Braveheart

by Randall Wallace

  THE GUARDIAN

  32

  INSIDE THE GREAT HALL OF EDINBURGH CASTLE, WILLIAM Wallace knelt before Angus Craig, foremost of Scotland’s ancient elders, who lifted a silver sword and dubbed William’s shoulders. “I knight thee Sir William Wallace!” Craig declared.

  William rose and faced the great hall, crowded with hundreds of new admirers as well as his old friends: Hamish, his father — with one loose sleeve, but otherwise none the worse for wear — and Stephen of Ireland, all in new clothes and armor. Their faces were clean, their bruises healed, the blood washed from their hands and hair. William had never seen them look so sparkling. The stood erect and proud among so many others who had never once fought for the positions of power their finery proclaimed.

  But those others, they were Scots, too. They stood looking at William with — what was it exactly that he saw in their eyes? It was like wonder, but not that sweet awe of a child lying on his back on the summer heather and looking up at the stars. Just behind the eyes of these noblemen in their furs and the ladies in their lace was the confusion of something not quite making sense to them.

  In ten minutes, when William had walked out of the room and stood at a window alone, overlooking Scotland’s ancient royal city, he would understand what this look had really meant. Those people had never seen anything like him and his friends. To nobles, common Scottish warriors were mere brutes, but now they were confronted by something strange and baffling: a commoner who had outsmarted Scotland’s enemies. This was disturbing; it shook their assumptions. Yet they freely admitted their admiration of the strategy that had won the battle. They like to speak about it as if Strategy was a living thing unto itself, that is somehow rose up apart from the men who created it and put it into action. May be thinking of it this way made them more comfortable, for to admit otherwise would be to say that commoners were, if not superior, at least equal to the nobles.

  William Wallace would see all that later when he had time to think about the new perspectives he had from this pinnacle of admiration. He would also see that this was a tremendous opportunity to unite both noble and common Scot in a campaign unlike any they had ever made.

  But those were the thoughts of reason and reflection. Now, as he stood among the sparkle and the music of the castle, his mind did not yet weave the threads of sensation; it jus took them all in.

  And in the center of his chest was an emptiness.

  He lifted his eyes to the rear of the hall where the great balcony was backed by a magnificent arched window. He stared at the sunlight streaming in their, and in the center of is blinding brilliance, he imagined her familiar form: Murron, so real to him in this moment of triumph that he could almost see her, glowing alike an angel, could almost speak to her, touch her.

  Almost.

  Wallace reached inside the ornamental chestplate the nobles of Scotland had given him, and his fingers found the cloth that Murron had embroidered with a thistle, her gift to him on their wedding day.

  Less than an hour after the knighting of William Wallace, old Craig convened a meeting of Scotland’s ruling nobles in the council chamber of the castle. A massive table ran across the width of the room. Aligned on either side were the two rival faction of nobles, one supporting the claim of Balliols for the vacant throne, the other, the claim of the Bruces; all of them were muttering among their allies and refusing to look at their opponents. Old Craig was in the center chair, with young Robert the Bruce on his right. Amid chair, with young Robert the Bruce on his right. Amid murmuring of the nobles, Robert leaned over and whispered to Criag, “Do you know this William Wallace’s politics?”

  “No. The Balliols have spread the story that he supports them. Perhaps he does, but perhaps he does not. I sent my servants with food and help for his wounded after Stirling, and they reported back to me that Wallace’s men held you in esteem.”

  “His men. But what of Wallace himself?”

  Old Craig could barely keep from shaking his head at young Bruce’s naivete. Here he had grown up in one of Scotland’s noblest families, and yet he didn’t understand the enchantments of power, the human urge to imitate the influential, the seductions of synocophancy. “Wallace’s men admire him with the burning fervor. They believe he is like them, they want to be like him. He carries an aura of victory, of invulnerability. The Highlanders are a headstrong, independent sort, but they are men and they will seek to copy the one who leads them.”

