Insurrection

by Robyn Young

  One half of the hold was stacked with rows of wooden crates, a narrow aisle between them. The other half formed the crew’s quarters, lined with blankets. There were twenty or so men down here, their sleeping forms illuminated by two lanterns swinging from a beam.

  ‘Search the place,’ said the captain, nodding to his soldiers.

  ‘And the crates, sir?’ asked one, frowning at the stacks.

  ‘Open six.’

  Pietro began to protest, but the English captain turned on him. ‘Your vessel has entered English waters and is subject to the authority of our king. We are at war. You could be delivering arms or funds to our Scottish enemies. It is our right to determine this before allowing you to continue to our shores.’

  Pietro only understood half of what the captain said, but understood the tone well enough to know it would be dangerous to argue. After a pause, he motioned for the soldiers to go ahead, watching as they moved in among the crates, selecting six from different parts of the stacks to open for inspection. He sensed Luca stiffen beside him. Other Englishmen were heading down to join them, having finished searching the upper deck. On the captain’s orders they began picking through the blankets in the sleeping quarters, waking the men and knocking on the hull of the vessel to check for hidden holds. The captain moved over as the others opened the lids of the crates, revealing soft sheets of paper, made from pulped linen. The captain rifled through them, lifting the sheets, each of which was decorated with a watermark.

  ‘Paper, sir,’ called one of the soldiers, from further in the hold. ‘They all contain paper.’

  The captain addressed the men searching the crew’s quarters. ‘Anything?’ When they shook their heads he turned to Pietro. ‘I’m satisfied.’ Gesturing for his men to follow, he climbed the stairs to the deck above.

  Pietro went with them. The sky was turning turquoise in the east.

  The English captain paused at the gunwales, his gaze on the black sail. ‘You will fly your colours from here. You have no need for secrecy now you have entered our waters.’ The man climbed across to the war galley, then boarded his vessel.

  Pietro watched him go. His tension ebbed slowly as his crew hauled up the anchors and the oarsmen dug into the water. It was only when the English vessel was small in the distance that he spoke quietly to one of his crewmen. ‘Tell Luca it is safe.’

  When the message was relayed, Luca, waiting in the hold, unhooked one of the lanterns from the beam above the crew’s quarters and moved into the stacks, counting off the crates until he came to the sixth on the right. It was next to one they had opened. Luca murmured a prayer as he worked the lid of the crate loose, setting it on the floor with the lantern. He pulled the stacks of paper out and laid them carefully on the lid. They went only a third of the way down the crate. Beneath was another wooden lid. As Luca grasped the ridges on the sides and eased the board out of the space, he heard the hiss of a man’s breath.

  ‘You are safe,’ Luca murmured. ‘We have passed the blockade.’

  From the hollow bottom half of the crate a wiry young man uncoiled, wincing with discomfort. His face was striking, with well-defined features framed by a fringe of dark hair beyond which was a tonsure, the bald crown gleaming with sweat in the lantern light. But it was his eyes that Luca found himself once again drawn to. One pupil was sky blue, sharp with scrutiny. The other was as white as a pearl, blind and staring.

  ‘When will we reach Scotland?’ The man’s voice was hoarse from the stuffy air, but there was a forcefulness behind it that demanded a prompt answer.

  ‘Seven days with a good wind, your grace.’

  65

  Through the last days of summer, Scotland mourned the loss of so many sons. In towns and settlements beyond the Forth, where the English had been unable to penetrate, the name Falkirk had become synonymous with grief and men and women would say a prayer at the utterance of it. But as August faded and a chill autumn approached, this sorrow had begun to harden inside them. They carried it within them, close to their hearts, a token of remembrance forged in fires of anguish that cooled to a steel resolve.

  At the start of the war and all through the English occupation there had been a sense among many that the conflict could yet be resolved and their king would be returned to them. That belief had reached its zenith after Stirling, when anything seemed possible under the leadership of William Wallace. Even those who said war could not be won on the battlefield believed councils and alliances could save them. For years England had been their neighbour and friend, the hostilities of the past forgotten by those who lived, the Roman wall that separated the two kingdoms a division from a distant time. With Falkirk more than a century of amity had been utterly destroyed. In place of an emperor’s crumbling barricade the Scots built another, invisible wall of adamant and grit, dug down deep in the soil of the Borders.

