The Guardian

by Jack Whyte

  “Mayhap it does, but I know what I’m talking about and it’s the truth.”

  “Hmm … The right man, you said. And who would that have been? You, William Wallace?”

  “No,” he said quietly. “I told you, I’ve never been there. The right man would have been a man determined to deny them passage—a local commander, with followers who know and understand the nature of the place, who know and understand that the carse is the valley of the Forth River. So we ought to talk about the river, you and I. That bridge you crossed? Well, it’s the only means there is of crossing the river and the carse in safety.” He stopped suddenly. “No, pardon me, that’s not quite true. You can cross on foot. It’s muddy and difficult, and dangerous in places, but the local folk do it all the time. What you cannot do, though, is cross the carse on horseback, unless you do it by the road that crosses the bridge. That narrow bridge. One farm cart at a time, or two mounted men side by side. The bridge will hold no more.”

  “Of course it will hold more,” Andrew said. “How long is the bridge deck? Two mounted men abreast, and say six more pairs behind them, would make fourteen men and horses on the bridge at a time, plus those behind them, waiting to cross, and those already across ahead of them. That’s a fair strength.”

  “That it is,” Will said, nodding judiciously. “But going where?”

  Andrew blinked at that. “Why, going across the bridge, of course.”

  “And what then?”

  Andrew threw me a look of pure exasperation and spread his hands. “What then? Then all the others follow behind them and they’ve crossed the bridge.”

  “Why, so they do,” Will said, grinning broadly like a man who knew a juicy secret. “And they find themselves on the path on the far side. I’m enjoying this, so be patient with me … And so they find themselves on the far side, on the causeway that’s the same width as the bridge deck and stretches for half a mile in front of them, just as it did for half a mile behind them. A long, narrow roadway, built up to keep merchants, farmers, and honest travellers safe above the deadly bogs on either side.”

  Andrew nodded slowly. “All right, I understand that,” he said. “What I do not understand is your insistence upon talking about it.”

  “I’m saying nothing other than the simple truth,” Will said. “Think about it. Once they have crossed the bridge, they will still be on the causeway, two by two abreast in the middle of the carse. You might recall, my young lord of Murray, my mentioning that the bog is not impossible to cross, because the local people do it all the time. They follow pathways where the mud is firmer.”

  Andrew had his head cocked now. “Go on,” he said quietly.

  “Remember that I am speculating here.” Will glanced at me again, his eyes twinkling. “Now I know that is the proper word,” he said, then turned back to Andrew. “I am speculating … imagining possibilities.”

  “Yes, yes. Continue.”

  “I was saying that people can cross the carse on foot, Andrew. But horses and mounted men cannot. Once on that causeway, horses and mounted men can go nowhere but forward along it to the end … even should they be under attack from all sides.”

  “Sweet Jesus!” the young Highlander said. “Are you actually proposing such a thing? An attack while they are on the causeway? It would be murder.”

  “No, it would be legitimate warfare, a trick to cut down the outrageous advantages cavalry has over foot soldiers. Of course, the trick would be to lure them into committing themselves to crossing the causeway in the first place. But if they remain unaware that men on foot can cross the bog, that should cause us little difficulty. If they even suspected we might be able to reach them across the mud flats, they’d never risk an unguarded crossing. They’d find a ford somewhere upstream, then send an advance guard to secure the ground on the far side of the causeway, so we would have to find some way of concealing our presence on the northern side until they commit to the bridge crossing … But it’s an interesting idea, is it not? Since we were talking earlier today about the need to damage Edward’s men of substance.” He reached behind him to draw the big blade that hung at his back and he held it out, point towards us, in a two-handed grip. “Were we able to carry out some such attack, it would take us far along the route towards that goal, do you not agree?”

  Andrew released an explosive breath. “It would, beyond a doubt … But it’s no more than a dream, is it? You don’t really believe anything resembling the situation you describe is possible, do you?”

