He was in despair. His bright dream had vanished; it had been swept away because of a brawl in the streets of a town. What a fool he was. He should never have challenged the giant; he should never have lost his temper and killed those Englishmen. He should have learned his lesson over Selby’s son.
He could never curb his fury. He felt too deeply the humiliation of his countrymen. It was because of this ardour in him that he had sworn to dedicate his life to his country’s cause; and because of it he was here … in this fearsome prison. And how could he ever escape from it? Once a day his food was pushed through a grating. It was always decaying herring, salt from the barrel … inedible except to a starving man; and with it came a little water … just enough to keep him alive. If it were not for that he would have believed they had forgotten him.
At first he had tried to devise a means of escape. He had pummelled the stone walls with his fists until they had become lacerated; he had tried to prise open the iron bars of the door but even his strength could make no impression. Then on his diet of evil-smelling herring and water his strength began to be sapped away, and despair came to him.
This is the end, he thought. This is all then.
Once as he lay there the door opened and a lantern shone onto his face. He heard two voices. ‘Can’t last much longer,’ said one.
‘Give him another day,’ said the other.
The light went out. He lay there. He tried to interpret their meaning but he was too tired. Later he roused himself. He was dying then. That was what they meant. They would take him out of this hell … when he was dead and he wanted nothing so much but to leave this place.
He was light-headed, unsure of where he was and yet a thought kept hammering in his brain. He would only be taken out of this place if he were dead so he must die … and if he were not dead, he must pretend to be. It was imperative that he get out.
The light was there. He lay still, his eyes half closed.
The voice said, ‘He’s gone this time.’
Someone prodded him with a foot. He did not move. Half conscious, one thought kept recurring: I shall only leave here when I am dead … I must be dead …
‘I’ll take him by the legs … You take the shoulders …’
Vaguely he was conscious. He was leaving the cell; he was leaving misery, hell on earth; he had cheated the rats; he would never again taste barrelled herrings.
‘Over the wall … into the midden …’ said the voice.
Blessed fresh air. It intoxicated him; he was swooning with the joy of it. He was flying through the wonderful heady sweet clean air … then he fell into unconsciousness.
He awoke. It was dusk and he was in a small room lying on a truckle bed. Everything was sweet smelling. That was what struck him first.
He thought, I died then and came to Heaven.
Then he closed his eyes.
He heard voices.
‘He’ll recover.’
‘He’s strong as an ox.’
‘I never thought he could … after the state he was in.’
They were talking of him. He opened his eyes to daylight. A young woman was standing near a window and the light shone on her face. He was sure then that he had come to Heaven because she had the look of an angel. Her long fair hair hung in two thick plaits, one of which fell over her right shoulder; her overdress with wide sleeves to the elbow was of blue and beneath it was a petticoat of buttercup yellow that almost matched her hair; her eyes were blue, her cheeks rosy.
‘He is looking at us,’ said the young woman. ‘He is awake.’
He heard himself ask: ‘Who … are you?’
She moved towards the bedside. ‘Mother,’ she called. ‘Mother, come here.’
There were two of them. A woman and her daughter.
‘Where am I …?’
‘Safe and well,’ said the young woman.
She came to the bed and smiled at him.
‘You are beautiful,’ he said.
The elder woman put a cup of warm broth to his lips and he drank it eagerly.
‘You see, daughter,’ she said, ‘he takes it now.’
He looked from one to the other of them.
‘You look … happy,’ he said faintly.
‘We thought you would die,’ answered the girl.
They would not let him talk much then but gradually he learned from them.
He owed his life again to his uncle’s housekeeper, who had made him sit at her spinning wheel and spin when they came to look for him. She had sent her nephew to find out what had befallen him and when she had heard the description of the young man who had killed the giant in the streets of Ayr she had known it was he. He had been thrown into the prison and she had sent to her sister who lived in Ayr and begged her to find out all she could. Ellen, her daughter, was a beautiful girl who was friendly with many of the men in the town – English and Scottish. She was intrigued by the story of the young man in jail and when she was told in secret that he was William Wallace, who was becoming something of a legend, she was very excited and determined to do all she could to help him.
When she went into the town she lingered by the jail gates. The guards were only too happy to talk to her. Ellen was known as a very desirable young woman who, while she would not bestow her favours on all and sundry, could be very generous to those she liked. She was very much sought after, and she and her mother lived well in their cottage because of the good things which her admirers brought to her. Thus, when she lingered at the jail gates, the guards were only too happy to talk to her, and from them she learned about the giant slayer and how he lay now in his cell from where, they joked, he could kill no more Englishmen. She knew that he was near death. She knew that when he was dead they would throw him into the midden, and when they did so for the sake of her aunt she would retrieve his body and if it were possible give it a decent burial.
They were waiting; they knew it was at the hour of dusk when bodies were disposed of and they saw this one thrown out; they rescued it and carried it home and there to their amazement they discovered that there was still life in it. The secret nursing appealed to Ellen’s nature. She loved intrigue. Moreover she saw that when he was in health William Wallace must have been a very fine figure of a man indeed.
She and her mother vied with each other for the honour of tending him. First they cleaned off the filth of the prison which was no easy task.
‘He is all they say of him,’ said Ellen, and her mother agreed.
They took a pride in finding nourishing food for him, and gradually they brought him back to health. They were delighted that they had played a small part in preserving the life of the man whom people had said might well be the saviour of his country.
Sir William Wallace. When his name was mentioned Scotsmen rejoiced. One day William Wallace was going to lead them against the English.
Once he had turned the corner they knew he would live, for his recovery was rapid, and when he heard what had happened he was deeply moved.
‘It is good to have friends,’ he said. ‘Ellen, you might have been thrown into prison yourself for what you have done for me.’
‘Our Ellen would have found a way out,’ said her mother fondly. ‘Our Ellen has friends.’
Ellen laughed and Wallace wondered about her. As the days passed he wondered a great deal. She would sit beside his bed and tell him how she had fed him, and on more than one occasion when he was distressed she had lain beside him in his bed and soothed him in his delirium.
‘It seemed to comfort you,’ she said.
‘I can think of no greater comfort,’ replied William.
‘You were as a child,’ she told him. ‘It was difficult to believe this was the great Wallace.’