Ok…its here. I took way long updating this because I didn't want to take any chance of messing this chapter up. Please review when you've read it – I really do appreciate the encouragement, it helps! And many thanks to those who've been following this story.
The crackling of flames and hiss of roasting meat was complimented by the warm, spicy aroma of cooking rabbit and venison. A group of six men sat around a small fire, taking it in turns to rotate the spit. The noises that accompanied the small rebel army – sharpening weapons, practice combat, muffled shouts of rowdy laughter – were masked by one ofthenearby waterfalls of Lanark. Between mouthfuls, the six men discussed their next moves and the status of Longshanks' army. As the evening wore on and small groups of men with dice and flutes began to play, the initial group of six ebbed until only the rebel leader and his best friend remained.
"Hamish, man! Have ye heard a word I've been sayin'?" The burly red-headed Scot started out of his reverie to see William's hand waving in front of his face.
"Er, sorry. We should…uh, ye were sayin'…" He shifted uncomfortably under his friend's scrutiny, avoiding the stern look of his leader.
"I was talking about tactics man," William began, even as Hamish's eyes wandered back to the young woman he had been riveted on for the last half hour. Her hair fell in copper waves around a pretty face, and her cooking was praised by every man who'd tasted it. Many of the men had brought along their women, be they wives, sisters, or daughters, and not a few had been on receiving end of Hamish's roving eyes – and hands.
"Would make a man happy, that one," he muttered to himself, eyeing her rare, voluptuous figure as she bent over a cooking fire. William sighed.
"Off wi' ye then."
"Eh?"
"Off wi' ye, to the dice or the girl. We'll no be getting anything else decided tonight." Hamish grinned sheepishly, and, lumbering to his feet, made for the direction of the young woman. A thought occurred to him though, and he half turned, an eyebrow cocked.
"Will ye come yerself then?"
William shook his head in a negative, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "No. I've a mind to do some praying."
"Ah." Looking properly abashed, Hamish changed direction and shouldered his way instead toward the group of laughing men around another small fire.
Finding himself alone with the remnants of his own fire, William placed his elbows on his knees and leaned toward the heat. Between the disruptions of crude jokes, sidelong glances at serving girls, and new recruits, it was a tough go of deciding the army's next move. And as much as he would like to revel with the men, he couldn't neglect his tumultuous thoughts.
That morning had risen on a torched hamlet outside of Lanark and the dead bodies of some twenty five English soldiers. Having been alerted by a shepherding lad, William had not needed many men. A handful of highlanders had effectively taken care of the small English task force, but had not been able to save the hamlet or its few families.
Passing a work-roughened hand over his weathered visage, William sighed. This was becoming an unavoidable problem. The secrecy of his whereabouts depended greatly on the silence and cooperation of the local Scots. It was impossible to move through the land without being noticed, at the very least, by a girl fetching water, or a young boy tending sheep. The English were not blind, either. They reckoned that their best chance of nipping the rebellion in the bud was to demand the location of Wallace's army from the locals, under threat of death. More often then not, it didn't matter if their questions were answered.
William Wallace did not want bloodshed. Contrary to popular stories, he did not crave the gruesome death of the English, nor did he wish ill on any other country. He had said it a hundred times over – he wanted nothing more then freedom. Staring into the fire, William thought of the good men who had died for this very cause. Their faces were there, in the flames, their death-dulled eyes locked with his own bottomless blue gaze, beseeching him.
"What are they doing uncle?"
Argyll Wallace looked down at his young nephew. The boy's clothes were shabby, his hair was sticking up absurdly at the crown of his head, and his face was in a most regrettable state of neglect. His appearance was that of a blithe young boy who'd been traipsing around the hills, enjoying the freedom of being left to his own devices in the absence of authority. But the white tracks in the grime on William's face belied the rest of his carefree appearance. Now, instead of the merry stance in which a child his age was always be found, he stood straight, with his head held high, like a man. Despite the strong stance of the proud little figure however, Argyll watched a new tear slide down the dirty face, followed by a faintly muffled sniff. He placed a calloused hand on his nephew's shoulder, and let it rest there.
"Saying goodbye, in their own way," he stated simply. The heat of the fire warmed both nephew and uncle against the chill of an approaching storm, whileits heralding thunder mingled with the mournful yet fiercely proud strains of forbidden Scottish pipes. An onlooker would have wept at the music alone, but the scene was just as powerful. A sure blaze, serving as a symbolic pyre, was ringed with torch-bearing sentries, standing tall and sure to pay their last respects. The fire gave light to the soul of the deceased to find its way to what lay ahead, while the surrounding men kept demon sassanachs from haunting the final steps of the fallen. The pipes defied the authority of those who would steal freedom from these men, and drew tears from the depths of their grieving hearts.
Another small sniffle drew Argyll's attention to the tear-stained face of his nephew. The flames of the fire leapt, reflected in the brimming eyes of the boy. Argyll squeezed his nephew's shoulder, saying without words that it was alright – even a man must weep. Tears would not shame him before the pyre of his father.
William shook his head, a small but firm negative, and straightened his shoulders. He was a man now, and had been left to carry on his father's beliefs. The knowledge of his new responsibility grew in the lad, and his eyes no longer brimmed with tears, but with a mounting determination. As if of its own volition, one arm reached for his uncle's sword. Grasping the hilt in his grubby fists, he struggled to hold the blade steady. As his eyes traveled up the length of tempered steel, William knew that he held the weight of his future and freedom in his hands.
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