Randall Wallace - Braveheart

“Sir Craig. Out in the moonlight?” Wallace asked.

“Sir William. We come to seek a meeting,” Craig said.

“You’ve all sworn to Longshanks.”

“An oath to a liar is no oath at all. An oath to a patriot is a vow indeed. Every man of us is ready to swear loyalty to you,” Craig declared.

“So let the council swear publicly then.”

“We cannot,” Craig said. “Some scarcely believe you are alive. Others think you’ll pay them Mornay’s wages. We bid you to Edinburgh. Meet us at the city gates two days from now at sunset. Pledge us your pardon and we will unite behind you. Scotland will be one.”

Wallace glanced at Hamish and Stephen, who could barely hide their contempt. Wallace looked at the nobles. “One?” Wallace said. “You mean us and you?”

“I mean this,” Craig said and reached to his pocket.

The surrounding Highlanders, any one of whom would felt honored to stab a dagger through a blueblood’s heart, all lifted their blades. But what Craig withdrew was not a weapon; it was small, folded, limp. He extended it toward Wallace.

Then Wallace snatched it from Craig’s grasp. It was the handkerchief, clean and bright, still bearing Murron’s embroidered thistle, that Wallace lost at Falkirk in his encounter with the Bruce. Wallace stared at it, its soft folds bathed in the starlight, a relic he had thought gone forever, now returned to him from the unlikeliest source.

And he understood something else: the Bruce had found it, had saved it all this time. The significance of that, too, was not lost on Wallace.

When the Bruce had given Craig the handkerchief and told him to present it to Wallace as a sign of his sincerity, Craig had not understood what possible meaning such a simple object could have. But now he saw the effect on Wallace and said, “The Bruce will not be there. He begs you to come and join him as a brother to unite Scotland as one family.”

Wallace, Hamish, and Stephen retreated to the cave. Wallace had been silent since the nobles were rehooded and led away, and with every moment of Wallace’s silence, Hamish’s anger had grown. Finally, as Wallace stood at the mouth of the cave and stared up at the sky, Hamish could restrain himself no longer and blurted, “Why do you even pretend to wonder? You know it’s a trap!”

“Maybe,” Wallace said quietly. “Probably.”

“Then… Then…,” Hamish could only sputter. He looked to Stephen for help, but Irishman only shook his head.

“We can’t win alone, Hamish,” Wallace said. “We know that. Joining with the nobles is the only hope for our people.”

“I don’t want to be a martyr!” Hamish barked.

“Nor I! I want to live! I want a home and children and peace. I’ve asked God for those things. But He’s brought me this sword. And if He wills that I must lay it down to have what He wants for my country, then I’ll do that, too.”

“That’s just a dream, William!”

“We’ve lived a dream together. A dream of freedom!”

Hamish was shouting now. “Your dreams aren’t about freedom! They’re about Murron! You have to be a hero, because you think she sees you! Is that it?”

Wallace was quiet for a long moment. “My dreams of Murron are gone. I killed them myself. If I knew I could live with her on the other side of death, I’d welcome it.”

And that settled it. Hamish and Stephen saw that William was going to the meeting with the nobles, and nothing they could say or do could keep him from it.

WILLIAM, HAMISH, AND STEPHEN RODE TOWARD EDINburgh, talking little, not hurrying, knowing this could be their last ride. When they reached the top of the last hill, they stopped and looked down at the road leading into the city. Wallace handed his dagger to Stephen and unbuckled his broadsword and gave it to Hamish.

“No,” Hamish said. “Keep these. We’re going, too.”

“No. One of us is enough,” Wallace said.

“Nay. We decided it last night. We’re comin’ with you,” Stephen said.

“I have to keep my courage. See, my hands already shake.” Wallace held his hand out before them, and his friends could see the tremble, but it seemed to be from emotion, not fear. He said almost casually, “Whatever happens, if I know you’re alive, I can bear it.”

He leaned from his saddle and hugged them, Stephen first, then Hamish, whose great freckled cheeks bore twin rivulets of tears. But still Hamish seemed angry. “What will I do if I’m left alive and you’re gone?” he demanded.

William looked at him for a long time. “Tell our story,” he said. “Let our people dream.”

With one last look at his friends, William Wallace rode away.

The house designated for the meeting was a two-story stone manor owned by Lord Monteith. The grounds around it were landscaped and manicured, but no servants were tending the gardens now; the house itself looked quiet as Wallace rode towards it.

Within the house, Robert the Bruce and Craig stood at the hearth of its central room, waiting. The Bruce had noticed that Craig had seemed particularly edgy since their arrival twenty minutes before, but then the Bruce was strained as well. He looked out the window; nothing yet.

“He won’t come,” Craig said.

“He will. I know he will,” Robert said.

They heard the approach of a single horse. Robert looked out to see Wallace arriving.

“Here he is. And unarmed,” the Bruce said. “My God, he has a brave heart.”

They waited as Wallace reached the front door and dismounted, counting the moments as he tied his horse to the hitching post himself, since there was no groom waiting to do it for him. But before he could step to the doorway, two more riders appeared. “His friends,” the Bruce said, looking out.

“No matter,” Craig said. “They are welcome.”

But outside, Wallace was not so welcoming; he glared at Hamish and Stephen, who shrugged off his disapproval of their presence. “We’re here,” Hamish said, dismounting. “That’s all there is to it. So you may as well go right on, for we aren’t leaving.”

So it was three, not one, who entered the front door and then appeared at the broad opening into the house’s main room. There Wallace stopped, facing the Bruce.

Wallace reached into his shirt and took out the handkerchief, a symbol now to both of them. They looked at each other, their eyes saying everything. Truce. Peace. A future for Scotland.

Wallace stepped forward to clasp the Bruce’s hand.

And then the soldiers poured from every closet, every doorway, even leaping down from the balcony overhead.

Too late, Robert the Bruce understood. “Nooo!!” he screamed. But it did not matter. The soldiers—English professionals—were swarming Wallace and his friends. Wallace was stunned instantly by a man dropping onto him from above; Stephen was knocked senseless in the first rush; Hamish was smothered by three men—and sent them all flying like a dog shaking off water. One of the three bounced back from the wall, producing a dagger and plunging it high into Hamish’s shoulder.

“No blades!” one of the soldiers was shouting. “All alive!” Wallace had already disappeared beneath a blanket of men; the others began clubbing at Hamish. Craig had darted back the moment the assault began, but the Bruce, at the edge of the melee, charged into it. Because of the truce, he had dressed without weapons, but he threw his fists into the faces of the soldiers. But they were ganging in from all sides; hiding such numbers within the house had been a marvel of cunning. They trussed Wallace like a netted lion, while their leader, with an expertly placed blow to the temple, dropped Bruce senseless.

The soldiers raised their clubs over the fallen Hamish and Stephen, ready to beat them to death. “Forget them!” shouted their leader, fearful that any moment more Scots would appear to fight for Wallace as they had in the past. “Go! Go!”