The Guardian

by Jack Whyte

  “Well?” he barked.

  Cressingham was widely known to be hotheaded, but even he recognized the implacable nature of James Stewart’s anger, and he flushed. “You take me wrong, my lord High Steward. I had no thought to impugn your honour. I was but commenting on—”

  “We all heard your comments, sir,” Stewart said. “Be kind enough to keep them to yourself in future, unless you have firm evidence upon which to base them.” He turned back to Earl Warrenne, ignoring Cressingham thereafter. “I was about to say, my lord earl, that the truce I entered into mere months ago with your King, ably negotiated by your grandson and agreed upon at the time by all concerned, was built upon the logic of sound principles and the accepted canon of feudal law. I could find no fault with the terms as presented to us, and since I am suggesting that we—both you and I, representing the realms of Scotland and England—extend identical terms to these people facing us across the river, I anticipate that they will likewise accept what we will say to them.”

  Warrenne sniffed. “Some of them might,” he said. “I doubt the Wallace fellow will. And it comes to me, too, that the other so-called leader of this rabble, the northerner de Moray, may be as bloody-handed as is Wallace. What will you say to them?”

  “Nothing. They are outlaws, both of them. My aim is to win their well-born supporters away from them by appealing to their better natures and their family loyalties and offering them amnesty. And also by pointing out to them the hopeless nature of their situation should they refuse, the certainty that they will lose everything they hold dear when Wallace and his rabble are stamped out.”

  He waited for de Warrenne to respond, but the earl betrayed no eagerness to speak. Instead he shifted his backside and slid lower in his seat, tucking in his chin and tugging gently at the tuft of hair beneath his lower lip as he stared back at Stewart, the silence stretching and growing and everyone else in the assembly waiting and wondering which man would yield first.

  It was the Earl of Surrey who spoke first, showing not the slightest sign that there had been any kind of conflict going on. “Of how many men are we speaking here?”

  The High Steward shrugged, but not broadly. “Word of this has come to me but recently from people who know of other people, knights and titled folk, who have joined Wallace, so we do not really know how many of them there are at this time, but there is no question of there being anywhere close to a hundred. A score, perhaps. Perhaps twice that many. And to be truthful even half a hundred would not surprise me. More than that would, though.”

  “It would surprise me, too. Why are you really here, Stewart? Because this is nonsense. The loss of fifty men would go unnoticed in an army of a thousand. And this rabble-rouser has drawn several thousand to his cause, however foolish such a cause might be.”

  Lord James rose to his feet, then stepped around his high-backed chair and leaned forward against it on his hands, his chin almost touching the peak of its back as he perused the row of Englishmen across from him. “His cause is simply stated, and to Scottish ears there is no foolishness in it,” he said, in firm, measured tones, looking from face to face. “It is to drive the English out of Scotland, root and branch. And there’s the pity of it, and the reason why this must be done—because he has set himself a task that is impossible to complete, and all that he can ever achieve will be catastrophic damage to his own folk, in the certain death of the thousands who follow him.

  “But the men we will take from him—be they a score in number or half a hundred—are not ordinary men, and their defection will not go unnoticed. In fact the opposite is true.” The Steward’s gaze drifted back to meet mine again, and for a moment he looked directly into my eyes as he continued: “You are correct in what you said a moment ago. Wallace is an outlaw and his so-called army is a rabble, without training, without discipline, and without a hope of surviving their first encounter with your army. He has no means of protecting them against your massed ranks of longbow archers. And he has no horses other than a hundred or so of their stunted mountain ponies, useful for herding cattle but worse than useless against trained and armoured cavalry. The only mounted strength that Wallace has, in fact, is vested in the very men we will take from him, men who know, already, that they have no hope of winning against your mounted knights and men-at-arms, the same men who know, too, that in riding with Wallace they are demeaning and insulting their own families, spurning the very way of life that made them who they are. The loss of them would be a giant blow to Wallace’s esteem. It would be seen as a betrayal of enormous consequence, and I doubt Wallace could recover from it. It would destroy his confidence and undermine his self-assurance, but even more, it would destroy the status he enjoys among his rabble.”

