The Guardian

by Jack Whyte

  “What about county sheriffs?”

  The question came from Bruce, and Will curled his lip. “Are there any left? Scotch ones, I mean? Maist o’ them were either Englishmen or English lapdogs.” He hitched one shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “I suppose ye’re right, though. Gin there’s any sheriffs left in place, they should be invited, though the thought o’ creatures like yon crawlin’ thing Stewart o’ Menteith bein’ there to thumb his nose at us makes me want to vomit. His heel crushed mair Scotch necks than the English did while he was sheriff o’ Dundee.”

  “Menteith won’t come,” Andrew said. “Not after what he has done in England’s name. He wouldna dare to show his face. They’d hang him.”

  “Who would hang him? The Dundee folk?” Will’s scorn was withering. “I doubt that. There’s no’ a man among them wi’ the balls for that job. Don’t you delude yersel’. The man’s a barefaced turncoat and a scoundrel, but he isna short o’ backbone, and he’ll no’ be scared by threats. He’ll be in Perth, gin he hears o’ it in time. But half the counties in the land will need new sheriffs now, so we’ll hae to appoint them durin’ the assembly.” He shook his head tersely. “The truth is that there’s nae lack o’ people to invite, and they a’ should be invited. An gin the great lords of the realm come to speak sensibly, their voices will be heard. On the ither hand, gin they elect to stay away, folk will tak note o’ it.” He continued in churchly Latin. “In the meantime, though, we have little more than a week to prepare, and we have other things to occupy us.”

  It was true. Word had come that day, from the castle on the rock above our heads, that Sir William Fitzwarren wished to negotiate terms for surrender, claiming he had insufficient supplies of food to sustain his garrison. Will had expected that and was unsurprised; he knew that two large supply trains had been intercepted in Selkirk Forest no more than a month earlier by his own people and that no effort had been made since then to replace the lost provisions. He delegated several of his lieutenants, among them Sir Neil Crambeth of Dunkeld, to dictate his terms to the English commanders, and they were blunt and not negotiable: surrender and leave immediately, or stay and die of starvation.

  The English hauled down the royal standard over Stirling Castle’s keep the following day, and the garrison troops were permitted to depart.

  The day after the surrender of the castle, just as the four of us were starting to prepare for the thirty-mile journey to Perth, Canon Lamberton arrived from Glasgow, bringing tidings from France. Bishop William Fraser, who had served the realm of Scotland long and well in many capacities, including years as one of the joint Guardians in the interregnum after King Alexander’s death, had died near Paris on August twentieth, and had been buried in the Dominican church there. The news could scarcely have come at a worse time, given the present state of the Church in Scotland, for now, in addition to finding the resources to staff the land’s parishes with priests, the realm was faced with an urgent need to replace one of its staunchest and most loyal servants: the bishop of the see of St. Andrews, the oldest and most influential shrine in Scotland.

  The unexpected news distressed us all, for when Lamberton was ushered in, we had been discussing what to do about the situation within the Church. Our collective chagrin upon hearing the news of Bishop Fraser’s death must have been obvious, for the canon stopped what he was saying and looked around the table, eyeing each of us in turn before he shook his head and held up one hand with two raised fingers, as though he were about to bless us.

  “My friends,” he said, “remember who you are, and what we are discussing. We are speaking of the continuity of God’s Holy Church within this realm, not of the death of some obscure landowner. This news is cause for celebration, not for mourning. It means we have an opening for a new bishop now, and right here in Scotland, a vacancy that has been gaping like an undressed wound this past year and more, and would have continued to do so for as long as Bishop Fraser had remained active in France.” Again he looked at each of us. “Think carefully upon that, my friends. Bishop Fraser’s death is Heaven sent, from God’s own hand and to our benefit.

  “Can you really doubt God’s purpose in recalling him? The Church in Scotland is in dire need of a sure, controlling hand to see it through these current times and troubles. Surely none of you can believe that the Almighty has not already provided that successor? Somewhere within the realm today, the next man to be Bishop of St. Andrews for the greater glory of God is waiting, all unknowing, to feel the hand of God upon his shoulder.” He smiled, a great, blazing smile of joy that lit his face like an internal beacon. “Believe me, my friends, we need this man, and we need him quickly. So trust in God to make His wishes known to us without delay. He will not waste our time or His own when so much needs to be achieved so quickly.”

  I turned idly to look at Will, and to my mild consternation I found him eyeing the canon strangely, his eyes narrowed so that they were almost closed and his jaw set in a way that gave his face a speculative expression. He kept his eyes on Lamberton, his expression unchanged and unreadable as he listened to what the canon was now saying about the need to convene the bishops of the realm to consider who the new Bishop of St. Andrews might be.

  We had no time to waste, the canon said, not a single hour, let alone a day, for time was flying by too quickly and the demands upon the Church were already threatening to exhaust its dwindling resources. We needed, urgently, he said, the input and guidance of all the other bishops, whether they were present in person or not, and irrespective of their health and physical capabilities, for the new bishop-elect would have to travel to Rome upon his election, to be personally assessed and endorsed by the Pope himself before being consecrated. That would take months—a long and harrowing sea voyage at the best of times, even without the hazards of running an English blockade and risking interdiction—and Scotland’s Church did not have months to spare.

