The following is a work of creative fiction, with some historic details in it. I tried to remain accurate, to a degree, but I won't let history get in the way of a good story.
It should also be noted, as is the case with my writing, that among the vast number of commas there is quite a bit of violence. You have been forewarned. Also, if you would like to read the uncut version of this story, send me an email at MelissaNJRF@gmail.com or find me on facebook.
It is January of 1302. The Scottish lords have chosen Robert The Bruce as their representative to the English King. Edward has formed a treaty with Scotland, bound for nine months to a tentative and unsettled peace. In the midst of this, William Wallace has journeyed with his closest allies to France in the hope of bringing the French king into an alliance. This is not the only business Wallace has on his journey. This is his story.
William Wallace - January, 1302
I stood at the door. Stood there, like a sheep without a shepherd. I was shaking. By God, I was shaking. I had never shaken so much. Never on the battlefield, even when the odds were against us. Never when toe to toe with the best the English could throw my way. I knew we would win. We had to win. But this...there was no way to win this. I stood at that oaken door and trembled like a child.
Gwyneth grasped my hand to steady it. My dead brother’s wife, she was as much a Wallace as I, and twice the warrior of many who followed my dread step. When the world caved, she was my rock.
“Go to her, Will. Go to your wife.”
Providence is a breath of wind in a building of stone walls. Without a motion of my own, the door creaked open on its iron hinges. Cautiously, I dropped Gwynnie’s hand and went inside.
Within was a little room, no more than the size of a pantry. A small bed sat in the corner, wool-covered and with bits of straw peeking out of the bed frame. A figure in black stood at the far end looking out the window cracked into the abbey’s stone walls. The light through the window was the eye of God, casting shadows and light for contemplation and repentance. The light floated only on the figure in black - a willowy woman with long skinny fingers that gripped a rosary like a dagger, the only defense left in this forsaken French countryside.
I thought my kin were wrong. Surely she had died at the hands of the English, surely she had died at my abandonment. I had seen it with my own eyes, had I not?
I made those bastards pay dearly for what they had done to my love. Each had suffered on his knees, praying for mercy. Each had looked me in the eyes and begged for lives worth less than the dirt they knelt on. My Marion had deserved so much better.
The frail creature turned, catching me in my pensive thoughts. Her eyes. Her ancient green eyes were upon me. I was falling, crashing through the door to throw myself at her feet and beg her forgiveness. She smelled the same - of the ocean and our home and the mosses we had once rolled in. And I wept at her waist and kissed the hem of the black gown she wore. She was my Marion. She was alive.
[Optional Musical accompaniment - Queen, “Who Wants to Live Forever”]
Her name when we first met was Marion Braidfute, Lady of Lanark. She was an island in a sea of pretty faces, a goddess mixed amongst peasants. Her beauty wasn’t comparable to anything on Earth. Marion was the sky to me, and I was an osprey worshiping her pale beauty.
We met by chance. I had taken the English by surprise near her father’s castle, but they had returned with a force larger than I had thought was close at hand. We were forced into retreat, and one of the company suggested we take refuge in the nearby castle. Without time to waste, we rushed the gate and stole into the household, barring the gate. We were fortunate that the lord of Braidfute was one of our supporters.
A short stay turned into a length of days I can scarce remember. We lodged in the castle through winter, and I fast fell to her graces. When the rain would come for days on end, she was the sun. When the chill would catch us unawares as we scouted the land, she was the wool cloak over my shoulders the moment I made entry. When the stars were dim and far too silent, she was the voice of the world urging me forward.
She had chestnut hair which whispered down the length of her back with waves all through it. It was softer than the finest wool and often became tangled. As the winter thawed into spring, we would spend fair days talking about the clouds as she combed her hair for hours upon hours in the castle garden. And when I had the mind, I’d pick her up over my shoulder, so light she was, and take her to the fields. We’d tangle our hair together, her and I, in wild abandon on the moors.
I recall a time we had gone to hunt whilst Marion went to the church to pray for us, sinners as we are. A force of soldiers came through the village and Bishop Lamberton, smart fox he was, hid her in a hutch while the English devils ransacked the village. When we returned from our hunt, we drove the dogs away with steel and didn’t even lose the hart we had taken in the fields.
Knowing of my affection for the lady, Bishop Lamberton told me of what had transpired and where my love was kept, well hidden. With a wink in his eye, he claimed her afeared and that she would not go to her castle that night. I commanded Liam MacLeod and Malcolm Kirkpatrick to return to her castle and keep close watch from a safe league distance. They would report to me what they could. Duncan MacDuff and Donald MacBaine kept watch in the woods by the hutch, and I kept watch over my Marion.