  Craig saw that Robert still didn’t quite understand his point; he made it more plainly. “Wallace’s men love him. They very nearly worship him; they would die for him. They would surely hold no opinion that seemed counter to his. If Wallace’s men favor you, then he surely must ha some sympathies in you direction.”

  Robert the Bruce looked down at the table, rubbing his lip and taking this in. Is he innocent or dull? Craig wondered. Or is it that he is like Wallace and believes in action more than analysis? Then it occurred to Craig that this might be exactly what William Wallace did favor about Robert the Bruce. The Bruces were known to fight first on one side of an issue and then on another — But they were known to fight.

  Whatever the state of William Wallace’s sympathies, they were now crucial to the interests of every nobelman in the room. Old Craig leaned back to young Robert and whispered, “Just remember this, young Robert and whispered, “Just remember this. Wallace’s weight with the commoners could unbalance everything. The Balliols will kiss his associations, so we must.

  A court steward stepped in and announced with solemn formality. “Lords of Scotland:” Sir William Wallace!”

  The nobles on each side of the table tried to outdo each other in their acclamation as Wallace strode in, flanked by Hamish, Campbell, and Stephen, splendid in their tartans. They stopped in front of Craig at the middle of the table.

  Robert the Bruce had attended the knighting ceremony for Wallace, but the Bruce had kept himself back among the crowd as he had been advised to do by this father. After the way adoration for Wallace had swept the country in the aftermath of the victory at Striling, Bruce the Elder had told his son to observe the way people responded to him and how he carried himself in the presence of a crowd, for it was clear that this Wallace had something that could sweep up whole armies of men. Now, in these smaller surroundings, Bruce had the opportunity to study the man at close range.

  Wallace stood with his feet planted as wide as his shoulders, and for a man with shoulders so broad, the posture could have looked bullying. But his face contained none of the surly arrogance of a brute. He was handsome, strikingly so; manly, calm, and self-contained — young Bruce could see why tough men like the Highlanders would follow this man into battle. It was a face women like, with softness in the pale green eyes and light playing in the blondish hair. His chin was up, his mouth set, his eyes still. And young Robert the Bruce knew, without needing to be told by his father or old Craig or anyone else, that before him stood a man who never had nor ever would subjugate himself to any other man.

  Old Craig rose to his feet. “Sir William,” he said. “In the name of God, we declare and appoint these Guardian, High Protector of Scotland!”

  The nobles rose; court attendants hurried to Wallace and draped a golden chain of office around his neck. The nobles applauded.

  Almost before the applause died, a member of the Balliol clan, who had kept n open seat beside him, spoke up. “Sir William! Inasmuch as you and your captains hail from a region long known to support the Balliol clan, may we invite you to join us?”

  The Balliols — and everyone else in the room — looks at Wallace, and old Craig secretly swore at himself for allowing the Balliols to have used such a simple mechanism as seating arrangements to align Wallace with them.

  But Wallace’s gaze had locked onto Robert the Bruce! It was as if two young lions had instantly recognized the leadership power of each other. And Craig realized for the first time that Wallace had never before laid eyes on the Bruce. Recognizing the colors and design
of the Bruce’s tunic, Wallace studies the young warrior who had not joined him at Stirling. “You are Robert the Bruce,” Wallace Said.

  “I am ” Robert replied.

  “My father fought in support of yours,” Wallace said, “whenever your father fought for Scotland.”

  “My father always fought for Scotland,” Young Bruce said, “He was just sometimes forced to fight against Scots who did not fight for Scotland.”

  “I fight for Scotland,” Wallace said.

  “I know,” Bruce said.

  The Balliols shriveled. The nobles on the Bruce side could barely keep from grinning.

  Suddenly the Balliols changed their tactics. “This new success,” their leader began, “is the result of all of Scotland’s efforts, and now is the time to unite all the Scotland and declare a king!”

  Then Mornay, who was sitting to the right to young Bruce, smiled coolly and said, “Then you are prepared to recognize our legitimate succession!”

