Randall Wallace - Braveheart

At the foot of the graves, and just outside the circle of mourners, three of the farmers were whispering. “We gotta do somethin’ with the boy,” MacClannough said.

“He’s got an uncle in Dunipace,” Campbell told him.

“Malcolm had a brother?” MacClannough asked.

“A cleric. Don’t think they got along. I sent a lad to fetch him.”

“What if the uncle don’t come?” Stewart asked.

They all thought about that question for a moment.

“You don’t have a son, MacClannough, how about you?” Campbell asked.

But no one was anxious to adopt a grieving, rebellious boy. MacClannough looked at his wife and two daughters. His youngest daughter was five; she was a beautiful girl with long auburn hair, and she clung to her own mother’s hands as if the open graves were the mouths of death and might suck her parents in, too.

Then the girl did what no one else there had thought to do; she moved to the softly weeping William and held out to him the thistle follower that she had carried to the graveside.

William looked up at her and their young eyes met — children encountering grief for the first time. Everybody at the funeral had seen the gesture; it even stopped the local priest in the middle of his droning. As the girl moved back to her mother’s side, the priest had lost his place in the liturgy of death and could only mutter, “Amen. Rest in peace.”

As the grave diggers shoveled dirt over the coffins, Campbell and his son Hamish moved to William and took his shoulders.

“Come on, lad. Come on…,” Campbell said.

They all filtered back toward the house. Outside the house, Campbell slipped the undertaker some coins as final payment. The undertaker climbed up into the wagon box and lifted the reins; but before he could snap them a figure appeared riding toward them. A lone, stiff figure that made everyone pause.

The figure drew closer. It was Argyle Wallace in black clerical priestly garb. He looked like a human buzzard; his face was craggy, permanently furious.

“You must be the relative of the deceased, “ the priest said.

Argyle only glowered at the man who retreated. Argyle dismounted and glared at William.

“Uncle Argyle?” William said.

“We’ll sleep here tonight. You’ll come home with me. We’ll let the house and the lands, too — plenty of willing neighbors.”

“I don’t want to leave,” William said.

“Didn’t want your father to die either, did ya? But it happened.

The people wanted to stay and eat the food they had brought, but a contingent of English soldiers rode up, a dozed mounted men carrying lances. The leader of the soldiers looked down at the funeral bunting.

“Someone dead from this household?” the leader asked.

“We just had a funeral, isn’t that what it means in England as well?” Argyle said.

“What it means in England — and in Scotland, too — is that rebels have forfeited their lands,” the leader answered. The mounted soldiers behind him shifted their pikes and eyed the unarmed farmers.

“My brother and nephew died two days ago when their hay cart turned over,” Argyle said. “Their graves have been consecrated, and any man who disturbs them now incurs eternal damnation.” Argyle’s eyes burned like the hell fires he spoke of. “So please. Dig them up.”

Outmaneuvered, the leader reined his horse away. Several of the farmers spat on the ground. Argyle glared at them.

“Funeral’s over. Go home,” Argyle said.

That night inside the kitchen, William and Argyle sat together at the table. Argyle had laid out a proper meal with exact place settings.

“Not that spoon, that one’s for soup,” Argyle told the boy. “Dip away from you. And don’t slurp.” They ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Uncle Argyle asked, “Did the priest say anything about the Resurrection? Or was it all about Judgment?”

“It was in Latin, sir.”

“ Non loqis Latinum? You don’t speak Latin? We shall have to fix that, wont we? Did he give the poetic benediction? The Lord bless thee and keep thee? Patris benefactum et … It was Malcolm’s favorite?

Argyle knew nothing about tucking a boy in bed; that was clear in William’s bedroom that night when he stood awkwardly idle as William scrubbed his face at the washstand and crawled into bed. His bushy eyebrows and narrow lips move toward each other as if to join in a kiss somewhere at the tip of his hawkish nose, and his eyes blinked so rapidly that he gave the appearance of a bird who has just been raped in the face and now has no idea what to do next, which in fact was very much Uncle Argyle’s situation at the moment. All day long he had know exactly what to say and do, but now he was baffled. “Had enough to eat?” he demanded of William, and the boy nodded. “You’ve washed your face? Yes, of course, you just did that.” His eyes narrowed as if he’d caught the boy trying to get away with something.

“I always say them as I’m falling asleep, so my dreams will be open to God all night long,” the boy said.

“Who told you that?”

“My father.”

There was a long pause. William wondered if he had done something wrong. “Good night, Uncle,” William said.

Argyle grunted and started out. Then he stopped, turned back and leaned down over William, and with great tenderness the grizzled old uncle kissed his nephew on his hair.

Alone in the kitchen, Argyle sat down by the hearth and stared at the embers. He had ridden all day, ever since he’d gotten the news of the death of his brother and his nephew John. All day his mind had buzzed with practical issues: how he must save his brother’s land from confiscation, see to their proper burial, and see to the raising of this son Malcolm and left behind. He had accomplished it all; Argyle Wallace was a man who accomplished everything he set out to do or died trying. The boy would come home with him, that was settled. Argyle had never had a boy around, or even a wife for that matter, but Argyle was an ecclesiastic, and the teacher in him like the challenge of this wild colt of a nephew.

Malcolm was dead. That was that. When things couldn’t be changed, they had to be faced, dealt with. Argyle had done that. But now he sat by the fire and he wanted no sleep, and all he could think about was the time many years ago when he and Malcolm were boys and had just gone to their bed in the loft of their father’s house. Argyle had insisted that his brother pray properly on his knees by the bedside, as Argyle always did. And Argyle remembered how so many years, ago Malcolm had told him that he had decided to pray from within the bed, so he would fall asleep with his dreams open to God.

Malcolm’s huge broadsword now lay beside the hearth, next to Argyle’s hand. Argyle lifted it and turned the tip to the floor, so that the handle stood before his eyes like the cross.

He began the benediction: “The Lord bless thee and keep thee….” Then tears of grief spilled down the old man’s cheeks, and he wept beside the fire.

DURING HIS SLEEP THAT NIGHT, WILLIAM HAD MORE nightmares. Once again the boy stood in the doorway of the barn and looked at the garish, hung faces in his nightmare. Then a mangled hand came from behind him and grasped his shoulder. William gasped, but the hand held him gently. He turned and saw his father and his brother! They were wounded, bloody, but they smiled at him; they were alive! William wept with joy and reached to hug them, but his father stretched forth a forbidding hand. William kept reaching out helplessly. His father and brother moved past him to the hanged knights. Two empty nooses were there. Before the boy’s weeping eyes they put their heads into the nooses and hoisted themselves up. William’s grief exploded; his tears erupted and he awakened in his bedroom with tears flooding down his face.