There was one person for whom Jack Short had really cared. That was his brother – another so like himself that the two were often mistaken for each other. The brother had been killed in an affray and his killer had been William Wallace. Jack Short hated William Wallace.
Therefore he was an excellent choice.
Menteith summoned him and explained what he wanted. ‘Jack,’ he said, ‘if I can deliver Wallace to Edward I shall be rewarded and so will those who help me. I believe you could be of service to me in this matter and that would bring great good to you – apart from giving you the satisfaction of revenge.’
‘He killed my brother,’ said Jack Short, his eyes glowing in his usually cold face. ‘He was close to me when he died. Wallace lifted his sword and cut off my brother’s head. I was too late to get him but by God if …’
‘This is your opportunity. Let us decide how we shall set about this. Vengeance, and reward for it. A good combination, eh Jack?’
* * *
William Wallace was in fact living in a disused hut in the mountains close to Glasgow. With him were a few of his friends, Karlé and Stephen, those two faithful stalwarts, among them. Wallace always said that he would rather have twenty men he could trust than a thousand whom he couldn’t.
He was saddened by the way things had gone. Edward had changed everything. He might have known that Edward was a formidable enemy. He could have conquered the others: he had succeeded until Edward had arrived, with his armies and his military skills. Edward was a legend. So was Wallace. They were two strong men coming face to face, but Edward was the King of a great country and he had the arms, the men – everything that Wallace had so sadly lacked.
But he would not despair.
One day, he promised himself, he would conquer Edward.
In the meantime there was nothing to do but wait and plan with his good friends. They would talk together of gathering an army again, of marching against Edward. They would learn the lessons of defeat for there were more to be discovered in them than in victory.
Sometimes he was impatient. Then Karlé would soothe him. Karlé, Stephen! What good friends they were and always had been!
But he was in hiding. He hated having to skulk into Glasgow at night; he wanted to disguise himself and go by day. But it was dangerous. He went at night to the house of a woman. She was pretty enough and generous, and although she did not know him as Wallace sometimes he thought she suspected him of being that great warrior.
One night, as he lay with his friends round the fire they had lighted in the hut, they talked of what one of them had heard that day in Glasgow – that Edward was at St Andrews and many of the Scottish lords were swearing fealty to him. That made Wallace furious. That Scotsmen should so far forget their country as to bow to Edward!
And as they sat there one of the guards came in with a small draggled figure wrapped in a ragged cloak.
‘I found him prowling nearby,’ said the guard. ‘So I brought him to you for he said he knew you and wanted to offer himself.’
‘You know me, man?’ said Wallace. ‘Come near the fire and let me look at you. By what name are you known?’
‘As Jack Short,’ said the man. ‘I knew you once, Sir William.’
Wallace said, ‘I remember. I never saw men so short as you … and was there not a brother?’
‘Ay, a brother. You killed him, sir.’
‘I killed him? Then he was an enemy of Scotland.’
‘Not so, Sir William. He was a fool of a man, my brother. He wanted to fight for Scotland though. He was there at one of the forays and lost his way in the battle. You believed him to be on their side. ’Twas not so, I swear.’
‘Why do you come here?’
‘I have searched for you, far and wide. I wanted to tell you that my brother was no traitor. I want to make you understand that, sir.’
‘I killed your brother. Then if he was no traitor you must hate me for that.’
‘No, sir. He was soft in the head, my brother. You would never have killed him … if you had known. He wanted to serve Scotland and he did … but his brain was addled and he did not know which way to turn. He wouldn’t be sure who was the enemy. So I come to tell you he was no traitor and to serve you with my life.’
William said, ‘Do you fancy yourself as a fighter then?’
‘Nay. I am short as my brother but my brain is not addled as his, poor boy, was. I cannot fight … though I might be of some use on a battlefield. But I can fish and cook over a fire and help a gentleman to dress.’
‘We all look after ourselves here, Jack Short.’
‘But ’twill be easier for you to give your mind to greater matters, sir, if I do things for you. I was fishing this afternoon and I have good fish with me. Let me cook it for you and you shall taste my skills.’
William was amused. ‘Why not? We should like a tasty meal, eh Karlé?’
Karlé was thoughtful. He was too apprehensive about everything, thought William. He looked for danger in every pool and tree.
‘Come! The fish, Jack Short, and you shall stay with me and be my servant. How like you that?’
Jack Short knelt and kissed William’s hand.
* * *
He was good. There was no question of that. Life was easier with him. He had a talent for catching and cooking fish. He would go into the town and come with provisions they needed.
‘It saves our taking risks,’ even Karlé admitted.
One day Jack Short said to William, ‘My lord, you should never go into Glasgow. Your leman should come to you.’
He knew of course why William made his nocturnal visits. Jack Short could be trusted to know everything.
‘What,’ cried William, ‘would you have us all betrayed?’
‘God forbid that that should ever come to pass. I would but make it easier for my lord.’