  Will shook his head. “No, I don’t. I would pray for it on my knees all night and all day from now until then if I thought there was the slightest chance that any army would be so suicidal as to put itself in that kind of peril, but it is no more than wishful thinking at its worst.”

  “Then hold! Let us accept that and dream a little longer, if you will, because now I am curious. What would it take to get those horsemen up onto that causeway?”

  “Idiocy on their part, pure and simple,” Will said. He looked over and waved a hand towards me. “Ask Jamie. He knows more about what it would need than I do, for it involves his specialty, as a priest. You are asking about miracles, my friend, and not merely one of them, because one alone would be of little use to you. To bring about what you’re imagining would require simultaneous miracles of incompetence, stupidity, gross carelessness, and military neglect amounting to dereliction of duty. That’s four miracles we need already, and we’ve barely begun to count. But we’ll be facing an army commanded by Henry Percy and his cohort Robert Clifford, both of them knighted for their prowess in battle during Edward’s Welsh wars. They are young men, young paladins, eager, ambitious, and hungry for glory, and I can’t see either one of them being guilty of any of the weaknesses I named.”

  Andrew sniffed, looking slightly crestfallen. “I suppose you’re right. And it’s a great pity. I would have enjoyed storming that causeway … So, it seems we have no other option than to find another modus operandi.”

  “And we will, in time,” Will answered.

  We had turned inland about an hour earlier, striking southwestward, and the coast was now a good three miles behind us, the hills ahead of us gentler and more rolling and well treed. Will waved to where a knot of men had emerged into view on the crest of the ridge we were climbing.

  “There’s Ewan, with Big Andrew and Long John,” he said. “I knew we must be getting close by now. The camp’s just over that rise, in what used to be an ancient forest. There’s plenty of space for both our armies to stretch out and be at ease for a day or two. There’s more fresh water running down from the hills than we need, and there are enough old shade trees to make it a comfortable place. The first thing facing us right now, though, is the matter of melding your men smoothly with mine.” He glanced sidelong at Andrew. “D’you foresee any difficulty there?”

  Andrew turned down his lips and shook his head.

  “Well, I wish I could say the same for myself,” Will said, “but the truth is I can’t. I’m told that most of your men are ordinary folk, evicted from their homes and deprived of their livelihood by the English—a common story throughout Scotland nowadays. So they’re all honest men and women, not outlaws at all except in English eyes.” He cleared his throat noisily. “And so I need to tell you this: most of the men who follow me are outlaws. There’s nothing wrong with that today, God knows, for I am one myself, outlawed like hundreds, mayhap thousands more, by the English.” He grimaced. “But I have some wild and ungovernable wretches among my ranks, hard men who need a hard hand on the leash that holds them. A few among these men are beyond salvage, in this world or the next. They keep their heads down out of my sight most of the time, but I know every one of them, and when they do come into view—and they always do, sooner or later—I show them no mercy. I’ve warned them all I’ll take no stupidities from any of them when your folk arrive, and if anyone causes trouble I’ll take an eye for an eye, regardless of whose eye is involved.” He dipped his head to one side.
“So what I am saying is, don’t be surprised if you see the odd man hanged while you’re here. It’s the only language some of these people understand.”

  “I see,” Andrew said in a quiet voice. “So how, in fact, do you normally maintain order within your host? Do you have deputies?”

  Will released a sharp bark of laughter, then raised a placatory hand, smiling. “Forgive me, my friend, but that struck me as being laughable, considering who and what we are here. We are forest outlaws, Andrew—broken men, they call us, which is another way of saying we are proscribed criminals with prices on our heads … my price outstripping any other’s.”

  “Forgive me. I spoke without thinking.” A flush of colour had infused Andrew’s cheeks.

  “I know you did,” Will said. “But to tell you the truth, besides the occasional brawl or falling-out, the men are normally well behaved, just as they would be were they at home in civilized surroundings. It helps that they all look up to Wallace, and that some of them have to tilt back their heads to do it. It helps, too, that I’m bigger than most of them. The rest tend to fear me, and I encourage that. I take no disrespect, and I extend no favours. So they heed me.”

