by Robyn Young
Wishart was first to speak. ‘Good day to you. I am Robert Wishart, by God’s grace Bishop of Glasgow and former guardian of Scotland. I will treat with you, along with my noble comrades.’ He introduced the others.
Percy didn’t take his eyes off Robert. ‘I heard it said you had betrayed your king. Oath-breaker.’ Before Robert could respond, Percy turned on the bishop. ‘Noble comrades? I see a clergyman, three traitors and an outlaw.’
Lord Douglas growled an obscenity, but Wishart stepped in swiftly. ‘We are here to parley as men, not to swap insults like schoolboys.’
Clifford, whose eyes had also lingered on Robert, responded. ‘Our orders are to arrest any who have disturbed the king’s peace and raised arms against him.’ Clifford pointed a mailed finger at Wallace, who met his gaze unerringly. ‘This man has a price on his head. All of you have forfeited your lands by the breaking of the fealty you swore to the king. There will be no parley. You will surrender yourselves to our authority, or we will respond in force.’
Robert braced himself for a stout denial and a statement of angry defiance from Wishart.
Instead, the bishop met Clifford’s gaze calmly. ‘There is no need for that, Lord Clifford. We will surrender.’
Robert pushed his way through the tent flaps behind the steward. The tent’s sides undulated, buffeted by the wind. ‘Did you know the bishop was going to do this? Why in God’s name would you go along with it?’
James’s eyes narrowed at his rough tone.
‘I thought we were going to make a stand? I thought that’s what you came to Irvine for? In defying my father’s order, by declaring my support for the uprising, I risked everything! My lands, my family. For what?’ Robert wheeled away. ‘I didn’t come here to yield to their demands at the first parley.’
‘Doughty men we may be, but we are poorly equipped to face the English on the field. You know that as well as I do. Better, I would wager. You fought with them in Wales. You must know their strength. Tell me, can an army of ill-disciplined foot soldiers beat English heavy cavalry in battle?’
Robert didn’t answer. There was no point. The steward was simply stating what he himself had known watching the English ride on to the field. ‘We needn’t have faced them in battle. We could have negotiated. I could have spoken to Percy, offered him terms to take to the king. At the very least we could have bought ourselves more time. I could have fortified Carrick. Now . . .’ He cursed and stalked the tent, his voice rising. ‘I have no time to raise my vassals for its defence!’
‘Could you have negotiated?’ asked James, watching him pace like a caged lion. ‘Would they have listened? Percy’s enmity towards you was clear.’
Robert sat heavily on a stool, wondering if he had been a fool to come here. He should have seen that his betrayal of the king was greater than any other man’s. Far from being some sort of a bridge between the two sides, his presence might have made matters worse. He wondered if he should have gone to Edward himself, implored the king to listen, but even as he thought it he realised how laughable that was. Not even the king’s closest advisers could persuade him to do something he did not wish to do. ‘I cannot believe Wallace went along with this,’ he said, thinking of the acceptance in the rebel’s face when Wishart delivered the blow.
For their part, Percy and Clifford had appeared as surprised as he’d felt when the bishop offered the surrender, but before they had been able to give any answer, Wishart had suggested they return on the morrow to discuss terms. He had proposed a site for their encampment, a mile distant. Rather grudgingly, having lost some of their impetus with the enemy’s instant capitulation, the English lords had acquiesced.
Robert stared at James, caught by the thought of Wallace’s calm reaction. ‘After all you told me I would have thought Wallace would rather die with a sword in his hand, than give in to the English without a struggle.’ As the steward looked away, Robert rose. There had been something in his expression, some flicker of awareness. ‘Sir James?’
The steward turned to him. For a moment his face remained impassive, before a look of resignation set in. ‘I was asked to keep it from you.’
‘What?’ Robert demanded, moving in front of him.
‘Our plan. Wishart and Wallace contrived it some weeks ago. They hoped to draw here the force they knew King Edward would send to quell the uprising. Irvine is close enough to Galloway and Ayr to ensure Percy would discover our intent to make a stand, but far enough away from the east coast and our key strongholds.’
