by Jack Whyte
The surrounding countryside, so tranquil when it first came into view, was transformed within a single half-hour as the army spilled out of its line of march and became an amorphous, sprawling multitude of men and beasts and wheeled vehicles of all descriptions. We priests, the score of us, moved as one small part of the enormous mass, for our own role in this diurnal ritual was now as well known to us as the soldiers’ were to them. Since it was my turn that day to drive the wagon I shared with three others, I guided my team into place in our five-wagon chaplains’ procession to our assigned location and then set about the preparations for celebrating evening Masses in several locations, one for the Earl of Surrey and his personal entourage in the privacy of the big tented pavilion that served as the earl’s private quarters, and a number of others throughout the vast encampment that was being created all around us.
We arrived at our allocated spot—always close by the earl’s quarters—and quickly settled into our daily routine, drawing our five wagons together in a rough circle that we knew would be left unmolested by the soldiery who otherwise swept everywhere as they searched for the things they needed. While some of us, myself among them, began to unload necessities from the wagons, others of our number dug a central fire pit, while others went searching for stones with which to line the fire bed, and still others went to gather firewood. And writing about that now, I find myself a little in awe, for no one who has never been part of an army on the march can appreciate the difficulties involved in such seemingly simple activities. Unless you have been in such a situation, you might never think to question the ease of lighting a campfire. You dig a pit, line it with flat stones, and gather firewood to burn in it. It all seems perfectly straightforward—unless you are in the midst of an army of five or ten thousand men, with women and children in tow, all arriving in one place at the same time and all looking for the same materials.
We had all completed our various tasks by the time evening approached, and while everyone was waiting for the army cooks to prepare dinner, Thomas and I walked over to say Mass at Earl Warrenne’s command centre, easily distinguishable with its cluster of imposing high-peaked pavilions topped with the brightly coloured banners and bannerets identifying the various noblemen and lesser knights of the commander’s party. The centre was well sited, pitched on a hillside plateau above a tree-filled valley, with a fine view of Stirling to the northwest.
This had been the first day to pass without a drop of rain since we’d left Lanark, the third consecutive day of intermittently sunny skies, and it had taken this long for the effects of the week-long drenching to wear off. The crowd around the headquarters enclosure, awaiting the summons to table, was noisy and cheerfully animated as we picked our way among the throng, heading towards the earl’s pavilion and the altar that had been erected inside it. Earl Warrenne was there in person, I saw, enjoying the sunshine in front of his pavilion and surrounded by most of the people represented by the banners and bannerets atop the surrounding poles.
I recognized the blue and yellow lion rampant banneret of Henry Percy, and I knew that he had arrived the day before from England, having ridden north with a small party of adherents. I had no way of recognizing Percy himself, never having knowingly set eyes upon the man, but I saw the massive figure of Hugh de Cressingham standing at the earl’s shoulder and then realized, disconcertingly, that his dark, glowering eyes were staring directly at me. I looked away at once and said something to Thomas. I told myself that Cressingham had never set eyes on me until that moment and I must therefore have imagined his interest in me, yet I was afraid to look back at him again for fear his gaze might still be following me. I could not quell my curiosity, though, and when I did glance back I saw that Cressingham now had his back turned towards me. I swallowed hard, relieved to be relieved, and put the thought of having been recognized out of my mind.
Only a few moments later, walking by Thomas’s side in companionable silence, I became aware of raised voices somewhere in the near distance. I paid little attention at first, but then as the noise continued to grow, I stopped and turned towards the source of the sound, rising on my toes to see what was going on. Everyone else, though, turned to do the same at the same time, and so I saw nothing at all except a wall of broad backs.
Thomas nudged me. “What’s happening? What is it?”
As I strained to see between the bodies ahead of me, I heard someone say, “Scotchman” or “Scotchmen.” I heard someone else repeat it, and then another voice said something about “come to parley.”
I turned back to Thomas. “Did you hear that?” I asked, mangling my French deliberately as any listener might expect from a Basque.
