by Jack Whyte
Wallace stood up and moved to a cupboard against the wall, from which he withdrew a jug of wine and a pair of cups, signalling to me to bring out more. He placed a cup in front of the bishop, but before he could pour any wine the old man waved him away, and so he stood there for a few moments, holding the jug between his hands and looking from one to the other of us. “Well,” he said eventually, “I hope you’re right and that the hands in which we rest are truly good, for if they hesitate or fumble, this land of ours will go down into chaos, and the groans of the folk crushed under England’s heel will assault the gates of Heaven itself.” He placed the jug carefully on the table, untouched. “I hope you’re right, and I will pray that you are.”
“But you won’t fight.” Wishart’s voice was bleak, and Will sat down and gazed at him levelly. I could see that he was fighting against his temper and I found myself wondering if the Bishop had any idea of how close he was to receiving the full benediction of my cousin’s wrath. But as the moments passed, the danger of an explosion passed with them, and soon Will raised his hand, almost in a blessing.
“I told you, on the last occasion that we met, that if a just cause ever came along and the folk of Scotland marched to war united, I would join them. I have not since changed my mind. I am not yet convinced, though, that the unity of which I spoke is firmly in place … and yet on the other hand, I am greatly encouraged by what you told me today about the power of the burghs and the burgesses. That, I believe, is a mighty step towards what we had hoped to achieve, for if the burgesses can speak with one independent voice, then someday this country of ours could stand on its own as an independent land, governed by its own community for the welfare of all its people.”
William Lamberton studied him carefully. “What are you saying, Will?”
“That I am half convinced. That is what I am saying, I think.” He scratched at his beard. “I am half convinced; the other half remains in doubt. And so I shall half prepare for war; I will half fight. I will stay here in the forest with my folk and watch what happens, and if the English come to me in search of pain and grief and sorrow, I will supply them with all they can take, and more atop that. But I will not yet march away to war.” He straightened up and looked directly at the Bishop. “Show me a leader worth following and a war worth dying in, and I will fight. That I swear to you.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
1
“Thae priests are back, chappin’ at wir yetts,” was how Alec Scrymgeour put it five days later, when he interrupted Will and me to announce that the Bishop and the canon had returned. By “knocking at our gates,” we understood him to mean that they were close to arriving, approaching along the winding bog path from the south.
Will’s brows crooked in a small frown as he looked at me, but he said nothing. We had expected the two clerics to stop by on their return journey, but nowhere near as soon as this. They had left in search of the Earl of Buchan, who had last been heard of as being somewhere south and west of us, in the territories of Annandale, and we had anticipated it would take them at least a full day, and more likely twice or even three times that long, to find him. Given that the Bishop had ridden all the way from Glasgow to meet with Buchan and must therefore have had matters of great import to discuss with the Comyn earl, Wishart and Lamberton should not have been expected to return this way for at least another three days.
“Perhaps they ran into the earl on the road,” I suggested, and Will shrugged.
“Aye, and mayhap they missed him completely. He might not even have come south yet. That wouldn’t surprise me. The man’s a Comyn and an earl, unpredictable on both counts. Considers himself beholden to no one and answerable to even fewer. We’ll find out soon enough.”
Our visitors arrived less than half an hour later, and we were waiting for them as they emerged from the serpentine path into the water meadow at the southern edge of the encampment. They were evidently glad to reach us—especially when Will informed them there was wine awaiting them in his house and a young deer already turning on the spit in their honour—and they seemed cheerful enough, with no air of dejection about them to indicate a failed mission. But the protocol of the day dictated that nothing be said until the proper time, and so no one asked any questions or ventured any comments until the rituals of hospitality had been observed around the shallow fire pit outside Will’s hut, after which the casual attendees departed about their own affairs and the four of us were left alone to talk without interruption.
