Randall Wallace - Braveheart

“We heard a rumor. Only a rumor!” Campbell said. “We’ve sent a man to—”

But then he was interrupted by the sound of a horse galloping up. Campbell peered through a crack in the wall and saw their rider returning. “That’s him!” Campbell said.

They pushed the doors and the rider, Liam Little, galloped in. He was pale; he started to speak, then faltered as he saw William.

“What is it? What?!” William pleaded.

“Tell us, man!” Campbell ordered.

“The magistrate… he tied her to a post in the town square,” Little said. His face was already red from the hard riding, but now it grew more flushed as he worked to get the next words out. Finally he added, “And cut her throat.”

William dragged his holders across the barn and pulled Little to the ground. “You’re lying!” William shouted.

But when William saw the bloodshot horror in Little’s eyes, he knew the story was true.

Outside that barn were stars, above a Scottish valley, where grew heather and purple thistles, and waters of crystal streams tumbled into depthless lochs. But on that night, as William Wallace’s cries of grief tore from within that barn and across that empty valley, the stars stopped singing, the thistles faded, the brooks ceased their laughter, and the once-beautiful lochs, at least for him, became but great puddles of tears.

THE MEN INSIDE THE BARN HAD WRESTLED WILLIAM DOWN to a seat on the hay. Hamish stood close and kept an eye on him. Campbell mumbled with a knot of friends in the corner.

“Has MacClannough heard?” Campbell wondered to Little.

“He must’ve. The villagers went running, as if they could get away from the sight of it,” Little said.

“We’ll see to him,” Campbell said. “But first we’ve got to hide young Wallace.” He moved over to William and spoke softly, gently. “Laddie… we’ve got to get you someplace safe. The soldiers’ll be comin’.”

William said nothing; but Hamish said, “Let ‘em come.”

“You bite your tongue!” his father snapped. “We’ll strike back, but not now!” He turned back to William again, leaned down to him, lowered his voice. “William, it’s… awful. But like the loss of your father and brother, the pain will shrink in time.”

William stared. Campbell patted him, then said to Hamish, “Get him up to the cave. We’ll—”

William darted before Campbell could react and jumped to Little’s horse. He was already up onto its back before Hamish could grab the reins in a grip that no man or horse could have broken. “Not yet, William!” Hamish boomed. “That’s what the magistrate wants! He killed her to have you!” For Hamish, though the strongest man there, was not a mere brute, he was also his clever father’s son.

“Then he shall have me,” William said.

William started down at Hamish. Hamish stared up at William and still held the reins of the horse. But something passed between them in their looks.

Hamish let go.

William wheeled the horse instantly and galloped out, breaking right through the latch of the door.

Campbell slapped his son hard and shouted, “You let him go!”

“Because I’m going, too,” Hamish said quietly.

“And I,” Stewart joined in.

“And I,” Little said.

“I’ll get the bloody weapons,” Campbell said.

William rode to town, alone on the galloping horse. Tears for Murron spilled from his eyes and tore across his face, pushed by the wind. He made one stop, at his farmhouse, and from a spot beneath the thatch of his roof, he removed the broadsword that had once belonged to his father.

All through the valley, the farmers who had been in the barn streamed after him, along every road, path, and trail that lead into the village. At every farmhouse they shouted. “The magistrate’s murdered Murron MacClannough! And William Wallace is on his way to town!”

At a barrier across the main road into the center of Lanark Village were twenty professional soldiers, entrenched, fully armed with bows, pikes, swords. Their senses were alert; they knew the danger. Then one of them heard a horse’s snort and peered out into the moonlit darkness.

There, at the far turning of the road, just over a bow shot away, sat William Wallace upon his horse. He had stopped, rock still. He was staring at them, all twenty of them, and he sat there all alone, and yet there was absolutely no fear in his face. The soldier knew the look of fear—even the bravest men had it before battle—but this was a different look, and the soldier had seen it before, but only rarely. It was the face of a man readying himself for slaughter—not his own, but that of others.

He saw Wallace lift his broadsword. Its great flat edge caught the moonlight. It looked huge. It was huge—nearly five feet long. It would take an expert to use such a sword; a strong man, with balance and timing, could swing it so its massive blade could cut through anything.

Wallace leaned forward to spur the horse, then heard a shout.

“Wait!” Hamish shouted.

Hamish, Campbell, and four others rode up.

Again William and Hamish exchanged a look. “All right,” Hamish said. “Now we’re ready.”

William raised his sword. He screamed and charged.

His horse pounded toward the barricade, closer and closer to the English soldiers, their eyes grown wide and white with fear. For a moment they seemed to freeze; then half of them stood, raising bows. Not all at once, but like the sharp spattering of hail upon a stone fence, their bowstrings twanged.

The arrows cut through the air, toward William. They sliced the air around his head, they tore his clothes, but none caught his flesh; almost all were fired high in haste, and there was no time for a second volley. He charged through them, his horse leaping the barrier as William simultaneously swung the broadsword. The soldier who had first seen William and judged his heart for battle by the stillness of his face now saw that he was not just good with the sword, he was an expert and more. The stroke was smooth, appearing effortless and unhurried, and the tip, at the end of a huge arc, whistled faster than the arrows. The blade bit through the corporal’s helmet and took off the upper half of his head.

The soldiers tried to rally to shoot him in the back as his horse leaped over them—one of them had sighted William’s back—but the other Scots crashed into them. William’s charge had mesmerized them; they had forgotten about the others. Now, as all fights become, it turned into a melee, the soldiers trying to rely on their training while the Scots gave themselves to wild fury. Old Campbell took an arrow through the shoulder but kept hacking with his sword. Hamish battered down two men with a huge ax. Still it was but a few against more than twenty, and no force in battle is greater than the confidence that one’s own side will prevail. The soldiers, overcoming their first urge to flee, saw their advantage in numbers and had just begun to swarm over their outnumbered attackers when more Scots arrived. Carrying hoes, hay scythes, and hammers, they charged into the backs of the soldiers and overwhelmed them.

William raced on through the village, spurring his horse, dodging obstacles in the narrow streets—chickens, carts, barrels. Soldiers popped up: the first he galloped straight over; the next he cut down with a forward stroke, and another he chopped down on his left side with a backhand. With each swing of his broadsword, a man died.

A village woman shouted from her doorway, “William Wallace! Go, William! Go!” He galloped on, his farmer neighbors and people from the village following in his wake.

Hesselrig heard the approaching shouts. He and thirty more of his men were barricaded around the village square. The sounds were not comforting; they heard the panicked cries of English soldiers and the frenzied screams of the Scots drawing nearer. He called out to his men, “Don’t look so surprised! We knew he’d bring friends! They’re no match for professional soldiers!”