by Amy Jarecki
Blair wrapped his fingers around his hilt—a greater warrior of God did not exist in William’s mind. But he patted the priest’s arm. “We are among friends.”
“Ye’re too bloody trusting.”
“And I’d expect a man of the cloth to be more so.” William nodded to the guard. “Lead on.”
As usual, Wallace had to stoop to climb the tower stairs. He never cared to be in a stairwell. They were too narrow and didn’t leave enough options for escape. If he ever had the opportunity to build a keep, he would ask the mason to make the stairwells as wide as the structure would allow, and most definitely wider than his shoulders so he didn’t have to ascend sideways.
They exited on the first landing, ventured down a passageway until the guard stopped and opened a sturdy door, fashionably rounded at the top. “My Lord Stewart and Bishop Wishart, allow me to present William Wallace.”
The back of William’s neck tingled. Eva said Wishart might be here.
He ducked under the lintel and entered. God’s bones, if he’d considered the great hall to be opulent, this chamber was befitting of royalty. The hearth alone was crafted of white marble. Rich greens adorned the tapestries displaying hunting scenes. The oaken table had been polished to such sheen, it could have been used as a mirror.
An older man stood, dressed in a red doublet with a blue mantle closed at his throat by a large brooch fashioned with the Stewart coat of arms. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Wallace.”
William bowed deeply. “The honor is mine, m’lord.” Still bent, he looked to the bishop. “Your Worship.”
“’Tis good to see ye again, William.” The bishop remained seated. “It warms my heart to hear ye’ve taken up the mantle for Scotland.”
“Please sit.” Lord Stewart gestured toward a chair, so ornate it appeared far too fragile for sitting.
William tested the velvet seat for soundness before he sat. Already uncomfortable amid such wealth, he preferred not to further embarrass himself by breaking the chair with his immense size and end up sprawled across the floorboards.
Lord Stewart slid into his chair at the head of the table. “I see by your girth, ye are as great a man as the rumors tell it.”
A servant appeared from a side room and placed silver goblets of wine in front of each.
“Pardon, m’lord?” William leaned over his goblet and inhaled the fruity bouquet, examining the craftsmanship of the stems, fashioned in the shape of lion’s claws.
“Do ye not ken?” The High Steward slapped his palm on the table. “Since ye and your men rained havoc on Lanark but two days past, all of Scotland is agog with your action against that barbarous sheriff.”
Wallace pulled his gaze away from the goblet. “Truly?”
“Aye, reports claim ye leapt your horse over a line of guardsmen, and plunged into the gaol, dispatching anyone who stood in your path.”
“Nothing to put fear in the hearts of a line of pikemen like jumping a warhorse over their ranks.” William grinned. “Besides, I had a bit of help. I’ve a score and ten men who ride with me.”
Lord Stewart waved a dismissive hand. “Merely a score and ten? That might suffice for a quick raid, but ye need an army behind all that brawn.”
William leaned forward. “What are ye saying?”
Bishop Wishart held up his goblet. “I was just apprising Lord Stewart of your tutelage in Dundee.” He sipped and looked to the High Steward. “I’ve never seen a prospect more naturally skilled with a great sword. Though ’tis a shame his exemplary skills are not being put to use with the Templars in Jerusalem. William would have been my choice to put the fear of God in the hearts of the infidel.”
“But we need him in Scotland.” Lord Stewart assessed Wallace like he was a prize bull on the auction block.
“The bishop kens I left the order to drive the invader from our lands.” William drank and savored the smooth taste sliding over his tongue.
“And have ye a title of any sort?” Lord Stewart asked. “A knighthood, perchance?”
“I am a man of the land.” William unclasped his belt and held up his great sword and scabbard. “This is the only title I need. Not a man can best me.”
His Worship gestured his palm toward Wallace. “His uncle on his mother’s side is the Sheriff of Ayr. His grandfather was a knight as well. Wallace may not be nobly born, but he was raised a gentleman.”
William didn’t care to have the bishop speak in his stead. “If ye are looking for a nobleman, ye’d best set your sights elsewhere.”