Lamberton started by explaining that they had, in fact, encountered Buchan on the road, no more than half a day after leaving us, to the great surprise of both parties. The earl, it transpired, had sent his main army of several hundred men marching south and west into Annandale while he himself had taken a small escort of horsemen and made a diversionary cross-country journey to the east, to visit briefly with James Stewart the High Steward, who had garrisoned and was holding Roxburgh Castle. Through Stewart he had passed on dispatches to Sir William Douglas in Berwick, and then, on the road back towards Annandale to rejoin his army, he and his men had run into Bishop Wishart’s little group at a fork in the road. They had set up a camp close by the road junction so they could conduct their business.
When Lamberton had finished, Will turned to Wishart. “And all went well? You achieved everything you sought?” The canny old churchman raised an eyebrow, the merest flicker of response, but Will carried right on. “I know you went in search of something from Buchan, my lord. You would hardly have ridden all the way from Glasgow merely to wish him well. Am I permitted to ask what it was?”
The older man sighed, and I thought he looked more frail than he had seemed a mere half year earlier, when he had first brought Lamberton to visit us around the time of young Will’s birth. He looked exhausted and dispirited, but even as the thought came to me, he straightened his shoulders and pulled himself up straighter, visibly shaking off the appearance of listlessness.
“Aye, William,” he said, “you are permitted to ask. And I can even answer you now, which I could not have done before we left to meet with John Comyn. There are plans afoot to send an army of mounted skirmishers over the border into England at the first sign of hostilities. It will be led by a number of earls—”
“Now there’s an error at the outset, my lord, if I may say so. No group can be a leader. It sounds fine and noble, but it’s nonsense. All your group of earls will do is fight with one another for command.”
“No, not so!” The Bishop’s voice was whip-like. “Bear in mind, my son, that the Church itself is such a group, and leads the entire world.” He paused, and then resumed in a milder tone. “Granted, the Pope is the leader of the Church, but the cardinals are effectively His Holiness’s earls, and they wield their powers effectively. So it will be in this case. The earls will share joint command, each leader commanding his own men, as has ever been the case within this realm when the earls raise the Scots feudal host, calling every ablebodied fighting man in the realm to arm himself and answer the summons. They will act separately but in unison, in accordance with a carefully prepared plan in which every earl will have a role to play. It is the way our forefathers have fought for centuries.”
“Aye, for centuries … and there’s another point I wish to raise in time to come.” Will glanced sideways at me. “Jamie, remind me of that if I forget to bring it up—the way they have fought for centuries.” He turned back to Wishart, who sat blinking at him, his lips moving, but Will himself appeared unfazed. “Pardon me, my lord. Which earls will be involved in this cross-border attack?”
“Six at this point. Stewart of Menteith, Malise of Strathearn, Strathbogie of Atholl, Donald of Mar, Malcolm of Lennox, and William of Ross. And, of course, Comyn of Buchan, newly named Lord of Annandale after Bruce’s defection and failure to answer the call to arms, will now make a seventh.”
“The Comyns are well represented, I see—Ross, Buchan, and Mar.”
“Aye, and don’t forget John Comyn the Younge
r of Badenoch, son of the Guardian. He rides with them.”
“Hmmph. And where will they ride to, can you tell me?”
“They will begin with a three-pronged raid into Cumberland, from south of Jedburgh, striking at Hexham and Corbridge. Farther west, under the command of Buchan, they will attack Carlisle itself.”
“Carlisle. You will pit Comyn against Bruce. Think you that is wise?”
The Bishop sighed deeply and peered into his drinking cup. “I do now, though I would not have thought so before you asked me your question about Bruce’s loyalties the other night. Before that, I would not have doubted Bruce’s commitment to this realm. But then I looked at your question through different eyes—the eyes of a discerning and often disapproving cleric, rather than the wishful, self-deluding eyes of an optimist and a patriot—and what I saw unsettled me. Bruce is for Bruce. His commitment has never been otherwise. And if Bruce has to stoop to using Edward’s power to open up the route to Scotland’s throne on his behalf, against the Comyns, why then, that is what Bruce will do …”
His voice faded, and then he resumed, in a firmer tone. “Not all men in this realm are as we are, Will. They do not all share our vision, for though you and I are far apart in our opinions and judgment on many things, we do share a grand vision, and one, I believe, that is God-sent. We dream—you and I and other folk like us—of a new and different world. We dream of freedom and of independence as a people—a single people united by our shared place in this land that mothers us, a people with the right to stand up tall and free, beholden to no foreign king or outside power, free to designate and control our own united future, our destiny, according to the people’s will.”