  “Tell me, Canon,” Will said. “This matter of Rome. Is it truly required? Are you saying that the new bishop must go there before he can work here?”

  Lamberton nodded. “Aye, Master Wallace. It is traditional, even ritualistic, but it is required.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Mind you, though, in the normal scheme of things it is a joyous occasion, the sacramental procession of a successful son of Mother Church to the centre of the Church’s existence in Rome and the welcoming benediction of the Holy Father himself. A grand occasion crowned with a magnificent rite of celebration and fulfillment. It is merely our present circumstance that places these constraints of time and need upon us—the fact that we are simultaneously at war with England on one hand, and virtually at war, though liturgically so, with the Archbishopric of York on the other. Neither of our opponents would like to see Scotland’s Church being strengthened at this time, and therefore we must forge ahead at speed and, as far as we can manage it, in secrecy.”

  “Then forge ahead, Father. What will you require of us?”

  “Nothing, Master Wallace, but I thank you for your offer. I have already set the thing in motion—even to sending some of my people privily to talk with Bishop Wishart in his jail in Roxburgh Castle and enlist his aid.”

  He turned then to Andrew. “All of that I would have done on my own initiative anyway, Master Murray.”

  “So if you would have done all that anyway, why are you here today? Why leave Glasgow at such a time?”

  Lamberton’s smile included all of us this time. “Because I was invited, by Father James, and I have enough conceit to think I might be able to assist with what you are doing. Everything is in hand in Glasgow and I trust my staff, so I have no concerns there. Here, though, is stronger, meatier stuff. What are you doing, if I may ask?”

  Andrew laughed aloud. “I believe we are arranging the convocation of bishops you have just described. We will have them all together and in one place within the week, all unknowing of your need. They will convene at Blackfriars Church in Perth, but they will doubtless all be lodged nearby in Scone Abbey.
We sent an invitation to you to attend, two days ago, but you would have passed our courier on the road.”

  “God be praised,” Lamberton said quietly. “Did I not say He would not waste our time or His?”

  Will’s face was still unreadable. He had lost that look that had so disconcerted me earlier, but he was still observing Lamberton impassively, and I had to fight down the urge to ask him what he was thinking.

  From that moment on, though, William Lamberton became completely engrossed by what we were doing, and his contributions were invaluable. Will accepted all of them without reservation or demur, and I set aside my concern over whether or not he liked the canon, for had he not, or had he disagreed in any way with Lamberton’s suggestions, he would have said so.

  The great and grand of the realm all came to Perth as Will had said they would, but Robert Bruce, the Earl of Carrick, was not among them. On the very day that we were to depart from Stirling, word reached Bruce that his presence was required in Annandale, where the Bruce estates were being harried and laid waste by a strong English raiding force out of Newcastle, under the command of Sir Robert Clifford, the same man who had presided with Henry Percy at the Irvine capitulation. It was obvious to Bruce that the raid had little to do with the English defeat at Stirling the previous week, for the arrangements to launch the expedition must have been in hand long before the Stirling fight occurred. In addition, the fact that the lands in question were not Bruce’s own but were yet owned by his father, who remained a loyal vassal of King Edward, suggested that this was a punitive expedition in retaliation for the younger Bruce’s failure to produce his infant daughter as a hostage, as stipulated by the terms of the Irvine settlement. He had left immediately for the south, accompanied by the hundred men he had brought with him to Stirling, while we rode north without him.

  In the town of Perth, the great lords and officers of state were lost among the mobs that thronged the place, so we avoided the town and went directly instead to Scone Abbey to pay our respects to the abbot in the hope that we might find accommodations there, no matter how mean or Spartan they might be. Of course the ancient abbey was a natural destination for all the senior churchmen looking to attend the assembly, and we arrived to find the place already crowded with bustling, sleek-looking senior clerics, including several priors and abbots and a number of deacons and subdeacons. Much to my own gratification and surprise, though, Abbot Thomas welcomed us warmly, remembering me kindly from my visit weeks before, and insisted that our entire party, including Canon Lamberton, should accept his gracious offer of accommodation within the abbey precincts. The abbey was spacious and prosperous, he said, with ample room for important guests, whereas Perth town was straining at the seams with an influx of people unlike anything he had ever seen, even at royal coronations in the abbey.

  Two days later, on the twenty-fifth day of September, the assembly was called to order by William Sinclair, the Coadjutor Bishop of Dunkeld responsible for supervising the affairs of the diocese during Bishop Crambeth’s absence in France. He began by offering a prayer of thanks to the Almighty for the recent victory at Stirling, and he made sure to acknowledge the pivotal role therein of the two new champions of the realm and commanders of the armies of Scotland, William Wallace of Elderslie and Andrew Murray of Petty. The acknowledgment was met with cheers from the packed ranks of the commoners at one end of the great hall, which drew frowns and stony silence from the assembled lords.