  “Aye, I can see that.” Andrew was looking up the ridge, at the group watching us. “Well, will we join the throng?”

  As matters transpired, the two armies blended peacefully. Both armies knew what they were hoping to achieve together against the English, so there was a sense of shared expectations from the start.

  There was, however, one incidence of violent disagreement that marred the melding, and I was there to witness it, as, indeed, were all the principals of the gathering. It began innocuously, with a collision that I knew beyond a trace of doubt was accidental, because I had watched it happen.

  It was mid-afternoon, and we had been in Will’s encampment for perhaps an hour, finally beginning to accept that our long march was over, our supplies of arms and armour had been replenished, and we were finally free to start to unwind. I was anticipating a hearty meal and an evening of music and song before we moved to the quarters set up for us on the edge of Will’s main camp. While we were still on the road, we had sent a magnificently large, freshly killed hart to Will’s camp ahead of us, and Will’s own hunting parties had been busy for two days, roaming far and wide throughout the surrounding country and gathering enough meat and fish—both salmon and mountain trout—to feed the multitude, and the mouth-watering aroma of baking bread filled the air everywhere. The initial greetings and speeches of welcome were over, and the men had been dismissed to mingle and meet one another.

  Being a priest with nothing to contribute to the discussions of strategy and tactics that were unfolding all around me, I had been left to my own devices and I was having a fine time. The men of the two armies surrounding me were all deeply involved in trying to assess the knowledge and experience of the strangers with whom they would now be associated, and no one was paying a jot of attention to me as I sat in solitary splendour, perched on a high stool I had found by the fire in front of Will’s tent. I was enjoying the novelty of reading my daily breviary in comfort for once, as opposed to crouching in a stiffening huddle in my saddle, straining my eyes in the gathering dark at the end of a long day’s march and trying to complete my dutiful reading before the oncoming night blinded me completely and ensured that I would have to finish my reading by candlelight later, when I ought to be sleeping.

  The danger in the daily reading of the breviary, for every priest in every land, is that familiarity breeds the temptation to idle and to gloss over the content of the prayers, and that temptation grows increasingly potent as the years slip by and the daily exercise grows more and more familiar.

  On that particular occasion, I was floating on the narrow margin separating conscientious reading from the much more worldly pastime of daydreaming. I was paying no particular attention to what was happening around me, but at the same time I was aware that Will and Andrew were talking together in the open space off to my right, surrounded by a number of their lieutenants. I was vaguely aware, too, that opposite them on my left, on the other side of the fire, there was a raucous gathering of some of Will’s men, close by Will’s tent. There were nine of them, and they appeared to be English archers, for they all appeared to have that unmistakable archer’s bulk of chest, broad back, and heavy shoulders. I was mildly curious about how a group of English archers might end up in the middle of an army of Scots outlaws. The probability was, of course, that they were there because of the love of archery shared by Will himself and our early teacher and mentor Ewan Scrymgeour. I guessed, therefore, that they were either Welsh mercenaries or deserters from some English baron’s entourage. But that reminded me of a harrowing experience Will and I had shared together as mere boys, and remembering his violent aversion to English soldiers, and to deserters in particular, I decided these men must be Welsh mercenaries.

  I had noticed them originally because of their boisterous laughter. It was loud, unrestrained, full of good humour, and impossible to ignore. But then three other men had come to join their group, and within a quarter-hour the laughter had dwindled and died, and several of the original group of nine had drifted away in search of other company. Curious, I had looked at the newcomers more closely, and had not liked what I saw. They were clearly Scots from Will’s following, for their dress and bearing showed that they were not Highland Gaels. Where the archers had been noisy and plainly enjoying themselves, these newcomers had brought a silent, menacing threat with them, standing shoulder to shoulder and glowering with sour disapproval at everything around them. I could tell that the archers knew who the trio were, and also that they wished the newcomers had gone elsewhere. There was no laughter now. No one was even smiling.

