Braveheart

by Randall Wallace

  “Aye. But it won’t let me dream,” William said.

  He pulled a tattered tartan around himself and lay down.

  62

  THAT SAME NIGHT LONGSHANKS SAT BY A PALACE HEARTH, where a huge blaze burned. Still he was huddled beneath a blanket, and he coughed blood. But he ignored the ice in his lungs; his mind was plotting.

  The princess walked her parapets alone, lost in her own thoughts.

  Wallace lay in the forest, dreamless beneath the stars.

  And Robert the Bruce climbed reluctantly to the uppermost room of his father’s castle, summoned by a servant who said it was the old man’s urgent request that he come. Robert reached the door, found it unlocked, and entered without waiting. Moving into the suffocating darkness, heavy with his reluctance to be there, Robert took his seat across from his father, already at the table. The single candle burned between them, and in its light young Bruce saw that his father was cloaked more heavily than before. “You wished to see me, Father?”

  “Yes. We both did.”

  Robert heard a movement behind him and spun around to see Craig, leader of the Scottish council, standing against the wall behind Robert. Young Bruce was surprised to see that his father had revealed his disease to the old noble.

  “Yes, I’ve shown him,” the elder Bruce said. “I’m dying anyway, no use to hide. But Longshanks, too, is failing. We are becoming the past—as you become the future.” The leper, feeling the weight of his infirmity—or was it the weight of something else? –sagged back and looked to Craig, who shifted forward, but only a half step; clearly he did not wish to be too close.

  “Our nobles are frightened and confused,” Craig said. “Wallace has the commoners stirred up again, from the Highland clans to the Lowland villages. In another six months Christ and the Apostles could not govern this country.”

  Robert glanced to his father; it was clear to the younger Bruce that his father had already been discussing something with Craig, and the two ancient noblemen, veterans of many decades of politics together, had agreed on something, something Craig was about to present.

  But Craig was working up to it gradually. “Longshanks knows his son will scarcely be able to rule England, much less half of France. He needs Scotland settled, and he trusts you, after Falkirk. If you pay him homage, he will recognize you as king of Scotland. Our nobles have agreed to this as well.”

  From within his woolen wrap, he withdrew and extended a parchment bearing the noblest names in Scotland. Young Bruce barely glanced at it and said, “If I pay homage to another’s throne, then how am I a king?”

  “Homage is nothing!” Craig said impatiently. “It is the crown that matters!”

  But young Bruce was intense with new clarity and the strength that came with it. “The crown is that of Scotland,” he said. “And Scotland is William Wallace.”

  “Yes,” Craig said, glancing at the elder Bruce, “that is another matter. For something else is required before all this can take lace. You and William Wallace must meet. And make peace.”

  Robert was surprised. He looked to his father, who said, without lifting his cloudy eyes back at him, “Yes. At last I have seen that this is the way for both of you to have what you want.”

  63

  IN LANARK, WHERE IT ALL BEGAN, THE VILLAGERS PAUSED their baking and hammering and watched as three of Scotland’s elder nobles, among them Craig, rode past their cottages. In the village square, on the very spot Murron was killed, the nobles stopped, and Craig announced, “We seek an audience with Wallace!”

  The elders paused, staring around at the villagers, who had adopted fixed expressions that tried to say, “We have no idea who Wallace is or why you look for him among us.”

  Craig expected such a response. “We will wait beyond the village, at the edge of the loch!” Craig called out. “We will go to him however he wishes us to go!”

  Craig and his comrades rode slowly past the silent villagers.

  The half moon had risen into a clear, star-dazzled sky above the Scottish forest. In the hidden encampment where Wallace and a corps of his staunchest followers were planning the next raid, there was a commotion; the sentries had spotted the approach of a cluster of men and silently spread the alarm. Wallace and all the others were waiting with drawn swords as the nobles, their heads hooded, were led in on horseback by loyalists from the village. When Wallace stepped out from behind the trees, the nobles were stopped and their hoods pulled off. Nervously they glanced about them.