“Hear what? I heard nothing I could understand.”
“They’re saying there are Scotchmen here, to parley.”
“Shit! Are you sure?”
“That’s what I heard. Let’s get closer.”
I can think of few things more difficult than trying to conceal your curiosity and disguise your excitement when you are agog with surprise, when you suspect that matters of great moment are unfolding all around you but you do not really know what is going on, and most particularly when you are agonizingly aware that to betray the slightest sign of your excitement could be lethal. But of course while my inward coward was quaking with guilt and dismay, my outward persona betrayed nothing at all. I moved forward with the crowd, craning my neck and searching for information as eagerly as everyone else in the vicinity, and like them trying to make sense of the garbled scraps that came my way.
When I felt Thomas’s hand grip my arm I almost leapt with fright. “Quick,” he said. “The earl will need his chaplain.” He spun away and I followed him. Within moments we were within hearing range of Warrenne and his coterie, taking a place standing slightly behind them as the crowd in front of them parted and swept to either side, clearing the way for a dismounted party of five to approach the pavilion. They were leading their horses and followed by a vigilant and hostile-looking phalanx of English guards. I immediately recognized these newcomers, for the High Steward of Scotland, Lord James Stewart himself, was first among them. He was flanked by two of the proudest Gaelic mormaers in the realm of Scotland, both of them known to me by sight because both had had dealings with my employer, Bishop Wishart. They were Maol Choluim, the Earl of Lennox, whom the English called Malcolm, and Maol Iosa, Earl of Strathearn, whom most folk called Malise. Behind that trio, walking no less proudly but maintaining a distance of half a step behind the three leaders, walked two men whom I knew to be kinsmen of the High Steward. The mere sight of them filled me instantly with trepidation, since both were likely to recognize me. They were Sir Alexander Lindsay and Lord James’s younger brother, Sir John Stewart, and both had shared a table with me at the Earl of Carrick’s castle of Turnberry, the night we had been rousingly addressed by Father David de Moray.
Sure enough, as soon as the Steward’s party came to a halt, Sir Alexander looked directly at me. I saw the exact moment when he recognized me and began to smile, then frowned. His eyes widened as he attempted to make sense of seeing me there in the English camp, and he opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it quickly as the frantic quality of my frown and the furtive shake of my head made him bethink himself. I held my breath and waited to be challenged, sure that some sharp-eyed soul among the crowd must have noted our brief interaction. But no accusing shouts rang out. All eyes were on the two principals, the Earl of Surrey and the High Steward.
It was John de Warrenne, the Earl of Surrey, who spoke first, turning away from Cressingham, who was spluttering with indignation at the effrontery of these rebellious Scots interlopers.
“Lord James,” he said civilly, managing to convey his surprise in the two words. “How come you here, to Stirling? My nephew Percy tells me he left you safely abed in Ayr mere weeks ago, so you will understand my surprise to see you here, and in such company.” He waved a hand to indicate the two Scots earls. But Lord James was too old a fox to allow
himself to be so easily placed on the defensive.
“We would have waited upon you in Stirling, Lord Warrenne,” he replied, “but your constable there is much perturbed by the presence of a host of Scots under arms nearby. And so, aware that we, as Scots ourselves, might increase his unease by requesting entrance to his castle, we decided to come to meet you here.”
“And how did you know we would be here?”
The Steward smiled. “All Scotland knows you are here, my lord—knows it and regrets it deeply.”
“So why are you here? What would you have of us?”
“Words, Lord Warrenne. We come to exchange words, to mutual benefit. And we come alone in demonstration of good faith.”
“Words … On what topic, Lord James?”
“On that topic most important to all of us: the army waiting on the far side of Forth.”
His words brought a silence that lasted until Warrenne replied, “Then here is no place to talk of it.” He raised a hand in a signal to his guards, indicating that they should look after the visitors’ horses, and half a dozen men stepped forward to obey, already reaching for the reins as the earl turned on his heel, his right hand sweeping out and around in an invitation to his guests to walk with him into his pavilion. A sigh of disappointment arose from the watching throng as the command group moved into the tent and a screen of guards stepped forward to safeguard their privacy.