‘Far enough for what?’
‘Robert Wishart intends to entrench them in negotiations for our surrender, so William can continue his campaign in the east. He and his men were the bait that drew the English. Now, we will hold them here while Wallace slips away to finish what he started. He plans to join up with the rest of his men in Selkirk Forest and from there meet Moray’s forces in the north. The aim is to take enough strongholds so that when Cressingham manages to launch any offensive from Berwick we will be able to counter him effectively.’
‘How will Wallace slip away? Won’t the English see him leave?’
‘Our camp is large enough to offer the ruse of being fully occupied. Wishart has arranged to meet the English at their encampment for the negotiations and William wouldn’t be expected to be part of them.’
Robert was stunned. He tried to think through what this meant for him, but the steward was speaking still.
‘I will inform Wishart I have told you. We couldn’t have kept it from you indefinitely. Besides, Percy’s reaction has, to my mind, proven your innocence. It would be hard for a man to pretend such hatred as I saw in him.’ James paused. ‘You will need to be careful, Robert.’
52
The wind had died down through the afternoon, leaving an airless calm. Over the past hour a bank of thunderheads had built in the west. In the brooding light, Robert and his retinue sat in silence eating their meal, an unappetising sludge of porridge mixed with bitter berries. The servants and two of the Carrick squires were busy erecting the last of the tents, creating a small camp within the sprawl of Wallace’s army. Over this camp was raised the standard of Carrick. Robert had pondered the wisdom of displaying it, but in the end had decided to assert his presence rather than try to hide it. A group of peasants were seated around a nearby fire, their spears on the ground beside them by the rough woollen cloaks that formed their beds. They were eyeing the furs, pillows and blankets being offloaded from the wagon and placed inside the striped tents.
Robert pushed his spoon around the grey mush in the bowl his steward had handed to him. Hunger, earlier an ache in his stomach, clogged in his throat. He glanced up as Christopher rifled through his pack and drew out a slender flute. It was the Yorkshire squire’s most beloved possession, bought by his father in Castile. He had proven himself adept at the instrument, cheering the sombre company on many dull nights on the road. As he set the flute to his lips and blew a few practice notes, its hollow timbre echoed in the evening. Uathach, curled by the fire, lifted her head and whined. Earlier, Robert had spoken quietly to the squire and Alexander about the high steward’s confession of the plan concocted by Wishart and Wallace. Alexander had been doubtful about how effective the ruse would prove and both he and Christopher had been troubled that it had been kept from Robert, despite the fact the Scots had invited him to be part of the company that met Percy and Clifford.
‘It sounds like an assessment of your loyalty,’ Alexander had ventured. ‘They wanted you there to see how the English would respond.’
Robert understood their concern. The two men, particularly Alexander, stood to lose much by this dangerous course. Inwardly, he had tried to deny responsibility for that: they could have chosen to return to Annandale with Gillepatric and the rest, after all. But the truth of it was that by offering them a place in his company, by making them his men, he had made himself responsible.
As he sat staring into the bowl, the notes of the flute washing over him, all th
e tracks his mind took him down, all possible paths seemed to lead to nothing. The Scots did not want him here, did not trust him. He didn’t need Alexander to tell him that. Even if Wallace and his men won through and King John was restored he, a Bruce, would not find succour in Balliol’s kingdom. The English knights clearly hated him for his desertion and his father no doubt detested him.
Out of the corner of his eye, Robert saw his daughter toddling towards him, her tiny arms stretched out, wavering for balance. Marjorie’s smile was like a glimpse of sun, brightening his view. He found himself mirroring it and held out a hand towards her. Before she reached him she fell, sitting back with a thump. Her smile vanished and she began to cry. Christopher paused his playing at the sound. Immediately, Judith set down her bowl and snatched her up. Marjorie struggled and wailed louder, her fists stretching towards Robert, whose smile faded as he withdrew into his thoughts. Ignoring the child’s protests, Judith ducked inside the small tent she shared with Katherine, her free hand already tugging her shift down for the feed. Marjorie’s wails quietened as the others finished off the meal. Sucking the last of the porridge from his spoon, Nes rose and headed to their horses, tethered nearby. Crouching, he took a grooming brush from one of their packs and began brushing Hunter’s coat. He hummed the tune Christopher had been playing as he worked. Katherine went over, wrinkling her nose at the smell of the horses.
