by Robyn Young
The Forest was verdant with new growth as Robert and his company rode through the trees. Pines, twice as broad as a man, soared up into tiers of cloud-like branches. The ground was layered with needles and cones that crackled underfoot. People said the tangled fastness of Selkirk was but a remnant of an ancient forest that once covered the kingdom. Even so, it was still vast and unknowable, full of shadows and glades. It was the perfect base for an army that wanted to stay hidden and Robert was certain, if he hadn’t been told what markers to look for, he and his men would have been lost within a day.
‘There’s another one,’ said Edward, shifting in his saddle and pointing to a gnarled trunk on which was painted a white circle with a cross inside. ‘We must be getting closer. That’s the fourth we’ve seen this morning.’
Robert’s gaze moved past the daubed trunk to where the trees opened out into a clearing. He could hear the rush of water. ‘Tell the others,’ he said, turning to Christopher Seton who rode close behind, ‘we’ll take a rest, then push on through the afternoon. I want to reach the camp before nightfall.’
The squire nodded, but as he steered his horse away Robert sensed his apprehension. He understood why. The young man, born and raised in Yorkshire, was about to enter the base of an army whose intent it was to rid their lands of the English for good. Robert had assured the squire that he was under his protection, but in truth he couldn’t guarantee Christopher’s safety, or anyone else’s. As the squire relayed the orders to the rest of the company, fanned out among the trees, Robert urged his palfrey into the clearing. There was a broad stream on the far side of the glade, running swift over smooth, brown stones. The banks were shallow enough to let the horses drink.
Robert dismounted as the others threaded their way through the trees. With the forty knights and squires he had raised from Carrick were sixty-seven men under the commands of Mar and Atholl. Christian had accompanied Gartnait and John’s wife rode with him, along with their sixteen-year-old son, David, who was the mirror of his father. Saddle-stiff and weary, the knights pulled wine skins and salted meat from packs as the squires saw to the horses.
Taking the offered hand of one of Robert’s knights, Katherine slid down from her mare. Offering the young man a beguiling smile, she brushed the dust from her skirts, while Judith lifted Marjorie out of her seat. Motioning for one of the servants to take her horse to the river, Katherine stretched. ‘Bring me something to eat,’ she called to Judith, ‘after you’ve fed Marjorie.’
The girl had become as much her maid as Marjorie’s wet nurse these past months, Robert had noticed. The other women, Christian and John’s wife, who had handmaids of their own, kept their distance from the two. Christian, especially, was cool towards Katherine. Whatever the reason, Robert had neither the time nor desire to root it out. He was tired of politics and the games being played. These men and women all had their own designs, even as they followed him in his. Gartnait, he knew, wasn’t fully behind his decision to go for the throne, still advising him to reach a truce with the English. John of Atholl supported him wholeheartedly, but was wary of the Setons who had remained at Robert’s side since leaving Irvine. For their part, Alexander and Christopher guarded their place as his trusted commanders zealously. Only Edward seemed able to stand comfortably between them all.
Moving off through the trees, Robert went to stretch his legs alone. The Forest, close around them for days, was becoming claustrophobic and the tensions in his company had increased the deeper in they went. It wasn’t just Christopher who was uneasy. John and Alexander had both been troubled by the summons, which had borne the seal of William Wallace, wondering why, after so many months without contact, the rebel wanted Robert to attend the council. It was a risk, certainly. He had no idea what reception he might get. But there were constant rumours of English retaliation; of a great army being assembled for a fresh invasion, and Robert needed to know what was coming.
A little way downriver, he crouched on the bank. As he bent over the water, his reflection swirled beneath him. He hadn’t shaved for days and a beard had grown dark and full around his jaw. His eyes were shadowed beneath an unruly fringe of hair. Perhaps he had been wrong to come here? Perhaps it showed weakness: his willingness to accept the summons of a rebel? Robert dipped his hands into the cold water and his image disappeared. Cupping his palms, he splashed his face. As the water ran down his cheeks, another image rippled into being. A woman stood behind him, her body shifting in the currents. He rose quickly to see Katherine standing there. The rush of the river had concealed her footsteps.
