To make up for the long wait, I took my time with this chapter, making it long. I hope you enjoy it. Thanks to all old and new reviewers.

Chapter Ten

Even from the borders of the forest, Marjory could hear the sounds of battle: the clanging of swords, the eruption of battle cries. She swore to God that she could smell blood…but maybe that was just her imagination. She did not even know what blood smelled like. After all, this was the closest she had ever been to a battle, and even then, it was not that close.

Almost as soon as the sounds started, they quelled, before the cry of "WALLACE!" pierced through the silence.

"They won," she whispered, expecting to feel disgust. But…no. A quiet sense of relief spread through her, and she did not know why. Maybe in her mind, she thought it was truly over; that home was soon to appear on her horizon. It was her fervent wish, her fervent prayer, and she knew that wish would not come true. At least, not yet.

The sky grew pinkish with the setting of the sun…

"…Miss Debaye?"

"Hmm?" She looked up to see her guard, and Hamish; the latter standing over her with bloodied skin and clothes.

"By God!" Marjory scrambled to her feet. "Are you alright?"

"Fine lass, just fine." He smiled, touched at her concern. "William sent for you, and the one guarding you. 'Tis safe to come into the city now."

"Is it?" She glanced over his shoulder toward the city of Lanark.

Hamish followed her glance. "It's safe, believe me." He held out his arms. "Would I lie to you?"

"Yes." Laughing, she followed him into the city. Whatever the mood was in Lanark before; now, it was jovial, happy. Men chatted amongst themselves while collecting fallen enemy weapons, burning bodies. A few broke into some bottles of whiskey that--no doubt--belonged to the English, and here and there, drunken laughter filled the air.

"Ah. Father, Andrew." Hamish smiled, stopping in front of one of many cook fires. Campbell sat down on an old tree stump; Andrew stood by Campbell, acknowledging Marjory with a small smile and a nod. "Lad," Hamish motioned to Marjory's guard, "inform Wallace that Miss Debaye is in the city." He pointed to a makeshift tent, set far away from the reckless proceedings. "He's in there."

"Aye." He rushed off to the tent.

"I see you are doing well, father?" Hamish crossed his arms.

"Oh, aye, son." Campbell slurred, taking a swig of whiskey.

Marjory gasped, putting one hand to her mouth. "No, you're not, sir! You have an arrow embedded in your chest!"

"This?" he belched. "This is nothing."

"Um, Campbell?" Andrew cleared his throat. "You do know, eventually, that the arrow will have to come out?"

"Of course, though I intend to drink more whiskey before that feat is attempted!" Raising the bottle to nothing in particular, he took another long swig.

"May as well make yourself comfortable, lass," Andrew sighed. "I know him--once he starts drinking, it's hard for him to stop."

Marjory sat down on the soft ground, near the fire; Hamish as well. She stared over at William's occupied tent. "Hamish, I'm curious. Why is William making himself scarce? I would expect him to be out here, celebrating his victory with the men."

"He gets lonely sometimes, lass." He looked at the tent, then back to her. "I will tell you something that may make you better understand why William is doing what he's doing. I want you to truly listen to me."

His tone was so forlorn and so unlike his normal gruff boisterousness, that she took pause. "I'm listening."

"William, as a young lad, lost both his father and brother in an English skirmish. Upon their burial, his uncle Argyle, a priest, came and took him away. He came back to Scotland to start life anew…to raise a family."

"Beg pardon?" It was hard to think of the Scottish warrior, the man already well known by the English king, as a family man. "William…wanted to raise a family?"

"Aye." He nodded. "He wed a lass he knew since childhood, Marian."

"What happened?"

"Prima noctes."

"First night?" A barbaric practice, in her opinion, where the lord ruling the land "blessed" the marriage. "I thought…at least, father told me King Edward stopped using that practice long ago--"

"William married her in secret, in Selkirk Forest," he went on, as if he did not hear her. "This way, he had no need of sharing her with an English lord. While in the marketplace one day…ten English soldiers surrounded them, beating him so severely, he could not stand. Heselrig, the Sheriff of Lanark raped her and then…he slit her throat."

"Oh, dear Lord…" Marjory had a hard time holding back her mounting anger. She believed in the sanctity of marriage, despite the fact hers would be arranged. And Heselrig…wearing a badge of morality underneath a mask of righteousness. He was her father's best friend! Doing something like that…no wonder the Scots hated the English so much.

"That is why we took you. The money from your capture will help our people." He placed a hand on her shoulder. I know that you hate your situation right now, God knows I do. It will be over soon."

She wanted to believe him, she really did. "I…"

"I think I am quite drunk now, lads," Campbell slurred, breaking up the conversation. Marjory stood, regarding the drunken man with a curious eye.