‘You do make life easier for me, Jack,’ said William. ‘I am sorry for what I did to your brother.’
‘’Twas his fault. No … not his fault … his folly. Forget it, my lord. For I have found joy in serving you.’
Jack would lie at his master’s feet and talk about what news he picked up in Glasgow. He told of the women he saw there. ‘There is one,’ he said, ‘fair of hair and rosy of cheek with sparkling blue eyes and a ready tongue. I noted her specially.’
He watched his master. He knew by Sir William’s smile that she was the one. He had discovered where she lived. If he could but follow Wallace there one night that would be good but he had to take care, for Karlé was a most suspicious man.
What he had to find out now was when Wallace was visiting the woman and he did not always say. Jack Short asked his questions slyly, obliquely. But he had to find the exact time. There must be no mistake. If anything went wrong and he was betrayed as the spy he was, Menteith would kill him, even if Wallace’s men did not, and he would never enjoy that reward which had been promised him.
He went fishing and was late coming in with the catch. The fire was slow in burning.
‘Hurry, man,’ said Wallace, ‘I am going to the town this night.’
Jack’s heart beat fast. Serve them with fish … then take one of the horses and gallop into town. He knew what he had to do. Menteith and his men had been waiting in the town ready for the day.
He slipped away, leading the horse at first lest they should hear him.
In the town Menteith was glad to see him.
‘Tonight,’ cried Jack Short. ‘He is coming tonight.’
Menteith said: ‘To the woman’s? We will take him as he comes in.’
* * *
Karlé had a sixth sense where his master was concerned.
‘I like not these trips into the town,’ he said.
‘I like them,’ answered William.
‘Can you not do without women?’
‘No, Karlé. They revive me. They lighten this dreary exile.’
‘They have been your downfall before.’
‘Never. I
escaped narrowly from Ellen’s house I know. And Marion … It was because of her that we took Lanark, remember.’
‘Have a care.’
‘It is safe enough.’
‘Don’t go tonight.’
‘I must. I have said I will. She will be waiting.’
‘Perhaps she can find another friend.’
‘Tonight is my night. She is faithful to me when I am there.’
Karlé laughed and said, ‘Then I shall come with you.’
This was not unusual. Often when he visited the woman Karlé would come. He would sit below and talk to the servant, and usually drink some of her home-brewed ale and perhaps eat a piece of bread and bacon.
So they rode towards the town, leaving their horses tethered in the woods. Quietly and swiftly they went to the woman’s house.
The door was open but they did not see anything strange in this. William presumed that expecting him she had left it ajar.
He pushed it open. They were surrounded. Karlé reached for his dagger but he was too late. He fell bleeding to the floor. Wallace was seized. They did not want to kill him.
Edward wanted him alive.
* * *
It was the complete humiliation to ride in the midst of Menteith’s men, his hands shackled – a prisoner.
Jack Short had betrayed them. He had been deceived by that simple ruse. He had always been careless. But the biggest traitor of all was Menteith. He should not rave against Jack Short who was of little account. Menteith was the criminal. He had betrayed Scotland. That was what was important. And Karlé – beloved Karlé – had died because he had insisted on coming with him.
He himself was the prisoner of mighty Edward, who would never let him go.
He fears me, thought Wallace exultantly. He fears me as he fears no other. He knows that he can never be safe in Scotland while I live.
So they brought him to London and he was lodged in a house in Fenchurch Street.
They did not leave him there long and soon there came the day when he was taken to Westminster Hall to answer the charges brought against him.
His trial was brief. He was judged a traitor to King Edward.
‘I have never been that,’ he said, ‘for I have never acknowledged him as my lord.’
He made a brave show. His strength, his vitality, his aura of greatness must impress all who saw him. But he was Edward’s prisoner and Edward was determined that he should never again raise an army against him.
There came the day of his sentence. His crimes were enumerated. Sedition, homicide, depredations, fires and felonies. He had attacked the King’s officers and slain Sir William Heselrig, Sheriff of Lanark. He had invaded the King’s territories of Cumberland and Westmorland.
‘Your sentence is that you shall be carried from Westminster to the Tower and from the Tower to Aldgate and so through the City to the Elms at Smithfield, and for your homicides and felonies in England and Scotland you shall be hanged and drawn and as an outlaw beheaded, and afterwards your heart, liver and lungs shall be burned and your head placed on London Bridge in sight of land and water travellers, and your quarters hung on gibbets at Newcastle, Berwick, Stirling and Perth to the terror of all those who pass by.’
William listened almost impassively. It was the death accorded traitors to the King and the King would say, ‘This man was to me one of the greatest traitors who ever lived.’
Edward would say he was just and in his own lights doubtless he was.
* * *
On the twenty-third day of August the barbarous sentence was carried out with revolting cruelty. Many gathered at the Elms in Smithfield to see it.
No cry escaped from William Wallace. He knew he was not defeated. He knew his fame would live on after him and be an inspiration to all those who cared for the freedom of Scotland.
