by Jack Whyte
“I see,” I said. “And so am I correct in thinking you will speak of this tomorrow with Bruce?”
“You are. Would you like to join us?”
I thought about that for a moment and then nodded. “If you think I might have something to contribute, I’ll come willingly, but in the meantime I wish to spend some time with Andrew’s widow, the Lady Eleanor. What are her plans, does anyone know?”
“I do. We will bury Andrew here, temporarily at least, and Lady Eleanor will stay here at the convent for the remainder of her term until the baby is born. In the spring she may wish to return home to her family in Petty, and if she does, we will arrange to have Andrew’s remains repacked and shipped north to Inverness, there to be buried with his ancestors.”
“So be it, then.” I glanced at the fire, which had died down to ashes and glowing embers. “I had better get to my bed, for I want to be up and about with my daily Mass celebrated before dawn, so I will bid you goodnight, Canon Lamberton.”
“And I you,” he answered, rising to his feet. “I’m glad we spoke like this. It was worthwhile … and necessary, too.”
I bowed and left him there, and as I went, the bishop said, “God bless you, Father James. Sleep well.”
“And you, my lord,” I answered, closing the door quietly behind me.
As it transpired, Lamberton did not summon me to his meeting with Bruce the following day, although I was scarce aware of that until it started to grow dark and I realized I had heard nothing from him.
I had spent several hours with Andrew’s young widow in the morning, and though there was nothing I could do to console her, I prayed with her and after sat talking with her for a time. She was a beautiful young woman and I estimated her age to be less than twenty years, but she was self-composed and dignified, and once she discovered that I was the same Father James who had travelled to Morayshire to meet her husband, she became avidly curious to know all that I knew about him. She had met Andrew but once, and only briefly, at their betrothal in the autumn of 1295, she told me, and had not seen him again until the day they were wed, in Petty, in March of the following year. That had been a mere five days before Andrew was called away to ride south with King John, to be defeated at the Battle of Dunbar and subsequently thrown into prison in Chester Castle. A few months later, he had escaped and returned home to her as little more than the total stranger she had first met the previous year. They had had three months together then, as man and wife, before his campaign against the English in Morayshire and Ross had forced them apart once more, leaving her alone again but this time with child. From then until now, she told me, she had spent no more than five entire days and four nights with her husband. And now she was a widow. Small wonder, then, that she devoured what I could tell her of my friendship with the man she had married.
I spent the remainder of the day working in the library—always my favourite way to pass whatever spare time I ever had—and it was there that one of the novices found me, late in the afternoon, and told me that Canon Lamberton would like to see me in the bishop’s chambers.
The canon and the bishop were both there when I arrived, but there was no sign of the Earl of Carrick. Both men must have noticed the look on my face, for I was remembering my own words to Lamberton: If you think I might have something to contribute, I’ll come willingly. The obvious conclusion to be drawn was that they had decided I had nothing to contribute.
“Earl Robert didna want to disturb ye needlessly,” the bishop said. “He accepted that Will winna be back for a few days, and he said there was lots o’ time tae make demands on ye.” He nodded towards Canon Lamberton. “He left word for ye wi’ William.”
I turned curiously to the canon, who was smiling at me. “Earl Robert remembers you very well, he said. Something to do with a confession over blood spilt? I confess the way he worded his comment, smiling as he said it, made me curious to know more and I might have questioned him further, until it dawned on me that he was speaking of a confession he had made to you and for which you had absolved him. I was intrigued, I must admit. In any case, the earl requests a favour of you: that when Will returns from the south, you will arrange a meeting between him and Bruce. It will be brief, with none but the three of you in attendance—unless, of course, your cousin wishes to include some of his own associates. Will you oblige the earl?”
“Of course I will.”
“He will be here for the next ten days, living within the cathedral precincts—or sleeping within them, at least, since he’ll be out and travelling every day, conducting an audit of the region’s crops and stores of food. Once you have made arrangements with Will, you can inform the earl.”
The next day, we conducted funeral services for Andrew Murray, and installed his coffin, lined with lead, in a raised temporary tomb in the cathedral vaults, where it would stay until the spring, when, depending upon the wishes of the young widow, it would either be interred here in Glasgow or shipped home to Morayshire with the widow and her young child.
Will was waiting for me in my office when I arrived just before the arranged time, and Bruce arrived mere moments after me. We exchanged greetings, with Bruce being more exuberant and Will being more reticent, I thought, than I had ever known either of them to be. When they were seated I immediately turned the proceedings over to Bruce, who scratched his beard, then turned to Will and spoke in passable Latin.
“Canon Lamberton tells me Andrew’s death has you upset.”
Will shrugged. “Upset is not strong enough to be adequate.”
“He says you’re thinking of withdrawing from the fight altogether. I think that’s unacceptable. What is it that’s bothering you?”
“What’s bothering me? This from the Earl of Carrick, as if he can cure all ills? Fine, I’ll tell you what is bothering me.”
And he did just that, unaware that Bruce had already heard all his arguments. Bruce sat silent throughout, saying nothing and permitting no emotions to show on his face, and when Will eventually ran out of words he continued to sit still, saying nothing and simply staring at Will’s face, until he grunted and nodded.
