2
T
he water was frigid, but the rushing coldness of it against my heated body was intense enough to dull the worst of the searing pain in my backside. I gritted my eight-year-old teeth and grimly set about washing away the evidence of my shame and the sin I had endured. I could hear Will splashing close by, and hear his muttered curses, for he ever had a blazing, blistering way with words. When I could feel that my legs and buttocks were clean again, I did a brave thing. I knelt in the stream, bending forward to splash water over my face and head and scrub at both until I felt they too must be clean.
“I’m finished,” Will called to me as I was shaking the water from my hair, and we made our way together back towards the bank, stooped forward and fumbling with outstretched hands for river stones that could trip us.
Ewan’s campfire was well concealed in a stone-lined pit, but we could see the glow of it reflected up into the branches overhead, and soon we were sitting beside it, each wrapped in one of the two old blankets he had tossed to us with a single rough cloth towel on our return.
“Eat,” he said, and brought each of us a small tin pot of food. I have no idea what it contained, other than the whipped eggs that held it together, but there was delicious meat in there, in bite-sized pieces, and some kind of spicy root that might have been turnip. He had something else cooking, too, in a shallow pan, but it had nothing to do with what we ate that night. He had raised his mask and tucked it back into his hood, perhaps so that he could see better, and was carefully keeping his back to us as he worked. The stuff in the pan was a soggy, black mess of plants and herbs mixed with some kind of powder that he shook liberally into it from a bag he pulled out of a pocket in his tunic. He kept the mixture simmering over the coals in a tiny amount of water, stirring it with a stick and testing its heat with a finger from time to time—though I noticed he never tasted it—until he removed it from the heat and set it aside to cool. Still keeping his back to us while Will and I gorged ourselves on our stew, he then set about ripping up what I took to be a good shirt, tearing it into two large pieces and a number of long, thin strips. Will and I watched his every move, chewing avidly and wondering what he was about.
Will cleared his throat. “Can I ask you something?”
The big man glanced up, the ruined side of his face masked in shadow. “Aye, ask away.”
“What kind of eggs are these? They’re good.”
“A mixture, but four of them were duck eggs. The rest were wild land fowl—grouse and moorhen.”
“Are you not having any?”
“I had mine earlier, while you bathed.”
Will nodded, then said, “You don’t have to hide your face now. We’re no’ afraid any more.”
Ewan’s face creased into what I thought might be a smile. “Are you sure about that?”
“Aye, we’re sure. Aren’t we, Jamie?”
“Aye, we’re sure, right enough.” Then, emboldened by my youth and the sudden realization that I truly was not afraid of this strange man, I asked, “What happened to it? Your face.”
The giant drew in a great breath. “How old are you, William Wallace?”
“Ten.”
“Well, then, when I was a boy just two years older than you are now, I got hit in the face by a mace. You know what a mace is?”
“Aye, it’s a club.”
“It is. A metal-headed club. And it broke my whole face and knocked out my eye and all my teeth on the one side.”
“Who did it?”
“I don’t know. It was early in a battle, at a place called Lewes, in Sussex in the south of England.” He went on to tell us about how he had gone, as an apprentice boy to a Welsh archer, to join the army of King Henry, the third of that name, in his war against his rebellious barons led by Simon de Montfort. The present King of England, Edward I, Ewan said, had been a prince then, and had commanded the cavalry and archers on the right of King Henry’s battle line, on the high ground above Lewes town, but the enemy, under Simon de Montfort himself, had surprised them from the rear after a daring night march and won control of the heights after a short and vicious fight. In that early-morning skirmish before the battle proper, young Ewan’s company of archers, running to take up new positions, had been caught in the open and ridden down by a squadron of de Montfort’s horsemen, one of whom struck Ewan down in passing.
“So if you missed the battle,” I said, “why do they call you Archer Ewan?”