  “Hmm …” De Warrenne sat up slightly straighter. “And you believe, in all honesty, that you can achieve such a thing?”

  “I would not be here otherwise.”

  The Englishman frowned. “How would you go about it? What would you do?”

  “We would ride into their camp and simply do it. We’re all Scots. We would be welcomed.”

  “Never! They’d hang you high the moment they got wind of your intent.”

  “And how would they conceive of our intent?” The Steward indicated the Gaelic earls seated beside him. “We three rank among the senior officers of Scotland’s realm. No one would ever think to doubt our good intent. Think about what is involved here, Lord Warrenne—why these men of whom we speak are so important to the rogue Wallace. It is because they represent something the man has never known or had until now—respectability. They are knights and men of rank, of stature and status, even the meanest of them. And thus they offer him and his a kind of recognition, an illusion of valid authority. Acceptance from his betters is something Wallace craves, and something he can never have. He is an outlaw and a criminal, and no one knows that better than he does, so it will never occur to him to turn us away or refuse to talk with us. He will not be able to believe his eyes when we approach his camp, because our presence there will give him what he lacks so sorely: a visible sign of having gained that respectability and recognition that is like meat and drink to broken men like him— the essence of life itself.”

  Earl Warrenne sat silent for a while then, stroking his nose absently with a long, bony finger, but he finally sat up and gripped the arms of his chair, then bent forward and turned to peer at his companions on that side of the table. “Does anyone have anything to say?” he asked.

  His grandson Henry Percy leaned over to whisper in his ear. The older man’s eyes grew wider as he listened.

  “Quite right,” he said, nodding. “Quite right.” He raised a hand to the captain of his guards, who had been watching, hawk-like, from just inside the entrance flaps, and then raised his voice to address not just the five Scots but the people lining the walls. “Would everyone go outside, if it please you. We need to speak privily here.”

  On our way out of the tent I pulled Thomas close. “I need to talk to Lindsay, the one whose father Warrenne knew. He speaks French, so introduce him to me in French, and then go on and speak to the Steward. They all think you’re an Englishman, so they’ll probably be unwilling to speak with you, but that’s good, because it will keep the guards’ eyes on you and them and away from me.”

  He did not even look at me but changed direction immediately and walked to where the Scots emissaries stood isolated from everyone else, under the vigilant eyes of a dozen guards who kept their distance but were evidently ready to move quickly if need be. He nodded courteously to the Steward and the two mormaers, who eyed him suspiciously, but he was soon chatting easily with Lindsay and asking him, in English, if he spoke French. I stood close by him, saying nothing, and Lindsay looked curiously at both of us before nodding and saying that he did. Thomas smiled then and indicated me, and I took the conversation from there, smiling uncertainly and bowing and bobbing and generally playing the fawning, bumbling fool until I was sure no one was watching us.

  “
We don’t have much time before they call us back inside again. What are you people doing here, Sir Alec?”

  “I’ll ask you the same question.”

  “I’m spying, for Lamberton of Glasgow. I’m sending out dispatches to Will every day, but because of the foul weather I’ve had nothing substantial to report yet—other than the obvious information, of course.”

  “What obvious information? Battle plans?”

  “Nothing that grand, I’m afraid. If Surrey has battle plans, he hasn’t yet decided to share them with his troop commanders. I’ve no doubt he will, once he is safely ensconced in Stirling Castle, with dry clothing on his back and a roof over his head and the leisure to think ahead and make plans. And as soon as he does, I’ll send the word on to Will. In the meantime, I’ve been able to send him details on the numbers and disposition of the English army, but the really important information is that de Warrenne has almost ten thousand infantry with him, counting the contingent under Cressingham. He has more than fifteen hundred heavy horse, three hundred of them knights, a few minor barons among them, and the rest well-equipped men-at-arms. And he has more than a thousand Welsh archers, to boot. But they have no siege engines, which means they have no plans to besiege anyone.”