“Well,” he said, “I’ve listened, and while I think there might be a few things that are credible among all you’ve said, I have to say that much of it sounds to me like self-serving, self-pitying pap, and I did not expect to hear that kind of mewling out of you.” He raised a hand, as though in a blessing. “Now, if you will, sit still for a moment and let me have my say, and then you can walk away.”
Will had been flushing red as he listened, but he nodded deliberately, keeping his face blank. “I am listening,” he said, emphasizing the verb’s tense very slightly. “Say what you have to say.”
“I know you know what duty is, Wallace. You’ve demonstrated that before, many times, and it’s an attribute that not all men possess—many of those non-possessors coming from the ranks of the so-called nobility. You have it, though. You understand the concept of duty, and that sets you apart from the ruck of men, giving you a nobility that is all your own. Sadly, though, I fear you’ve lost sight recently of what your duty is and where it lies.”
“My duty?” Will leapt to his feet, his face whitening with outrage. “God damn you, Bruce! By what right do you, one of the Plantagenet’s favourites for years, think to preach to me about my duty?”
Bruce sat where he was, staring calmly at Will until my cousin subsided into his seat again.
“I would not think to preach to you on anything, Will Wallace,” Bruce resumed. “But your duty, for the lack of a better name for it, is to this realm—as is my own, along with that of every other loyal Scotchman. It’s not to dead or vanished friends, or even to our dead wives, God rest their souls. It’s not to children or to families, save in the widest sense. Our duty, over and above all else, is to Scotland. I have never heard you question that. I’ve never thought you ever doubted it. I’ve never seen the slightest evidence that you are unaware of it. But I suspect now that you have lost sight of it
, and I won’t allow you to do that, any more than I would permit myself to lose sight of it, because I know you would never be able to live with yourself once you saw what you had done.”
Will was holding himself rigid, glowering, as Bruce continued speaking. “This realm needs you, my friend. It needs William Wallace, the victor of Stirling. It needs the man who has just returned from carrying war into the English homeland. The man whose very name puts the fear of God into the hearts of every English man and woman and every bishop, abbot, and prior within three days’ ride of the Scottish border. So feed me no sorry tales of not being fit to lead. Listen, man, to what you are saying! Not fit to lead? The man who captured Edward’s money train and exposed the treachery of York’s archbishop in flouting the laws of God and man to smuggle it into Scotland to pay Edward’s armies, is unfit to lead?
“Look at yourself, William Wallace, and then shake yourself and try to see yourself through the eyes of those who love and worship you. You say you have no wish to lead them into death? Why not, in God’s holy name? If Edward of England has his way, death will be a blessed relief for Scots everywhere. And you, you alone, have the power to defy him because you have the ability to mobilize every man and every true patriot in this realm. And they will follow you because they trust you as they have never trusted anyone before this day. Because God knows they won’t trust me, or any other magnate in the land. They’ll trust no knight, because all they have ever known from knights is arrogance and disdain, and disregard and abuse. But they trust you, because you have never betrayed them or let them down or broken promises you’ve made to them. Instead, you offered them dignity and self-respect—the right to hold their heads up high and take pride in their own capabilities. And you would have me think that you are not fit to lead?”
He stopped abruptly, and then continued. “No more talk of unfitness, then. No more self-pity.”
Watching closely and holding my breath, I saw Will begin to relax as the meaning of what Bruce had said sank home to him. His shoulders slumped as he sat back into his chair, and there was an almost palpable lessening of the tension that had gripped him.
“There’s to be a meeting held within the month,” Bruce said, “in Selkirk Forest, to debate what’s to be done from here onwards. A meeting of the magnates. You will be there, with me, although in truth it’s I who will be there with you. By then I’ll have my friends and clients all lined up as they should be, and we’ll name you Guardian of Scotland.”
Will stared at him, wide-eyed with shock. “Guardian of Scotland,” he said. “Sole Guardian of Scotland?”
“Aye, sole Guardian. Alone. You were joint commander of the armies of Scotland for a while, but God amended that for His own reasons, so now you are sole commander. Who is going to deny you that, after the fact? And so you will be sole Guardian. That sounds reasonable.”
Will looked at him, straight faced, for a long time. But then he began to smile, and then to laugh, until he was clutching his ribs in a paroxysm of mirth. Bruce and I laughed with him, I, at least, unsure of why I was laughing so hard but incapable of withstanding the infectious pleasure of simply bellowing with laughter. Will pulled a kerchief from his tunic and wiped his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief.
“My Lord of Carrick,” he said shakily, “I fear you may have lost your mind there, so forgive me for laughing at you. But the thought of the Earl of Buchan, or any of his kin, accepting me calmly into their fellowship and promoting me to Guardian’s estate was a bit too much to swallow, even for me. Still, the thought was pleasant, while it endured.”
Bruce’s face was sober now. “What?” he said. “They will accept you. You will be Guardian. I’ll see to it.”
“And how, in God’s name, will you do that? Bethink yourself, my Lord of Carrick. I am a commoner. I have a brother, Malcolm, who was knighted by your grandsire Lord Robert, but I’m no knight. Andrew Murray was not even a knight.”