When I first walked into the earthen dwelling she was by the door, dagger in hand. She held the dirk so tightly her long fingers were white to the bone. She recognized me after a moment’s panic, though she almost took a swing with her knife. I was so shocked it was all I could do to get the door shut and calm her enough to stoke the fire. When the hearth was high in flame, I whispered to her that she was my sky. The sky with a streak of silver cloud over her alabaster skin, paler than milk and as smooth as the most expensive silk. My heart could beat only for her from that moment.
I could not have been more enamored. Her laugh, my God, her laugh was rich honey, deep and golden hued. Oh, and her eyes. Her eyes were a deep shade of green, something almost magical. Fairy eyes was what I had once called them, but now in that fire light they seemed more like stars in the sky of her beauty. Her eyes were so perceptive, able to see my troubles before they even came to light. She calmed me from the war within, eased my thoughts even as the weight of a sword could not. She was my every dawn and I was her promise in the night.
Marion was the daughter of a lord, as I was the son of one, and once we set our hearts together we were certain we would be married. On a pale night a few weeks later, just as April began to wash the land in flowers on the heather, Marion and I were handfasted at the castle in Lanark. And each night we were together afterward was the greatest blessing God has ever given me.
The English came again, as they always do. Not their lords, no, but their soldiers. Once they knew where we had taken residence a force was summoned to the village. I had so far avoided this confrontation with movement and vigilance, I had forgotten how stagnation would cause them to gather like ants at a carcass.
One night they came to the castle. Just a few of them, sneaking devils, climbing the walls silently. They opened the gate from the inside and crowded in like a torrent, all while I had been discussing movement strategy over a pint with Donald. The instant the gate was broken, I was to arms. Almost at the same time Gwyneth was against the door, against the door that led to the hallway Marion was sleeping in. And Liam had my arms then, had both my arms the brute he was and was dragging me out the kitchen door, down to the catacombs. Duncan and Donald stayed behind to try to fight their way to my love, but I knew they would not make it to her in time.
Malcolm, always the voice of reason, was shouting about how I was needed, I was necessary to the cause. There would be no revolution without me. He could not see, none of them could, how the voice of one man does not make the nation rise up. They could not see how weak that voice would be without his love, without his wife to guide him in speech. Without the sky, I was blind.
They got me to the hutch and forced me in, locking the gate with beams. Liam piled wood against the door. I kicked and clawed and battered that door with every bit of my strength until dawn, but it held fast and I could not leave. I cursed them all, the traitors, and cursed the English too.
As the sun beat red against the cracks in the dwelling’s framing, horses were heard. I broke a chair against that damned door and prepared to use the leg to defend myself - as if they could get to me from under the cabers barring me from leaving. But a few minutes later the door was open and Gwyneth was there, her face pale and bloodied from a cut on her head.
“Tell me what happened, Gwynnie. Tell me where my wife is.”
“They have her, Will.” My hands went toward her, but she was fast and beat them off. Liam was on me an instant later and dragged my arms behind my back again.
“They killed Donald. He’s dead, Will. And she’ll soon follow. There is naught to be done for her now.”
“She is my wife! She is my sky! I cannot go without her!”
She punched me, hard, in the stomach. I doubled over and wretched on the ground.
“I did NOT fight my way through a force of English curs to hear you scream over your wife! If she dies, she dies for you, just as my husband died to save me. Just as Donald gave his life to save you. Honor them, Will, but do not disgrace them with your anguish. We will fight those soldiers, but not now. They are too strong.”
I had recovered just enough to gather my feet under me. God forgive me, I jumped to my feet and punched Liam, knocking him back into Malcolm and Duncan. In the sudden confusion I ran like a stag, faster than I have ever run before, and got to the edge of the wood just before the castle. I could hear my fellows racing behind me, but I did not care. My only thoughts were for Marion.
At the edge of the wood Duncan caught up to me. He was lean and fast like a wolf and pounced on me, knocking the wind from my lungs. I gasped for breath as he sent blows into my sides.
“No, Will! No, you canna do this!”
“Hush!” whispered Gwynnie as she approached. She was on the dirt too, and grasped my left arm with her entire weight, forcing it to the ground. I could hear screaming from below us. My wife. My wife was screaming my name in terror.
I struggled. I kicked and cursed. Liam had caught up and rested his bulk on my torso, but not before I could turn to look down at the castle garden. Gwyneth covered my mouth and Malcolm slid in to my right to watch.