  “Sir Craig. Out in the moonlight?” Wallace asked.

  “Sir William. We come to seek a meeting,” Craig said.

  “You’ve all sworn to Longshanks.”

  “An oath to a liar is no oath at all. An oath to a patriot is a vow indeed. Every man of us is ready to swear loyalty to you,” Craig declared.

  “So let the council swear publicly then.”

  “We cannot,” Craig said. “Some scarcely believe you are alive. Others think you’ll pay them Mornay’s wages. We bid you to Edinburgh. Meet us at the city gates two days from now at sunset. Pledge us your pardon and we will unite behind you. Scotland will be one.”

  Wallace glanced at Hamish and Stephen, who could barely hide their contempt. Wallace looked at the nobles. “One?” Wallace said. “You mean us and you?”

  “I mean this,” Craig said and reached to his pocket.

  The surrounding Highlanders, any one of whom would felt honored to stab a dagger through a blueblood’s heart, all lifted their blades. But what Craig withdrew was not a weapon; it was small, folded, limp. He extended it toward Wallace.

  Then Wallace snatched it from Craig’s grasp. It was the handkerchief, clean and bright, still bearing Murron’s embroidered thistle, that Wallace lost at Falkirk in his encounter with the Bruce. Wallace stared at it, its soft folds bathed in the starlight, a relic he had thought gone forever, now returned to him from the unlikeliest source.

  And he understood something else: the Bruce had found it, had saved it all this time. The significance of that, too, was not lost on Wallace.

  When the Bruce had given Craig the handkerchief and told him to present it to Wallace as a sign of his sincerity, Craig had not understood what possible meaning such a simple object could have. But now he saw the effect on Wallace and said, “The Bruce will not be there. He begs you to come and join him as a brother to unite Scotland as one family.”

  Wallace, Hamish, and Stephen retreated to the cave. Wallace had been silent since the nobles were rehooded and led away, and with every moment of Wallace’s silence, Hamish’s anger had grown. Finally, as Wallace stood at the mouth of the cave and stared up at the sky, Hamish could restrain himself no longer and blurted, “Why do you even pretend to wonder? You know it’s a trap!”

  “Maybe,” Wallace said quietly. “Probably.”

  “Then… Then…,” Hamish could only sputter. He looked to Stephen for help, but Irishman only shook his head.

  “We can’t win alone, Hamish,” Wallace said. “We know that. Joining with the nobles is the only hope for our people.”

  “I don’t want to be a martyr!” Hamish barked.

  “Nor I! I want to live! I want a home and children and peace. I’ve asked God for those things. But He’s brought me this sword. And if He wills that I must lay it down to have what He wants for my country, then I’ll do that, too.”

  “That’s just a dream, William!”

  “We’ve lived a dream together. A dream of freedom!”

  Hamish was shouting now. “Your dreams aren’t about freedom! They’re about Murron! You have to be a hero, because you think she sees you! Is that it?”

  Wallace was quiet for a long moment. “My dreams of Murron are gone. I killed them myself. If I knew I could live with her on the other side of death, I’d welcome it.”

  And that settled it. Hamish and Stephen saw that William was going to the meeting with the nobles, and nothing they could say or do could keep him from it.

  64

>   WILLIAM, HAMISH, AND STEPHEN RODE TOWARD EDINburgh, talking little, not hurrying, knowing this could be their last ride. When they reached the top of the last hill, they stopped and looked down at the road leading into the city. Wallace handed his dagger to Stephen and unbuckled his broadsword and gave it to Hamish.

  “No,” Hamish said. “Keep these. We’re going, too.”

  “No. One of us is enough,” Wallace said.

  “Nay. We decided it last night. We’re comin’ with you,” Stephen said.

  “I have to keep my courage. See, my hands already shake.” Wallace held his hand out before them, and his friends could see the tremble, but it seemed to be from emotion, not fear. He said almost casually, “Whatever happens, if I know you’re alive, I can bear it.”

