and riches.”

I knew, even as I listened to Ewan saying the words, that the archer had captured the heart of Will’s problem. No one—no bishop, lord, or savant—could have expressed it better. And hearing it expressed so simply and cleanly, I knew at once how to deal with it.

“I need to see him. Now,” I said. “Where is he?”

“Now? Well … I suppose he’s where I left him this morning, close by Dundee, about twenty miles south of here.”

“Damn! That’s too far. A four-hour ride, at least, and I need to be here. You’ll have to go for me.”

“Already? But I came to speak with you, about Will and what he is thinking.”

“And we’ve done that, Ewan. And I think the problem is resolved.”

He looked at me, his single eye exaggerating his astonishment. “It is? It’s been resolved? Why didn’t I know that?”

“Ewan, d’you think Will trusts me?”

“Of course he trusts you, more than anyone else in the world.”

“Good. Then I beg you to remind him of that trust, even though you think he needs no such reminding. Point out how deep and old it is, how reliable it is, and really how reliable
I
am in the whole scape of his life. You think I’m talking nonsense,” I said. “But I’m not. If there’s any nonsense involved here, then Will himself is the one to blame for it, with all this twaddle about not knowing whether or not he can trust Andrew Murray. Well, Will needs to know—to
accept
—that he can trust Andrew Murray twice as much and twice as far as he would ever dream of trusting me. I have been here for weeks, Ewan, spending time with Andrew Murray, and I know, beyond question, that Will is fretting over nothing. Andrew de Moray—Andrew Murray the
man
—is rock solid, Ewan. He is sound in everything he does, and I judge him honest, upright, noble, and without pretension. And he considers William Wallace his close friend, simply because of the bond they forged as boys together. Not only would I stake my life on that being true, I would stake—no, I
will
stake, I
am
staking—the welfare of this kingdom, of the realm of Scotland itself, on the truth of it.”

I paused, looking Ewan straight in the eye. “I trust him, Ewan. I trust him absolutely. And my cousin will trust him, too, as soon as he meets him face to face again. And so that’s what we must achieve within the day ahead of us, you and I. We must bring them together tomorrow, alone.”

“You should be there, too. You have a place there with them. Always have had.”

He was right and I nodded. “And I can be useful to both of them. Good.”

“So how will we arrange this?”

“I’ve no idea, but it will be done. First, we’ll go and eat because we’re both starved. Then we’ll talk about details, and then we’ll sleep. You’ll be up and away by dawn and I’ll follow you by noon with Andrew … Did you make any friends in Dundee? People you would trust?”

“A few,” he said as he rose to his feet. “One in particular, a half-Welsh archer by the name of Olwen. I’d trust him.”

I stood up, too, adjusting my satchel to hang comfortably. “Does he know the Dundee countryside?”

“He’s lived here for twenty years.”

“Good, then get him to suggest a meeting place close to the road we’ll come down, then make sure Will is there to meet us when we arrive. I’ll talk with Andrew tonight. And now we should find some food, before the smell of fresh bread renders me too weak to walk.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE ROAD TO DUNDEE

T
he man sent to meet us on the road the next day was an old friend from my days as a young, newly out of school lad in Paisley. He was known as Long John of the Knives and had been one of Will’s most trusted followers since those early days. He was extremely tall—one of the few men I had ever seen who towered several inches over Will himself, which explained the “Long” part of his name. The heavy belt around his waist explained the last part: it supported a collection of sheathed knives, and anyone who knew the man knew, too, that he could sink any one of them into any target and from any distance with astonishing speed.

He was waiting for us as we breasted a sharp rise in the road, sitting at ease on a roadside stone at the edge of a deep gully on the right of the path, and enjoying the bright warmth of the summer sun. He might have been dozing as he waited, but his hearing was keen and as soon as he heard us he stood up, smiling at me in welcome and nodding in greeting to Andrew, recognizable in his half-plate armour worn over a close-fitting suit of mail, the whole covered by a loose, brilliant blue surcoat emblazoned with the three white stars of de Moray.

I was very glad to see Long John, for it had been years since we had last met. I moved to dismount, but as was ever the case, John had little time to waste on niceties.

