“He strained his leg so that it pains him to ride, but he sends his compliments.” Robert glanced around the table to include all of them, for noble pride was never to be slighted. Then Robert, as was his habit, plunged right into business. “He hears Longshanks has granted prima noctes.”
“Clearly meant to draw more of his supporters here.” Craig said.
Mornay, lean, dark, and fit, though not so handsome as young Bruce, had been impatiently awaiting his friend’s arrival and now gave vent to the sentiments that had been pushing to get out. “The Balliols have endorsed the right, licked Longshanks’s boots so he will support their claim to the throne!”
The comment set off a storm of hatred, like the first flash of lightning brings the rain. The competition for the crown of Scotland had only grown uglier in the years since the death of Alexander, Scotland’s last king, and the untimely death of his infant successor. Alliances had been made and broken into brawls, cousin had killed cousin, brother had murdered brother. Two families—Balliol and Bruce—had emerged as the leading contenders. Most of the noblemen, and the commoners, too, seemed to favor the Bruces; they were more instinctively warlike, they exhibited a decisive ruthlessness, and the Highland clans had always respected action more than words. There was self-interest; many times they had earned English favor—and the corresponding rewards of huge tracts of land along the border areas—by suppressing renegade uprisings among the Lowland clans. But the clans, autonomous tribes under chieftains who held the power of life and death over their members, lived by fighting with and stealing from each other, especially from the Lowlanders, so they were unoffended by the Bruce family’s persecution of their neighbors to the south. Alliances with the English king were another matter, yet they saw that for every treaty made there was a treaty broken. To them it seemed that the Bruces clasped one hand with the English only to draw them close enough to punch them with the other.
Several times the Bruces had been captured and imprisoned by the English. They had always been released when it seemed to Longshanks that the headaches he suffered over the rising power of the Bruces had been less painful than the torments of unchecked marauders along the northern borders of his kingdom.
The Balliols had been troublesome, too, but although they were as pugnacious as the Bruces, they seemed to have a preference for diplomacy. Longshanks had seen this and had endorsed John Balliols as heir to the Scottish throne. The support of Longshanks—his threats to opponents, his bribes to supporters—swung a majority of the noble families of Scotland into the Balliol camp, and a consensus of this happened than Longshanks insisted the new king come to England and pay him homage, thus declaring himself a servant of the English crown. Balliol had resisted, for to do so would have shown him to be no king at all. Longshanks responded by laying siege, to Balliol’s castle and taking him prisoner. From prison Balliol had given in and announced his homage, Longshanks accepted the subservience and kept Balliol locked up anyway.
So now all of Scotland was even further divided. Some Scottish free men said their king was in prison; others felt the man in jail was no king at all, and they looked for another. The Scots continued to fight among themselves. Longshanks was happy, because they were no longer fighting him.
Hatred and anger ran strong in the deep veins of the Scottish spirit, and those emotions were vividly expressed around that great table in Edinburgh Castle as young Robert Bruce met with his supporters. Bruce let them give tongue to their passions; it was useful to allow them to let some of the heat out, so they could be led.
But finally Mornay brought their choices into focus. “If we fight now,” he said, “we will have the commoners’ support.”
Robert now said what he had prepared to say even before he set out for the meeting. “My father believes it is too soon to step out alone. He says we must lull Longshanks into confidence by neither supporting his decree nor opposing it.” Young Bruce glanced at Mornay, who saw in the look that he too would rather fight than talk, rather act than wait. But Bruce’s father had long been known for the shrewdness of his instincts, and no man there would dispute the elder Bruce’s council.
“A wise plan,” Craig announced, ending the meeting.
The allied nobles filed out, making friendly conversation about the bounty of the harvest from their lands, expansions of their castles, improvements of their horses’ breeds. Young Bruce went with them, promising each that he would carry their fondest greetings to his father.
Then just before he mounted his horse for the ride home, Robert found a moment with Mornay. Mornay’s brown eyes sparkled, deep and intense; his grip on Bruce’s hand was strong, purposeful. It reminded Bruce once again that his friend was ambitious—and growing impatient. Mornay leaned close to him and whispered, “This diplomacy is a game for old men.”
Robert grinned as if Mornay had just joked with him; he did not want these men to see them whispering, for private exchanges tended to make the hands of some men—and especially of these men—seek the handles of their swords. He climbed into his saddle and waited as Mornay, with as fine a contingent of mounted men as any in Scotland, leaped onto his own horse. They rode side by side to the gates of the city, and then, as their paths home parted, Bruce said to Mornay, “Don’t worry. The time for you and me is coming.”
13
BARELY A DAY’S JOURNEY FROM EDINBURGH, BUT IN A different world from the royal city with its fine residences overlooked by the noble fortress, lay Lanark, a village of mud streets and stone houses, with thatched roofs and the persistent aroma of peatmoss fires. Lanark was a market for farmers, a gathering place for fairs and festivals. Such a festival, this one of planting was then taking place in the open grassy area at the edge of town. Flutes chortled like birds, notes sparkling hair and bounced and spun to the music; children chased each other; old men laughed. Farmers carted in fresh bread and wheels of cheese; villagers brought out casks of beer or strings of smoked fish.