  He leaned from his saddle and hugged them, Stephen first, then Hamish, whose great freckled cheeks bore twin rivulets of tears. But still Hamish seemed angry. “What will I do if I’m left alive and you’re gone?” he demanded.

  William looked at him for a long time. “Tell our story,” he said. “Let our people dream.”

  With one last look at his friends, William Wallace rode away.

  The house designated for the meeting was a two-story stone manor owned by Lord Monteith. The grounds around it were landscaped and manicured, but no servants were tending the gardens now; the house itself looked quiet as Wallace rode towards it.

  Within the house, Robert the Bruce and Craig stood at the hearth of its central room, waiting. The Bruce had noticed that Craig had seemed particularly edgy since their arrival twenty minutes before, but then the Bruce was strained as well. He looked out the window; nothing yet.

  “He won’t come,” Craig said.

  “He will. I know he will,” Robert said.

  They heard the approach of a single horse. Robert looked out to see Wallace arriving.

  “Here he is. And unarmed,” the Bruce said. “My God, he has a brave heart.”

  They waited as Wallace reached the front door and dismounted, counting the moments as he tied his horse to the hitching post himself, since there was no groom waiting to do it for him. But before he could step to the doorway, two more riders appeared. “His friends,” the Bruce said, looking out.

  “No matter,” Craig said. “They are welcome.”

  But outside, Wallace was not so welcoming; he glared at Hamish and Stephen, who shrugged off his disapproval of their presence. “We’re here,” Hamish said, dismounting. “That’s all there is to it. So you may as well go right on, for we aren’t leaving.”

  So it was three, not one, who entered the front door and then appeared at the broad opening into the house’s main room. There Wallace stopped, facing the Bruce.

  Wallace reached into his shirt and took out the handkerchief, a symbol now to both of them. They looked at each other, their eyes saying everything. Truce. Peace. A future for Scotland.

  Wallace stepped forward to clasp the Bruce’s hand.

  And then the soldiers poured from every closet, every doorway, even leaping down from the balcony overhead.

  Too late, Robert the Bruce understood. “Nooo!!” he screamed. But it did not matter. The soldiers—English professionals—were swarming Wallace and his friends. Wallace was stunned instantly by a man dropping onto him from above; Stephen was knocked senseless in the first rush; Hamish was smothered by three men—and sent them all flying like a dog shaking off water. One of the three bounced back from the wall, producing a dagger and plunging it high into Hamish’s shoulder.

  “No blades!” one of the soldiers was shouting. “All alive!” Wallace had already disappeared beneath a blanket of men; the others began clubbing at Hamish. Craig had darted back the moment the assault began, but the Bruce, at the edge of the melee, charged into it. Because of the truce, he had dressed without weapons, but he threw his fists into the faces of the soldiers. But they were ganging in from all sides; hiding such numbers within the house had been a marvel of cunning. They trussed Wallace like a netted lion, while their leader, with an expertly placed blow to the temple, dropped Bruce senseless.

  The soldiers raised their clubs over the fallen Hamish and Stephen, ready to beat them to death. “Forget them!” shouted their leader, fearful that any moment more Scots would appear to fight for Wallace as they had in the past. “Go! Go!”

  In a quick scramble, the soldiers hauled Wallace outside. A wagon with a team of horses was just then rattling up from its place of concealment within the manor’s hedge maze. In seconds they had Wallace lashed down on the wagon’s wood floor.

  Stephen and Hamish, bloody and still stunned, staggered from the house in blind fury. Their horses were gone, and the wagon was already to the top of the hill.

  Hamish ran after it.

  Stephen knew it was hopeless. “You’ll never catch them!” he shouted. “You’ll never…” He watched Hamish running, ready to explode his heart in pursuit.

  And Stephen ran, too.

  65

  DRIED BLOOD STILL MATTING HIS HAIR, ROBERT THE BRUCE surged up the stairs of his father’s tower and tore open the door to the chamber. “You did this! You!” he screamed, grabbing at his father, too furious to flinch from the leprous flesh. “I hate you, you rotting bastard!”

