by Robyn Young
‘They were freed by King Edward on the condition they help quell the rebellion,’ answered Wishart. ‘They were with John de Warenne’s forces at Stirling, but after William’s victory they slipped the earl’s company during his flight to the Borders and came to our side.’
‘Wallace trusts them?’
‘They fight for the same ends,’ was Wishart’s blunt response.
Robert watched as the bishop crossed the clearing to greet the newcomers. By tomorrow William Wallace would be the most powerful man in the kingdom. Wishart was right – the rebel leader was fighting for the very thing the Comyns wanted: the return of John Balliol. The very thing that would destroy his plans. ‘Have the men make camp,’ he told his brother, not taking his eyes off the Lord of Badenoch.
As Edward nodded grimly and moved away, the steward stepped into Robert’s path.
‘We must talk.’
Downstream from the main camp the river tumbled over a series of rocky plateaux before draining into a deep, glassy pool. Robert and the steward stood on a spur of rock above the pool, the cascade of water concealing their conversation from anyone who might pass on the banks. Away through the trees, flickering campfires were interrupted by the shadows of men.
‘I wanted to speak to you back in Irvine,’ the steward was saying. He stood at the end of the outcrop facing Robert, his eyes black in the torch flames. ‘But events conspired against us. Bishop Wishart is right. William Wallace’s achievements have been far beyond what any of us could have expected. There is no doubt the man is deserving of the title that will be bestowed upon him at our council tomorrow.’
Robert didn’t answer.
‘But we need to look beyond the victories of the present to a time when our stability as a kingdom can be sustained without battle and bloodshed.’ James seemed to be choosing his words carefully. ‘I understand Wishart’s enthusiasm, but I have stared long into the future these past months and it is that which concerns me, more than current strategies for war and the honouring of heroes. Our future can only be certain with a king upon our throne and the line of succession secured.’ His voice lowered, until Robert had to strain to hear him over the surging water. ‘There is no certainty King John will ever return to fulfil that role, however much William and his men demand it of Edward. However many battles they win. It is my responsibility, as steward of this kingdom, to plan for that possibility.’ He paused, studying Robert. ‘Your grandfather was believed by many, myself included, to be the rightful candidate. I believe Edward saw that too and feared he would not be as malleable as Balliol.’
Robert nodded.
James’s dark eyes were intense. ‘In looking to the future, Robert, it is you that I have seen as the one who could step into the void left by Balliol. You have the blood right and also, I believe, the virtues necessary.’
At these solemn words, Robert felt relief flood through him. Despite all the things he had done to advance his ambition these past months, he hadn’t been able to silence the voices of doubt within him. They lingered still, harsh with the abrasive tones of his father, telling him it was impossible for him, a traitor, to take the throne; that the people of Scotland would not accept him and that, ultimately, he had neither the courage nor the will to stand up to King Edward. If a man of such wisdom and experience as James – a man from a long line who had served Scotland’s kings in the esteemed office of the high stewardship – believed in him, then surely it was possible. There by the rushing river, the trees stretching into shadows all around him, he could almost hear his grandfather telling him it was.
Robert told the steward of the decision he had made in Irvine. ‘It is a long road, I know,’ he finished. ‘The Stone of Destiny is held in Westminster and I don’t know how to win the trust of our people.’ He faltered. ‘And now Wallace is to be made guardian, I’m afraid the small victories I have gained in the west will benefit me little. I cannot stand beside Wallace and expect the men of the realm to respect me as they do him, no matter the strength of my claim to the throne.’
James nodded, but rather than appearing discouraged by the challenge he looked keen. ‘I agree it will not be easy. I cannot yet see the way ahead, but I do have an idea of how we might start. There is something you could do at the council tomorrow. Something that will make all those present take notice of you and your commitment to the kingdom.’
60
Above the clearing the rising sun gilded the tops of the encircling pines. Spiders’ webs decorated the branches like strings of tiny pearls. Below, the men were gathering, the murmur of their voices drowning the birds’ chorus. In the centre of the glade was a cart, with a set of wooden steps at the back. On this makeshift platform the Bishop of Glasgow was speaking with James Stewart.