All of this happened before the guarded gaze of English soldiers. Some were battle-scarred veterans with missing eyes and ears, others were pimply boys away from home for the first time. They had been told from birth that the Scots were little more than animals; they knew that even the Romans, conquering Britain a thousand years earlier, had decided these wild people who went into battle with their bodies painted blue and had been known to strip naked in battle and build defensive walls with their dead, were better left alone. This was a country that could not be subdued; English kings may not have known it, but their occupying troops knew it only too well. They moved about only in groups, rested only with sentries posted, and learned never to turn their backs on anyone. Although Longshanks had decreed that no Scottish civilians could own weapons, even the women carried blades tucked among their clothes. The garrison at Lanark was headquartered in a stronghold near the village center. They were commanded by a man named Hesselrig, who held the official title of sheriff of Lanarkshire.
Hesselrig’s men had standing orders to subdue any disturbance and direct orders not to disturb the festival as long as it was peaceful. Hesselrig himself approved of the celebration. If the countryfolk were enjoying themselves, it implied they were coming to accept English rule. So it was that his soldiers watched the village streets and the roads to the festival, giving all who approached it a careful appraisal.
And so it was that they took special notice of the young man who came riding in from the hills beyond the village. His eyes were that green that only Scots and Irish seem to possess, his hair light brown when he passed the shadows beneath trees and showing blond when in a shaft of sunlight. He sat his horse as if born there, his back straight, his hands relaxed on the reins. He had a look of lean, rippled power. He looked dangerous.
He was in his midtwenties. Many men had fathered entire families by then and already looked old. He had a sheen of health like a man who had eaten selectively and avoided too much drink—rare for a man who appeared capable of taking what he wanted. And, as the apparent own
er of a horse—and a fine one, too, with long legs and a deeply muscled chest, clearly capable of speed—he could have been a knight. Knights of the Middle Ages lived on the mercenary cusp between the peasantry and the nobility. Owners of a horse, weapons, and possibly a small stronghold, they were upwardly mobile in a society that knew death well and valued the ability to cause it. This young man wore the smock of a farmer, but his hands, noticed by the first sentry he rode by, bore old nicks and sundry scars about the knuckles, such as one might see on a fighting man.
The soldiers all noticed him and nudged each other as he passed. He carried a dead wild goose hanging across his saddle; he stopped his horse at the edge of the clearing and surveyed the scene of the festival. Farmers were roasting a pig; women were comparing handiwork; young men were tossing a caber—an unbranched tree trunk roughly half the size of a modern telephone pole—in the traditional Highland games. And these people too were noticing the new arrival, especially the farm women with daughters of marriageable age.
Also watching were the fathers, husbands, and suitors of the local women. At the edge of the clearing was Campbell, his red hair and beard now streaked heavily with gray, and with him his old rebel friend, MacClannogh. They watched as the young man dismounted and tied his horse to a willow. And in the way he moved, the way he carried himself, they saw the reflection of the friend they had loved and buried many years before.
“MacClannough…,” old Campbell whispered.
“I see him,” MacClannough said.
“Could that be…William Wallace?”
They watched as one of the English soldiers, backed by three others moved up and shoved the young Scot from behind, determined to provoke him there and then if he had come to make trouble. The young man lurched forward for two quick steps and recovered his balance easily, then turned calmly as if he had expected the provocation. “Hey, boy! You hunt the bird?” the soldier demanded.
The green eyes fixed themselves on the soldier.
“It’s against the law for Scots to own bows. You shot this bird?” the soldier continued. His comrades, enjoying their role as intimidators, surrounded the horse, pulled the goose from the saddle, and began prodding the bird’s feathers for evidence.
“I hit it in the head. With a rock,” answered William Wallace—for William Wallace it was.
The soldiers didn’t believe a goose as plump as this one could be brought down with anything less than a fine bow. But they couldn’t find any puncture wound on the bird. William reached his hand out for the return of the goose. The soldiers dropped it onto the ground. Slowly, William picked it up and headed into the clearing.
The farmers watched him coming and mumbled among themselves.
“He wrote to Dougal, saying he would be taking over the farm again,” Campbell said.
“He wrote Dougal? How did Dougal read it?” MacClannough asked.
“Had the priest read the letter, didn’t he?” Campbell said.
Also among those who noticed William’s arrival—but pretended not to—was Murron MacClannough, grown now into a stunning young woman. Her long auburn hair reminded people of those years long ago; she wore it the same way, straight and full down her back. Her dress was plain, like the grass that surrounded a wildflower. She was the most beautiful girl in the village, maybe in all of Scotland, and the soldiers who hassled William noticed her, too.
William reached the food table; farm women were preparing the feast. He tossed his goose onto the table as his contribution; the women smiled and began plucking right away. One of them spoke up quickly, taking her chance before the others could. “Young William Wallace, back home! How good to see you here! Have you met my daughter?”
The daughter mentioned was missing teeth. William nodded to her.