‘Nes, you need to mend Marjorie’s saddle seat when you’re done. It has a splinter in the back, as I told you yesterday.’
Robert saw Alexander glance over at her. There was a look of something in the lord’s face, anger, he thought, before his attention was captured by a group of men, their voices loud over the general murmur of the camp. One was Adam. Wallace’s cousin shot him a hostile glance as he passed by.
After they had gone Robert set down his meal untouched and crossed to his tent. Inside, the servants had spread a thick rug across the ground to carpet it. The chests of his clothes and belongings were neatly stacked in one area and several layers of furs and blankets formed a comfortable bed. On one chest was placed a silver tray with a glazed jug of wine and a goblet beside it. A lantern, strung from a hook above, gleamed. Sitting on the furs, Robert pulled off his boots. His head ached from the questions that churned endlessly in his mind. Early tomorrow, before the parley with Percy and Clifford, he would go down to the river with Alexander and loosen his muscles with some sword play, try to clear his thoughts.
A whiff of smoke entered the tent behind him and he glanced round to see Katherine ducking in. She said nothing. Neither did he, but continued easing off his boot as she knelt behind him. His movements slowed when she laid her hands on his back. His shirt felt clammy against his skin as she kneaded her fingers into his locked muscles, working them. He closed his eyes, feeling the pressure ease a little. After a time, she bent forward, her breasts pressing lightly against his shoulder blades. Brushing aside his sweat-damp hair, she kissed his neck. Her lips were dry from the sun and whispered over his flesh, sending a shudder down his spine. The clouds in his mind cleared until there was only the immediacy of her, the air thick with the smell of her, an earthy fusion of wood-smoke, sweat and berries.
She slipped around him until she was facing him on her knees. He pushed off the coif she wore, her hair tumbling over his forearms. Closing his eyes, he slid his hands down her back and, pulling her in, sought her mouth with his. Her hands grasped his stubble-rough jaw, her tongue, first teasing and darting, now pushing into his open mouth.
He dragged down one shoulder of his wife’s old gown, but the garment would go no further and he reached round to wrestle with the lacing. As he opened his eyes to see better what he was doing Robert saw that Katherine’s were fixed on him, holding him in her stare. Picking the knot free, he splayed the gown’s lacing apart with his fingers until the dress was loosened enough for him to pull it down. She struggled her arms free, helping him push the garment to her waist, baring her chest. He appraised her as she shook her mass of dark hair back over her shoulders, giving him a full look. Then, his desire building to an unbearable level, he pressed her down on the furs. He didn’t want to think any more.
Shouts of alarm sounded outside, along with the panicked noises of horses. Robert pulled back from Katherine as the tent flaps opened and Alexander thrust his head in. The maid sat up, crossing her arms over her bare breasts and glaring at the knight. But he had no eyes for her, only for Robert, who had cursed and risen.
‘What in hell’s—?’
‘You need to see this.’
Leaving Katherine struggling with her dress, Robert followed Alexander out of the tent, his desire drained, replaced by hot anger. Christopher and Walter were there, swords out, staring into the gloom beyond their fire, along with Alexander’s knights and the squires. Nes and the steward were calming the horses and Judith was wide-eyed, holding Marjorie. Robert saw something protruding from the ground, close to his banner. It was an arrow. A few men from other tents were hastening over. Their voices echoed in the evening.
‘What was that?’
‘Are we under attack? Someone get Wallace!’
Robert bent down beside the missile. There was something attached to the middle of the shaft, a wad of parchment impaled on the arrow. ‘Did you see where it came from?’ he demanded, looking up at Alexander, who shook his head.
