“Where have you been, Sir William?” the king asked. “Hiding?”
Wallace nodded. “But not from them. Let my enemies find me. Let them come on —anywhere, everywhere, I am ready. But yes, I have been hiding. From myself.”
“And now you wish to fight again.”
“I do,” Wallace said.
“Your Majesty…,” Deroux said, stepping forward. “Could we please take a moment to confer?”
“There is no need to confer. Monsieur Deroux. Arrange lodgings for our visitor. Provide him with money. No,” he added quickly, for he saw Wallace glower, “not as a mercenary, but to secure proper food, rest, and weapons, for my generals should be at their best to do their best.”
“Your… general, sire?”
“You heard me, Deroux,” said Philip the Fair.
51
Paris in the year 1300 was already a great city, a place of trade and knowledge, an object of pride to the French, a people never considered to be lacking in their opinion of themselves or their sensitivity to the opinion of others about them. Their city possessed large inns serving fine food, and it was in the best of these that William Wallace was found that night, sitting alone in a corner by the fire, dining upon a joint of roasted meat presented by the inn’s owner who took special pains to provide for this guest in the knowledge that he was extending the hospitality of the king himself.
No one within the inn knew the identity of the visitor; they knew he was a Scot by his accent, and it was apparent from his stature and the scars visible upon his face and hands that he must be a warrior. Many other Scots had some across to serve as mercenaries; it was assumed by the other men eating and drinking at the inn that night that his man must be a mercenary himself — and one of extreme proficiency if the king was seeing to his keep. So the innkeeper’s other patrons — aristocrats all, for this was one of Paris’s finest establishments — kept their distance and watched with a mixture of curiosity and vague suspicion as the strange visitor sat silently in his corner, chewing his supper and staring into the flames of the fire.
The subdued atmosphere of the inn’s tavern room was instantly dispelled by Claude’de Bouchard, whose voice flew through the door several moments before his body did. “Where is he?” he shouted, already drunk. “Is he hiding? Let me look at him!” Bouchard stomped in, his boot heels heavy upon the plank floor, and everyone, except Wallace, turned to look at him. Bouchard was a tall, slender man with the prominent, straight nose of Gallic nobility and luxurious black hair falling in curls to his shoulders. He was a nephew of the king and wore the rich blue sash belt that designated him as a general in the king’s army. Everyone knew him and on one cared for him, but all tried to show him deference; the king had a great may relatives, but no one thought it is a good idea to offend any of them.
Bouchard was frequently loud and drunk, and this night he was exceptionally so. “A general they tell me!” he bellowed. “Ha! Someone who will give us advice? Is that his purpose? Where is —“.
Then his reddened eyes fell upon Wallace, who still had not looked up at him. Bouchard seemed to find something in Wallace’s presence or appearance to be terribly amusing. He began to laugh and glance around at the others as if to see if everyone else got the joke. “This?” he chuckles. “This is someone who will teach the men of France how to do battle?”
“Please Claude…..” one of the other aristocrats said quietly, moving to Bouchard and placing a hand on his shoulder. “The kin—”
Bouchard threw the man’s hand off. “The kind invites him to join us, yes I know!” He staggered to Wallace’s table and bumped into it before he could stop himself. “Are you the man?” he demanded.
Still Wallace did not look at him.
The aristocrat who had attempted to head Bouchard off now tried once again, laughing and saying, “Come Claude, you are drunk, so drink with us some more.”
“I am not drunk!” Bouchard screamed. Wallace’s refusal to acknowledge him was making him ever more furious. “Look at me! Look at me!”
Wallace lifted his eyes. It should have frightened Bouchard; it frightened everyone else in the room. But Bouchard only made a face, pursing his lips and blowing out his cheeks in a look of mock ferocity. “So you are William Wallace!” the Frenchman bellowed. “The military genius! The one who is so smart he gets his entire army slaughtered! Yes, yes, you have much to teach us!”
Slowly, Wallace looked down again at his food.
“Don’t look away from me! I am a true general of France!” This statement might have found several to dispute it, solely among those present; the presence of the king’s relatives, along with the sons, nephews, and cousins of France’s other noble families, among the army’s leadership had not helped then drive the English from their territory. Generals like Bouchard were present at banquets and not on battlefields. “Do you hear me! I command you to look!” He snatched Wallace’s shoulder with one hand and with he other withdrew the jeweled dagger he carried in the blue sash at this waist. He thrust the blade against Wallace’s throat. “You insolent common bastard. You think you can ignore me? I will teach you to fight! I will—”
Those were his last words.
52
PHILIP THE FAIR WAS UNABLE TO KEEP HIS MIND ON WHAT HIS ADVISORS WERE SAYING. He had tried to listen; for days and days he had tried. But now there was just so much droning on and on. Every day he would say to them, “What should I do with William Wallace?” and every day the talk would begin, so that he no longer heard individual words or arguments or could remember which side of the issue anyone took, since all of them seemed to take both sides all the time.
