by Jack Whyte
“Good God … So where’s this Wallace now?”
“Your guess would be as good as mine, Lord Carrick. He’s disappeared. Some say he’s out now wi’ the Lord o’ Douglas, but I canna swear to that. Wherever he is, though, he’s set the whole o’ southern Scotland heavin’ like a pot o’ boilin’ porridge, and the English are runnin’ mad everywhere, searchin’ for him. It’s an ill time for the folk around here.”
“I see … That makes things … difficult for you. I can see that. And that’s the source of these circumstances you spoke of?”
Sir John’s shrug was restrained. “The source? Aye, I can see why you might say that. But ye’d be wrong. The source o’ it’s the English themsel’s an’ the way they treat the folk around here, tramplin’ them like dirt and kickin’ them aside wi’ ne’er a blink o’ concern or care. An’ I’m no’ talkin’ about the odd insult. It’s happenin’ a’ the time, frae day to day, an’ gettin’ worse. Folk canna even trust they’ll hae’ their ain roof ower their heads frae one day to the next. It’s like we’re a conquered folk, an’ the Englishry despise us as though we wis cannibals.”
“Cannibals my arse,” one of the others interrupted. “Gin we wis cannibals they’d keep clear o’ us, for fear o’ bein’ ate. But they treat us nae better than sheep—to be kicked and herded and shorn for what they can get frae us. Rab Dinwiddie’s place was emptied the ither day. Some English fool’s buildin’ a watchtower at the crossroads and a squad o’ men just marched into Rab’s yaird and arrested his three sons an’ anither fower men wha wis working there. Just lined them up, threatened them wi’ a floggin’ gin they objected, an’ then marched them awa an’ set them to work buildin’ their whore o’ a tower. Rab wis too auld, so they left him alane, but he fell doon in a fit a wee while after and now he’s no’ expected to live. What kind o’ shite is that?”
A man at the far end of the room stirred, sat up straighter, and then leaned forward urgently. His face was flushed, his features twisting into a scowl. Bruce had never set eyes on him before this meeting, but the man, whoever he was, had been the last to arrive, interrupting the proceedings a good half-hour after they had begun. He had entered the hall silently, nodding in stern-faced apology to Sir John as senior there, but had offered no explanation of why he was late and no one had sought to question him. Since then he had sat fidgeting and listening, his frowning gaze switching from face to face as various people spoke.
“I’ll tell ye what kind o’ shite it is,” he growled. His voice, though low pitched, was filled with sufficient anger to draw every eye in the room. “It’s the kind o’ shite that starts up wars, and I’m ready to do somethin’ about it.” He turned his eyes unexpectedly to Bruce. “Lord Carrick,” he said, nodding curtly. “I kent ye wis comin’ here to meet wi’ us and I was set to be here early, but I had ill news reach me just afore I set out.” He straightened in his chair and looked around at his fellows, then stood up. “I’m Alexander Armstrong o’ Jedburgh. My father died last year—November—and I was raised to take his place. I’ve been listenin’ here and I’ve never spoken out like this afore now, but I canna stay quiet on this.”
He gestured with a thumb towards the previous speaker. “Ye’ve heard Alastair’s story about Rab Dinwiddie an’ how he’s like to die o’ a fit. But vexed though he was, auld Rab fell down on his own, wi’ naebody near him. I hae a different tale to tell ye.” He swept his eyes around the assembly, all of whom were watching him raptly.
“I had word this mornin’ that a wheen o’ our folk was found slaughtered yesterday. They was cut down like beasts. Men, women, and bairns—three families o’ ordinary, law-abidin’ folk who never harmed a soul … and no’ a sign, supposedly, o’ who could hae done such a thing.” He paused, waiting for the outburst of shock to die down, and Bruce, as the only magnate there, had to fight to keep his own face expressionless.
“They had set up a place, about seven years ago,” Armstrong continued. “Three houses for the families and some pens for pigs an’ the like, and for the first five years they worked to clear new fields. They planted their first crop last year and brought it in wi’out help frae us. Their wee place hasna got a name, it’s just a bit o’ hard-won land about two miles frae Jedburgh. The eldest—the headman, if ye like—was my cousin Broderick MacRae. Him and his wife had three grown sons who lived there wi’ them. Two o’ them was married and had houses o’ their own, and between them seven bairns, the eldest o’ them about eight … They’re a’ deid … Fourteen folk.”
