Vignette Two

A/N: This is my second vignette, I'm not as happy with this one as I was with the first, but whatever. I don't like the beginning. But here it is. I was really happy with the 3 reviews I got for the last one, because I know that not many people read Braveheart fiction.

This vignette is from the point of view of an old maid living in the manor where Wallace's wife stayed before she got arrested and killed for 'aiding and abetting him'. This is the historical version, again, not the movie version. She was a noble lady, and she lived in her father's house because Wallace was an outlaw. Read, and hopefully, enjoy. And review please!

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My mistress sheds better tears; she is set upon by the plague of worry. There is no joy, no laughter in the house of my employers. We tread on silent feet, carefully past the door of the chamber, hardly daring to speak. As though mere words could comfort her strained soul!

            The Lady Wallace, jovial and delightful to behold, has become almost a widow, and yet knows not the resignation of a widow. She will never find solace, doomed to forever watch and wait for a husband she cannot contain. His will is as strong as his arm, which no man may break.

            And yet he always returns. The fears and horrible fates dreamed up in my mistress' bitter sorrow fritter away and she loves him once more, full of joy to carry his child, no longer afraid that he may never his heir, and that they will never know their father.

            There are footsteps on the drive. The manservant fetches the door, and its wide, oaken might opens to reveal the still more mighty Wallace, the master of my lady, most likely fresh from the chase and slaughter that has become his daily ritual. He is unkempt, dirty and mal-nourished. Upstairs, a door slams, and there are hurried footsteps coming down the stone staircase. My lady changed rooms once her husband left, so that her window now faces the front of the house, and always she watches. Her face newly washed to hide the tears, she fairly leaps down the steps of the stairs. The yellow firelight illuminates the glow in both pairs of cheeks. Eyes sparkling, she reaches up on tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck, fingers entwining in his amber hair, caressing the weeks-old beard. He stands to his full height, lifting her and his child as easily as he would a kitten. He is smiling, but there is a shadow on his face that firelight cannot conceal. My young lady is oblivious; love masking all flaws on and within him, but it is plain to me. This passionate, formerly carefree man had seen something to change his heart, trouble his mind and conscience.

             I disappear into the kitchen. The pair will want to be alone tonight, and for as long as they can. God knows Wallace won't linger. He never prolongs his visits, but they are always remembered.

            In the dim kitchen lit only by the cooking fire, I reheat my lady's evening meal, which she did not touch. Placing more food on the trenchers, I offer to the scullion maid to take them to the lady myself. Master Wallace looked hungry when he entered; necessity would have to overcome ceremony for the evening. They will eat in the bedchamber. Considering Wallace's age and temperament, food will not be the only thing he is hungry for tonight.

            Coming close to the chamber, I hear voices through the door. Preparing myself for the worst, I knock and enter, faced away from the side of the room where my lady's bed stands. As I open the door, the voices stop abruptly. It is always so when I or any other servant enters, but it does not stop us from knowing what is going on in our household.

            "My lady, some food for you and Master Wallace as well," I say, placing the trenchers and a jug of wine on the small, crudely made table. The room is softly lit, the fire bright and some candles burning; one on the table, on either side of the bed and on the windowsill.

            My lady and her husband sit together on the bed. Her hand is gripping his tightly, the knuckles are turning white, but he does not seem to notice. They study each other's faces, as though unsure of the reality of their closeness.

            Soon realizing that a reply won't readily come, I curtsy and leave the room. As the door slicks shut, I begin to hear muted voices once again from inside the chamber.

            After tending the fires, I go to my own bed, lost in thought. What could have been the cause for Wallace's distress? The wind howls on the outside, relentless and merciless. I think of all of the nights Wallace has spent in that cruel wind of late, the times he has been chased by soldiers of Edward's army, barely escaping capture and death and sleep eludes me. My thoughts engulf me long into the night, and I sit awake, eyes watchful.

            I awaken in the morning without ever remembering having gone to sleep. As the house beings to stir, I notice a notable lack of the usual cheery bustle. An aura of tension and fear looms over the household.

            This is the reason for the memorable quality of Wallace's time with his wife. A hunted man is not easily harboured, and Longshank's men not easily fooled. His size above all things is a disadvantage. We are wary, eyes flitting to the door every minute, out of ever window. How tiresome it becomes! Wallace must be strong of heart to live always in such a manner as this, courageous and strong!

            I take the lady her breakfast. He is asleep, tucked away among the sheets and quilts. I had not realized how many lines creased his face from worry until sleep obliterated them. He looks like a boy in a giant's body. No one could guess by looking at him that he has taken back English-held castles, killed men by the hundreds, him and his growing band of patriots!

            I take away the goblets and plates of the night before. Everything is gone, even my lady's food. Nothing but love will convince her to break her fasting.

            In the kitchen, there is talk of how long Wallace will stay. People are saying that he burned a barn at Ayr, with five hundred English soldiers garrisoned inside. I don't believe it, no one is capable of such vengeance, such brutality! An exaggeration, to be sure. Even an outright lie. But if it were true, it would send the English knocking on our doors in an instant. We are further on our guard now.

            An order comes from upstairs, to make ready the horses for Wallace and his companions. Walking to the servants quarters, I pass the lady's chamber. There is muffled crying, a soothing voice.

            My old heart breaks to hear it, the utter loneliness and despair exuded from those tears. What would it feel like to love and be rent away from your love so often, knowing that each parting could be the last? To know that you may never know your child, that your child will never know his father, whom you loved so much?

            Being young and valiant in this time is a sure wish for death. At a point in Scottish history when it is unsafe for Scot women and children, the men must search deep within their souls. I am lucky I am so old, that I have felt and seen all that I have need to see, I have felt the spray of the salty wind from the ocean in my hair, and seen the great mountains in the North, daring us to climb to their peaks and attempt to conquer them. My life is spent, and was spent in good and peaceful times. My heart goes out to them, they that must choose one of two paths, cowardice and submission, or honour and death. I who have lived my whole life, and presume to know myself, could never make that decision.

Watching him ride away like the mighty tide going out from the shore, I realized that in Wallace's mind there was never a second path.

A/N: So, what did you think? By the way, 'barns of Ayr' thing is a true story, and Robert the Bruce actually helped him with that. Cool, huh? So, review please!