  In this time, while the survivors retreated into the Forest to recover and regroup, King Edward led his men back into England. The victory at Falkirk had come at a high price and it was a much diminished force that had limped in through the gates of Carlisle that autumn, disease and desertion doing their work on the hungry march from the ruins of Ayr. The king had destroyed the bulk of the Scottish army, but hadn’t succeeded in taking full control. The kingdom was split, the lands south of the Forth in English hands, the castles of Edinburgh, Roxburgh, Berwick and Stirling still held by the king’s men, while everything north of the great river was retained by the Scots. After fortifying his garrisons and making Earl Patrick of Dunbar the guardian of southern Scotland, Edward returned to his seat of government at York to plan his next campaign.

  Their voices were harsh in the glade. Within the circle of men, fists were clenched and lifted, faces flushed with anger and frustration. Some of them bore scars from battle, scraps of clothing and dirty rags covering seeping wounds. Many more were marked with exhaustion from weeks travelling through the wild, or hiding in the woods, living hand to mouth. At the turbulent centre of the assembled crowd were the steward and the Bishop of Glasgow, William Wallace and Robert Bruce. All had come together to decide the future of their kingdom. It was a future none of them seemed able to agree on.

  ‘No one can deny what Sir William has achieved. No lord or baron – nay, bishop, has done so much for this kingdom!’ Wishart’s fierce tones blasted over the others. ‘He has the right to remain as guardian of Scotland!’

  Several men began speaking in answer.

  James Stewart was the loudest. ‘No one is denying that, your grace, but our circumstances have changed and I believe we must look to a new direction.’

  John of Atholl and Alexander Seton were quick to concur.

  Earl Malcolm of Lennox, standing with his black-clad knights, added his opinion. ‘After the death of King Alexander we had six guardians. A similar balance of power would surely be more reasonable than the rule of one man?’

  ‘The Council of Twelve was a balance of power,’ answered Gilbert de la Hay. ‘That did little for us in the end.’

  Neil Campbell, like Hay a staunch ally of Wallace, added a forceful agreement.

  Robert looked over at William Wallace, standing in the midst of the heated crowd. His muscled arms, bared to the shoulder, were riddled with injuries sustained at Falkirk. One scar carved a jagged red line down his face, from brow to lip, a glancing blow perhaps from a blade. Robert thought the young man looked weary; a weariness beyond that of the body, more that of the heart.

  ‘This is not the time to change our leader,’ growled Gray, another of Wallace’s commanders. ‘We need to gather our strength, not divide it. The English will return to finish what they started. We must be ready for them.’

  ‘I say we send a delegation to petition the papal curia, asking for the support of Rome,’ said Gartnait of Mar. ‘That delegation should show that we are still in control of our kingdom, that we stand united against the tyranny of King Edward. I say the steward is right. Let us elect other men to stand alongside Sir William.�
�� He gestured to James and Wishart. ‘Perhaps the steward, and you, your grace? You have the most experience of any here. His Holiness would listen to your words of reason.’

  James raised his hands as calls of approval sounded. ‘I personally think it is time for new blood.’ He looked over at Robert, but before he could say anything further, a surly-looking man with an ugly stump where his right hand should be spoke up.

  ‘Sir William sacrificed everything to lead us to war! He lost his cousin and many dear to him at Falkirk. Why? Because the nobles fled the field and left us to die! These men cannot speak for us!’

  There was an ominous rumble of agreement from many on the periphery, soldiers all.

  ‘You lost this war, not us!’ ranted the surly man, encouraged by the response. ‘Now you want to punish us for your own cowardice?’

  James Stewart rounded on him. ‘Enough! We all lost kin and comrades.’ The steward’s words were raw with the loss of his brother John. ‘No one man holds dominion over grief here.’