  “Why should they?” Lindsay was frowning. “We hold no positions worth besieging.”

  “That’s not important, Sir Alexander. What’s important is that we know they have no siege engines. And we know how many men they have, and how they are composed—the numbers and types of weaponry. That’s more information than most commanders ever discover about the forces opposing them, so Will and Andrew should be able to put it to good use.” I shrugged. “That’s why I am here,” I said. “So why are you here?”

  Lindsay’s eyes swept around, looking for possible eavesdroppers. “For the same reason you are. In search of information, and hoping to postpone a battle.”

  “Postpone it until when?”

  “Until Wallace is better prepared. As it stands now, he has numbers, but they are all afoot, and that leaves him short of strength overall. He has nowhere near enough archers and no horse.”

  “And why is James Stewart here? That seems—”

  “He’s here in hopes of discovering when the English intend to attack, for at this time no one can even guess at their intentions. He is also here to lend his authority to what we are trying to achieve.”

  “What, undermining Wallace?”

  “No! Supporting him, and encouraging others to join us. Lennox stands with us, but Malise is undecided, as are many others. Most of them are dithering, afraid to commit themselves to either side too soon, and so they withhold their support for the rising, unable to see that by so doing, they are endangering the realm. The Steward will speak more of that when we return.”

  “So he has no intention of stealing away any of Wallace’s people, and you are truly here to help our cause?”

  The look he threw me, of scandalized astonishment, convinced me of his truthfulness even before he said, “You doubt us?”

  “I wondered. But no longer. So what is the Steward planning?”

  As I spoke, however, a blast from a trumpet turned every head, and the captain of Earl Warrenne’s guard came striding to summon the Scots party back inside. Lindsay nodded tersely and said, “You’ll find that out now,” before moving back to take his place with the others in his group.

  Thomas joined me wordlessly, an unspoken question in his eyes, and I nodded to him, indicating that I was satisfied as I fell in beside him, following Lord Stewart and the others back into the pavilion.

  The English party were still seated as we had left them, but the expressions on their faces seemed different to me.

  Once again, de Warrenne wasted no time. “We have discussed your idea and are prepared to support it. How long will you require to complete what needs to be done?”

  Lord James made a moue and spread his hands apart. “That depends upon you, my lord earl. How long can you give us? It goes without saying that the more time we have, the more we might hope to achieve, but we are dealing with small numbers here, and the need for secrecy dictates an equal need for haste. Three days? That seems to me to be a sufficiency.”

  “Too long. Two days is all you have, today being gone by now. You will have tomorrow and Tuesday. No more than that. We will rest here tonight and be in Stirling Castle comfortably by noonday tomorrow, and my troops will spend the afternoon and the following day preparing to fight on Wednesday. That will be”—he glanced around, as though waiting for someone to assist him—“the eleventh of September, a date the Wallace upstart will rue for the remainder of his brief life.

  “So.” His face held no expression, and even from the side view I could tell that his eyes were as flat and empty as his tone had indicated. “Two clear days. Can you achieve your aims within that time? I ask merely out of courtesy, because in truth it makes little difference to me whether you can or not. My mind is set on it. We will make an end of Wallace and his rabble come Wednesday morning, and be back in the castle by mid-afternoon.”

  Lord James inclined his head. “That will work well for us, my lord earl. We will return with the fruits of our labour before you commit your vanguard to the attack. And now we must away, for I would like to gain the Scottish camp before nightfall, to let the word of our arrival spread before we start our work.” He rose from his seat, and the others in his party rose with him.

  Earl Warrenne turned suddenly to look at Thomas, a questioning look on his face, and when Thomas nodded, he turned back to the Stewards. “We are about to celebrate Mass, Lord James. Will you not stay and pray with us? The ears of our Lord are always attentive to devout prayers.”

