Braveheart Read Online Free Page A

to the modern time as “Amazing Grace.”
    Then William saw his uncle standing at the fringes of the torchlight. Uncle Argyle must have heard them and walked out, too. But what was he doing holding the massive broadsword?
    William moved up beside his uncle. Argyle glanced down but said nothing.
    “What are they doing?” William whispered
    “Saying good-bye in their own way—playing outlawed tunes with outlawed pipes.” They watched as the farmers stood enriching the graves, the music flowing through their veins. Some prayed; some wept; some, their lips moving without their hands making the sign of the cross, seemed to mutter private vows. Argyle whispered, half to William and half to himself, this, dead from fighting the English.”
    William took the sword from his uncle and tried to lift it. Slowly, Argyle took the sword back.
    “First learn to use this,” Argyle said. He tapped William on the forehead with the tip of his finger. “Then I will teach you to use this.”
    With an expert’s easy fluidity, he lifted the huge sword. It glistened in the torchlight. The music played; the notes mingled with the smoke of the torches, hung in the air, swirled in the Scottish breeze, and rose toward the stars.
     
    The next morning, William and his uncle rode off in a farm wagon. William held his possessions in a small bundle in his lap. The wagon rattled, lightly loaded with a few of his father’s clothes, the wooden chest that held the dress William’s mother had worn when she and his father had married, and, wrapped in a length of woolen cloth woven in the pattern distinctive to Wallace was the broadsword his father had carried into his last battle and his friends had brought back with his body.
    William glanced at his uncle as if afraid of his disapproval if he should look back. They reached the top of the hill on the road that led out of the valley where the Wallace farm lay. The horse blew with relief as the road leveled out, and the wagon rolled easier as it stretched ahead.
    And there William did glance back just once to see the deserted farmhouse.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
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    THE
    REBEL
     
     
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    6
     
    YEARS LATER, AN ENGLISH SAILING VESSEL RODE AT ANchor at the Pas de Calais. The entire southwest of France was under the control of Edward the Longshanks, the English king, yet still this vessel was surrounded by a contingent of soldiers, half of them attired in the silks and plumes of an honor guard and the other half in the practical battle gear of fighting soldiers. The former unit had arrayed themselves upon the main deck, whereas the rougher fellows stood in guard positions upon the docks. Out on the water, halfway between the shore and the horizon, rode three warships, swiftest in the English fleet, on watch for the pirates who plied the channel or the Spanish or anyone foolish enough to accost this convoy on this day.
    A lookout on the topmast of the flagship was watching the shore, not the sea, and when he sang out, “There! Coming!” the sailors poured up from belowdecks and the parade soldiers lined the rails.
    Six French knights, armored as light cavalry, galloped up the road, and then a carriage, flying from its corners the fluer-de-lis, gold on a French blue background, sped into view. Its quartet of jet black horses was lathered and sweating; its wheels drummed sudden thunder on the rough planks of the dock. Six more horsemen rode behind.
    The procession lurched to a halt beside the ship and the captain stepped quickly across the flat timbers bridging to the dock, and there he swept the hat from his head and bowed low. Footmen sprang from