Randall Wallace - Braveheart

Old Campbell began to play the pipes. The notes were clear and beautiful, drifting up to mingle with the stars. But still William frowned.

Uncle Argyle saw this displeasure in William’s face and moved close to him. “A marriage needs the pipes,” Argyle said, “and the knowledge of some others to seal the pact not only with God but with man.”

“But… ,” William said, “we discussed why this must be in secret.”

“And it is in secret still,” Argyle said. William frowned at him again, but Argyle was unshaken. “You must know who to trust. Yes, a secret is worthless if not kept—but it is equally worthless if it doesn’t find another worthy of trust to share its load. These men stayed faithful to you and to the memory of your traded the story of your father’s death for a share of those lands that would then be forfeit. Here, now, you are trusting them with the secret of your love, a secret even greater than life, for if you know what a man values even more than life, for if you know what a man Argyle wrapped his still strong arms around William and drew him to his chest, speaking even through the embrace. “I have taught you everything I know, but this much you must learn on your own: know whom to trust. Not everyone you trust can be loved; not everyone you love can be trusted. But your life is full when you find that place to share your secrets. That is my wedding gift to you.”

Argyle rode away and held back the tears of farewell. William and Murron rode the path to the top of the precipice, where, in the shelter of the grove, they spent their honeymoon.

Still sweaty from their lovemaking, they rode to her house and reached it just before dawn. He stayed with the horses in the shadows of the Caledonia trees and watched her as she ran across the grass, growing bright with the coming dawn, and slipped soundlessly through the window of her parents home.

He wanted to linger and watch her there forever. But the sun was just below the mountaintops. He lifted his hand. He didn’t know if she saw him, but she waved just before she closed the window.

William rode away alone, leading her horse behind him.

FOR SIX WEEKS THEY STOLE TIME WHENEVER THEY COULD; and yet the long nights of the coming winter were never long enough. When the moon was down or hidden behind clouds, they went to his home—their home—and shared moments—literally but moments—beside the hearth. And in those stolen moments William Wallace understood his uncle’s old truth that shared warmth was greater warmth. On other nights, when the sky opened and the moon sailed high and proud, they rode to the grove and celebrated again in the newness of their love.

Days they pretended—or thought they did—that the flowering romance everyone had witnessed had wilted before it bloomed. On church days they never spoke; on market days they passed on the road and William would nod, once for her whole family, and never speak her name. Murron thought it was remotely possible that her mother knew that something far greater was going on, but she was certain her father was completely in the dark. In fact they had been aware of every time Murron had slipped out the window. They had known, and in their hearts, they had approved.

The farmers they—or rather Uncle Argyle—had entrusted with their secret kept it far better than they. They pretended not to notice the unnaturalness of the community’s most desirable bachelor refusing to even look in the direction of its most beautiful maiden. But they never elbowed each other about it, never whispered and hid smiles. And they always pretended not to see it when William and Murron passed each other in the crowded streets of the village and exchanged words without ever crossing glances.

Such a moment occurred as Murron moved through the village of Lanark on a market day. It was a pleasant, sunny morning; the air was alive with the music of flutes and the laughter of children entertained by a juggler. English soldiers were there, too; they admired Murron as she walked among stalls of dangling birds, piles of farm vegetables, woven wool laid out on planks. She stopped to admire a cart full of fresh flowers. When she looked up she saw William on the opposite side of the cart, seeming to study the rose petals spread before him and never looking to the beautiful face beyond them. “I’ve missed you,” he said toward the flowers.

“Shush!” She lifted a whole red rose and smelled it. Putting it down again, she whispered, “It’s only been a day.”

“It’s been forever.”

“Aye. To me as well.”

“Tonight then.”

“My mother is suspicious already! Not tonight!”

“Then when?”

“Tonight!”

She hurried away from him, leaving him smiling.

Drunken English soldiers were standing by an ale cask, and they spotted Murron moving through the fair, glowing, beautiful. The soldiers smirked at each other; as Murron passed, one of them grabbed her wrist.

“Where are you going, lass?” the soldier asked.

“Let go,” she said.

A second drunken soldier piped up. “Why don’t you marry my friend here? Then I’ll take the first night!” The laughter of his friends encouraged him; he pulled Murron into his arms; she shoved him away with surprising strength, and he staggered back to the greater laughter of his friends. For a moment Murron thought they would let it go at that—and then one of them grabbed her from behind, spun her around, and kissed her hard on the lips.

She broke free and slapped him—hard and sharp. It knocked the grin off his toothless mouth. The first soldier she pushed now threw her down against sacks of grain, and they were all over her, pinning her down, ripping her clothes, a full-scale public gang rape. As the townspeople tried to move in, the three soldiers waiting their turn at Murron pulled their knives, and the townspeople backed off.

The soldier pinning Murron to the ground, his breath hot with the stench of ale, growled into her face, “Bitch, who do you think you are?” He jammed his mouth down against hers for a long, awful time.

But then he tried to pull back, his scram muffled; she was biting off the end of his tongue! He pulled away, clawing at his mangled mouth. Now his thoughts of rape were forgotten; he pulled back his huge fist to crush it against her face…

But the hand was caught—by William! He jabbed the soldier’s elbow in a direction it was never meant to bend. The soldier, his mouth already bloody, howled in new agony, but William still wouldn’t let him go; he swung the soldier by his rubbery arm into his comrades.

Two of the soldiers leapt forward, swinging their short swords; William ducked and knocked their ale cask into their knees, then lifted the whole table where they were sitting and rammed it into the faces of two more attackers.

“William!” Murron yelled.

Her shout was too late to warn him; as he was facing one soldier with a knife, another grabbed his neck from behind. But William’s strength was great and his adrenalin greater; as the soldier in front stabbed, William whirled and the knife sunk into the soldier holding him. William snatched a leg from the shattered table and crushed the stabber’s skull. All the rapists, the whole gang of them, were bleeding on the ground.

“William Wallace! William Wallace!” a woman in the marketplace yelled.

But there was no time for celebration. One of the fallen soldiers had begun to scream out. “Rebels! Rebels! Help!”

More soldiers heard the call and came running. But the village fold who had cowered before the brandished weapons of the rapists had been transformed by the sight of a single Scot decimating the whole gang. A woman shoved a broom across the shins of the first new soldier to run up, tripping him onto his chin; others in the crowd bunched together to delay the other reinforcements. “Run, William! Run!” the woman with the broom yelled.