  Balliol reacted instantly, “You’re the ones who won’t support the true claim! I demand consideration of these documents!” With that he reached for the parchments that bore the Balliols’ written case for ascendancy, the same scholarly arguments they had presented at every meeting of the council. The documents had never borne any true weight before; but clearly the Balliols were bringing them up again now in an attempt to sway Wallace with their legal legitimacy.

  But if they thought William Wallace would be impressed by genealogical tables, they had badly miscalculated. He wasn’t even looking at them; he was staring again at the Bruce, who suddenly felt ashamed of the bickering.

  “Those were lies when they were written!” Mornay said with contempt. “Our documents prove absolutely that—”

  Suddenly Wallace turned his back and walked toward the door.

  All the arguments died into an abrupt silence. Then Craig called, “Sir William! Where are you going?”

  Wallace turned, and his eyes swept over everyone at the table. “We have beaten the English! But they’ll came back, because you won’t stand together.” Wallace moved back to the table and frowned at the men there as one might at a group who refused to agree that grass was green or the sky blue. Wallace’s voice rose.

  “There is one clan in this country; Scotsmen. One class: free, One price: courage.” Wallace turned again, and again he strode toward the door.

  “But… what will you do?” Craig wanted to know.

  Wallace stopped. “I will invade England. And defeat the English on their own ground.”

  The nobles had stopped breathing.

  “Invade?!” Craig sputtered. “That is impossible, it —”

  Wallace slung out his broadsword and moved down the length of the table, bashing the succession documents into the laps of the nobles! “Listen to me!” he shouted. ” Longshanks understands this! This!” Wallace thrust his massive broadsword high in the air.

  Some of the nobles, when they had heard Mornay’s tale of Wallace arriving on the battlefield and rallying the entire army when it had already begun to desert, had doubted the story. But seeing the fire in Wallace’s face, the passion in his voice, the power of his presence as he gripped the handle of the double -edged claymore and shook the steel at their faces, made them know every word had been true.

  “There is a difference between us,” Wallace said with quiet fervor. “You think the people of this country exist to provide the people with freedom. And I go to make sure they have it.”

  Wallace banged through the door. His friends suppressed smiles and marched out behind him

  Wallace and his men were striding down the stone corridor of the castle, away from the council chamber, as Robert the Bruce ran out after them.

  “Wait! Sir William! Please!” Bruce caught up with Wallace. He struggled for a moment, then took Wallace’s arm and urged him to step into an alcove so that his words could be overheard by no one, even Wallace’s lieutenants. “I… I admire what you said. But you can’t talk to them that way. They are fat cowards, most of them, but we need them.”

  Wallace turned away, but Robert caught his arm again.

  “You despise us, “Robert said, “I can’t blame you; I’ve heard what you’ve been through. But remember, my brave friend. These men have lands castles. Much to risk.”

  “And the common man who bleeds on the battlefield, does he risk less” Wallace asked.

  “No, But nobles… can help…”

  But even as Robert the Bruce was struggling. Wallace was pouncing. “Nobles? What does that mean — to be noble?”

  Robert found himself without a ready answer.

  Wallace leaned closer and shook his fist between them, like a big brother telling a younger one to be brave. “Your title gives you claim to the throne of our country!” Wallace said. “But men don’t follow titles, they follow courage! Your arm speaks louder than your tongue. Our people know you. Noble and common, they respect you. If you would lead them toward freedom, they would follow you. And so would I.”

  William Wallace walked away, leaving Robert the Bruce alone in the alcove of Edinburgh Castle.

  33

  YORKSHIRE SPREADS ACROSS ENGLAND LIKE A CROWN OF nature upon the nation’s head. Lying almost at the center of the island of Britain and in the upper region of England, its rolling hills of heather, grass, and flowers and its skies of fluffy clouds prompt a dreaminess in people and have inspired a whole tradition of stories of enchantment.