“Because that’s what I am. An archer, trained lifelong on the longbow. They left me for dead on that field, but I wouldna die. And when I recovered I went back to my apprenticeship. I had lost a year and more of training by then, but my apprentice master was my uncle, too. He took me back into his care and I learned well, despite having lost my eye. It changes your sight, you know, having but one eye.” He made a grunting sound that might have been a selfdeprecating laugh. “I adapted to it quickly, though, and learned very well, for I had little else left to divert me from my work. Where other lads went chasing after girls, I found my solace in my bow and in learning the craft of using it better than any other man I knew.”
He picked up the pan that he’d set by the fireside earlier, testing its heat again with the back of a finger. “There, this is ready.”
I watched closely as he folded each of the two large pieces of torn shirt into four and then carefully poured half of the mixture in the pan onto each of the pads he had made. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of it.
“What
is
that?”
“It’s a nostrum.”
“What’s a nostrum?”
“A cure, made from natural things. This one is a poultice made of burdock leaves and herbs and a special mixture of dried things given me by my mother, who is a famous healer. Usually poultices have to be hot, but this one needn’t be. It’s for you.” He glanced up to see how I reacted to that, but I merely stared at the nostrum. “There’s one for each of you. What we’ll do is put them into the crack of your arses, where the pain is worst, and bind them into place with those long strips. Then you’ll sleep with them in place, and come morning, you should both be feeling better. You might not be completely without pain by then, but the worst of it will be bye. Now, let’s get them on. They’re cool now, so they’ll not burn you.”
Will and I eyed each other fearfully, acutely mindful of what had happened last time a man had come near our backsides, but the big archer was patient and unmistakably concerned for us, and so we suffered the indignity of allowing him to set the things in place and tie them securely. It felt revolting, but I imagined very soon afterwards that the pain of my ravaged backside was subsiding, and I sat still, enjoying the heat from the replenished fire and leaning against Will, who was looking around at the archer’s camp.
I looked then, too, and noticed that what I had thought must be a purely temporary place had signs of permanence about it. The fire pit was well made, its stones blackened with age and soot, and there were several stoutly made wooden boxes, or chests, that looked too solid to be picked up and carried away by one man on a single journey. I peered more closely into the dimness and saw that they were fitted into recesses in the hand-cut bank that ringed the campfire and provided us with seats, and that their sides were hinged and could be closed by a latch.
“Do you live here all the time?” Will had voiced the question in my mind.
“No,” Ewan said. “But I spend a lot of time here. My mother lives close by.”
“Why don’t you stay wi’ her?”
“Because she lives in a cave.” Then, seeing the astonishment on our faces, he added, “I stay away because I don’t want to leave signs of my being there. I only go to see her when I think she’ll need more food. To go too often would be dangerous.”
“Why?”
The big archer gave a snort of indignation. “Because someone might see me coming or going, and if they did they might search and find my mother. And if they find her they’ll kill her.”
The enormity of that left us speechless, and Will, having seen his own mother killed mere days before, wiped at his eyes, suddenly brimming with tears. It was left to me to ask the obvious question.
“Why would anybody want to kill her?”
“Because she’s my mother and I’m an outlaw. So is she.”
“An outlaw?” I was stricken with awe. “How can somebody’s
mother
be an outlaw?”
He reached out a long arm to tousle my hair. “Aye,” he said quietly. “It’s daft, isn’t it? But she is, because I saved her life and was outlawed myself for doing it.”
He looked into the fire, and I drew my blanket closer about me, sensing a story to come. And sure enough, he began to speak, slowly and clearly in that wonderful soft-edged voice. “D’you recall my saying she was a famous healer? Well, she was. She lived in a wee place east of here, about twelve miles from where we’re sitting now. It doesna even have a name—just a wee clump o’ houses near a ford over a river. But she was known in a’ the countryside, and whenever somebody got sick, they’d send for her. The land belonged to an auld laird called Sir Walter Ormiston, one o’ the Dumfries Ormistons, but when he died it passed to his eldest son, a useless lump of dung called William, like your friend there. But he liked to call himself William,
Laird
of Ormiston. The old man had been plain Ormiston, but the son demanded to be called the
Laird
of Ormiston, by everybody. Anyway, this Laird William had a wife as silly as himself, and a wee son called Alasdair. The bairn took sick and the Laird had my mother brought to the big house to see to him. She was a great healer, my mother, but she couldna compete wi’ God’s will, and the bairn died. The father went mad, and his wife called my mother a witch, said she had put a curse on the bairn. They locked her up in a cellar in the big house.