  Into the belligerent silence that followed, one voice rose.

  ‘I have made my decision.’

  The crowd’s attention turned to William Wallace, those on the fringes of the assembly craning heads to see him.

  ‘The greater part of our army has been destroyed. If a campaign was launched tomorrow, we could not stand against the English. We need to recover our strength.’ Wallace’s blue eyes moved over them. He lingered on Robert. ‘Sir Gartnait is right. It is time to seek the aid of others if our struggle is to continue. I will stand down as guardian of Scotland and go to France. We must not allow King Philippe to forget our alliance, whatever pact he makes with England. From Paris, I will travel to Rome and petition the pope personally.’ Turning, he strode out of the circle, men falling back to allow him to pass. For a moment, a hush descended, then a host of voices broke out at once, some appealing to Wallace to reconsider, the rest trying to make themselves heard.

  In the confusion, Robert pressed his way out of the seething crowd. Wallace was ahead, his stride taking him away through the trees. For the past few days since his arrival in the Forest, Robert had been in private talks with James Stewart on the matter of the guardianship. He knew that in proposing that Wallace stand aside, the steward was preparing the way for him to stand up. He wanted to be magnanimous about it. ‘Sir William.’

  Wallace glanced round, but continued walking.

  Robert kept up with his stride, dead leaves crackling under his boots. ‘You and I have not seen eye to eye, but I cannot deny what you have achieved this past year. You built an army from shepherds and farmers, all of them devoted to you. You trained them to be fighting men, put spears in their hands and fire in their blood. They followed you willingly into battle. Stirling was an incredible victory.’

  Wallace stopped abruptly and turned to him. ‘And Falkirk was an incredible defeat.’ He looked back at the crowd of men, their voices raised in argument. ‘They didn’t elect me to be their king or their official. They elected me to be their general and a general is only as good as his last victory. When the men look at me now those hillsides strewn with our dead is what they see. Just as the triumph of Stirling fired their hearts, Falkirk broke them. I will not become a symbol of our ruin.’

  ‘What you propose is a risk. The journey to France will be perilous, especially now so many enemies know your face. Are you certain King Philippe will even grant you an audience?’

  Wallace motioned through the trees to a dark-haired older man, standing on the periphery of the assembled crowd alone, watching the heated debate. ‘My man there was once a Templar. He broke with the order, but still has allies within the Temple in Paris that may be of use to us. He believes the king will see me.’ Wallace looked back at Robert, fixing him with his shrewd gaze. ‘I know Sir James Stewart wants you to be elected as our guardian. Bishop Wishart told me. I imagine there will be others who would support that choice.’ Wallace paused, then held out a scarred hand.

  Robert took it.

  William Wallace nodded. Turning, he walked away through the ancient trees, the leaves falling all around him.

  It was four days since Wallace had resigned as guardian of Scotland. In that time the dispute over who should be his successor had rambled on, arguments raging back and forth. More groups were filtering into the Forest encampment, men responding to the messages summoning them to the assembly. All added their voices to the debate.

  The day after Wallace’s departure, James Stewart had revealed his proposal that Robert be elected. Some supported the motion, led by John, Gartnait and Alexander. Along with the steward, the two earls and the lord formed a powerful vote in Robert’s favour. But this didn’t deter other men from disputing his bid, or putting themselves forward for nomination. Many more were still calling for James and Wishart to stand.

  By late afternoon on the fourth day, the high steward was in front of the assembled gathering, giving his final arguments for Robert’s appointment. The men at the front of the crowd sat on the mossy ground, or else perched on logs and tree stumps, the rest radiating out into the encircling trees. Over their hushed ranks the steward’s voice lifted, reminding them that Robert had proven more than once over the past sixteen months to be a steadfast advocate of Scotland’s liberation from King Edward’s yoke. As Wallace and Moray before him, the young Earl of Carrick had raised the standard of rebellion, and raised it high. He had freed Ayrshire from the domination of Henry Percy and routed the English garrisons. He had drawn a loyal company of men to his cause, proving himself a bold and judicious commander, and it was his sword that had lain on the shoulder of William Wallace, bestowing a knighthood upon their champion.