Robert stamped on it, snapping the shaft. Picking up the splintered arrow, he eased off the folded letter and opened it.
TRAITOR
The word was big and bold, smeared in some dark substance.
‘The English?’ murmured Alexander, reading it over his shoulder.
Robert stared into the dusk. The thunderheads had formed a black ridge across the sky, obscuring the stars. He shook his head, his face tight. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You should inform the high steward.’
‘No,’ Robert said sharply, looking at his comrade. ‘We look after ourselves.’ He threw the message on to the fire, ignoring the curious stares of the men who had come to see what the disturbance was. ‘Keep four men on watch tonight.’ As he headed back to the tent, Alexander followed.
‘There is something else, Robert,’ he said, out of earshot of the others. Alexander nodded to the tent, where Katherine’s form could be seen as a shadow inside. ‘Why not save your bed for a woman who is your equal, my friend, at least in front of noble allies?’
‘Who I share my bed with is no one’s concern but mine.’ Turning, Robert strode to the tent, the parchment shrivelling and twisting on the fire behind him.
53
As I have said, we are willing to surrender ourselves, but we cannot speak for all the men of the realm.’ The steward’s tone was resolute.
‘And, as we have said,’ countered Clifford, ‘that is unacceptable. Sir Hugh de Cressingham has ordered a full surrender from every man involved in this rebellion. He wants Lord Douglas and the outlaw, William Wallace, sent to the Tower, where they will be judged for crimes against the crown.’
Douglas’s mouth curled in derision. Snatching up his goblet, he drained it of the wine the menservants of the English lords had poured out.
‘Lord Steward, how many times must we go over this?’ Clifford’s face was flushed. The cloth canopy erected over the table around which the six men sat kept the sun off their heads, but couldn’t diminish the heat in the air, affecting all their tempers and causing perspiration to track glistening lines down their cheeks.
‘How can we speak for men other than ourselves?’ enquired Wishart, with a rough exhalation. ‘We could offer you a full surrender then stand in breach of our agreement if the uprising continued elsewhere.’
‘This has gone on long enough,’ growled Percy, planting his hands on the table. ‘We should arrest the men we have here,’ he told Clifford, ‘and let Sir Hugh and my grandfather deal with Moray and the rebels in the north. Which they will,’ he added, looking at James.
‘You could do that, Lord Percy,’ sai
d Wishart, before Clifford could answer, ‘but if you take us into your custody now, you will still be left with the problem of our army. You cannot arrest them all, surely?’ His tone was brusque with challenge, but his eyes glittered. He seemed to be enjoying this.
‘No,’ responded Percy coldly, ‘but we can cut them to pieces on the field. Unlike you, they will be shown no honour.’
‘Well, I doubt they would stand and face you on the field. Most likely they would slip away into the Forest and you would know nothing more of them until they rose somewhere else.’
Robert glanced at the bishop, uneasy at the dangerous game. The English must not discover that this was exactly what had happened. He hadn’t thought they would be able to keep up the pretence for so long, but the English camp was a mile from theirs and, he had to admit, from a distance the Scottish encampment gave the impression of being fully occupied. Wallace had left some of his men behind to aid the pretence and the tents remained erect. Douglas and the steward had a fair few in their retinues and these, along with a number of local men they had convinced to help them, gave, to the casual glance, no sense that anything had changed. Still, it would not do to give any hint of it, for the moment Percy and Clifford found out that Wallace and most of his men had left Irvine the week before, then they would all find themselves in irons on the way to the Tower.
James Stewart had also looked over at Wishart, his expression one of warning. ‘We have shown you every courtesy in these discussions,’ he said, turning his attention to the belligerent English knights. ‘There is no need for threats. The four of us have given you our word that we will surrender ourselves to the king’s mercy, but in order to prevent further violence we must remain here. The rebels will heed our counsel.’ He opened his palms in a show of sincerity. ‘It is in the best interests of us all.’