The silence stretched for a long time until one man said in a stunned voice, “Christ Jesus, Alec, that’s awfu’. That doesna stand belief. Who would do such a thing?”
“Nae human worthy o’ the name,” someone else added.
“Aye,” the first man said, his eyes agog, “but somebody must hae done it. Ye must hae some idea o’ who it was, Sandy, surely?”
Armstrong swung towards the speaker, his face suffused with rage. “Some idea? I don’t need ideas, Johnston, I know damn well who did it. The God-cursed Englishry did it. But I havena got a name to put to anybody, an’ no’ a shred o’ evidence to show, and a’ the folk who could point a finger o’ accusation hae been murdered.”
“But … ” It was the man Johnston. “But how d’ye know that if they’re a’ deid?”
“Because I was telt!” he howled. “They wis seen!” Armstrong reined himself in abruptly and drew in a deep, shuddering gulp of air. He turned to gaze wide-eyed at Bruce, and when he resumed his voice was calmer, almost matter-of-fact. “The lad that brought us the word saw them, less than twa miles from where it happened. He was on his way to see my cousin Broderick, wi’ a load o’ hay. He saw them comin’ out o’ the forest into a glade by the river there. Nine or ten o’ them, he said. English sodgers, wearin’ leather hauberks and steel hats. He was above them, lookin’ down the hill, and he hid as soon as he saw them.”
“Why?” Bruce asked, cursing himself for his stupidity even as the word left his mouth.
“Why? Because he kent better than to let them see him. He drove his cart into the bushes out o’ sight and hid himsel’ and watched them go by, waitin’ till they was out o’ sight.”
“And he was sure they were English?”
Armstrong ignored the question, clearly deeming it unworthy of response, and Bruce added, “Ten of them, you said?”
Armstrong shrugged. “Nine, ten … He didna try to count them. It was enough to see them there, wi’ naebody in charge o’ them. The boy kept out o’ sight and waited till they was past and then went on his way. And then he smelt the smoke as he got near Broderick’s place. Every buildin’ in the place was on fire and everybody was deid. The women were a’ naked, their throats cut … And the men and bairns had a’ been cut to bits … He couldna do a thing, he said, an’ he doesna ken how long he stayed there, no’ knowin’ what to do or where to turn. And then he came lookin’ for us.”
“So what did you do?”
Armstrong looked at him with eyes that were utterly blank. “What could I do? Nothin’ that would change a thing. I sent some men along with our priest to clean the place up and bury the bodies. And then I came here to bring the news.”
“But ye have a witness,” old Sir John Heriot said, speaking for the first time since Armstrong had begun. “The boy. Who is he?”
“Adam Westwood, they call him. He’s sixteen. But he didna see anythin’ to witness, ither than a rabble of Englishry comin’ out o’ the forest frae the direction o’ Broderick’s place. He wasna close enough to see their faces or even what crests they was wearin’ and he wouldna ken a single one o’ them gin he was standin’ in among them. I can just imagine what the English would say about that, the bastards.”
The Earl of Carrick nodded. “There’s nothing I can say to ease your grief or your anger. They might be anywhere by now, safe among their own kind. They might even have been deserters, but we’ll never know.” He frowned. “You say the boy said they were a rabble. They
were not in formation, marching?”
“No. A rabble was what the boy called them. No’ marchin’, just daunderin’ along wi’ naebody in charge, laughin’ and shoutin’ to one another like laddies wi’ no’ a care in the world.”
“Hmm … So what will you do now?”