He turned his head slightly to include me.
“We call ourselves Scots, and nowadays we talk about the community of the realm, and we seek to redefine ourselves and our role in our own lives and living.” One corner of his mouth twitched as though he might smile a little, but all he did was jerk his head in a tiny gesture of regret. “We may all be Scots—we are all Scots, in name at least—but we are not yet one people. Not by any measure. We are a folk greatly divided by and among ourselves, by language and race, Highlands and Lowlands, Isles and forests. But the greatest of all our divisions, I believe, lies between our magnates and our common folk, and that is the one I fear most as an obstacle to commonality and unity.”
“How so, my lord?” I thought I knew the answer, but I could not resist asking the question.
He looked at me, his face expressionless. “Because the common folk and the magnates are two different creatures. The common folk of this land, including us in Holy Mother Church, perceive ourselves as Scots, plain and simple. The magnates have no such belief and no such certainty. If anything, most of them see themselves as English at root. But Bruce is for Bruce, Father James,” he said. “Make no mistake about that. And similarly, Comyn is for Comyn. And all the other noble houses, comprising every magnate in the land, support one or the other. The others are all for themselves as well, be it understood, but fundamentally the two houses of Bruce and Comyn split the land between them. King John’s hold on the crown, on the realm itself, is faltering. If he should fall and fail—which God forbid—then Bruce and Comyn will divide the land between them yet again, and until that balance of power is rendered null, Scotland will have but little chance of knowing peace and prosperity, and none at all of ever knowing independence.”
He turned back to Will. “And so, by pitting Buchan against Bruce, I have chosen to gamble with the fate of this realm. I now believe Bruce will stand for Edward Plantagenet and bar the gates of Carlisle against us. If he does, I doubt that we’ll be able to dislodge him. But if he sees his ancient enemy, the House of Comyn, descending upon him from his own lands of Annandale, he might be tempted to come out and fight, and if he does that, then our odds of taking Carlisle are greatly improved. That is my hope, and it is why I asked John Comyn of Buchan to take the lead in the southwest.” He stopped short, eyeing Will. “You look skeptical.”
“I am skeptical. We are speaking of Robert Bruce V here, the new Lord of Annandale. Were we dealing with his father, the old Competitor, then your hope would be a certainty. That Robert Bruce would bring his men howling out of Carlisle’s gates like a swarm of vengeful wasps. The son, though, is made of different stuff. He is no poltroon, that is not what I am saying. From what I have heard, he does not fear a fight, but he will not fight merely for the love of fighting. He lacks his father’s balls of steel and the fiery temper that went with them. This Robert Bruce thinks before he acts, every time, and he will never act rashly. He won’t come out of Carlisle, I fear.”
Bishop Wishart stared at Will for a long time, then twisted his mouth wryly. “And I fear I agree with you. Damn the man.”
I could see Will was on the point of twitting His Lordship about such an utterly un-episcopal wish, and I held my breath, but the temptation evidently passed and he changed the subject instead.
“What will the Steward do, my lord? Does he intend to remain pent up in Roxburgh?”
“Sir James will do what he must. He has already left the castle in the hands of a lieutenant and is posting north to join King John. As the Crown’s most senior officer, his duty is to raise the Scots host in defence of the realm. He is about that now, and when the time comes, he will lead the host as instructed by the King’s grace.”
“Then he is not yet committed.”