“I heard all about it the next morning, and I went directly in search of her and got there just as they were going to hang her from a tree. I was too far away to stop them, too far away even to shout at them and be heard. I couldna believe what I was seein’. They put a rope around her neck and threw the other end over a high branch, and then three men gathered up the other end of the rope, meaning to run with it, hoisting her up into the air.”
He stopped talking, and I had to bite my tongue to keep still and wait, but it was Will who spoke up.
“What did you do?”
“What
could
I do? I used my bow and shot them a’ when they started to run, before they could hoist her off the ground. The rope burnt her neck, but they dropped her before she was even in the air. I was already running towards them. When I saw Laird William, I took a shot at him, but he was running to hide behind a tree and I took him in the shoulder. Sent him flying, but didna kill him. By the time I reached my mother there was just me and her and the three men I had killed. Everyone else had scattered.”
He drew a deep breath and blew it out mightily. “That was two years ago, the end of my life as it had been. I took my mother up on my horse with me and we escaped, but we could not go home again, for they put a price on my head for murder, for the murder of the three men and the attempted murder of Laird William. I knew they would, but by the time the word got out we were far away, my mother and I. I took her into the forest and we stayed there for a few months, but then when the hullabaloo had died down I brought her back here, close enough to her own land to be familiar, but far enough away from everywhere to be out of harm’s way.
“We hid in the woods here for a month or two longer, while I looked for a place for her to live that would be safe and comfortable, and one day I found the cave she lives in now. It’s hard to find at the best o’ times, and she’s happy enough, but the ground below the hillside at the entrance to her place is boggy, and it’s too easy to leave tracks that might be followed. That’s why I stay away most of the time.”
“Except when you think she needs more food,” I said.
“Aye, that’s right. She has a few goats that run wild but come to her call, and that gives her milk and cheese. And she grows her own small crops in the clearings among the trees. I bring her oats and fresh meat from time to time, meat that I smoke out here so that it will keep.”
“What kind of meat?”
“Deer meat. From Laird William’s deer. I’m a poacher and a thief o’ his deer. It’s thanks to him that I’m an outlaw and so I show my gratitude by killing and eating his deer.”
“What’s it like to be an outlaw?” I asked him.
The big man smiled at me and I saw his face clearly, but saw nothing ugly there now. “It’s like being sleepy. You learn to accept it and you hope it won’t last.” He nodded towards Will. “Your cousin’s asleep already. Now let’s get you both to bed. We can talk more tomorrow.”
We awoke the next morning to the sight of Ewan standing beside the fire pit, gazing down at us with what passed for a smile.
“Will you sleep all day then, you two? I’ve done an entire day’s work while you lay snoring there. Up, now, and down to the stream and wash the mess from your arses, quick. I need you to help me cut this up, and then we’re going to visit my mother, so up with you and scamper about!”
If we were bleary eyed at all, that vanished at once, for the gutted carcass of a small deer was draped on a rough cloth spread across his shoulders, its pointed hooves held together at his chest in one massive fist. We sprang from our ferny beds as he lowered the dead beast to the ground and we ran the short distance to the burn with his hectoring voice in our ears all the way.
The stream was narrower and faster than I had thought the previous night, and it swept around us in a bow, the outer edge of which followed a steep, treed bank every bit as high and sheer as the one at our backs. The only way to see the sky was by looking straight up through a narrow, open strip between the overhead branches, and I saw at once that Ewan’s camp was as safe as it could possibly be, for anyone finding it would have to do so by accident. Not even the smell of woodsmoke would betray it, for by the time the smoke reached anyone it would have been dissipated by the thick foliage on the slopes above.