"Alright." Hamish stood, moving closer to his father, and taking hold of the embedded arrow. "Hold stout. One, two…" on the count of three, he pulled the arrow out in one swift jerk, tossing it aside.

"Oh, you imbecile boy, you…" a stream of profanity poured from Campbell's mouth; she heard nothing like it in all her days. Her mouth dropped open in pure shock. Even her father cursed every occasionally…not like this.

"I'll be back," Hamish said, walking away.

"Where is he going?" Marjory asked. Her question was immediately answered, for he came back with something reminiscent of a fireplace poker, the tip glowing orange.

"You may wish to stand by me, lass," Andrew said. She asked no questions, and did as she was told, for once in her life.

Hamish paused hesitantly in front of his father, brandishing the poker, as a sort of clumsy weapon.

"What are you waiting for, boy?" Campbell laughed.

"Here, Marjory…" Hamish handed her the poker. "You…you can do it. I'll help hold him down."

"Do what, exactly?" A quizzical look crossed her face.

"Cauterize the wound, so it won't bleed." Hamish took hold of father's arms.

"Oh, no, no." She offered a weak smile. "Not a chance in…hey, you!" Her guard had come out of William's tent, and ventured over to her. "Here. You can do it." Marjory transferred the poker to him. "I'll…just step back." Stepping further back behind Andrew, she had a backside view of the events about to unfold.

"Lass!"

"Damn," she swore under her breath, and stepped back, unwillingly, toward and in front of the charismatic quartet of Andrew, Hamish, Campbell, and her guard. "Yes?"

"Here," Campbell presented her with his whiskey bottle. "Take this. Pour it straight into the wound…please," he said, at her confused look. "Just indulge me…now!" She bit her lip, and did as he requested. "Sorry," she apologized, as he grimaced, and stepped away, now behind her guard.

"…Alright, now!" Hamish yelled, and the guard stepped forward, placing the poker on his wound. Marjory was usually prepared for anything; but not for Campbell's agonizing screams of pain. His eyes bugged, and he thrashed against his son's ironclad grip.

"Father, I'm letting go!" The minute Hamish let go, Campbell stood, and charged drunkenly at the man brandishing the poker. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he shrieked, though Campbell heard none of it. A solid punch landed on his jaw, and he fell to the ground in an unconscious heap, poker and all. "That'll wake you up in the morning, boy!" Andrew and Hamish started laughing, along with Campbell.

She could only stare at the unconscious man at her feet. "I fail to see the humor in the situation."

"Ah, come on now, lass!" Campbell boomed, slinging an arm around her slim shoulders. "Take a swig of that whiskey you're holding, 'twill loosen you up!"

God, she forgot she was even holding the whiskey. "No, I am perfectly fine, thank you."

"Then give it to me."

"Suit yourself." She handed the whiskey bottle to him.

"Somebody's coming!" a scout atop the former English garrison's tower yelled.

"Arm yourselves!" Campbell bellowed, letting the whiskey bottle fall to the ground, unnoticed for the time being. He grabbed a nearby weapon with one hand, and shoved Marjory in the direction of William's tent with the other. "Lass, go tell William somebody's coming! Make haste!"

She picked up her nightskirts and ran, losing both her slippers in the process; barely feeling the cold ground under her feet. Her breath felt like it would leave her lungs before she reached his tent; thankfully, it did not. Bursting through the tent flaps, she found a strange sight…

William sat on the ground in front of a small fire, staring into its dancing embers. In his hands, he held a small piece of cloth.

"William?" He did not answer. Moving closer to him, she leaned down and placed one small hand on his shoulder. "Will--"

He started, whipping around, his blue eyes wild, nostrils flaring.

Stumbling back a bit, she mumbled, "Campbell sent me for you. He said someone is coming…" he rushed out of the tent before she could even finish her sentence, leaving her alone and in silence.

Not sure of what to do, she sat down by the fire, huddling close for the warmth that was in it. She tried to listen to the commotion going on outside, but the voices were too muffled for her to discern anything of importance, so she gave up, and stared into the fire, much like William did moments before.

After a period, the tent flap opened again. She forced her eyes away from the fire, and stared at William, expecting to see the same look of loathing for her in his eyes. A sadness, such as she had never seen (as of yet) from the Scotsman, reflected in their depths.

"William…" she scrambled to her feet. "I…" Clearing her throat, she blurted out, "Hamish told me about your wife, Marion."

"And what do you make of me now?" His voice was flat, toneless…emotionless.

"I know why you hate the English so much," she stated. "I see why you took me from my father's house. And I see what I've been trying to deny these many weeks…you are human, not the barbaric monster I painted you to be." Stepping closer to him, she put one hand on his cheek, hearing his breathing quicken. "You are human. I just ask one thing of you…please; get me back to my father, as quickly as possible. Please." Without another word, she lowered her hand and left his tent, not sparing a single glance for the man wallowing in his own grief.