She smiled. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’ As he wiped his face with his hands, she stepped towards him. ‘Here, let me.’ Gathering up one of her sleeves, she dabbed at his brow.
The wine-red gown had long, fluted sleeves. She had been wearing it when she met him at Turnberry’s gates five days ago. Girdled with a belt of silver rings it would have been fit for a countess, had the bodice not been cut so tightly across her chest. Robert caught Katherine’s wrist, suddenly annoyed. ‘Why do you wear this?’
Her eyes widened at his tone. ‘Do you not like it?’
‘I don’t like the way my men look at you.’
Katherine laughed and cradled his cheek with her hand. ‘Then I shall not wear it again.’
Robert slipped his hand from around her wrist to thread his icy fingers through hers. ‘Keep the gown.’ He exhaled. ‘I’m just tired.’ Away through the trees he could hear his men talking. His head was pounding, the water drying cold on his cheeks.
She slid her hands around his neck and pressed herself against him. ‘I am yours alone, my love.’
‘Katherine,’ he murmured warningly.
She glanced over her shoulder. ‘They cannot see us.’ She looked back at him coquettishly, rising on to her toes until her mouth was almost touching his. ‘You’re like a wounded boar,’ she said, her voice low, teasing. ‘So irritable.’ She kissed his lips and grinned. ‘And you need a shave.’
Robert closed his mouth over hers, pushing her up against the trunk of a tree. Her hands grasped his neck as she kissed him back fiercely.
At the sound of a man clearing his throat, Robert pulled away to see Alexander approaching.
Katherine tossed her hair over her shoulder. ‘Sir Alexander! How fortunate Robert is to have someone watching his back.’ She laughed. The sound was brittle. ‘Indeed, it seems everywhere he goes you are there. Watching.’
‘The Forest has many dangers,’ responded Alexander, looking her in the eye.
Katherine was the first to look away. ‘I will see to your daughter, Robert.’ Hitching her skirts, she stepped through the long grass.
Alexander waited until she had gone. ‘We should talk.’
Robert let out a rough breath. ‘I’ve told you. She is not your concern.’
‘I meant about the camp. About what we’re walking into.’ Alexander paused. ‘But, in truth, my friend, she is part of that discussion. You haven’t yet announced your intention to anyone outside our circle, which I feel is wise, but there will come a time when you must stand before the men of the realm and make your claim. How can you expect the magnates to take your bid seriously when you do not?’
‘You do not think I take it seriously? With all I have done these past months, all you have helped me do? I’m risking my life and the lives of my family to make my claim!’
‘Will Katherine be your wife? Your queen?’
Robert turned away. ‘Of course not.’
‘Then don’t take a maid as your consort.’ Alexander moved round, forcing Robert to look at him. ‘The others do not speak to you of it, but they all see how she has elevated herself far beyond what she should. She has clawed her way up from a maid to a lady and you have let her.’
Robert went to the river’s edge and stared into the green haze of trees on the other side. On the road to Douglasdale, Katherine had become a distraction; a vessel into which he had poured his doubts. Each morning he had woken,
filling up with the day’s concerns. Each night, he had released his frustrations into her. He had always known, since Isobel’s passing, that one day he would have to seek another bride, a bride of high standing who could provide him with a son. He had known this, but had kept on pushing it from his mind, despite the fact that the issue had never been more pressing. He had told himself he’d had no time; that there were more important things to concern himself with. This was true, but it wasn’t the real reason for his inaction. The reason he hadn’t given any thought to finding a wife was that Katherine wasn’t just a distraction any more. She had become one of the only constants in his fast-changing life. She rarely asked him for anything and her only desire, when with him, was to please him. ‘I need her, Alexander,’ he said quietly. ‘Right now, I need her.’