“Hmm.” Lord Stewart circled his pointer finger around his gold brooch. “And your men, are ye their leader, or…”
“The men follow me because they choose to do so. We have but one goal, and that is to rid Scotland of Longshanks to restore the true king to the throne.”
“I see.” Lord Stewart cleared his throat.
Wishart rolled his hand through the air. “Go on James. This is what we agreed.”
“Very well. As ye are aware, I am the High Steward of Scotland, and as such, my position is…” Lord Stewart brushed his velvet mantle as if cleaning it of lint. “Political. There are a great many eyes upon me and a great many nobles who have sided with King Edward.”
Never before had the opportunity to question a high ranking noble presented itself so fortuitously to William. Though he knew the answer, he wanted to hear it explained for himself. “I heard ye also signed the roll pledging fealty to Longshanks.”
Wishart removed his miter, as if to again speak in his lordship’s stead. “True. Many men applied their seals to the roll, but under duress.” The bishop placed the hat on the table. “How else were the nobles to retain their lands and keep their families safe from the wrath of the English army?”
The High Steward simply nodded in agreement.
William picked up his goblet and sipped. Then he looked from one man to the other. “I’m not faulting ye for protecting your lands and riches, but I have no tolerance for any man who sits idle while King John remains imprisoned in the Tower of London and his gaoler moves English tyrants in place to seize our castles, to plunder our towns and churches. Men like Heselrig have gone too far. Worse, we’ve stood idle and watched Cressingham flay our countrymen. My own father was murdered at Lochmaben. Have ye witnessed the tyranny for yourself? Women are raped, their throats cut, left dead with their skirts up around their hips. Children are hanged alongside their fathers.” William again looked from Wishart to Stewart and swallowed back the churning bile in his stomach. “The nobles must unite their armies and make a stand.”
“Your concerns have been duly noted,” Lord Stewart said. “But as I mentioned, this is a war that must be fought by the heart and soul of our nation. To be blunt, Edward Plantagenet has the Scottish nobility by the cods.” He pointed at William. “Ye own no lands, have pledged fealty to no one as far as I can tell.”
William nodded. “The true king of Scotland is the only man to whom I will pledge my sword.”
Wishart grinned. “I kent we could count on your verve, my son. We, too, have a vision for a united Scotland. We need a leader the common man will adore—someone who is not protecting title and lands.”
“Ye’re exactly the man for whom we’ve been searching,” Lord Stewart added. “And your actions at Lanark have already made ye a legend.”
“Bah.” William picked up the damned goblet and guzzled his remaining wine. “I need an army to undertake a true rebellion. Aye, we’ve made some headway with our raids on English garrisons, but the bastards continue to cross the border and pillage our towns.”
“That is where we can help, lad,” Bishop Wishart said, putting the miter back on his head.
The High Steward placed his palms on the table. “I’m prepared to give ye a cavalry of fifty horse and two hundred foot.”
William’s heart leapt with the prospect of having trained soldiers to his avail. “’Tis a start.” But he’d need so much more to accomplish his dreams.
The bisho
p ran his hands across his velvet chasuble. “And Sir William Douglas is ready to ride with ye as well.”
“Douglas?” William scratched his beard. “Did he not surrender his lands and castle in Berwick only one year past?”
“Aye,” Wishart said. “And he wants them back with vengeance.”
“Ye are not alone, Wallace.” Lord Stewart held up a finger. “Word has it Andrew Murray in the north has made good headway in recapturing lands taken by the English. There are skirmishes all over the country.”
Eva had mentioned both Douglas and Murray. The back of William’s neck tingled yet again. “But we will not be successful until we join together.”
“Sir Douglas is planning an uprising in Ayr—but I doubt he’ll be successful if he goes it alone.” The lord pointed. “I’ll send ye word and provide my men when the date is settled.”
William drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. He needed men, but Sir Douglas had an unsavory reputation—then again, this was war. Edward’s policy was to show no quarter and Sir Douglas could very well be the type of man Wallace needed. Can he be trusted? “I accept on one condition.” He panned his gaze from one face to the other. “If I ride into this skirmish, I lead the battle.”