  His father was calm, no pain in his body, no pain anywhere. “Longshanks required Wallace,” he said. “So did our nobles. That was the price of our peace. And your crown.”

  Robert shook him. “Die! I want you to die!”

  “Soon enough, I’ll be dead. And you’ll be king.”

  “I want nothing of you! You’re no man! And you are not my father!”

  But the cold steel at the soul of the leper stiffened in him one more time. “You are my son. And you have always known my mind.”

  “No… no,” young Robert said. “You deceived me.”

  “You let yourself be deceived. But in your heart, you always knew what had to happen. The only thing that could happen.”

  Robert’s hands fell away from his father. He stepped backward; even his legs had lost their will. He staggered to the wall and groped at it for support. All he could think was that he no longer cared to live in this world. And suddenly it was his father who seemed to have all the strength.

  “At last you know what it means to hate and how to deal with enemies,” the elder Bruce said. “Now you are ready to be a king.”

  66

  WILLIAM WALLACE WAS CONVEYED TO LONDON STRAPPED to the spine of an unsaddled horse, his head bare to the sun. a procession of heavily armed English soldiers paraded with him, as country people came out to jeer the Scotsman who had sent such terror through their bones.

  “Don’t look so fearsome, does he?!” some shouted, while others screamed, “Murderer!” and many more said nothing at all but threw rocks against his battered face and back or rotten fruit or worse.

  While in the royal palace, Prince Edward inspected his father, who lay semiconscious in bed, his breath rattling ominously in his chest. The king knew of the successful capture of his hated enemy, at least he had been informed of it before he had another attack of coughing and smothering and his eyes began to roll separately from each other and he collapsed into the stupor in which he now lay. Longshanks was upon his deathbed, of that his son was certain.

  Edward approved of this condition. He gave no instructions to the servants keeping vigil at the bedside.

  As the prince left his father’s apartments and stepped out onto the corridor, the princess hurried up to her husband and followed him as he moved toward his own rooms. “Is it true?” she asked, barely able to keep her breath. “Wallace is captured?”

  “Simply because he eluded your trap, do you think he is more than a man? My father is dying. Perhaps you should think of our coronation,” Edward answered and continued his march down the hall.

  “When will his trial be?” she persisted.

  “Wallace’s? For treason there is no trial. Tomorrow he will be charged, then executed.” With a faint smile
, he shut his bedroom door in her face.

  67

  WILLIAM WALLACE WAS TRIED IN WESTMINSTER HALL—IF what occurred can be called a trial. He was not allowed to speak during the proceedings meant to establish his guilt and his punishment, and neither he nor anyone who might have dared to step forward for him was permitted to offer any defense or arguments on his behalf. Wallace made no effort to object to these conditions and stood in silence, gazing up at the windows as six royal magistrates in scarlet robes decried against him, shouting accusations of an endless litany of atrocities.

  The slaughter of his enemies, in battle or in ambush, Wallace would never deny. But one of the charges hurled against him that day bears witness to the posture of his judges. They repeated the claim—spread through all of Britain after the sacking of York—that Wallace had spared the nuns of that city in order to force them to dance naked before his troops. The lie in fact attested to a deeper truth, for the propaganda of the dancing nuns had been spread by Longshanks’s advisors in an attempt to explain the fact, widely known, that Wallace had spared the lives of the nuns at York, whereas Longshanks, in sacking Scottish towns, had spared no one at all.

  Finally the chief of the royal judges boomed out, “William Wallace! You stand in taint of high treason. You will be conducted to a place of execution, where you will be hanged, disemboweled, castrated, and beheaded! Have you anything to say?”

  Wallace did not object to the punishment; it was the charge itself that he rejected. “Treason?” he asked. “Against whom?”

  “Against thy king, thou vile fool!”

  “Never, in my whole life, did I swear allegiance to your king—”

  “It matters not, he is thy king!” the magistrate tried to shout over him.

  “—while many who serve him have taken and broken his oath many times. I cannot commit treason if I have never been his subject!”