‘I understand you want a woman to warm your bed,’ replied Alexander, moving in behind him. ‘I understand that as well as any man. But there are other things to consider here. Do you not see how it affronts Earl Gartnait? Or Earl John’s wife? Lady Isobel was their sister. You have made her servant the mother of her child. Robert, she wears Isobel’s clothes. They are your supporters. We need them.’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘I wonder in part if Gartnait’s reluctance to support your bid fully is down to Katherine.’
As Robert shook his head and went to challenge him, his eyes caught movement on the other side of the river. A figure was rising from the undergrowth, dressed all in green, a bow primed in his hands. Robert lunged at Alexander, forcing him down. The two of them hit the ground hard as an arrow thumped into a tree behind.
Alexander struggled to fight Robert off, then went still as a voice rang out.
‘That shot was a warning. The next will be fatal unless you state your business.’ The man had fixed another arrow in his bow.
Robert got to his feet. Offering his hand to Alexander, but keeping his eyes on the archer, he helped his comrade up. ‘I’ve come to meet with William Wallace. I am Sir Robert Bruce.’
Other men were moving out of the undergrowth on the other side of the river. All carried bows and were clad in green and brown. Behind came calls of alarm as Robert’s men, alerted to the danger, hastened through the trees. Edward and Christopher were at the front, closely followed by John of Atholl. Robert halted them with a shout, looking back at the figures on the bank, who had all raised their bows. ‘We mean no harm here. Wallace is expecting us.’
The man who had first spoken lowered his bow slowly. ‘Gather your people,’ he said, after a pause. ‘We will lead you from here.’
59
Three hours later, as evening’s gloom was deepening, Robert and his men were led into the rebels’ camp. The light-footed archers had guided them unerringly through the failing light. Passing more of the white markers, they had encountered five other armed patrols since crossing the river. These groups had conferred with the archers in low tones, all the while eyeing Robert and his company.
Ahead, through the woods, came the murmur of many voices, punctuated by the barking of dogs and the sounds of horses. The air was murky with wood-smoke. Between the trees, men stood talking around fires, or moved purposefully on errands. They wore an assortment of garments, from the hukes and wooden clogs of peasants to the thigh-length tunics worn by Highlanders and the mail hauberks of knights. Some stopped what they were doing to stare as Robert’s company passed through their midst.
There were shelters formed from branches leaning up against trees and cloth canopies stretched from trunk to trunk, with blankets laid out on the mossy ground beneath. Men rested there, some of them injured. Robert saw a priest, his tonsured head bowed, kneeling beside a man whose leg had been severed at the knee, swaddled in a bloodstained cloth. Following their escort alongside a broad river where women washed clothes and children played in the shingle, Robert saw two large circles of men, all of whom were gripping long spears, pointing outwards. They seemed to be practising some manoeuvre, the front rows dropping to their knees at a shout from one, spears thrusting forward. Beyond was a clearing filled with tents.
Heading away from the spearmen, they entered the glade. Stumps of oak and alder showed where trees had been hacked down to make more room. There was a fire in the centre, around which the twenty or so tents were erected, along with carts piled with supplies. On one was a glittering array of silver plates, candlesticks, furs and chests – plunder, perhaps from Wallace’s raids on northern England. However much Robert had kept himself at a distance from the rebels, he hadn’t failed to hear of the outlaw’s achievements, rumour of which had surged through the kingdom.
Everywhere, after the battle at Stirling, men spoke in awed tones of the young hero who had led a peasant army to victory against English knights, who had rid them of the hated treasurer, Cressingham, and who chased the mighty Earl of Surrey all the way to the Borders. The shepherds, drovers and hunters who formed Wallace’s band soon swelled to include many freemen: burgesses, knights and squires, even lords. With the death of Andrew Moray, who passed soon after the battle, Wallace had become the sole leader of the rebellion and, his men still drunk on the blood spilled at Stirling, the fierce young Scot had led his army into England.
