by Robyn Young
‘Sir Robert of Carrick, is it? I have learned you saved my wife and son.’ Before Robert could respond, Lord Douglas continued roughly. ‘Before I thank you, I would know why.’
‘We would all like to know that.’
The clear voice came from a tall figure striding from the fire. He walked beside the bald man, who looked suddenly small in comparison. Robert stared at this approaching giant, who was well over six feet, perhaps close to seven. His hands and feet were as big as spades, but in proportion to the rest of his muscular frame. Robert wasn’t short, but he felt dwarfed by this colossus. Even King Edward, admired and feared because of his great stature and known, popularly, as Longshanks, wasn’t this tall. The man had a square, brutish face with a nose that looked as though it had been broken a few times. A bruise clouded his brow, half hidden by tousled brown hair. His heavily muscled arms were veined with recently stitched injuries, one of which ran from his wrist up to his elbow. The most surprising thing about him was his eyes, a startling shade of azure, filled with sharp intelligence. He wore stained hose, wrinkled boots criss-crossed with leather to hold them up and a dark blue tunic, under which the bulk of a coat of plates was detectable.
The giant halted before Robert. ‘Why have you come to my camp?’
For a moment, Robert said nothing. So, this must be him. The man who refused to swear fealty to King Edward and who stabbed the son of an English knight who insulted him, then fought off five of his companions armed with only a rusty knife. The man who was imprisoned, beaten and starved until his breath stopped and his English gaolers threw him out with the night soil, and who rose from the dead two days later. The man who hounded the English justiciar out of Scone and chased Bishop Bek from Glasgow, and who hacked through half a town garrison to slay the Sheriff of Lanark in his bed, and with that stroke began the insurrection.
Robert was surprised, for although the young giant’s stature seemed to fit the outlandish tales William Wallace looked scarcely older than himself. He had attributed those feats of daring to a much older commander. Wallace, he saw, was wearing a strange necklace. Looking harder, Robert realised it was strung with human teeth. Moving his gaze from the grotesque trophy, he met the young man’s sharp blue eyes. When he had thought on the road to Irvine of what he would say when he arrived, his planned speech had been all about how he couldn’t hold his flesh and blood in hatred and needed to fight for the kingdom into which he was born. But in front of these scarred, hard-faced men those words now sounded pompous and insincere. ‘I came,’ he said finally, looking over at James, ‘to offer my support for the rising against King Edward’s occupation.’ His gaze switched back to Wallace, who looked utterly unconvinced. ‘For I am as Scottish as you.’
The bald man snorted derisively. At the sound Nes bristled and Alexander Seton’s hand, resting on the pommel of his sword, shifted to curl around the hilt.
Wallace’s eyes narrowed at Robert. ‘Are you? When your father still defends the city of Carlisle for the English king? When you refused to raise arms for King John and raised them instead for England? I have no need of a man who is merely Scot born. I have need of men who are Scots at heart.’
Robert stepped forward, wanting to demand how this barbarian, with only a veinful of noble blood, dared speak to him this way. But he forced back the words, hearing something sickeningly akin to his father’s scathing tones in them. ‘My family refused to fight because the man who ordered us to raise arms was a puppet king under the thrall of our enemies, the Comyns.’ He stared around defiantly at some of the incensed murmurs his words provoked. He fixed on the steward and Wishart. ‘Many of you supported my grandfather’s claim to the throne, set your names and reputations on his right to it. Where were you when his claim was overruled? You walked away, afraid to risk your positions under Balliol. That was understandable. And it was no less than what my family did when faced with the bitter choice of pledging fealty to an enemy, or keeping faith with the king who had passed us over, but in whose service we remained.’ His eyes swung back to Wallace. ‘Whatever you think of my actions, I have remained loyal in these years to the only king my family paid homage to.’ He paused. ‘But that loyalty has been tested beyond its limits.’