  ‘Furthermore,’ the steward continued, looking over at Robert, close by with his men, ‘he has lost much in this cause. In breaking from his father, Sir Robert suffered the loss of his family and a rich inheritance. In fighting the king’s men, he incited Edward’s wrath and endured the burning of Bruce lands in Annandale, not once, but twice. We have heard that on the march south that the king ordered the destruction of Lochmaben.’

  Robert clenched his hands at the strength of feeling the steward’s words provoked in him. It was only on entering the Forest camp the week before that he learned of Lochmaben’s plight. The extent of the devastation wasn’t yet known, but rumours of towns left burning and men and women slaughtered indiscriminately were rife. One name kept repeating within these scattered reports. Bohun. The razing of his family’s lands at the hand of his former friend had maddened Robert. The estates might still be in his father’s name, but he doubted King Edward had spared a thought for the old lord, retired in England. No, the attack had been designed for him alone, to strike where it would hurt the most.

  ‘Sir Robert’s grandfather was one of the greatest noblemen to have graced our land,’ continued James. ‘A fierce crusader as well as a lover of peace, in whom two of our kings placed their faith. In his grandson exist the same virtues, virtues that I believe make him the most suitable man to lead our kingdom in our continued struggle.’

  When the high steward finished, Robert saw a shift in the company as the men reacted to these words. Some were nodding, in thought or agreement, others leaned in to murmur to their neighbours, a few were shaking their heads. It was impossible to tell what the vote would decide.

  Wishart moved into the centre, his broad face dour, but set. He might have fought for Wallace to remain, but with that hope ended he had committed himself to the selection of a new guardian as vigorously as the steward, although as yet had not made his own preference known. ‘We have heard statements for and against the nomination of Sir Robert. I suggest we return within the hour to cast our—’

  Through the trees came shouts and the ring of bridles. Bishop Wishart turned, frowning at the interruption. Other men were looking round. Robert turned with them to see a mounted company approaching. The horses were mud-splattered, nostrils flaring from a hard ride. Robert’s gaze fixed on a lean young ma
n with lank black hair and a wolfish face, riding at the head. It was John Comyn, son of the Lord of Badenoch. There were around thirty men with him, bearing different devices on surcoats and shields. Many were decorated with three sheaves of wheat on red, others with the white lion of Galloway. Robert saw Dungal MacDouall among their number. His apprehension rising at the sight of his enemies, he glimpsed the same concern reflected in the steward’s face.

  John Comyn dismounted from his sweat-stained courser and strode through the crowd, his knights forcing their way in behind him. As he came into the centre, he gave Robert a look of hostile contempt, before facing Wishart and James. ‘Has a decision been made?’ he demanded, his high, haughty voice carrying over the murmurs of the assembly.

  Wishart’s brow puckered in surprise.

  ‘We received word of this assembly a week ago,’ John went on at the bishop’s expression. ‘My father is occupied fortifying our strongholds in the north and sent me in his stead. Yesterday, met by one of your patrols, I was told that Sir William had renounced the guardianship and that an election for his replacement was taking place. My men and I rode through the night to get here.’

  James faced the belligerent younger man. ‘Sir Robert Bruce has been put forward for the position.’

  ‘Has he been nominated?’ demanded Comyn.

  ‘No,’ said Wishart, before the steward could answer. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then I want to be considered also.’ John Comyn turned, raising his voice over the calls of protest and anger coming from Robert’s men. ‘I have a right to be heard.’

  ‘Sir Robert is an earl,’ called Alexander Seton, ‘you are a knight. Rank should hold sway here.’

  John Comyn rounded on him. ‘I am also the son and heir of one of the most powerful nobles in the kingdom, and the nephew of the king.’ He raked them all with his stare. ‘Will anyone deny that?’ When no one answered, John Comyn’s dark eyes narrowed in satisfaction. ‘Had my father known the importance of this assembly he would have come himself, but I will stand for guardian in his place.’