Robert made his way towards the cart, negotiating the crowds already thronging the edges of the glade, the men of the camp all keen to bear witness to this ceremony, a momentous occasion for their leader and their struggle. The mood was buoyant, the soldiers plainly excited by the prospect of Wallace’s election. The Setons were ahead with Walter and five Carrick knights, clearing a path for him as best they could. Christopher kept a hand near his sword. Alexander was subdued, the atmosphere between him and Robert rather cool after the discussion about Katherine. To either side of Robert were his brothers-in-law, John and Gartnait, and close behind came Edward. As Robert approached the cart with his retinue, ignoring the hostile stares his presence generated, he caught the eye of James Stewart. The high steward nodded to him. Taking up his place at the front of the rows of men, Robert felt tension crackling within him at the thought of what was to come.
William Wallace was a short distance away with his commanders – Adam, a scarred, brutal man called Gray and several notable lords. These included Gilbert de la Hay, the Lord of Erroll, built like a Caledonian pine with a flop of blond hair and a flushed, jovial face, and Neil Campbell from Lochawe, who had joined Wallace after the liberation of Dundee. Closer to Robert was the steward’s brother, John, standing beside James’s wife, Egidia de Burgh, sister of the Earl of Ulster, whom the steward had married before the outbreak of war. Despite the fact that her brother was King Edward’s most trusted commander in Ireland, Egidia had chosen to stay with James through the conflict and was pregnant with their first child. Of the other men gathered, Robert knew only a few by name and relied on the Earl of Atholl to fill in the gaps in his knowledge as he waited for the council to begin.
Beyond John Stewart was Malcolm Lennox, a young man with a striking, handsome face and sleek dark hair that he wore in a tail, bound with silver wire. He was surrounded by men of a similar age, all dressed as he was in black tunics and hose. Robert had seen Malcolm with his father, the Earl of Lennox, at several assemblies during the hearing to choose Scotland’s king, but had never spoken to him. Malcolm, who had recently succeeded his father, had been one of the commanders of the force that attacked Carlisle on the eve of the war. He glanced in Robert’s direction, studying him, before looking away.
On the other side of the ash-ringed campfire was the largest concentration of men. At the front of this group were John Comyn and his son, along with the Earl of Buchan. Behind the heads of the Red and Black Comyns were the Comyns of Kilbride, the branch of the family that had fought for Simon de Montfort at the Battle of Lewes. Around them were many dispossessed men of Galloway, all former vassals of John Balliol, whose lands had been commandeered by Henry Percy. Robert caught sight of a familiar face among them. The name came to him a moment later: Dungal MacDouall, captain of the army of Galloway and an old enemy of his father. The most surprising figure of them all was a chestnut-haired woman with a hard, proud face. Eleanor Balliol, wife of the Red Comyn and sister of the exiled king, stood tall among the men, a potent symbol of the great support within this gathering that still existed for her brother.
As Wishart began speaking from the platform of the cart, the murmurs of the assembled men died away to silence. ‘My noble lords, we are gathered today in
the sight of Almighty God to witness the election of a young man who has risked life and limb for the sake of his kingdom. A man who has, with fire and sword, beaten back our enemy and returned to us our liberty!’
Applause followed Wishart’s words, coming most vigorously from those encircling Wallace. As the bishop continued, speaking of Wallace’s defeat of the English at Stirling, Robert noticed the young giant looked uncomfortable at the attention. He stood stiffly among his comrades, hands clasped behind his back.
‘For two years our kingdom has been bereft of king or leader to guide us. Here, today, our fortune changes. Today we elect Master William Wallace, hero of Stirling, to the office of guardian of the realm. Truly, we are blessed, for William is a warrior in whom the Lord God has placed his faith. A warrior with the heart of St Andrew and the grace of St Kentigern!’
The cheers sent birds scattering from the trees.
Robert’s gaze drifted from Wishart to James Stewart. His tension built as he wondered when the steward would give the sign.