It was James Stewart who came to Robert’s defence. ‘None of us can deny what Sir Robert says. To my shame, I walked away from his family after the hearing despite the support I pledged to his grandfather.’ His brown eyes fixed on Robert. ‘It is a regret I live with still, more so since your grandfather’s passing.’ James looked to Wallace. ‘It takes a brave man, Master William, to stand up for his family when so many are against them. An even braver man to desert that family for the sake of his kingdom.’
Wallace shook his head. ‘I would agree with you, Sir James, but I fear he’s nothing more than a spy, sent by his father to learn our plans. Likely his actions in Douglas were a ruse, designed to make us trust him.’ He didn’t look at Robert as he spoke, blunt and frank. ‘He has been Edward’s man for over three years. He cannot be trusted.’ With that, Wallace turned and walked away, his long stride taking him back to the fire.
Robert, seeing the nods, even grim smiles of some of the men, went to go after Wallace, determined to challenge the accusation.
He was stopped by James Stewart. ‘You have had a long journey and the hour grows late. Let us speak for a moment alone, Sir Robert.’ He gestured to his knights. ‘See that food is brought for his men.’ When Robert continued to stare at Wallace’s retreating back, James added, ‘I’m sure your daughter must be tired.’
50
In grudging agreement, Robert followed the steward into the tent. Ducking through the flaps, he found himself in a warm interior, furnished with a bed, trestle and boards, and a few stools. Carpeted with faded rugs, it was lit with lanterns. There were two servants here. The steward ordered the older of the two to pour wine.
Robert, furious at Wallace’s words, went to refuse it, but the sight of the calm-faced steward standing there expectantly mollified him and, besides, he was thirsty. Taking the goblet, he drank, but when James motioned for him to sit he declined. ‘Why are you letting Wallace dictate to you? He is the son of one of your vassals. He isn’t even a knight! Worse, he’s a savage. Have you seen what he wears around his neck?’
James took a sip from his goblet, waiting until Robert had finished. ‘It is a delicate matter. Yes, I am far above William in station, as are you. But to many who now follow him he has become something of a saviour. They will listen only to him and their numbers make up most of this army.’ James spread a hand to the camp, visible through the tent flaps as a triangle of red dusk filled with smoke and shadows. ‘Such as it is.’
‘I’ve heard of some of the things he has done,’ said Robert, determined to make his point. ‘Torture. Murder. Are these the actions of an honourable man?’
‘No. They are the actions of a desperate man in a desperate time. I am not excusing his methods. But’ – James paused – ‘I can understand them.’ The steward seated himself on a stool, his yellow mantle shimmering gold in the lantern light. ‘For William the war began six years ago, during the hearing to decide who would take the throne. When the nobles were compelled to swear fealty to King Edward as our overlord, William’s father – one of my vassals – refused. Wallace was a good man, but proud and defiant. The king’s reaction was swift. As an example to others Wallace was outlawed, forced to leave his family. Shortly after, there was a clash between a group of Ayrshire men and English soldiers, supposedly there to keep the king’s peace. Wallace had come out of hiding to join this mob, who were responsible for the deaths of five soldiers. English knights pursued this band all the way to Loudoun Hill.’
Robert remembered his grandfather speaking of a skirmish there during the hearing.
‘William’s father was struck down, his legs cut away from under him. He was left to bleed out on the hillside. It was an appalling way to die. His wife died in poverty soon after and his sons were separated.
By the time Balliol took the throne, William was living with his uncle, the Sheriff of Ayr. Already, he held a great deal of resentment towards the English soldiery, whom he held responsible for the deaths of both his parents. When war broke out last year it was the chance he was waiting for, but his hopes for revenge were dashed with our defeat at Dunbar. English officials poured into our towns, replacing local men. One was the new Sheriff of Lanark, a man named Hesilrig.’ James paused to take a drink. ‘During the early days of the occupation, I remember hearing of an English soldier, a wrestler, who was challenging men in Lanark’s market place, charging them four silver pennies to see if they could break a pole on his back. William took up the invitation and paid his four pence, but rather than break the pole he broke the fool’s back. The man’s comrades set upon him and he beat them down, all three. William was outlawed, his uncle robbed and his friends beaten in retaliation. The tail of his horse was even hacked off. Things got out of hand and the son of an English knight was killed, stabbed by William with his own knife. William was caught and imprisoned, but after weeks of torture he escaped.