  “Forgive me, but I think not, your lordship. I attended Mass this morning before break of day. Besides, it will take us a good two hours to ride to where we need to be this night, and I have no desire to ride in there in darkness.”

  De Warrenne sniffed. “Aye,” he growled. “Nor would I, in your shoes. But tell me this, if you will, because your actions make little sense to me from one particular point of view. Why would you people act against your own? We expect it of you, but it strikes me as being unnatural, notwithstanding our expectations. You are all Scots, all of a kind, and even though the leaders of this rabble are outlaws, they, too, are Scots nonetheless, resisting us in the name of their realm. And so I have to wonder why you would offer aid to us instead of to them.”

  The Steward faced Surrey squarely, his jaw jutting pugnaciously. “Out of fear,” he said tersely, surprising me yet again. “Not fear of Wallace or de Moray, or even of their folk, but fear of losing those folk, of seeing them slaughtered needlessly and tragically. Because Wallace and de Moray, despite the petty victories they may have won, are tyros—they are untested and unbloodied in the realistic ways of war. They are too young, both of them, untrained and lacking in experience, and they have no older, wiser heads advising them. The successes they have won before this point were all accidental, small in themselves and predicated upon the unpreparedness of the men they fought. These two are upstarts, and like all upstarts, they are dangerous to those around them. They are overconfident, overweening, and overreaching themselves. And as surely as the sun rises each day, they will lead everyone foolish enough to follow them into perdition. They will throw good, honest men, deluded but sincere—and they have thousands of them following their lead—into certain death in battle against your veterans, against your banks of archers, your companies of mounted knights and men-at-arms, and your formations of armed and armoured footmen. It will be murder on a catastrophic scale, and it will destroy this realm’s ability to recover its strength for a generation.”

  He stopped, still rigidly erect, his shoulders back and his head high as he glared at John de Warrenne as though defying him to disagree. “That is why Wallace and his accomplice de Moray have to be stopped. That is why we have come to you like this. And every man we can convince to quit his side and sue for amnesty will
make this seeming senselessness worthwhile.”

  He then inhaled deeply, saluted the group at the table with a clenched fist raised to his left breast, and spun around and marched out, followed by the others in his party.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THE FORDS OF DRIP

  On Wednesday, the eleventh day of September, as de Warrenne had promised, the English launched their attack on the forces of William Wallace and Andrew Murray.

  I saw the entire battle from the English side, which is something very few of my compatriots can claim. I celebrated early-morning Mass for the soldiers, then found a vantage point high on the walls above the castle gates, from which I watched them march away, in high spirits, chanting the rough marching songs of their individual divisions as they went. It was soon after dawn, before the new day’s sun had crested the horizon, and the skies were cloudless. The English soldiers’ morale was high, their confidence absolute, and I found myself muttering prayers for my friends in the valley below as I watched the enemy ranks twisting and rippling sinuously as they followed the narrow winding track downward from the castle gates to the causeway that stretched north towards the old wooden Stirling Bridge.

  I had thought it odd to have seen no signs of the Earl of Surrey that morning—he seldom missed early Mass—but when Thomas questioned one of his household attendants, we learned that the earl had been awake for more than half the night and had not yet risen. The information was delivered with a broad wink and one finger laid along the speaker’s nose, from which I inferred that his lordship had been the worse for drink when he went to bed, and I thought that strange, too, for the earl, unlike most of his ilk, was an abstemious man, not normally given to excess of any kind. But then I thought that his situation the previous night might well have been less fraught than I had at first assumed. Certainly there was a battle to be fought the next morning, but in the eyes of Surrey and his commanders—indeed in the eyes of his entire army—that battle was already won, since the rabble of untrained peasantry following the outlawed Scots leaders could not possibly compete with a disciplined English army—an army commanded, moreover, by the very man who had crushed the royal Scottish army and its noble but ineffectual leaders at Dunbar the previous year. And thus the wine drunk that night might have been in celebration of the next day’s assured victory.