Early in the autumn they swept over the border into Northumberland to visit horrors upon the people of the north. Crops were ruined, livestock slaughtered, men and women put to the sword. Some said the violence was so excessive Wallace and his commanders were forced to hang some of their own men for offences too depraved to go unpunished. Whatever the truth of this, the people of Northumberland fled south in their thousands, leaving homes and chapels, schools and pastures burning on the horizon. It was only in midwinter, when the snows came, that the marauders crossed back over the Tweed. By then, Wallace had a new name. William the Conqueror.
As Robert dismounted in the clearing, he caught sight of the rebel leader near the wagon of plunder. Wallace stood head and shoulders above the men around him, nobles by their apparel. He looked out of place in the plain woollen tunic he wore over his armour, in the midst of their fine cloaks, decorated scabbards and polished mail. The group was talking intently, but as one of the archers crossed to Wallace, the man’s eyes shifted to Robert. Wallace appraised him, his expression cool, before nodding to the archer and turning away to speak to a bald-headed man Robert recognised as his cousin, Adam. He felt a stab of anger as Wallace moved off without any greeting, just as a familiar figure emerged from the crowd.
James Stewart crossed to him. ‘Sir Robert.’
Robert greeted the steward distractedly, his gaze lingering on Wallace.
As Robert’s men began to dismount, James motioned for him to follow out of earshot. ‘I fear we parted on bad terms at Irvine. I hope you know that I would never have sanctioned the proposal Henry Percy made to take your daughter as a hostage.’
Robert saw no lie in the steward’s face. ‘For my part, I am sorry for the way things went.’
‘That is past. I am glad you have come, Robert.’ James seemed on the brink of saying something further when a large figure interrupted them. It was the Bishop of Glasgow.
‘Sir Robert,’ Wishart greeted curtly.
‘I heard you were imprisoned, your grace,’ said Robert, surprised and wary to see him.
‘I was for a time, but I appealed to Archbishop Winchelsea for my release and, God be praised, he granted it. I doubt I would have been so blessed had Edward been present, but the king was in Flanders and his court in disarray. The Archbishop of Canterbury felt my imprisonment was an infringement of Church liberties.’
‘And Lord Douglas?’
The steward and the bishop exchanged a look.
‘Lord Douglas was taken into custody in the Tower,’ said Wishart. ‘I heard a rumour before I left London that he died there. That rumour has since proven to be true. Robert Clifford has been given his lands.’
Robert thought of the Lady Douglas and her bold young son, James.
‘Another of God’s fallen warriors,’ Wishart went on
gruffly. ‘Still, the rebellion continues, despite our loss. We have learned of your successes in the west – the liberation of Ayr and Irvine.’
It sounded like praise, but it was difficult to tell from the bishop’s hard tone. ‘It was a small victory,’ admitted Robert, ‘in comparison to Wallace’s achievements.’
Wishart grunted in agreement. ‘Well, indeed, Master William is the reason we have gathered here. He is greatly deserving of the accolade that will be conferred upon him tomorrow.’
‘Accolade?’ questioned Robert, glancing at James.
‘His election as guardian of Scotland,’ replied the bishop.
Robert stared at him.
‘Until the throne is occupied again,’ James cut in.
‘Scotland needs a defender, more than it needs a king,’ responded Wishart, giving James a meaningful look. ‘William Wallace will be made guardian of the realm on the morrow and, God willing, will lead us to victory. King Edward is known to be gathering a vast army. Soon, a day of reckoning will be upon us all.’
With confirmation that war was coming, Robert’s thoughts filled with the question of what Wallace’s election meant for his own intentions. Before he could ascertain anything more, his brother came up.
‘We have company,’ said Edward tightly, nodding through the trees.
Robert turned to see another group entering the clearing. He recognised the two men at the front immediately. One was in his mid-fifties with coarse grizzled hair, the other was closer to his own age. Both had lean, pale faces and were dressed in black, their red shields decorated with three white sheaves of wheat. Robert stared at them, years of hostility bubbling to the surface. ‘I was told the Red Comyn and his son were captured at Dunbar,’ he murmured.