I was about to turn away myself when Thomas plucked at my sleeve, and with a muttered “Come” led me through the entrance and into the pavilion’s spacious interior. No sooner were we inside than Earl Warrenne beckoned to Thomas, and we both stopped.
“Father Thomas, I fear we must postpone the celebration of the Mass for now, for we have pressing business here. Will you wait until it is concluded?”
“Of course, my lord. The Sacrament cares not when it be celebrated, provided it be not ignored.”
Thomas bowed deeply and the earl turned away, satisfied, and gave his attention to his unexpected guests. There was a period of activity as servers hurriedly cleared away the seats set out for Mass and replaced them with wooden chairs that they set around a heavy, oaken table. Mere weeks earlier, I would have been astounded to see such a table in such a place, but since then I had learned much about the Earl of Surrey and how he went to war. His personal baggage train, attended by his own retainers, was almost half as large as the army’s own supply train, and it carried all the outward signs of wealth and privilege he deemed appropriate to his age and station.
When the servants withdrew, he waved a hand towards the table. “Sit where ye will,” he said. “There is no ranking here.”
Even so, by the time everyone was seated, the Scots were on one side of the table and the English—Warrenne, Cressingham, and four more—were on the other. The remaining people in the pavilion, Thomas and I among them with three other priests, moved away and stood lining the walls, waiting for whatever might develop. I knew none of the four men seated alongside the earl and the treasurer, but I suspected that the youngest among them might be Henry Percy.
Earl Warrenne, blunt and forthright as I had come to know he was, wasted no time but spoke directly to the Steward. “We should all know each other here, but since there is one among you I don’t know myself, I’ll settle that now.” He looked directly at Sir Alexander Lindsay. “Who are you, sir?” Lindsay smiled and inclined his head slightly in salute. “My name is Lindsay, my lord, Alexander Lindsay of Barnwell.”
“Lindsay …” Warrenne’s brow wrinkled slightly. “That name is known to me. Are you kin of any kind to that Sir David de Lindsay of the Byres, who crusaded in Egypt with Prince Edward?”
“He was my father, sir, but I never knew him. He died on crusade.”
“Aye, he did, and I can see him in you now. I was with him when he died, you know. He was my friend, not merely a brother in arms. He was a fine, upstanding man whose name you may bear with pride.”
He spoke then to the others on his side of the table. “So, Sir Alexander you all know. As for the others, in the middle you have James Stewart, Lord High Steward of Scotland. On his right is Malcolm, Earl of Lennox, and to his left is Earl Malise of Strathearn. And the man on the end there is Lord James’s brother, Sir John Stewart.”
He changed his focus to the Scots. “You all will know Sir Hugh de Cressingham, King Edward’s treasurer for Scotland. Beside him is my grandson Sir Henry Percy, Baron of Alnwick, and beside him is his teacher and mentor, Sir Marmaduke Tweng. The man beside Sir Marmaduke is Sir Tibbalt de Blount, constable of Tyneside, and he commands our forces from that region. And Prior Anselm of Hexham Priory in Northumberland is a visitor here, newly arrived and bearing letters from the Bishop of Lindisfarne to my attention.” That said, he seated himself, leaned back in his chair, and eyed the Steward. “You came to speak, so speak.”
I had been staring at the man beside Sir Henry Percy, for his was a name I had known for years. Sir Marmaduke Tweng was a warrior knight of great fame, a veritable paladin, known and respected throughout Christendom and named in tones of awed respect whenever men spoke of tourneys and chivalric prowess. I had heard many men speak of him, and never a word of disrespect from any, but I had never expected to set eyes on him, and I was still sufficiently boyish and wide-eyed to feel a thrill of wonder at being in his company, even as a bystander. He was no longer young, yet far from being either old or failing, but his eyes sparkled with humour and vitality and he radiated confidence and calm. He had the broad width of shoulders that bespoke a lifetime practising with heavy weapons. Beside him, the fiery and much-talked-about Sir Henry Percy looked young and callow, in spite of the stern set of his features and his obvious determination to be recognized as a man among men.