  I was on the point of returning to my breviary when someone came running towards the knot of men. I recognized him as one of Alistair Murray’s men, a close-mouthed but likable young fellow called Callum who was Alistair’s favourite courier, gifted with astonishing speed and stamina. I had once heard someone joke that the young man had been born running and had never learned to walk. Now, as he came closer, I could see that he was not merely running for the enjoyment of it. He was lightly dressed, bare legged as always, and his feet were encased in well-worn brogans. He carried no sword, and I knew he never did, for he considered the weapon to be a hindrance to his running, but he wore a long-bladed dirk in a sheath at his belt, and I could see he carried his two-footwide targe across his back, made of studded, hard-boiled leather stretched over dense ash wood.

  Now he swerved to pass the archers’ group, but as he did so, one of the three newcomers, the largest and most truculent looking, stepped away from his companions and directly into Callum’s path. I was amazed that Callum managed to avoid hitting the fellow, but he did, thanks to an admirable combination of reflexes and alertness. He swayed sideways and passed smoothly by the stranger, less than a hand’s breadth separating them, and ran on directly to the fringe of the group surrounding Will and Andrew, where he stopped and grasped Alistair by the elbow.

  Alistair swung around to savage whoever had dared to touch him, but the instant he saw Callum’s face, he frowned, took Callum firmly by the arm, and propelled him urgently away from any danger of being overheard.

  I noted the urgency of the encounter even as my attention was transferred to what was happening with the fellow Callum had almost run into. The scowling ruffian was now behaving as though he had been hit and was glaring towards Callum, while Callum, completely unaware of the fellow, and propelled by Alistair’s grasp, was coming directly towards the fire where I was sitting. Alistair was practically pushing him along, gripping his arm tightly above the elbow and walking close beside him, his head bent to one side to catch what the young man was saying. He stopped, sensing his nearness to the fire, and I saw his body tense.

  “Go and find Fillan and bring him here, quick as you can. I’ll talk to Andrew and Wallace. Quick now!”

  Fillan de Moray was sc
outing on our left flank, far out ahead of our line of march, and hearing Alistair’s instruction intrigued me. Eager as a hare, Callum spun on his heel and broke into a flat run. But he had gone just five paces when the angry stranger lunged towards him, pivoting his entire upper body to smash his elbow square into Callum’s face, felling him instantly. Alistair had seen nothing; he was striding back towards Will and Andrew, oblivious.

  I gaped down at Callum, shocked at the amount of blood gushing from his broken nose and mouth and stunned by the swiftness of the attack, and then I looked at the man who had done this to him. A single word, berserk, sprang to my mind. It was an ancient Norse word, used to describe the fighting madness, supposedly inspired by the gods, that sometimes consumed Viking warriors in battle, and I knew that this man was berserk. He was hopping from foot to foot, clenching and unclenching his big hands as he grimaced and growled deep in his chest, radiating hatred and malevolence towards the man he had attacked so treacherously. He muttered something just as I looked at him, but I did not hear what it was. A moment later he repeated it more loudly, and a third time he screamed it. It was gibberish to me, a crazed outpouring of guttural noise.

  Callum had somehow begun to collect himself and was attempting to stand up. I bleated something sympathetic and moved to help him, but before I could reach him he regained his feet and stood swaying, gripping his legs above the knees and looking at the ground between his feet, his head drooling ropy skeins of blood.

  I stopped then, apprehensive. Turning my head no more than a fraction of an inch, I saw that the madman had backed away. But as I turned a bit more, to look at him directly, I saw him draw weapons, and I looked quickly back at Callum, still swaying and dripping blood. And still I made no move to touch him, for I dared not take that risk on his behalf unless he asked me to. Then, as now, the unwritten law governing witnesses to men in single combat was absolute: no spectator must ever touch a man fighting another for his life, unless requested so to do. The reason is obvious: the most innocent, unthinking interference might distract a fighter and cause his death.