They had my wife roped like a sow, tied to a post. Her back was bloodied with lash marks. The English were asking where I was. I wanted to cry out. I wanted to tell them that I was here, that I was above them and would exchange my life for hers, but Gwyneth’s hand was tight no matter how I bit or cursed.
A soldier of no import with a tight mop of blonde hair swung his sword just over her hands and cut her down from the post. She crumpled to the ground and begged for her life. Without a second thought his sword scraped through her left shoulder and hit the ground just below her. He drew it out with a boot on her face, then walked away without a backward glance. She did not stir. The English had killed my wife.
The rest of that day became a blur. Gwyneth told me I was dragged away and tied bodily to the horses we left on. I screamed nonsense in my sleep and could not eat nor drink, but was forced to down water whenever she had a mind to. As the week wore on I became more coherent. One thought rang clear and caused me to stir again. The English would pay. They would pay dearly and forever for taking my sky from me. All was darkness and dread until they were dead at my feet.
All of this, all of this was 6 months of time in 1297. It had been five years since I had seen my love’s face. And yet here she was now, with those enchanted green eyes gazing down upon me. The smell of the sea was in her wild hair, which was tied back with a leather thong and tamed. Those eyes were dead now. I rose to meet them.
“How can this be? How, my God, how? I saw you die.”
“Didja, Will? Didja watch what they did? Every part of it? Because I lived it. I lived that shame and dishonor, and I knew that there was no rescue. It seems I’ve lived that night a hundred thousand times, and it never gets old nor fades to gray. God give me strength.”
She faltered at that slit of a window, shaking. I reached for her, trying to steady my own hands. She backed away.
“No, William, do not look upon me with shame in your heart. I have made my peace with it. God will judge the English for what they have done to me.”
“Aye, they will, my love. And I will be His justice.”
“You dare judge men over the Lord?” A flare in those eyes. A spark. She was still there, under that black and frailty. I could rescue her still. There was a chance.
“Those who have touched you no longer walk this earth. Many others will follow their fate. When it is all over, they all will have paid dearly for what they have done to you and to our people.”
Suddenly I could see our life. Our life without war, without death, without fear. I could see the children she would bear me in that castle. I could see being an old man, with her at my side. I had never wanted anything so badly in my life. She was my wife. She was my sky.
“Marion, forgive me for my failures. I have missed you so these long years. When there is peace I will send for you and we can return to our lives.”
She turned, finally showed her eyes to me in full. The moss green was cold. Her face was tracked with lines, like rivers of tears had dredged trenches in her smooth face. She spoke to me, at me. Her lilt had broken and become steady and stagnant like pete.
“The war has taken its toll on you, on us. You speak about Scotland as a land united, but we are far from it. Even those who follow you now are torn over who should rule. I have heard their arguments as they came to the abbey.”
“That is not of your concern, Mari,”
“It is of my concern. It is my homeland and always shall be. My heart is there still. All that is in my chest are echos."
“Marion, come back with me.” I looked at her with pleading eyes. The green she looked down at me with were cold and unchanging.
“This is my calling now, William. I will do God’s work on earth and no other.”
She was stone. My love had become cold as stone.
“I can change, my love. For you. When this war is over...”
“The war will never be over for you, Will. When the day comes that the English no longer take possession of what we hold dear, and all the rest have put down their arms to go home to their wives and sons, you will still have your sword up. You will always be waiting for them and the day they will return. No, Will, I shall not wait for you.”
She turned away. Turned away with dry eyes and not a backward glance, just as that blonde soldier had done to her. And she went out of the room.
Gwyneth was with me in an instant. If she had not heard the whole thing, she knew by Marion’s exit what had transpired. I was still shaking. I was numb but my body was alive with heat, with anger. My soul was furious. Furious at what the English had done to my wife, to my life. I shook with a fury reserved for those whose vengeance is divine. In the light of that window, in the house of God, I knew my calling.
In the morning my companions and I prepared to ride out. As I checked my horse to mount, the figure in black ran to me. My heart leapt just once, hoping she had changed her mind, that God had spoken to her in that black night and told her the sky was needed. She was needed. But her eyes were still mossy green and disenchanted and her lilt was still as dead as pete.
“I wish there were words that could give you peace, Will. I prayed all night for guidance and only one answer came to me. This is your destiny. Fate has brought you here and God will bless you on your journey.”
“Mari...Marion, come with me. Be with me again.”
“I am no longer your wife, William. I belong to God. All that I have in this world I give to Him.” She shook her head for a moment. The spark came into her eyes for a second, a second of hope and breath and life.
“Take this, Will. Take this and think of me, of this place, of this peace. Find your peace.” Forced into my hand was her rosary...and the emerald band I had given her on the day of our wedding.