“He is committed to act. That is why he now rides north without rest. But he has not yet moved against England. When he does, I myself will ride with him, representing Mother Church … And what will you do, William Wallace?”
Will peered down at his hands, digging some ingrained dirt from the side of one fingernail with the nail of his thumb.
“I have been thinking about that, my lord, and I have reached a decision. I told you I would fight, if it came to war and if you gave me a leader to follow, but though the war is here, I have yet to hear of such a leader. Frankly, this matter of the earls raiding into England bothers me. It seems too … indeterminate, with too much left to chance. Edward’s army stands ready at Newcastle. He will march north from there, towards Berwick. Why, then, are the earls striking at Carlisle? What is to be gained there?” He threw up his hands. “Nothing, except the business of Bruce and Comyn, making war upon each other for the benefit of England, when they should be marching to reinforce Berwick.”
The Bishop hawked loudly, then spat into the fire. “You might well be right, William, but we can influence none of that from here. Besides, Berwick wants and needs no help. They have the strongest burgh walls in all Scotland, and they are determined they will hold William at the border.”
“Perhaps,” Will growled. “Aye. Perhaps, indeed. We can but hope so. But I mislike the smell of all this, and I would like to see more solid planning, for the need to fight is clear. Edward of England has declared a war against this realm without just cause, and every man in Scotland must stand up and fight for it.”
The Bishop raised a hand. “Edward believes his cause is just, William. I have no doubt of that. He believes absolutely that his status as overlord of Scotland is valid and that this realm is his fiefdom. By extension, King John is his feudal vassal and is now squarely in open rebellion against his lord by having made alliance with Edward’s enemy, Philip of France. That is why Edward has declared war: to depose his faithless vassal, John Balliol, King of Scotland.”
“But that is—”
“That is what? Outrageous? Infamous? Damnable?”
“Aye, all of those.”
“It is indeed, from where we look at it, but it is none of those if you believe as Edward does. But his claim is based on ancient Norman law, law that has never been enshrined or observed in Scotland since William the Bastard first landed in England, two hundred and thirty years ago. Norman lawmakers might wish it otherwise, but Scots law is far older than theirs, and the realm of Scotland has never been Norman. That is the fallacy underlying
Edward’s claims, and that is why his lawyers, both civil and canonical, have worked so hard to cloak his every action in a veil of legalseeming obscurities.
“And that, I suggest to you, is the main reason for what you see as the shiftiness and unreliability of the magnates—and most particularly the Norman-Scots magnates—in this matter of loyalties. They live in a state of constant confusion, not because they are stupid or untrustworthy but simply because they do not know what to believe, Will. Their family histories and traditions are strongly rooted in the ancient system of feudalism and chivalry, wherein everything was clearly defined and there was no room for doubt. Now my brethren and I are telling them otherwise, preaching from a book of new ideas, proposing new values that fly in the face of everything they have been taught and are predisposed to believe in. That is why they vacillate so much, Will.”
My cousin sat listening blank-faced, his chin resting on his steepled fingers.
“These are not learned men, but neither are they inept. They are not ignorant in the laws of duty and chivalry, but they are unlettered and unread. They believe in actions, not ideas, and they respond to actions, not to words written on paper or recited by clerics. That is the truth, Will, and we cannot alter it within mere weeks or months. That is the way this world of ours functions. And I believe the magnates, for all their supposed powers, are afraid of the way their world is changing. Their way of life requires stability and permanence, but even the positive changes nowadays, such as the emergence of the burgesses, must seem threatening to the old guard. In their world, where change is anathema, everything now seems to be in flux.”
Will grunted, and I saw Lamberton’s eyebrows go up as Wishart’s came down in a frown.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” the Bishop growled.
“It means that I agree with you,” Will said, his eyes unfocused. “And that must be the first time on that topic. I confess I find it hard to imagine the Earl of Buchan being afraid of change. Still, I’ll not dispute what you have said, except to say that not everything in their world is in flux. I can see one thing that is dangerously static, and I see it very clearly.”