Armstrong simply stared at him. “Had ye asked me that afore I cam here this mornin’ I wouldna hae been able to tell ye,” he said in a low voice. “But I ken now.” He turned away to address the gathering. “Justice for my folk,” he said. “I’m goin’ out to the Forest. To join the outlaws, join Wallace. If I canna depend on the law for help, then by Christ I’ll make my ain law. I’ll take my boys wi’ me, the twa eldest and a handfu’ o’ my men. Twelve o’ us a’ thegither, single men wi’ nae families to fret about. Them that stays behind will be enough to see that there’s nae repeat o’ what happened the day afore yesterday.” He glanced from face to face as though expecting opposition, but no one spoke. “My mind’s made up,” he said. “I’ve had enough o’ sittin’ on my arse an’ sayin’ nothin’, twiddlin’ my thumbs like some eejit. I’m goin’ lookin’ for English sodgers. I’m no’ askin’ for help frae any o’ ye, no’ askin’ ye to come wi’ me. This is my business and I’ll see to it. I’m just tellin’ ye so ye’ll ken when ye hear tell o’ it frae other folk.” He hitched his jerkin closer about him and looked at Sir John Heriot. “That’s all I have to say, and now I’m goin’ home. But I’ll be awa in three days frae now, and after that, God knows. We’ll see. Good day to ye all.” He nodded one more time to Sir John and then to Bruce, and then walked out, pulling the main door shut behind him.
The sound of the door closing seemed to echo in the silence before a sullen murmur erupted among those left behind. Sir John Heriot quelled them with an upraised hand and a sharp call for quiet. When the room was still again, the elder turned to look at Bruce.
“There you have it, my lord earl,” he said. “Better and more sudden than I could have told you. That’s the kind o’ thing that’s goin’ on in this sorry land these days.” He paused. “I hope ye’ll no’ mind my sayin’ so, but you and your faither hae no idea o’ what it’s like up here. Ye’re both secure in England, magnates who hae sworn oaths o’ fealty to Edward, livin’ in England’s peace an’ doin’ your duty by England’s King. Ye see nothin’ o’ what’s truly happenin’ here. For us, though, it’s a different story. We hae to live wi’ that kind o’ arrogance and anger—frae the English, I mean, no’ frae the likes o’ poor Sandy Armstrong. And that’s no’ easy to thole at the best o’ times. Never was. For years we wis worried about civil war, Bruce against Comyn, but that never cam to pass, thank God. Now, though, it’s far worse, and that’s why I canna agree to what ye ask, no’ wi’out a letter o’ instruction frae Annandale himsel’, and I doubt, gin he knew what was goin’ on here, he’d write such a thing.”
Bruce was sitting straight-backed now, frowning deeply, and he threw out his hands in exasperation. “Forgive me, Sir John, and all of you. I hear what you are telling me, and God knows this is not the first time I have heard such things. It is, though, the first time I have truly seen how bad things really are, all across this land—the first time I have really believed it. You must think me stupid indeed, but—”
“The fault’s no’ yours, Lord Carrick. It comes frae the life you’ve lived in the south. Down there, you’re a Scots earl, loyal to the English King for good and ample reason. Naebody here questions your allegiance—the lack o’ it, I mean—to Balliol. That was aey understood frae the outset, and ye behaved wi’ honour throughout all o’ that. But now Balliol is gone, and Scotland should be a better place … Except it’s no’. But here’s what ye need to think o’ now.
“Up till now, we was a’ Bruce men wi’ a duty to do Bruce’s biddin’, and that’s no’ changed. But now it’s no’ about Bruce’s will in Scotland—no’ completely or as clearly as it was in the past. Now it’s about England’s bein’ in Scotland, when they’ve nae right to be here. It’s about the depredations o’ the English sodgers an’ the way they treat the folk—rapin’ and murderin’ wi’ nae restraint and nae fear o’ reprisal. An’ it’s about the way the folk here look at what’s goin’ on. To them—to men like Sandy Armstrong an’ a host o’ others—it’s us and them, them bein’ the English. This Lord o’ Douglas whose castle ye’re sent here to burn isna rebellin’ against the English King. He’s up in arms about the damage bein’ done to his lands and his folk by people who shouldna be there in the first place. To them that lives hereabouts, he’s mair hero than rebel and mair patriot than outlaw—is that the right word, patriot?” He saw Bruce’s reluctant nod and grunted. “Aye. Anyway, ordinary folk hae nae interest in the high obligations o’ the magnates. To them, it’s a’ about their wives and bairns, their goodmen and kinfolk, about house and hearth and livin’ frae day to day wi’out fear o’ being hung or trampled on. And to them, that’s what Douglas is tryin’ to protect. There was a word your grandsire used to use. It was ‘perceptions,’ gin I recall it right. D’ye ken what that means, Lord Carrick?”