“That is what we desire as well.” Wishart bobbed his head. “And in the interim, we’ll ensure all of Scotland is aware a new leader has risen from the people.”
Lord Stewart held up his goblet. “To the people’s man-at-arms.”
Wishart followed suit. “Here, here.”
Holding up his empty goblet, William acknowledged the toast. The people’s man-at-arms. Such a nom de guerre suited him.
Chapter Thirteen
Eva never should have brought a satchel filled with modern stuff. As soon as William left, she hid the thing in a crevice in the cave wall and rolled a boulder across it. If Wallace thought her a witch, the other men would completely freak out if they saw her phone and toiletries. She’d just have to do without—after she popped a couple ibuprofens for her pounding headache.
Her body might be getting used to going without caffeine, but it would take her a few days to recover from being knocked out by Heselrig.
Voices grew louder beyond the fur curtain that hung at the alcove entrance, blocking her from the rest of the men. She secured her veil in place and poked out her head.
Robbie turned—obviously keeping guard while she was inside. “What the bleeding hell happened to your face, Miss Eva?”
“That’s not proper language to use in the presence of a lady, Robert Dominus Boyd.” She grimaced and touched her tender nose. “But I know I look awful.”
“Och, ’tis just a black eye. It will fade in a sennight or two.”
“Wonderful, and I may have broken my nose to boot.”
He peered a bit closer. “I think not. At least ’tisn’t crooked.”
“Thank heavens.” Honestly, she would have died if her nose had been mangled. “I guess there’s something to be said for having a box-shape to it.”
“I think ye have a bonny nose.”
“Thank you.” She glanced toward the cave entrance.
Brother Bartholomew marched inside shaking his head, leading a pair of men at his flank. “I’ve no idea how we’ll feed them all, let alone where they will sleep.”
Eva glanced at Robbie. “What’s going on?”
“Men are arriving in droves—say they heard about Willy killing the Sheriff of Lanark. They’re all pledging fealty.”
She clapped her hands. “That’s wonderful.”
“Aye, except they’re hungry and carrying pitchforks for weapons. I doubt there’s a trained foot soldier among them.”
“I wouldn’t worry about their training. The first thing is to see they don’t starve.” Eva drummed her fingers against her lips. “Can any of them hunt?”
Robbie shrugged.
She pulled his arm. “Come.”
Outside, the bedlam was worse. Everywhere Eva looked there were groups of men shouting, each one louder than the next—at least a hundred men. She picked up on bits and pieces—a lack of a smithy, broken arrows, shelter, food. The only certainty? Tempers were flaring and fast.
She pulled Robbie to an enormous boulder, about five feet high. “Give me a leg up.”
“There?”
“Aye, someone’s got to take charge before a brawl breaks out.”
Once atop, she shoved her fingers in her mouth and blew an ear-splitting whistle.
The noise immediately ebbed to a hum.
Eva planted her fists on her hips. “Wallace has gone to meet with the High Steward. Until he returns, we need food, shelter, and people to make arrows and sharpen weapons.”
“Who are ye to tell us what we need? A woman, no less,” someone yelled.
“What happened to your eye?” another voice chimed. “Beat for opening your flapping gob?”
“Heselrig walloped the lass—right before Wallace ran him through.” Robbie jumped up beside her—the showoff. “She’s Wallace’s woman. Anyone touches her and Willy will lop of their—uh—ballocks right afore he lops off their heads.”
Heat rushed to Eva’s face. Wallace’s woman? It would take her forever to convince William she hadn’t contrived that lie. But she could show no sign of weakness, not in front of a hundred Scotsmen out for blood. She spread her arms wide. “Who can hunt?”
No one uttered a word.
“Very well. The first man who brings in a deer will be the first to meet with Wallace when he returns.” God, she hoped William would humor her.
A man with a bow slung over his shoulder raised his hand. “We’ll need more than one deer.”