‘After this he went into hiding, along with the friends who had defended him. But even with a price on his head, he would go disguised into Lanark, courting danger because of his uncommon size. He had a young wife there, you see, the heiress of a wealthy Lanark man, whom he’d fallen for and wed the year before. William will not speak of Marion now and his companions keep silent, but I know that by spring she bore him a child. One day, Hesilrig’s men caught him venturing into the town to visit her and his newborn daughter. William, outnumbered, was forced to barricade himself in Marion’s house. When Hesilrig came and demanded entry, William escaped, while Marion spoke with the sheriff to delay him.
‘As I heard it, the sheriff, on discovering her deception, shut her and her child up inside the house and had his men set fire to it. Whatever the details, Marion and her daughter died that day and William was crazed with grief. That night he returned to the town and fought his way through the English guards to get to Hesilrig. He murdered the sheriff in his bed.’ James drained his wine. ‘They say Hesilrig wasn’t recognisable as a man by the time William was done with him. After that there was no going back. William and his companions set out to continue the violence. They started by assaulting English companies on the road and setting fire to garrisons. When other men, dispossessed by Cressingham’s taxes, joined them, they began attacking more officials. It didn’t take much for William’s personal crusade to become an insurrection.’ After a moment of silence, James rose and faced Robert. ‘Outlaw and murderer he may be, but he has a gift for leadership as well as for violence and we cannot deny his authority here. The men who follow him would not follow us. William Wallace has achieved something few of us would have managed. He has brought together men from all parts of this kingdom, from beggars to lords. These men have no obligation to him and he has neither pressed nor paid them. They stay with him out of loyalty, because he has bled and suffered as they have.’
Robert had known nothing of this: these struggles lesser men had faced through the occupation. It made him think of the people of Carrick. Had some of them suffered the woes of Wallace? He felt guilt, a familiar weight these days. James knew so much about his vassals. He himself hadn’t even been aware of any difficulties the men and women of Carrick had been facing until Affraig confronted him. In his efforts to remain true to oaths he had taken, he had broken so many others. ‘I want to make amends,’ he said suddenly. ‘I know I have no reason to expect your trust, but in memory of your friendship with my grandfather, I’m asking that you let me earn it. I can be of help here. I will be the first earl openly to declare my support for the uprising, but, more than that, I know the English and I know their king. They might listen to me in any negotiations we may offer.’
James appraised him for a long moment. ‘Yes. I believe you can be of help.’ His scrutiny seemed to lessen and he motioned to the tent flaps. ‘Come, settle in with your men. I will speak to William. He may be leading this army, but he will listen to my counsel.’ The steward paused in the entrance. ‘For what it is worth, Robert, I realise it cannot have been easy for you under your father’s command these past years. I know the Lord of Annandale hoped to gain the throne after King John’s imprisonment. I know, too, that it wasn’t his to be claimed.’
As Robert headed out of the tent the high steward watched him go. He saw the relief in the faces of the young earl’s retinue, some distance away. The tight group hadn’t touched the food they had been given, clearly waiting for Robert to return to them.
A large shadow loomed out of the dusk and Wishart appeared in the entrance. James stood aside to allow him to enter.
‘Well?’ asked the bishop.
‘I think we should let him stay, your grace,’ answered James, moving back into the warmth of the interior.
‘Master William could be right,’ growled Wishart, following. ‘He could have been sent here as a spy.’
‘It is possible. But I do not believe it to be the case.’
‘I know you respected his grandfather, James, as did I, but blood does not make a man worthy. Look at his father.’
