by Jack Whyte
“And had he seen what was happening before you brought it to his attention? Had he seen the significance of it?”
“He would have, at any moment … I’m sure he must have.”
“Are you sure, really? Or do you simply believe he would have?”
“What is the point of this, Jamie?”
“Answer me, Will. Had Andrew noticed anything amiss with the English advance before you spoke to him about it?”
He paused, frowning ferociously, then shook his head. “No,” he said. “I remember now. He didn’t understand what I was saying the first time. I had to tell him twice, and remind him of what we had talked about.”
“You mean you reminded him of all that had been said that night about the English being stranded on the causeway while the Scots spearmen danced around them on the mud.”
“Aye, I suppose …”
“And what did he do then?”
“Nothing. He agreed with me.”
“And after that you split your forces and led the charge of your infantry down against the causeway.”
“We did. Andrew took his men to the east at the bottom of the slopes and I led mine west.”
I leaned forward and clapped my palms together. “So,” I said, “Andrew chose an excellent defensive base ground for your battle lines—a site you would not have chosen. Is that right?”
“It is.”
“But you had no need to use it. You, on the other hand, identified the enemy’s weakness and acted upon it, did you not?”
“We both did.”
“No, Will, you did. You saw the weakness. You identified it.”
He faced me squarely and set aside his cup, which he had not lifted to his mouth since he sat down. “I know what you’re trying to do, Jamie. You’re hoping to convince me that I’m wrong, and that Andrew’s death is of less import than it truly is. But you won’t succeed. It’s really not of any import that Andrew chose our defensive ground that day—as you say, we didn’t have need of the advantages it offered us. But what makes the difference between Andrew Murray and a man like me is that he knew how to choose the site. He understood the strengths and weaknesses with which he dealt— not merely the strengths and weaknesses of the army we commanded and the other facing us, but the strengths and weaknesses of the lie of the land itself—the marshy ground below and in front of us that would impede the English horse, and the dense, wooded slopes at our back that would render their cavalry useless while protecting us at the same time from being attacked by archers from behind. I know none of that kind of stuff, Jamie. I have none of that knowledge. But I am learned enough to know that we can never truly hope to fight and defeat the armies of England without it. Andrew knows it all—or knew it. We talked about it often, he and I, about the kind of force we would need to beat an English army in the field, and he always said we could not do it, that we were too weak—”
He looked at me fiercely as though daring me to contradict him, but when I offered no response at all he went on.
“He didn’t mean weak in resolve, or lacking in courage. He meant we lack the physical strength to challenge England nowadays. Scotland is too poor, he said, too lacking in wealth and resources, to field the kind of armies England boasts under Edward and after four decades of unending wars. For while they have been fighting constantly these past decades, building their strength and battle-readiness, we have been at peace and growing fat and slack. We like to talk about being hard and sharp, but we’ve lost whatever edge we once had because we went for all those years without a need to fight.
“Look at what happened last April, at Dunbar, when we finally went to war. The flower of Scottish chivalry went down to defeat within an hour and were taken prisoners like sheep—Buchan, Comyn, Atholl, Menteith, Ross, the first names that come to mind, all captured. We lost everything at Dunbar, Jamie, except our damnable pride. But Edward confiscated everything we had, and now we have nothing with which to fight back. The bare facts that face us when we even dare to dream of defying him again are staggering. Never mind the leadership, though God knows we need that more than any other single thing. The Comyns, so hungry to seize power, have won us nothing since John Balliol took the throne. But even if we were to find a champion among the magnates, we could not back him, for we lack too much. We lack warhorses for our knights, and because of that our knights are too lightly armoured to withstand their English opposites. But Andrew Murray had the plans to redress all those things. Not by tomorrow, or even by next year or five years hence, but he knew what needed to be done, and he had the means to achieve his ends. He planned to enlist the magnates and mormaers to his cause in organized army-building—cavalry, footmen, and archers. And I truly believe he would have done it. Now, though, if he is dead, it will never happen.”