Chapter XIV
THE DEATH OF THE KING
Wallace was dead. None should guess how relieved Edward was. Because a traitor had met his just deserts there should be little said. Edward feared the spirit of Wallace for he knew the Scots would continue to sing of him; he would still be their hero. But he was dead and one did not fear the dead – however death glorified them – as one feared the living.
He would arrange for a tournament. There should be rejoicing. They would have a feast of the Round Table and the great chivalry of the land would be present. Any of those who might remember the gory sight they had witnessed at Smithfield would forget it as they joined the merry party at Westminster.
True the head of the hero looked down on them. But all must know that he was a traitor. In Scotland it would be different. He wondered what people thought in Newcastle, Berwick, Stirling and Perth where parts of the once-great Wallace were shown.
But he would not think of it. There was reason for rejoicing. Marguerite was pregnant again. He thanked God for his Queen. She was always so gentle, so sympathetic, so understanding. Last year her beautiful sister, that Blanche on whom he had set his heart, had died and he had commanded that prayers be said in Canterbury for her soul, because she was the sister of his dearly loved consort. How glad he was that fate had been kind and given him Marguerite. He might have been mourning for his Queen now if he had married Blanche.
The tournament delighted all who took part in it and in the following May Marguerite gave birth to another child.
This time it was a girl, and Edward declared himself delighted. They had their two boys and now he wanted a girl, and his dear kind obliging Marguerite had given her to him.
‘I have a boon to ask,’ he said as he sat by her bedside. ‘Will you grant it, little Queen?’
‘It is granted before it is asked,’ she answered.
‘It might not please you.’
‘If it pleases you, my lord, I am sure it will please me.’
How docile she was! How eager to make him happy! Oh happy day which had sent him Marguerite!
He said: ‘Should you mind if we called this child Eleanor?’
She hesitated and he thought, Ah, I have asked too much.
Then she said, ‘Would it not sadden you to remember …?’
He took her hand and kissed it. ‘How could I be sad when I have the best woman in the world?’
A quick prayer to Eleanor. He had not meant it to slight her, only to comfort this living Queen. He would have prayers said for Eleanor’s soul and flowers laid at the foot of all the crosses.
He said, ‘I loved well three, all Eleanors … my mother, my daughter and my queen. God took them all but he sent me my Marguerite who has given me nothing but joy since I first saw her face.’
That was enough for Marguerite.
Little Eleanor was baptised in the royal chapel of Winchester for the Court was there at this time. After the christening the baby, lying in her state cradle covered with ermine and a counterpane of gold, was shown to the nobles.
Edward was delighted with her. Dearly he loved his daughters. They all enchanted him. His little sons were adorable but in his heart it was the girls he loved best.
That set him thinking of his eldest son. He wondered how he and Eleanor could have had such a boy.
That brought back the nagging thought that very soon he would have to do something about Edward.
* * *
In the solarium in her manor of Clare in Gloucester Joanna was sitting with her women while one of her minstrels played for her amusement. She seemed deep in thought as he strummed on his lute and sang those songs which were special favourites of his mistress – usually of love and passion.
As she watched the boy desultorily she was wondering how he had fared at her brother’s Court whither she had sent him to play some of the newest lays. Edward had liked them and so had his great friend Piers Gaveston. In fact, Gaveston only had to like something and Edward was sure to like it too. He was rather foolish about that young man and Gaveston knew it. He was continually asking favours and being indulged.
The King did not like it and had spoken to her ab
out it. Young Edward simply did not care. He himself would be King one day and Gaveston was constantly reminding him of it.
She shrugged her shoulders. Edward would be very different from his father. She was sure he would not want always to be riding off on these boring wars. Why could not a man be allowed to enjoy life? Why must they always be thinking of this conquest and that?
It was due to her father’s war that Ralph was away at this time. She was resentful, thinking of her handsome husband far away in the north, possibly in Scotland. Edward had said that if he was given the glories of knighthood he must honour them. She would join him, for she could not bear to be so long away from him. It was not right that they should be apart. She would be with him now but he had left in such haste on the King’s business and she had been rather surprised during the last few days by the lethargy which seemed to have come over her. She wanted to be with Ralph, God knew, but the thought of the journey appalled her. That was strange, for previously she had thought nothing of journeys. She would have gone to the Holy Land with her husband – as women had before – if the need had arisen. Yet for the last few days this tiredness had beset her.
Perhaps she was growing old at last. She was thirty-five. She was no longer very young. She had been reminded of that last year when her eldest daughter Eleanor had been married to Hugh le Despenser. Eleanor was only thirteen years old it was true, but to have a marriageable daughter made her feel she was really getting old.
It was a sweet song the minstrel was singing. It took her back over the years. She had first heard it when she had been Gilbert’s wife. She was smiling. How enamoured he had been of her, that old man! There had been nothing he would not do for her, and how glad she had been when he had gone and there was Ralph …
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