“No,” he said in Scots and held up a hand. “I’ll no’ keep ye. I ken ye need to meet wi’ Will, an’ he’s waitin’ for ye.” He pointed down the hill at his back. “There’s a wee glen doon there, ahint the scree,” he said. “An’ a linn, forbye. The linn’s no’ much to look at, but it’s
deep enough to haud the two o’ ye an’ ye’ll likely be glad o’ it on a hot day like this. There’s a fire doon there, and a nice brace o’ hares simmerin’ in a pot wi’ ingins an’ garlic, an’ some fresh-baked bannock to go wi’ it. Ye’ll see Will there, so I’ll be on my way and leave ye to say what ye hae to.” He tilted his head towards Alistair. “Ye’re welcome to come wi’ me, unless ye’re privy to what’s to be discussed.”

Alistair cocked an eyebrow at Andrew, who waved him gently on his way.

“Right,” Alistair said, hoisting his pack again. “I’ll join you again later.”

“Grand,” said Long John. “I’ll see ye again later, Jamie. Maister Murray.” He nodded gravely to Andrew and then walked away, accompanied by Alistair.

“Do you know,” Andrew mused, “if I didn’t know for a fact that no friend of Will Wallace’s could ever be such a thing, I might be tempted to think yon fellow could be a dangerous man.”

“Who, Long John of the Knives?” I said, smiling. “What could possibly make you think that?”

“I have no idea,” he murmured. “Save, perhaps, for something in the way he walks. He’s like a big cat.”

“He is. He and Alistair are two of a kind. There’s something feline about both of them.”

“Aye, but Alistair is just a plain, grey Highland wildcat. Long John there is like a great cat from Africa that I once saw at King Edward’s court. Some kind of leopard, it was, spotted as they are, but this one was lean and tall, long-legged like a hunting hound, and lightning fast. Anyway, let’s go and find Will.”

“No need. I’m here.”

The voice, coming from directly at our backs, made us both jump, and we stood up simultaneously in our stirrups, twisting around awkwardly to look back. Will smiled a little, his mouth quirking upwards as he noted our surprise, but it was not the grin I would have expected from him after such a trick. My first reaction was a kind of regret that Long John should have lied to me, but then
I realized that he had done no such thing. He had said only that we would see Will by the fire down at the linn. He had not said Will was already there.

That momentary twinge of misgiving I had felt on seeing Will’s restrained smile persisted through the greetings that followed as we exchanged the normal, banal pleasantries and small talk. I had never known Will to be as ill at ease as he was in those first moments. Andrew noticed it, too, much to my chagrin, for when Will turned away to lead us down into the ravine, the Highlander glanced at me with a raised eyebrow.

And it was Andrew, blunt and forthright as always, who settled the matter as well, tackling it head-on in his own inimitable way as soon as we arrived at the concealed meeting place. He bent over the fire and lifted the lid off the pot that sat nestled on a bed of cooking stones, sniffed deeply and appreciatively at the cloud of fragrant steam that swirled up and around him, then stood up to gaze towards the six-foot waterfall, and the deep pool beneath it.

“A beautiful spot,” he said to no one in particular, but speaking Latin because he knew Will’s Gaelic was less than fluent. “Cool, clear, deep water to refresh a fellow on a hot and sunny, sweaty afternoon, and pot-roasted meat to fill his belly afterwards. A sane man could scarce ask for more on a day like this … Unless it were an understanding of why the friend he has come so far to see is being so damnably unfriendly.” He looked Will square in the eye. “What think you, Will Wallace? Is there a valid reason for your reluctance to smile and welcome us honestly, or are you merely showing me a side of you that I never suspected was there? Something is stuck in your nose, I think. So blow it out. How have I offended you?”

Will, who had been leaning on his walking staff, did not quite step backwards, but he reared up to his full height and, to my dismay, answered Andrew’s question with another, adding to the overall impression of disdain that radiated from him. “Why would you think you have offended me?”

“Wrong word,” Andrew snapped. “I do not
think
I have offended
you. I am
hoping
I have offended you, for then I would know it was unwitting and I have no reason to be angry. Failing that, though, I would have to take your treatment of me to this point at face value, and that would be unfortunate, for to say you have been less than friendly would be understating the truth.”