Whenever they moved on the other business of the kingdom, Philip kept thinking about Wallace locked away in his prison for the killing of a royal relative. And even Philip could not think clearly anymore.
Today it became too much for him. In the middle of a discussion about building roads—at least that had been the topic when the king last heard what his advisors were saying—he stood abruptly, walked to the center of the room and ordered everyone out. “Go. Now. All of you!” he said loudly and forcefully. “Yes, yes, everyone!” All of you out!” After a brief moment of surprise, for their king never behaved rashly, the advisors obeyed quickly, streaming toward the door. Herding them like a sheep dog chasing the flock into its pen, the king drove them on with “Leave me alone! I am not to be disturbed! Shut the door!”
And with the closing of the door, and its heavy wooden sound echoing through the royal audience chamber, the king found himself in blessed solitude.
He did not know what to do next; it was so seldom that he found himself all alone. He was uncomfortable standing there in the center of the great room, with no one telling him what to do next. So he began to pace from door to window and back again. At first he thought of nothing, just listened to the sound of his heels upon the polished stone floor; then he began to turn the problem over in his head: what must he do with William Wallace.
Then he heard the door opening. Philip was pacing toward the window when he heard the latch clattering and he could scarcely believe the sound. His normally even temperament began to erupt; he whirled and had already started shouting, “What is this? Did you not understand—“ when he saw her. “Isabella!”
“Greetings to you, great king!” The Princess of Wales, Philip of France’s niece, sank in a respectful curtsey, but her face was radiant, and the king himself was glowing with the unexpected joy of seeing her. He hurried to her, seized her hands, pulled her up, and kissed her cheeks.
“I had no idea you were coming!” he said, searching his scattered thoughts for the possibility that his aides could have mentioned such a thing, and he had failed to not it, as if that were possible.
“Nor did I, “ Isabella said.
“But how…?
“I came without sending word. Since France is my county, too, and I have my own French guards to escort me, it didn’t seem necessary. The only trouble I had was getti
ng through this last door. You have some gentlemen out here who seemed to think that entry was quite impossible.”
The king threw back his head and laughed. “Impossible for everyone but you!” He loved this beautiful young woman who stood before him, the daughter of his youth. He had reared her in the customary way, with nursemaids and tutors and all the traditional remoteness of king to female child. But she had always stirred up in him feelings that had made painful her betrothal and marriage to a foreign prince. The sight of her now brought back memories of summer days in the country when no court counselors rained schemes and questions and advice upon his head, and he had time to watch lovely girls become women right before his eyes, strolling across flowered lawns and in and out of the shade when the young aristocrats of France visited one estate after another with no other purpose than to enjoy life and get to know their peers. Isabella had made him proud even then. She was never intimidated by him or anyone else; if she wished to speak, she spoke; if she wished to dance, she danced; if she wished to ride, she rode; and it was that spirit that made her more than beautiful and made him proud.
And look at her now! She had been traveling for days, and he could see that she was tired, but her eyes were keen, she was full of purpose.
“We’ll have food, wine,” he said and started toward the door to call his servants.
“In a little while,” she said. “We’ll visit at dinner if you can find the time to dine with me.”
“We’ll dine together every night. We’ll make a month of banquets!” But then the cloud of reality passed over his face. “That is, if you r visit is official, and we can behave with the open hospitality of diplomacy. If it unofficial, you are just as welcome.”
He did not add that too much formal attention paid to her, though she was his own daughter, could be a political embarrassment for them both. Obviously she knew that, to have come so quickly and quietly. The soldiers of France and England were battling each other, but both kings maintained the public pretense of keeping the conflict at arm’s length, blaming belligerent nobles with unruly private armies for eth clashes that took place in the constant struggle for territory and power. This was a kind of royal insurgence; the kings could negotiate without loss of face or capitulate without the actual loss of one or the other’s head.
“My visit is official,” Isabella said. “But it is not do be public.”
“Then come,” Philip said, leading her to the great table. “Come and sit down.” They settled into the deep chairs, Philip at the head of the huge expanse of polished plank, and Isabella at his right hand. He poured her wine from the flask in front of him. She nodded her thanks but did not drink.
“I have been sent,” she said. “We have heard in London that you have a… certain visitor.”
He was pouring a drink of wine for himself; he stopped before his cup was full and set the flask down.
“I do, yes. William Wallace.”
“You appear irritable.”
“No, it is not at you. I am unsettled that new travels so fast, especially to a court where I am — an adversary.”
“My father-in-law has many ears listening for work of this man who visits you. Is he…comfortable?”
“I believe so, yes. His room has blankets and a bed…”
“And bars?”
“Yes.”
“Then it is also true that he killed Bouchard?”
“It is true.”
“Bouchard was a pompous, cruel, evil ass.”
“Did you come to tell me what I already know?”
“Let us see if I can indeed tell you what you already know,” Isabella said. She paused to lick her lips, and Philip noticed that something about all this was making her nervous. Not his royal audience; she was his daughter, and would soon be a queen herself. And not his mission she’d been sent on; clearly she had already thought out what she wished to say. But something was making her mouth dry.