James turned away, closing his eyes in thought. ‘He was right though, wasn’t he,’ he murmured. ‘We supported his grandfather’s claim over Balliol’s.’ He looked back when Wishart didn’t respond. ‘And now we fight in the name of a king we never wanted.’
‘Whatever our personal misgivings, you and I both swore an oath to John Balliol in the sight of God.’
James thought about saying something further, but he didn’t. It wasn’t the time for such a discussion. Instead, he offered the bishop some wine. ‘Will you support my decision to allow him to stay?’
Wishart accepted the drink from the steward’s servant. ‘With one condition,’ he said, taking a draught. ‘We keep the plan from him.’
‘He could be of more help if he were told of it.’
Wishart was adamant. ‘No. Not until we know for certain he can be trusted.’ The bishop drained the wine with a tilt of his head. ‘We’ll know that soon enough. Our scouts say the English are approaching along the Nithsdale valley. Percy and Clifford will arrive any day.’
51
The day was cooled by a strong wind, the grass in the fields shivering in great silvery waves. On the banks of Irvine’s river, the trees surged. Beyond the waterway, the wide track that led to the port was crowded with a host of men, their banners livid against the sullen sky.
Robert stood in silence, his eyes moving over the cavalry to the slow-marching ranks of infantry that followed behind, visible due to the level of the land. Estimating there to be several hundred horsed and triple the number of foot, he returned his gaze to the front lines where two standards were hoisted high. He lingered on the blue lion on gold of the house of Percy, growing clearer.
When told it was Henry Percy and Robert Clifford who were headed for the port, Robert hadn’t been surprised. Percy had been granted governorship of Galloway and Ayr and, with Bishop Bek gone and the Sheriff of Lanark dead, he had become the chief English commander in the west of Scotland. Coupled with the fact that Percy could raise levies quickly from his nearby Yorkshire estates, this made him the most likely man Cressingham would send to confront the rebels. Despite his apprehension at the prospect of meeting his former comrades, Robert had been privately confident that they would at least listen to him. He had fought alongside them, faced death with them, been embraced as one of their own. They had counted him as a brother.
Now, with the formidable army approaching, his optimism faded.
Beside Robert the Bishop of Glasgow stood, his legs apart, hands clasped behind his back, rooted like some obstinate plant. The steward was to the left, his expression impenetrable. With them were the truculent Lord of Douglas and William Wallace, towering over them all. Wallace’s stance was the most relaxed, but his blue eyes betrayed a fiery impatience. Strapped to his back was a massive sword. The scar
red, naked blade was five feet long and the leather-bound hilt above the cross-guard another foot. With him were two of his commanders. One was the bald man, whom Robert had since learned was Wallace’s cousin. The man, Adam, still wore the incongruous fur cloak, apparently a trophy he’d taken from the hall of the justiciar at Scone.
The vanguard of the English host moved off the track and into the field, their horses cutting lines through the long grass. They spread out as they came, revealing to the waiting Scots the rows of cavalry behind. All were mounted on barded destriers, lances up-thrust from mailed fists. The foot soldiers from the northern counties of England who tramped behind the knights seemed equally matched by Wallace’s army, but in terms of cavalry the Scots were vastly outnumbered. If a battle was to be fought here, Robert knew, with mounting unease, that they would lose.
At the call of a horn, the English host came to a halt, their horses shifting and settling. A small group broke away and spurred their destriers towards the Scots. Even without the distinctive banner, Robert would have known Henry Percy by his seat. The Lord of Alnwick, whose lance was borne by his squire, had one hand on the reins, the other resting on his thigh, his stocky frame moving languidly with the horse’s rhythm. A great helm adorned with three snowy swan’s feathers covered his head, but he wore the visor up, revealing a red face, fleshier these days, and a mouth curled in contempt.
As the group came to a stop, they didn’t dismount but remained in their saddles, looking down on the Scots. Percy’s war charger stamped and snorted. The lord’s gaze moved over them, lingering on Wallace, then settling on Robert.
Robert felt himself coil tight under that threatening stare, but he met Percy’s gaze determinedly.