  Silence fell again eventually, and from that moment forward the wrangling began as the various groups and factions began vying for whatever advantages they perceived to be attainable. As a representative of Bishop Wishart, I sat with Canon Lamberton on the right of the great chamber, in the raised section set aside for the bishops and mitred abbots known as the lords spiritual, while below us sat the priors and lesser churchmen in order of seniority. The corresponding section opposite us was filled to overflowing with all the land’s nobility, seated in order of precedence, beginning with the great officers of the realm, senior among those the High Steward, James Stewart, and the High Constable, John Comyn, Earl of Buchan. Following those in descending order came the earls and the lords, all of whom were represented, and then the knights and petty barons, with the surviving Scots sheriffs of the counties seated below them, along with the governors of fortresses and keepers of royal castles. The lowest places on that side were taken up by the lairds and minor landowners, and the provosts and magistrates of the burghs of the realm.

  The commons stood clustered at the east end of the hall, and Will stood among them, towering above those around him. It seemed strange to me at first to see him there, the acknowledged hero of the day, so far removed from all the seated figures representing greatness, both temporal and spiritual, but it was his proper place according to his birth, as Andrew’s was among the lords up on the dais, where I could see him almost directly across from me, looking pale between Gartnait of Mar, newly risen to the earldom after the recent death of his father, and Malcolm, Earl of Lennox.

  I spent a considerable amount of time, over the hours that followed, marvelling at the accuracy with which Will had predicted the behaviour of the nobles. The earliest dealings of the assembly were concerned, necessarily, with civic affairs and the needs of the various royal burghs, because until the burghs were returned to functioning normally, little else could be achieved. And so for the first hour and more the floor was occupied by civic functionaries familiar with the things that needed to be done, and accustomed to making such things happen. The nobility quickly became restive with that kind of thing, though, seeing such interminable on-goings among small men as being a waste of their aristocratic time, and they increasingly began disrupting the proceedings, demanding to be heard on, as they said, more important things. The more impatient they grew, the less tolerant they became and the greater the arrogance they showed, each of them seeking to assert his supposed superiority over everyone around him. And precisely as Will had predicted, they carped and cavilled and whined and complained until the entire great hall had degenerated into a scene of utter chaos, with everyone shouting at once and no one paying attention to anyone else.

  William Wallace walked from the press of people around him and made his way up to the dais where William Sinclair was trying in vain to make his voice heard over the uproar. I did not see him move, for I was watching an altercation across from me that involved several of the realm’s most prominent figures, among them fiery “Red” John Comyn the Younger of Badenoch and the Highland mormaer Malcolm, heir to his father’s earldom of Lennox, who looked close to flying at each other’s throats. Some difference in the tenor of the general uproar alerted me, and I looked around quickly to see my cousin standing on the chancellor’s dais beside Bishop Sinclair. He was simply standing there, looking about him. The chancellor had turned to face him and was gazing up at him, wide-eyed, and at the same moment I heard how rapidly the sound in the great refectory was dying away as others became aware of his presence there. It was a remarkable phenomenon to witness, for in less than the time required to count to ten the awareness that Wallace had moved forward spread throughout the massive room and stilled the crowd, so that the wave of people turning to look as they fell silent spread as swiftly and visibly as the rings from a stone dropped into a calm pond.

  The silence that filled the enormous room then was as profound as it was sudden. Everyone, it seemed to me, was holding his breath, for the very air in the place was motionless. Then Will scanned the entire assembly, making eye contact with as many of them as cared to look back at him. He did not speak, but neither was there doubt in the mind of any man there that Wallace would speak first. And then, finally, he looked towards the two highest-ranking officers of the realm, Lord James Stewart and John Comyn.

  “The realm is in sore need of repair, my lords Constable and Steward. But I doubt we will repair it if we carry on like this, screaming at one another like angry fishwives and getting nothing done. We need action here. We need
to take firm, sure steps for the common weal.”

  He looked then at the other lords, the earls and barons.

  “We have beaten an English army, but is there any man here fool enough to think we have beaten England?” No one moved or spoke. “They are gone, for now, but they will be back, and next time they will not be so easily drawn out and duped. Next time they will seek to make Dunbar look like a bicker between bairns. The questions that we have to ask ourselves now, though, are whether or not there is anything we can do to change the way of things between now and then, and whether or not we will be ready for them when they come.”

  Among the gathered lords a few heads began to turn and look at others, though no one said a word. It was the Earl of Buchan who cleared his throat loudly and spoke up, after exchanging glances with his colleague the High Steward.

  “We are all in your debt, Master Wallace,” he began, then hesitated. “Indebted to yourself and to your … your associate, young Master Murray. We have all noted that you call yourselves jointly commanders of the army of Scotland …” It was clear that he could see how condescending he sounded, for he had the grace to be abashed and his voice tailed away.

  “Aye,” Will pounced, “but there’s more to it than that. We speak of being commanders of both the army of Scotland and the community of that realm. That wording is important, Constable, for it was that community—embracing and including the common folk of the realm—that enabled us to win the Stirling fight. And it was the common part of that community—most definitely not the most high-born part.”