“Aye we will,” Eva agreed, eyeing the stunned faces. “Do you want William to return to a mob of lazy milksops, or do you want to face him with a grin and say you felled a deer or snared a pheasant or a rabbit, and the men are feasting because of you?”
Another man stepped forward. “I’ll hunt.”
“So will I,” said a man with a formal bow of his head.
“Me as well.”
“Thank you.” Eva gazed at the expectant faces. “Who among you can set up a smithy’s shop?”
“What will we use for iron?” a big fellow asked.
Eva shot a panicked look at Robbie. The lad did nothing to help. Jeez, she had to give an answer or else she’d lose the tiny bit of authority she’d gained. “Ah…anything you can find—or swipe. What did we bring back from Lanark?”
“Plenty of pikes and poleaxes,” a disembodied voice shouted from the crowd.
“Then they need to be sharpened—and arrows made.” Eva pointed to a group of boys who looked about Robbie’s age. “You lads, set to it.”
Eva watched them leave and then glared at the crowd. “You all want to sleep in the rain? Who will build shelters?” She pointed at every man who hinted at raising his hand.
“The rest of you will help Brother Bartholomew prepare food, fetch water, and maintain a constant supply of firewood. I do not want to see a single idle soul…and if I do, so help me, William Wallace will hear about it.”
A stout man with a thick, black beard stepped forward. “I’m a brewer, we’ll need ale.”
“Then set to work.” She gave him a nod of thanks, then returned her gaze to the crowd. “Hard labor will make you strong, and when it comes time to fight, you’ll be ready.”
She stood, watching the men dispatch. Keeping her fists tight against her hips prevented her from wilting into a trembling heap. Heaven knew she had just set a mob of medieval men to task without really having any idea if she’d done right or not. Her heart beat a fierce rhythm, but aside from the deep breaths drawing in through her nose, she showed no outward sign of fear. I won’t back down, no matter how inept I might actually be.
***
The following night, Wallace and his men left Renfrew just past the witching hour. At dawn, they reached the edge of Leglen Wood and proceeded to pick their way through the rugged scrub. Signs o
f passersby were everywhere—moss wiped from a tree, footprints in mud and freshly broken limbs.
“Ye think they’ve found our camp?” Blair asked.
“Mayhap,” William said, looking at the deep impression of a boot. “Nonetheless, we’ll ride around to the outcropping first.”
Eddy turned his horse south. “Good plan.”
After three sleepless nights, Wallace couldn’t remember being this tired, but the detour would only add a half-hour to their journey.
As they made their way along the southwest game trail, there were signs of recent human traffic there as well. The back of William’s neck bristled. He drew his sword. “Ready yourselves for battle, men.”
But a fight didn’t come. Instead, after the men tied their horses and climbed the big hill overlooking the camp, they all stood dumbfounded. It was as if a mob of carpenters had come into the forest and decided to build a hamlet right in the middle of the densest part of Leglen Wood.
In the center of it all crackled a roaring fire beside a man hammering on an iron anvil. Lads sat outside the cave, sharpening the weapons they’d brought back from Lanark.
“Someone’s set them to task,” Blair said.
“Och, aye.” William slapped him on the back. “And we’ll be making him a lieutenant forthwith.” He held his ram’s horn to his lips and gave a hearty blow.
Robbie Boyd hopped up from amidst the group of lads and broke into a run. Before William and the others reached the bottom of the hill, Robbie skidded to a stop. “Ye should have seen her, Willy. She took charge like a queen.”
William didn’t need to ask who. There could be only one she. Hopefully Eva hadn’t used witchcraft to erect the lean-tos that had gone up in the clearing. “Did she now?”
“Aye. Brother Bartholomew was about to throttle the lot of them, but Eva climbed up on that rock and whistled like she was the Queen of Sheba—and someone asked who the hell she thought she was—and I jumped up and set them straight—said she was your woman.”
“Pardon?” William grasped the lad’s shoulders. “Ye said what?”
“I didna ken ye’d been swiving the wench,” John Blair blurted with exasperation.