‘Yet despite this joyous occasion we must look to the days of darkness ahead,’ Wishart continued, his tone grave. ‘The war is not ended, merely paused. Before Master William takes his place as guardian, I invite Lord John Comyn of Badenoch to speak, for he bears tidings from his captivity in England.’
Robert fixed on John Comyn as he moved out of the crowd. His face was lantern-jawed, his grizzled hair thinning on his crown, but despite his advancing years, the Red Comyn looked as forceful as ever. He passed William Wallace with a rather contrived nod of respect, before heading up the steps on to the cart as Wishart moved back to stand beside James.
‘Despite the dark days the bishop foretells I can at least bring you some hope. Edward holds our king imprisoned in the Tower, but in my time there I spoke to him on a number of occasions. You should know King John is in good health and is optimistic of his eventual restoration.’ Comyn’s eyes caught Robert, standing below. ‘I am sure you will all join me in praying for his swift return to the throne of our kingdom.’
More applause greeted his words. Wallace was nodding. Robert’s jaw tightened.
‘As many of you will know, there has been great discontent in England on account of the war with France. When Edward crossed the sea last year, many of his subjects refused to follow him.’
Grim calls of appreciation sounded.
Wishart interrupted them. ‘Unfortunately, the king has since returned home and has made a truce with his opponents in England and with King Philippe. The shock of Master William’s triumph at Stirling has united the English against us. Make no mistake – they want vengeance for what happened.’
A ripple of voices spread through the clearing.
John of Atholl’s was the loudest. ‘We should send a delegation to King Philippe and make certain the alliance between France and Scotland still stands. Whatever pact he makes with Edward, we mustn’t be forgotten.’
Wishart went to answer, but a host of other men added their agreements to Atholl’s suggestion.
Wallace moved out of the crowd to stand before the cart. He had no need to mount it, for everyone could see him. ‘This is in hand. When the Bishop of St Andrews passed away last autumn, Bishop Wishart and I decided that the Dean of Glasgow, Master William Lamberton, an honourable and dedicated man, should fill the vacant see. His election has since been sanctioned and Lamberton is on his way to Rome to be consecrated. On the journey he will meet with King Philippe and reaffirm our alliance. Rest assured, Lamberton will do what he can for our cause.’
‘But while foreign support is being sought, we must band together,’ said Wishart, addressing the assembly. ‘We know King Edward is raising a great army, conscripting longbowmen from Wales and infantry from Ireland. Through the efforts of Master William many of the king’s garrisons have been routed, but Roxburgh and Berwick remain in English hands. Until now, these fortresses have been as islands, isolated and surrounded by our forces, their supply lines threatened. If the king manages to relieve them during this campaign and regains control of the surrounding districts, he will have a strong base in the south from which to launch further invasions northwards. We cannot allow him to do this.’
‘Our plan,’ said Wallace, his voice determined, ‘is to lay waste to the lands along the border, lands through which the king and his men must march. We will scorch crops and drive our livestock into the Forest. The men and women of the southern shires will be told to head north, carrying all supplies. We must leave nothing for the English to feed upon. The longer they remain in the field the harder it will be for the king to supply his army.’
‘We must be ready when they come,’ said Wishart. ‘We must put aside past animosities and work in union under the leadership of our guardian.’
Men were nodding vehemently, adding their support to Wallace’s proposals and the sentiment mooted by the bishop.
At that moment, Robert saw James Stewart turn to him. A jolt went through him as the steward nodded. Before anyone could begin speaking again, he headed out of the crowd towards Wallace, leaving his men looking on in surprise.
‘We have chosen to elect this man as our guardian.’ Robert’s voice was harsh as he gestured to Wallace. ‘But he is still just the son of a knight.’
‘You dare to challenge his election?’ demanded Adam.
Other shouts of scorn and ire joined his.
‘On the contrary,’ answered Robert, ‘I am suggesting that a man of William Wallace’s achievements, a man who is to be sole guardian of Scotland, bears a title befitting his prowess.’ He faced the crowd. ‘I, Sir Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, offer William Wallace the honour of a knighthood.’ He turned to Wallace. ‘If he will bend before me.’