He stood up and turned to stare down into the flames of the brazier, clasping his hands at the small of his back and speaking to me over his shoulder.
“The noblemen would never work with me the way they would have worked with Andrew, one of their own.” He twisted fully around to look at me, a bitter little smile on his lips. “I know you don’t put much credence in the import of that, because they never have worked with me in the past and without them we won Stirling. But you’re wrong, Jamie. Stirling is the past now, and I’m not the man to dictate the future. Not without Andrew, and not without the input of the nobles, for they, whether folk like you and me like it or not, are the men who make the rules by which wars are fought and won. And by those rules, those wars are fought by organized, professional armies, commanded by knights and noblemen and won by strategies tested and proved on formal fields of battle.
“That is the reality of the world, Jamie, and it’s a reality I can’t change. I know nothing of the crafts of knighthood or of soldiering, and because of that, if for no other reason, because I am no knight, the magnates will not follow me. I’m but a commoner. And yes, I can see you nodding your head and I know what you are thinking: I am an uncommon commoner and the folk will follow me where’er I choose to lead them. But you’re the priest, Jamie, so tell me, if you will, as a priest—where would I lead them to?”
He stared straight into my eyes, and when he spoke again, he spoke softly and clearly, in the language of the local people. “They’re folk, Jamie. Ordinary folk, wi’ ordinary lives to live and wives and bairns who look to them for safety an’ protection. Ordinary folk are just that—they’re ordinary. They canna win battles against squadrons o’ barded knights and men-at-arms, or against ordered regiments o’ sodgers supported wi’ massed Welsh archers. So where could I lead any o’ them but to death? I can fight really well in the woods, wi’ my ain men, an’ I can marshal them against any groups of sodgery who try to come into my forest, but I could never hae beat Warrenne and Cressingham at Stirlin’ had they no’ been as bare-arsed stupid as they were. They beat themsel’s wi’ their ain foolishness.
“But now I’m a giant, it seems. The English in Northumberland and Durham ca’ me a deevil, and the Scotch expect me to redeem them, to cure a’ their ailments and fling the English out o’ this land forever.” He grunted, a malformed, self-mocking laugh. “Well, gin Andrew Murray had lived, I would hae tried it, just out o’ belief in him. Wi’out him, though?” He shook his head. “Wi’out him, I doubt I could survive for a month.”
He fell silent then, and I knew he had nothing more to say. I was searching frantically within myself for words with which to answer him, but I knew, deep in my being, that I had no arguments sufficiently eloquent to counteract the simple truths he had stated.
In the end, I made no effort to change his mind. I simply accepted what he had said, and prayed with him for half an hour, the only way I could believe with confidence that I might strengthen his resolve and ease his mind. But I decided, too, to report his concerns to my superiors as soon as I returned to the cathedral. He knelt to receive my blessing, and then we embraced and parted company.
When I returned to the cathedral, I discovered that t
he bishop and Canon Lamberton were still in conference. I was astonished, for to my certain knowledge they had been conferring for more than five hours by then, but I was also relieved, to a degree, because I had been determined to rouse both of them from their beds, irrespective of when they had retired.
The bishop’s secretary would have prevented me again from disturbing the two, but I was in no mood to be deflected, for I knew neither man would thank me for any delay in telling them about what had happened. I swept past him and threw open the door to the bishop’s office.
The large chamber was dark, its walls and high ceiling barely discernible even in the light from the dozen thick and heavy beeswax candles that blazed from the massive candelabrum in the middle of the long, oaken table that Bishop Wishart used as a work desk. The room’s two occupants were seated on opposite sides of the table, the entire top of which was littered with documents, some of them rolled up, tied or untied, others flattened and weighted down with pebbles and ink pots.
“Father James?” The bishop blinked at me owlishly. “How come you, here, at this hour of the night? And what hour is it, anyway?”
“Forgive me, my lord,” I said. “But I have news you will not wish to hear. My cousin Will believes he is unfit to continue as a leader of the realm.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE GUARDIAN
Frowns chased themselves across Bishop Wishart’s face like moving shadows as he mulled over all I had told him. At length he sniffed, the sound loud in the silent room, then inhaled deeply and sat straight up in his chair.