“No, but he would have been, had he lived.”
“Aye, he would, and he would have been accepted for his wealth. But I’m not Andrew Murray.”
“No, you are not. You are William Wallace, and Andrew Murray is dead … Do you remember the very first time you and I set eyes on each other?”
Will smiled. “Aye, I recall it well. You were having trouble with your spurs.”
“Indeed I was. They were brand new, a gift from my father, and I had never worn spurs before. I tripped over them and fell on my arse, and when I looked up you were laughing at me.”
“Not laughing, my lord. Not out loud. Smiling, perhaps.”
“You know that was the day I was knighted?”
Will nodded. “Aye, my lord, I do.”
“King Edward was to have knighted me the summer before, but my mother died on the day of the ceremony. And so, in the final outcome, my grandfather himself knighted me, as was his right.”
“And it was appropriate and well done.”
“Aye, it was. I could not have fared better or been knighted by a finer man. But I am privileged myself in that regard.”
There was a provocative note to his voice, and Will noticed it at the same time I did. He cocked his head slightly to one side, in the way I knew so well, and said, “How so, my lord? I missed your meaning there.”
Bruce stood up, turning as he did so towards the corner behind my chair, where Will had propped his massive sword when he arrived. “I am privileged, Master Wallace, because I am the Earl of Carrick, and Carrick is one of the most ancient earldoms in all of Scotland.” He stepped closer to the sword and reached out to pick it up, then turned back to face us both. “I am a mormaer, should I ever choose to use the title, and that means I can knight any man whom I consider worthy of knighthood. So we will go to Selkirk Forest, you and I, Will Wallace, and there, I swear to you on my mother’s memory, I will dub you knight in front of all of them, and with this very sword, should that be what you wish. And once you have stood up from where you kneel before me, you may deal man to man and sword in hand with anyone who dares to insult Sir William Wallace, sole Guardian of Scotland’s realm.”
He turned to look at me, smiling, and then turned back to my cousin. “And now, in God’s name, will you stop whining, take this blade from me, and accept your duty?”
The smile that William Wallace unleashed then was a thing of glory.
“I will,” he said.
GLOSSARY
a wheen: a few; several
a’ their lane: all alone; by themselves
ablow: below
aey: always (pronounced “igh” as in kite)
ahint: behind
aiblins: perhaps
ava: at all; whatever
chiel: child
clarted: caked or thickly coated with dirt
cried: called; named
cry: to call, name, or designate
daur: dare
fash: to anger, upset, or frustrate
forbye: as well as; also
gang yer lane: go alone
gey: quite; rather
gin: if
groat: the most common small Scots coin
ilka: each; every
ingins: onions
jalouse: suppose; guess; imagine
jouk: to dodge or duck
linn: a pool under a waterfall
loon: boy; young man; fellow
ploutering: wading; splashing; wallowing
schiltrom: defensive formation of spear-bearing Scots infantry
sic: such
siller: silver; money; coinage
thae: those
thole: to tolerate
whaur: where
yett: gate
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As has been the case with the first two books in this series, I am greatly indebted to several eminent historians for their sweeping and exhaustive studies of the lives of William Wallace, Robert the Bruce, and in this particular instance Andrew Murray the younger, joint commander of the armies of Scotland with William Wallace at
the battle of Stirling Bridge, and heir to the estates of Petty in Morayshire and Bothwell in Lanarkshire. G.W.S. Barrow’s Robert Bruce and the Community of the Realm of Scotland (Edinburgh University Press, 4th rev. ed., 2005) has been invaluable to me, as have Prof. Edward Cowan’s essay “William Wallace: ‘The Choice of the Estates,” in his Wallace Book (Birlinn, 2007), and Peter Traquair’s scholarly take on the Scottish Wars of Independence, Freedom’s Sword (HarperCollins, 2000).
There is, however, one additional source whose writing has inspired me during the composition of this book, and I found him almost by accident, having seen his name, Evan M. Barron, cited time and again by those experts with whose work I was trying to familiarize myself. It was only when I saw his history of Wallace’s struggle cited by Professor Barrow in Robert Bruce that I suddenly took notice and went looking for the book, The Scottish War of Independence (Barnes and Noble, 1997), which he first published in 1914. What a find that was for me! The man’s style, rhetorical and high Victorian, swept me up and plunged me into areas of thinking that I had never even considered exploring until then. He made it very clear to me, from the very beginnings of my reading, that the entire matter of time and travel—the length of time it took to travel anywhere in fourteenth-century Scotland and the degrees of difficulty attached to accurate and timely communication of even the most simple information—was hugely significant to everyone and everything in ways that we, with our cellular phones, social media, and instant messaging services, can no longer imagine. But Barron made me think and question my own notions, and his descriptions and interpretation of historical events set my creative juices churning and thrust me towards a point of view that was new and exciting to me. I have no idea, really, how he is regarded by the academic community of historians today, but no one can deny his passion for, and championship of, Scotland’s prowess against Edward Plantagenet’s England, and he passed that fire along to me as I read his book from a hundred years ago.