The complaints were drowned by cheers from Wallace’s companions. The rebel leader didn’t take his gaze off Robert. For a long moment, it didn’t look as if he were going to move. Finally, when the applause had faded into an expectant hush, Wallace took a step towards Robert, his face tight. As he did so, he murmured something. Robert just caught the words.
‘This does not make me your man.’
But as he drew his sword for the knighting of William Wallace, on bended knee before him, Robert knew the power of the gesture. Catching the wrathful stare of the Lord of Badenoch, standing above him on the cart, he saw that the Comyn knew it too.
61
Through the spring and into the blistering days of summer, England prepared for war. Writs were sent out from the royal court, calling the men of the realm to serve, from the great earls and their retinues, down to the poorest infantryman with his woollen tunic and hunting knife. Crossbowmen were called up, as were the archers of Sherwood Forest, and the commissioners of array travelled through northern England and the shires of conquered Wales, selecting men for the conflict. More than twenty-five thousand were ordered to serve as infantry, with a large contingent of longbowmen from Gwent.
Farmers set down their ploughs and blacksmiths their hammers to pick up the instruments of war. Younger men, drawn by the offer of a wage, came forward eagerly, clutching bows and arrows. Gambesons were stitched and helms cleaned of rust, mail mended, swords sharpened. As summer ripened the Welsh foot soldiers set out, marching in long lines up the coast and over the mountain barriers of Cader Idris and Snowdon, moving slowly, inexorably towards Carlisle and the northern border. The king’s officials rode out to granaries, breweries and markets to stockpile sacks of wheat and oats, and barrels of wine, beer and mutton. Other supplies were called in from Ireland. The merchant sailors of the Cinque Ports were kept busy, readying the ships at Dover, Rye and Hythe for the transportation of these provisions and a blockade was established in the Channel to prevent any French vessels coming to the aid of the Scots. After an unsuccessful campaign in Flanders, Edward had succeeded in sealing a temporary truce with King Philippe, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Agreements with his belligerent cousin had, after all, been broken before.
In this time, while supplie
s were gathered and men conscripted, the English clergy were active, fanning the flames of hatred. In towns and villages across England the name of William Wallace was spoken with loathing, the people outraged by stories of how this ogre of the north raped nuns and tortured priests for pleasure. Tales abounded of his raid on Northumberland, telling of how the bloodthirsty Scots had locked up two hundred boys at a school in Hexham, then set the building on fire. Wallace, they said, had laughed as he watched the children burn. They called him coward, brigand, whoreson and murderer. In London, an effigy of Wallace, dressed in a Highlander’s short tunic, was burned to the fervent cheers of the watching crowds.
With the call to arms ringing throughout the shires, King Edward moved his seat of government to York. Here he waited, stone-faced and silent. His barons’ animosity over his drawn-out war in Gascony had been swept aside with the defeat of Warenne and Cressingham’s force. The men of England were united in their determination to annihilate Wallace and his peasant army, avenging the deaths of friends and kinsmen who had died on the meadows by Stirling Bridge. Rebels and rebellions came and went. It was not the first time an English force had been defeated in battle, but the sheer scale of it had shocked even the veterans. Thousands of infantry and archers had perished, but so had hundreds of knights. There had been no ransoms demanded, no prisoners offered for exchange. The nobility, who rarely faced anonymous death on a battlefield, were suddenly confronted with the prospect of being despatched like common soldiers. It had angered them deeply.
For Edward, the loss was especially galling. His conquest of Scotland had been one of the quickest and easiest campaigns ever launched. With the taking of the Stone of Destiny, the forced homage or imprisonment of the Scottish magnates and the dethronement of Balliol, he had rejoiced in his achievement. But William Wallace, whom he had taken for a lout of little consequence, had loomed like a spectre, auguring the prospect of another Gascony; another protracted conflict that would alienate and anger his barons. They were behind him now, his Round Table united beneath him, the Knights of the Dragon keen for blood, but would they be in five months, or a year? Edward did not want to find out. He was determined, once and for all, to make an end of Wallace and those who had joined him.