“You were right, Father James. This is ill news, and it couldna hae come at a worse time … Where is he now, your cousin? Would he join us if we sent for him?”
“I doubt it very strongly, my lord. He was fretting about having been away from his command for too long, and he intended to be up and away on the road again before dawn. And now that I think of it, I don’t even know where he was going. I didn’t ask and he didn’t say.”
“And he didna even try to see Andrew, after comin’ a’ the way up here? That makes nae sense.”
“With respect, my lord, it does to me. He didn’t come here to see Andrew, for fear of what he’d find. What he came for was the truth about whether or not the rumours he had heard were true. Knowing Will as I do, I understand that not knowing the truth would be intolerable to him.”
“Hmm …” His eyes drifted away from mine, his gaze unfocused. “Damn the man, and damn his conscience, too,” he said quietly, speaking almost to himself. But then he looked at me and continued in a louder voice. “Did he say when he’d be back?”
“He did. He said he would return within the week. It will depend on where his raiders are when he gets back to them.”
“Aye, of course …” He shook his head. “I want to be angry at him, but that would do us nae good, for in some ways he’s right. No’ completely right, mind you, but near enough, in some ways. He’s upset, an’ that’s understandable—he’s no’ a priest an’ he’s never been the kind o’ man wha thinks about God’s will and the ways He expresses it. But he is William Wallace, and he’s lookin’ at the world right now and seein’ nothin’ but darkness, and that’s no’ right— there’s light out there aplenty, he just canna see it. He must ken the entire Church stands solid at his back, surely?”
“My lord, I don’t think the support of the Church ranks high among Will’s priorities right now.” I saw his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “It does, of course, but what I mean is that his attention is too closely focused upon the potential loss of his friend and the effect that loss will have on his ability to do what he believes people, including all of us here, expect of him. He fears that if Andrew dies now—”
The bishop quickly raised a hand, its open palm towards me, and I felt a clutch at my heart. “Andrew is dead, Jamie,” he said. “God rest his soul, he died about four hours ago.” The open hand waved towards Lamberton on the other side of the table. “That’s why we’re still here, still workin’. They summoned us about three hours ago, but there was nothing we could do by then except pray for him. He’d had the last rites administered long since, and he was in a state of grace at the time of his death. And so we prayed for him and then returned here. We’ll bury him the day after tomorrow, in the cathedral cemetery.”
I had heard what my employer said very clearly, for I remember the words, but I had not expected to hear it because, somewhere deep inside me, I had not really believed that Andrew Murray would be taken from us. I have no recollection of what was said or done for some time after that, because I was overwhelmed by the reality of what I had been told. The next thing I remember is taking a small horn cup from Canon Lamberton, who was standing over me, a thick leather bottle in his right hand.
“Drink it,” he said. “Throw it back. All of it.”
I did, and almost choked as the fiery liquor burned its way down my gullet. When it was safely down, he spoke again. “Is it going to stay down?” I nodded, shuddering. “Good,” he said, and took the cup from my hand to fill it again and hand it back to me. “One more, then, and you’re done.”
A short time after that he sat down in front of me, where he placed one hand on my knee and leaned forward, peering intently into my eyes. “Listen to me now, Father James, because this is of great import, much as it grieves me to say it. There is no time now— we have no time now—to deal with the grief of Andrew’s passing, for the needs of the realm are such that our personal feelings will have to be set aside until the realm is safe. We need to turn all our attention to this matter of your cousin and what he will do next, for where William Wallace goes, this realm will surely follow. Do you hear what I am saying to you? Do you understand?”
I heard him. His word were annoying, like an insect buzzing around the edges of my vision when I was trying to concentrate, but they did penetrate my awareness and reminded me that I liked this man and that I knew he would not trifle with me. And so I emptied my mind of everything, including the numbness of the shapeless weight in the centre of it.
“I hear you,” I said. “I understand and I’m listening.”
