Chapter Nine
I noticed an error in Chapter Eight. Stephen isn't even in the picture yet. It was meant to be Andrew. Sorry 'bout that. Oh yeah, and sorry that I took so long with this chapter. School is killing me.
The group of four came back, a stoic look plastered on their faces. "Alright men!" Hamish yelled, and they fell silent. "William's got something to say." He motioned at him. "Go ahead, lad."
"Thanks, Hamish." William cleared his throat. "Here is the plan. I shall go riding in on a horse to the garrison, and 'surrender.' This will give you all enough time to get into position around the garrison." As he talked, his gaze slipped over each and every man. "Then, I will give the first Englishman I come across a rather…nasty surprise. That is your cue. You will climb over the walls, and we will kill every damn Englishman we come across. But leave Heselrig to me. Understood?"
"Aye." The men spoke in unison.
"What? I can't hear you…" William cupped his hand to his ear.
"AYE!"
William held up his rusted sword, and yelled along with his men. After they were all yelled out, he motioned to their weapons. "Check your weapons, men." He leaned toward Hamish, and whispered, "Find me a horse. Quickly." Hamish nodded, and disappeared. "You!" He pointed to the man watching Marjory. "Come."
"I'll be right back, lass." He nodded at her, and jogged over to William. "Yes?"
"You will not fight." He opened his mouth in protest, and William--almost as if anticipating it--placed his hand on his shoulder. "I have every confidence in your fighting skills. I just need someone to watch the lady. Make sure she doesn't escape." Slumping his shoulders in defeat, he slunk back over to Marjory, and sat down by a tree, grumbling to himself.
Marjory, still standing, looked back at him, and smirked. Poor thing. He doesn't get to fight. He's stuck watching me. Not that I would do anything. Suddenly, she felt someone's eyes upon her, and her pale blue eyes locked with the pale blue eyes of William Wallace. They were filled with an old loathing that was growing tiresome. She shot a stare at him that said Yes, I know you hate me. I hate you, too.
William read the words in her stare, and returned them with equal fervor. They were quite obvious. She hated him. This loathing between the two was growing rather tiresome. He disliked the lass about as much as she disliked him, that much was true. But it felt so…right, when he kissed her. He wondered if she felt the same…
"William?"
Snapping out of his thoughts, he met the quizzical stare of his friend. "You alright?"
"Fine, Hamish. Fine." William nodded: once in affirmation of his friend's question, and once in approval of the horse. He was a fine beast; black, with intelligent eyes. "Just fine." He stroked the beast's neck, and he whinnied in response to his touch. William mounted the horse, and nodded to Hamish. "Get the men ready. I ride."
Hamish nodded, and walked over to the men. "Let us make ready." The men kept to the edge of the forest, nearing the garrison with each step.
Marjory watched William until he was out of sight, and to her utter surprise, offered up a prayer to God, someone whom she abandoned long ago. Heavenly Father, please protect William. Please protect the men.
She looked at the man watching her, who only grunted, and turned his gaze away from her, looking after Hamish and the others wistfully.
William rode closer to the garrison's entrance, finally approaching the makeshift opening meant to be a door. No Englishmen were posted there, which did not surprise him. They aren't expecting their own deaths, he thought grimly, and slowed the horse down. The horse snorted, and took slow, measured steps. He glanced up to the watchtower, and almost laughed. Just as he thought. The idiot Heselrig, watching for him. Waiting. With one of his idiotic English soldiers.
The horse went further into the garrison, and the English soldiers wandering around inside stopped, and stared at him curiously, as if they couldn't believe that the great Wallace would ever give himself up willingly. He let go of the reins, and offered his hands in defeat, placing them behind his head, his fingers intertwined.
One English soldier caught up with him and grabbed a hold of the reins, and tugged. "Whoa, boy." He then made his way around to the horse's left flank, all the while keeping his eye on William, as if he would vanish into thin air.
All at once, he slipped his hand down his shirt, pulling out the surprise he spoke of earlier: a flail; a small, but effective weapon. His arm swung in a short arc, the flail making contact with flesh and bone. The Englishman fell to the ground, dead.
Another soldier cried out in outrage and rushed at him, spear in hand. The horse reared up in fear, and he used that moment to stab the horse in the neck. It, too, fell to the ground, and William with it. He managed to free himself and pulled out his sword, slashing once, twice, then slicing his neck artery.
The moment came, and the roar of twenty-something Scotsmen cut through the air. Clang of sword and the coppery smell of blood foretold this tale of battle running through Lanark. Each man for himself against the English bastards, and not one of them remained alive. Except…
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the familiar red and white striped fool trying to escape through the garrison entrance. "STOP HIM!" William bellowed, and Hamish ran, cutting Heselrig off not by speed, but by sheer size. Not that the Sheriff of Lanark was a fast runner; Hamish was able to catch up to him easily by making a diving tackle at him, knocking them both to the grass.
"Dirty English coward," he spit, and stood. "Get up." When he wouldn't, Hamish kicked him in the side. "Get…up." Now the man truly could not, for he was wheezing from lost breath. The red giant helped him, grasping a hold of the ridiculous striped cloak and yanking him rudely to his feet.
"I…" Heselrig wheezed, and went to the entrance once more, only to have his way blocked by more Scotsmen; the left and the right yielded the same results. And while going forward, he wished he hadn't, for he met the eyes of the rebel.
This is him, William thought. This is the man that killed my wife. So many emotions were running through him--anger, pain, frustration. Why am I not killing the bastard?
He didn't know why Heselrig shook in fear, but to the sheriff it was obvious. Blood from his soldiers covered his body and clothes in a morbid war paint, contrasting very keenly with his eyes. Oh God, his eyes…that clear, bright blue, now possessed. The Devil…
William looked at him for a few moments more, before his sense finally came back to him. Growling in rage, he kicked Heselrig, knocking him back down to the ground like the worm he was. Not waiting for him to get up, he grabbed an arm and forced him up, ignoring the sound of bones snapping and the sheriff screaming in pain.
"I broke your arm? Good." He grasped his sword and placed the cold metal of the blade underneath the coward's neck. "Know the fear my wife, Marian, felt while you had the knife at her throat, when you took advantage of her. I'll see you in hell!" One quick slice, and it was over. Blood poured from the wound on Heselrig's throat, and he fell to the ground, lifeless.
Immediately, the cries of, "WALLACE! WALLACE!" sounded throughout the air, but he could take no pleasure in it. Not now. He only stared blankly at the men, and shouted, almost as a formality: "Lanark is now back in Scottish hands!" The cries grew ever louder, and he did his best to tune them out.
I avenged you, Marian, he sighed, and waited for the sense of inner peace. However, it did not come.