  At the heart of this heartland stands York. In the late thirteenth century, it was a fortress city, completely surrounded by a towering wall. The rich commerce of the lush region moved in and out of York’s commanding gates in confident vitality, all under the watchful eye of the royal governor, who commanded a standing army of defenders that guarantee the collection of the king’s taxes and kept the king’s peace. For as long as men believed in fortress cities, York was the stronghold not only of Yorkshire but of all of northern England.

  The royal governor of medieval York was the nephew of Longshanks himself. This nephew was everything Longshanks wanted in a son, if what he truly wanted was a son to mirror his father. He was ruthless and ambitious; he reacted to threats with aggression. He knew that power and the will to use it produced rewards; it certainly had in his case, for to be the royal governor of a jewel like York was to be in possession of the king’s full confidence and blessing.

  And yet the first few weeks of autumn had been anything but pleasant for the governor. Word of the disaster at Stirling had spread through the country-side, such as assault on predictability and reason that hysterical thinking began to affect even his magistrates throughout he shire. Almost every day he received panicky message of alarm; Scottish raiders were on the move, they said. Some of them reported an entire Scottish army on the march! Of course no one could pinpoint an exact location of this phantom army; reports of night marches were being made by the same kind of peasants who reported stumbling on conventions of warlocks and gatherings of the undead.

  Yet as the reports persisted, the governor began to believe that the Scots might be making exploratory forays into Yorkshire. Highland Scots had raided the Lowlands for centuries, stealing cattle. It was possible that the Scottish luck at Stirling — for certainly it was only luck — had encouraged the foolhardy to raid into England itself.

  Still the reports persisted from more and more reasonable sources. Mayors and magistrates began requesting troops to reassure their frightened citizenry. The governor sent our scouts. The scouts did not return.

  He sent out more scouts. One of them got back alive, shouting that the entire Scottish army was indeed on the move, led by William Wallace, in Yorkshire itself.

  The governor convened his military advisors in the map room of the central tower of the fortress city. Choosing from the shire maps that lined the wall shelves, the governor had maps spread on every table, and he ordered his aides to assemble all the appeals for help they had received in recent days. The sought to find a patte
rn in Wallace’s travel. But the written appeals for help seemed to show no direction of Wallace’s movements. Their work was interrupted as the governor’s captain of defenses strode in with another note and said, “M’lord, a message from your cousin, the prince. He says London has no more troops to send us.”

  “Doesn’t he understand that every town in northern England is begging for help?!” the governor erupted and then held his tongue. He was miffed at young Edward, miffed that he had no fondness for war, miffed that in spite of this his father had given him authority to direct domestic troop movements during Longshanks’s absence in France, and miffed — the truth be told — that if was Edward and not himself in line to be the next king. But the young Edward had not ascended to the throne yet, and from the rumors coming up from London, it was by no means certain that he would. Yes, Edward was Longshanks’s only son, but there was horrible bitterness between them, and while heredity was supposed to be the only channel of transmission of the divine right of kings, Longshanks was a man to change history to suit his will. Wasn’t he doing exactly that in Scotland? Or at least that’s what he was about to do until he stumbled over this stone named William Wallace.

  The governor looked back to his maps and wondered aloud, “Where will Wallace strike first?”

  “I should think these smaller settlements along the border…,” the captain guessed.

  They heard shouts form the courtyard below their tower and looked out to see a rider dismount from a lathered, mud-spattered horse. “What news?” the captain called out.

  “He advances?” the rider shouted back.

  The governor pushed the captain aside and barked down at the fool, “But to what town?"

  “He comes here!"

  34

  WILLIAM WALLACE RODE AT THE HEAD OF HIS ARMY ALONG a hard, dry road through fields grown brown with the autumn and though how ugly a thing panic was, especially among civilians. They were fleeing in terror, some toward the walled city in the distance, some away from it. It was strange to see them moving opposite ways; people were like flocks of birds and tended to flee at once and in the same direction. The fact that the civilians were colliding with each other going to and from York had to be assign: the royal governor had already learned of the Scottish approach and had locked the gates. Those still trying to reach the city were refusing to believe they could be turned away.