“Good,” he said. He stood up and moved away. “Then come and sit by the fire with us. It’s cold and it’s late and we still have much to discuss.”
Still moving as though dazed, and not yet fully compos mentis, I sat down on the left of the fire, facing the bishop, while Canon Lamberton took the chair between us.
“What must we do, Your Grace?” I asked my employer.
He glanced at Lamberton. “I’ll let William answer ye,” he said, “for he’s thought the matter through, more thoroughly than I hae, and he’s the one best equipped to deal wi’ it. William?”
“Wallace is right,” Lamberton began. “And at the same time, he is as wrong as could be. Every single thing he told you, every point he made, every inference he drew from what he has heard and from what has happened, is essentially correct. But, to varying degrees, all of what he said is incorrect as well.
“But before we go any further, we need to understand, and to agree upon, what we are talking about—what’s right and what’s wrong and, most important of all, what we can and cannot do to change any or all of that. Because underlying everything we have to deal with here is the truth that we three here, whether we like it or not, will need to make decisions that will influence the welfare, and perhaps even the continuing existence, of this realm as we have known it.”
He leaned towards me and held my gaze so that I saw the shadows of the leaping flames against his right cheek. “Do you understand that, Father? Really understand it? Believe me, it is of crucial import that you do, that you understand precisely what your report of your cousin’s dilemma has provoked. You may think yourself a simple priest, with dreams of one day running a parish, but here and now, this night, circumstance has thrust you into a position of grave responsibility—the kind of responsibility that few men are ever sufficiently privileged or cursed to be called upon to exercise. Thi
s night, acting upon the information we alone possess, and predicated upon the possibilities of all that we know, guess at, and fear, you will determine, along with Bishop Wishart and myself and the guidance and assistance of God Himself, the future course of this realm of Scotland, in the hope of enabling it to survive the tribulations threatening it today.”
He leaned back into his chair. “Of course, you can refuse to be involved, but I believe you are here tonight because God sent you here with these tidings, for His own purposes. If you decide you have no wish to be involved, His Grace and I will go ahead and decide what must be done without you. It will be done, though. Failure to decide tonight could mean anarchy and civil war, at best. At worst, it will mean invasion, conquest, and the loss of everything that makes our land the sovereign realm it is, unlike any other in Christendom.”
“I understand all that,” I said, for his earnestness had made me pay close attention to every word he had said. “I accept the responsibility. Tell me what I need to know, and what I need to do.”
Lamberton glanced at the bishop, who wiggled his fingers, bidding him to proceed.
“The rights and wrongs,” the canon began, “of Wallace’s stance—”
“Stance?” I interrupted. “There is nothing wrong with his stance, Canon. His stance is heroic, the victor of Stirling Bridge. Will’s concern is for his future status. We are concerned with his opinions here, not his attitudes.”
“Forgive me,” he said quietly, nodding his head. “I misspoke and you are correct. So let us say, the rights and wrongs of his opinions about his future prospects. He has the love and the support of the commons. Wheresoever he leads them, they will follow. He fears to lead them to their deaths, though, and that I can understand. But they will stand solidly behind him when he asks them to. So let us accept that and move on.
“The Church. As you so aptly pointed out earlier, the assistance of the Church does not rank high among Wallace’s priorities. I understand that, because as a warrior and the commander of the armies of Scotland, his first concern must be for the replenishment of his ranks—replacing the men he lost at Stirling and raising levies of new fighters. Priests and monks, and even canons and bishops, will offer him little hope of sustenance in that endeavour. Eventually, though, once he finds his feet again and can see beyond the pressing needs of the moment, he will come to realize that Holy Mother Church is his strongest and most vigilant supporter. It always has been in the past, and I am quite sure Will has never doubted the truth of that—he has merely lost sight of it among all the other problems facing him. With the active support of the Church, though, he can spread the word of his need for fighting men throughout all Scotland, from the smallest kirks in the land to the great cathedrals, abbeys, and priories. He’s not the kind of man to neglect the power of the pulpit for any length of time.”