His smile was gentle, but had it outshone the sun it would not have been as bight as her hopes, and she lowered her head in disappointment. But then she raised her face in surprise as William took her hand and gave her a respectful bow.
He moved away from the table, passing through the crowd like a stranger. Then he glanced toward the knot of girls. He saw Murron. She saw him, then looked away. Did they remember each other? He moved toward her; she was shy, her eyes downcast, but then she raised tem and looked at him.
They moved closer and closer together. Just as they were about to reach each other, a huge round stone thumped to the earth at William’s feet.
He looked up and saw one of Murron’s suitors—the broad, muscled young man who had just tossed the stone in William’s way.
Suddenly every young man, every old man, every young woman and her mother, every child in the whole village, seemed to be watching to see how William would handle the challenge.
He first tried to move around the bigger man, but the broad young farmer cut him off. Then William seemed to think he recognized the big redhead.
“Hamish?” William asked.
And it was his old best friend, Hamish Campbell, but Hamish wouldn’t admit it or be put off from the challenge. He pointed to the huge stone. “Test of manhood,” Hamish declared in a voice grown deep and full and threatening.
“You win,” William said.
“Call it a test of soldiery, then. The English won’t let us train with weapons, so we train with stones.”
“The test of a soldier is not in his arm. It’s here,” William said and tapped his finger to his temple.
Hamish stretched out his hand as if to show William something in his palm. “No. It’s here,” Hamish said and with a sudden movement he slammed his fist into William’s jaw, which dropped him to the wet ground.
A few men moved to interfere, but Campbell, MacClannough, and the other farmers who were the true leaders here stopped their neighbors from interfering. Hamish stood over William and waited for him to get up.
William blew out a long breath and cleared his head. “A contest, then,” he said. He stood. With a deep grunt he hoisted the huge stone, eighteen inches in diameter. Straining with the effort, he lugged the stone to the line the burly young men had scratched in the rocky field. Beyond the lien were the muddy dents from previous tosses. William took a run and heaved the stone.
It arced heavily through the air and landed with a muffled thud, making a new dent well beyond the other marks in the field.
People were impressed, everyone but Hamish, who was pursing his lips in contempt at the toss. William glanced at him and seemed almost to apologize for the length of the toss, saying, “I still say this is no test. A catapult can throw a stone farther than a man can.”
“That depends on the man,” Hamish said sharply. He walked out, lifted the stone, and lugged it back to the line. He retreated a few more steps, took a short run, and heaved with a great groan.
The stone flew and passed William’s mark by a couple of feet. People laughed and whistled. William nodded, impressed.
“Can you do it when it matters? As it matters in battle? Could you crush a man with that throw?” William wondered out loud.
“I could crush you like a roach.”
William walked to the dent made by Hamish’s throw.
“Then do it. Com, do it.”
Hamish scowled at William, at everybody watching. William didn’t move. The green eyes seem to laugh at him. Hamish lifted the stone and carried it back to the line. He glared at William. William stood calmly.
Hamish backed up for his run and looked once more at William. William yawned.
“You’ll move,” Hamish said.
“I will not.”
Hamish backed up a few more feet for a longer run.
“That’s not fair!” Stewart, another of the farmers, called out from among the knot of men around old Campbell, Hamish’s father.
“He’s tired; he should get a longer run!” Old Campbell argued.
William seemed completely unafraid. He leaned down, picked up a small smooth stone, and tossed it up in the air casually, like a boy lost in daydreams on a midsummer’s day.
&nb
sp; Stung by this show of calm, Hamish took a furious run and heaved. The stone flew through the air, missed William’s head by inches, and buried itself halfway into the earth behind him.
William never flinched. The people cheered.
“Brave show!” old Campbell called out.
Hamish was miffed; it was as if William had won. But what ad he done except stand there? “I threw longer than last time!” Hamish shouted and glared first at William, then at his father and the other elders.
“An ox is strong but not clever,” his father boomed back.
“An ox is stupid enough to just stand in one place!” Hamish countered. Everyone considered this, while Hamish seemed both surprised and particularly proud of his reply.
“That’s not the point,” William said. He turned, walked double the distance Hamish threw, turned again, and hurled the rock he held! It whistled through the air, hit Hamish in the forehead, and dropped him like a shot. “That is,” William said.
Everybody cheered and laughed. They surrounded William. “A fine display, young Wallace!” Campbell shouted.
William took a tankard of ale from a farmer, walked over, and tossed the cold liquid into Hamish’s face. He awoke and, his eyes uncrossing, saw William’s hand outstretched to him. Hamish accepted it, and William groaned, pulling his huge friend to his feet.
“Good to see you again,” William said.
“I should’a remembered the eggs,” Hamish said.
They grinned and embraced. Music played and the dancing began again. For several minutes William accepted the greetings of his father’s old friends, nodding to each. Then, when he had paid respects to all, he began to move across the clearing to the knot of young ladies.
Again he drew nearer and nearer to Murron—then passed her and moved to the girl with the missing teeth.
“Would you honor me with a dance?” William asked.
The girl was thrilled. The young handsome man danced with the girl with the missing teeth.
Braveheart Page 5