A deep harrumph from the Steward interrupted my musing. “We are here about a task that should be equally beneficial to both our realms,” he said. “We both are well served should we be able to resolve this matter facing us in the valley of the Forth without blood being shed on either side.”
“And how do you suggest we might achieve that?” It was plain from the irony in the earl’s voice that he was expecting some attempt to trick him.
“By suborning Wallace’s army. Depriving him of his best men.”
I was rocked to my very soul by what the Steward had said, and before I could adjust my thoughts he spoke again.
“You may not be aware of this, but in recent weeks he has attracted a number of knights and men of noble station to his cause, and they now rank high among his followers. That is why we are here now. I have no knowledge of how he enlisted their support— for he is a common outlaw, beyond doubt—but there is no doubt that he did. I believe, however”—he checked himself, then indicated his companions—“we believe that those men might still be induced to bethink themselves and return to their true loyalties, which are to the realm and to their natural station as nobles of Scotland.”
“As you yourself were induced by Baron Alnwick here?” I was not alone in wincing at the sudden sound of Cressingham’s braying, at once both hectoring and abrasive. “You were a rebel recently yourself, Stewart, flouting the King’s peace, as everyone here knows. But now you expect us to heed your advice for dealing with rebels?”
“Ah, Master Cressingham,” Lord James said quietly, turning his head slightly to look the treasurer in the eye with no sign of antipathy. “What a loss good men everywhere will suffer when your dulcet tones and tactful words are one day silenced in this world … In response to your question, though, I must say yes, I do expect that you will heed my advice, since I propose to offer the men in question precisely what Sir Henry offered me and my companions at Irvine. The logic of it is sound and the acceptance of it is a matter of good sense, since no reasonable, healthy-minded man can deny his own origins. The men of whom I speak have gone astray, choosing to follow a broken man who has gulled them with empty promises of what he calls freedom.” His face clearly showed the scornful contempt in which he held the mere idea.
I had barely managed to collect myself to that point, because the words I had heard from this man were heretical. I drew myself up to my full height, anger roiling in my throat, and was about to step forward when the Steward’s eyes shifted and met mine, stopping me before I could move. His face was blank, but I knew instantly that he had been aware of me all along and that his acknowledgment of me now was deliberate. As I hesitated, he frowned, still looking directly into my eyes. It was a clear instruction to stand still.
Then, his face still wearing that same frown, which now became one of abstracted attention to some passing thought, he spoke again to Earl Warrenne. “The treasurer may be correct, to a degree, my lord,” he said, “but he is wrong nonetheless. I was involved in a recent uprising, but I negotiated an honourable peace with your grandson here, Sir Henry, and have abided by the terms of it since then.”
“No, by God, sir, that you have not,” snarled Cressingham, causing Lord James to whip up one hand and silence him.
“Yes, by God I have, sirrah!” His voice was savage. “Name me one instance where I have not.”
“We have heard nothing from the Earl of Carrick since the day the terms were made.”
“Spare me your concerns about the Earl of Carrick! I barely know the man. He has been a favourite of your King for years, and he came out of England last May, uninvited, and aligned himself with us, claiming the right to do so as an earl of this realm. But it is no responsibility of mine if he or any other man reneges upon an oath or fails to honour a promise made in person. That has nothing to do with me, Master Cressingham, and if you choose to impugn my honour further by insisting that it is, I will be more than happy to defend that honour in single combat—sword, daggers, mace, axe, or any other weapon that you choose.”
Not a sound occurred in the great pavilion. Even the servants were shocked into immobility by the vehemence of the Steward’s rejoinder. Not a man around that table doubted his sincerity or his sudden readiness to spill the treasurer’s blood.