“Aye, I do, Sir John. I understand it well.”
“Aye, well the perceptions here in Scotland this day, among ordinary folk, is that there are Scots folk, livin’ on their ain lands, and then there’s Englishry, actin’ as though thae lands are theirs. The folk winna thole it, my lord. And I winna order my men, be they Armstrongs or any other here in Annandale, to ride out barefaced and be perceived to be helpin’ the English in puttin’ down their ain folk. Ye may think what ye will o’ me, but there it is.”
Someone among the silent knights sighed, but Bruce did not look towards the sound. Instead he sat chewing on what he had heard and eventually, reluctantly, he nodded.
“Thank you, Sir John,” he said, then lapsed back into silence. No one stirred, their stillness reflecting the gravity of what had transpired here, and Bruce wiped the corners of his mouth with a spread hand before continuing. “This—session—has given me much to think about, and none of it expected.” He rose to his feet and began to pace, his gaze moving now among all the listeners. “Much to think about. And though I would never have believed yesterday that I would say what I am going to say, I say it now without reluctance and without hesitation.” His formal tone announced that he spoke not as Robert Bruce the younger but as the Earl of Carrick. “My grandfather taught me well on the importance of perceptions, and having listened now to Alexander Armstrong and the rest of you, I can see not only what you mean but also that you are correct. In my own defence, I can only say that my blindness to the truth of what I’ve heard was—like my father’s own—born of our isolation in England. My father and I have had no idea of the situation you have to live with. And so I withdraw my request in the belief that my father would, too. I will ask no man of Annandale to place himself against the judgment of the folk in Scotland for what could look like treasonous behaviour in their eyes.
“My own men of Carrick have told me the same kind of thing, but until I came here this day I had chosen to believe they were speaking only of local occurrences. Carrick is far removed from here, after all. But now it seems that no place in Scotland is too far removed to be unscathed. The task I have to do at Castle Douglas can be accomplished with the men I have at hand. It is mine alone to perform and I will do it, as I must, with my Carrick men, under the blue banner of Bruce and the gold of Carrick.”
He looked around the room, meeting the gaze of each man. “I am grateful, then, for your patience in listening to what I have had to say and I thank you for allowing me the time in which to say it, foolish as it might have seemed to you even without the horror of the tale we have heard this day. And that said, I will detain you no longer. I will send a report to my father in Carlisle, and I give you my word it will contain my full agreement with your concerns and no hint of criticism of you or your beliefs in this matter. Once again, my thanks, and God be with you all.”
When they had gone, Bruce sat musing for a while, then p
ushed himself away from the table and walked the few steps to his grandfather’s den. There he paused in the doorway, leaning against the jamb and frowning at the chair where the old man had sat working for so many years by the fire. Things had changed greatly since the old man left. There was no fire burning in the grate now, and the place looked dusty and unused. He could never remember having seen that fire dead before, and that single detail struck home to him, making him realize that had Alan Bellow been in Lochmaben, that fire would still be burning, if for no other purpose than to keep the old man’s memory alive. He made a mental note to reinstate Bellow as factor as soon as he returned to London and had an opportunity to send the word to Writtle. Alan was part of the fabric of Lochmaben and was practically useless in England, with nothing better to do than keep the little-used Writtle cellars stocked; besides, he was aging rapidly, and Bruce knew it would be good for the taciturn old servant to return to the place that had been his home for most of his life.
That thought conjured an immediate image of his grandfather sipping hot toddy by the fire. Bruce straightened up, seeing the old iron kettle still in place, its singed handling cloth suspended on a nearby nail, and he wondered suddenly if the battered wooden cupboard against the wall still held his grandfather’s toddy ingredients. He crossed the room quickly and stooped to open the cupboard doors, knowing even as he went that the shelves would be bare, but as he turned away, disappointed, he decided to have the fire lit and fresh toddy ingredients brought in. He knew he still had much thinking to do, for he did not feel comfortable with some of the things he had learned in the previous two days and was aware of some new, niggling, formless doubt. A toddy by the fire would do him good, he thought, for until he could point his finger firmly at whatever it was, this canker that was gnawing at him, he would fret himself into inaction. And inaction, with the looming raid upon Douglas Castle, was something he could not afford.