She said, “You have in custody a man of singular circumstance. He is not a kink, yet he is everything to his country. But he had fled that country and has come to you because your enemy is his enemy. He is alone and abandoned, but you, because you have met him, know that his strength does not depend on the number of those around him.”
“You have met him, too,” Philip broke in. “We heard rumors of your being sent to bribe him, but I wasn’t sure it was true until now.”
“I met him,” she said, going on quickly. “I brought him the king’s offer of wealth and titles, and he refused it all. Now he has come to you. It is obvious that he came of his own free will, for it is unlikely you could have sought him out yourself, in that the full power of the English throne was never able to root him out, even in Britain itself with huge sums of money offered as reward for his capture.”
“You are doing well so far, do go on.”
“I am no judge of military tactics, but anyone can judge the results of his leadership, achieving victories no one else thought possible. Apart fro his ability to inspire his followers, Wallace is indisputably a brilliant military strategist. He lost at Falkirk because he was betrayed. You know this. It is why you wished to use him. You did wish to use him, did you not?”
The king nodded, smiling at the keenness of her mind.
“You did. This caused Bouchard to be jealous. I know nothing of the fight itself, only that Bouchard was killed. But knowing Bouchard….. As well as Wallace,” She added almost reluctantly, “it is clear that Bouchard was the aggressor. Is this correct?”
“Bouchard force the fight—if you could call it that. He drew a dagger and threatened Wallace with it. Wallace ignored the dagger — as if he knew Bouchard lacked the will to use it. Or perhaps it was because Wallace cared nothing if he died. Whichever it was he reached up, snatched Bouchard by the hair, and snapped his neck with a single jerk. There were many witnesses in the tavern and all of them gave the same account.”
“Exactly so,” said the princess, who seemed to the king to have flushed when he confirmed the Scotsman’s innocence. “But still you have a problem. Bouchard was a relative. Even if most of our aristocrats despised him, even if his own family hated him, he was still a royal relative. For you to release the man who killed him — a foreigner, no less — would infuriate many of those who support you in your fragile alliance against Longshanks. But you will not execute Wallace, for you will not have the blood of an innocent man upon your soul. It vexes you even to have him in prison, but you can find no other alternative. Of course you could send him to Longshanks and even receive compensation for doing so.”
“You have been sent to convince me to do just that.”
“Yes,” Isabella said. “Exactly. Of course, no Frenchman could stand to see his kink lick the hand of Longshanks. And yet Longshanks believes you will do just that if he sweetens that hand with gold. No wonder the French and the English do not get along.”
Philip wanted to ask her to say more on that subject; she could not be happy in her adopted home. But he knew she would reveal nothing voluntarily, so instead he asked her, “Do you have a suggestion for me on how I might escape this dilemma?”
“Send him to the pope.”
Philip was struck dumb by the genius of the idea. His mouth silently echoed the words” The pope. The one judge on all the earth to whom he could send Wallace without offending anyone. He would even be doing Wallace a favor, for the Scotsman had told him, when they had talked in the garden, that only two monarchs could help Scotland now, and they were the king of France and the holy father of Rome. Philip, with enormous influence in Rome, could give Wallace the letters necessary to obtain a papal audience, and Wallace would certainly take the oath that he would go.
Philip looked at Isabella and smile. “I hope we are always friends,” he said. “I would hate to be your enemy.”
“We will always be friends,” she said. She found herself wanting to lean to her father and embrace him warmly, not with the studied formality she had been trained to observe but with real
feeling. She had never taken such a physical liberty with him. If she had had such an impulse in the days before she had left France, she would have obeyed the urge. But living in the English court had taught her restraint.
“You’ve just done me a great favor, Isabella,” the king said, perhaps feeling the same regret that she had. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“I think there is nothing else that can be done for me,” she said.
“Would you care to see the man you have just helped me free from prison? After all, he’ll be leaving tomorrow.”
Everything in Isabella wanted to say yes. Bring him here, let me go to him. Yes. Yes!
“He is barely more than a stranger to me,” she said at last. “I am here at the service of justice, nothing more.”
The next day she stood on a tower walkway and watched as a contingent of four guards, with a cloaked figure riding between the, journeyed off toward Rome. They had begun some distance from the French royal palace, since the dungeon where Wallace was imprisoned was not on the castle grounds, but she saw them as they topped a low hill, and she knew the cloaked figure was William Wallace.
She said a prayer for him, that God would protect him with all His saints and angels. She prayed He would bless the visit with the pope.
And after she said amen, she cursed herself for not taking the chance to see him one more time.
53
BECAUSE HE WAS ACCOMPANIED BY REPRESENTATIVES OF THE KING OF FRANCE, William Wallace was admitted to the Vatican. He was informed, in Latin, the universal language, he would be granted an audience with the pope — that very day. He was provided clear clothes — though the ones he had been given at the start of his journey were new — and was allowed to wash and make himself presentable for his holiness, who would be seeing him in less than an hour.
Wallace asked for a place to pray.
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