by Robyn Young
Outwardly, his sister seemed to be enduring her grief for Duncan’s death, but Will guessed she had been shielding the girls from the depth of her sorrow in an effort to lessen their own. Still, he did sense she had found some solace in the forest; a world away from her old life and the violence that had brought her here, sheltered in this haven of routines and camaraderie. Even Alice and Margaret were calmer now, settling into the rhythm of the days.
The women looked up at his approach. Ysenda’s eyes widened at his changed appearance. The young, red-haired woman, who was called Christian, smiled. Nodding to them, Will headed away from the river toward an area cleared of trees, where sounds of sawing and hammering grated on the stillness. In the clearing, huge shapes reared out of the mists; outlines of half-built siege engines. The air was green with pine resin. There was a shout and a creaking groan as a tree toppled and crashed into the undergrowth. He moved on, passing a line of men with short bows shooting targets pinned to distant trees and a knot of youths being instructed in the use of the long spear by a thickset Highlander.
Reaching his area of the camp, Will threw his undershirt over a branch. He saw David and Simon’s shelters were empty and guessed they had gone hunting. After handing the blade to the man he had borrowed it from, he knelt on the mossy ground and murmured the Paternosters he had been taught to say whenever he was in the field and unable to hear the seven offices. There were some things he would not give up.
As he was reciting the last prayer, Will sensed someone move up behind him. Turning, he saw a whip-lean man in a hooded robe. “Good morning, Father.” He rose to tower over the man, who had been introduced to him a fortnight ago as John Blair, Wallace’s chaplain.
“I’m sorry to disturb your prayers,” said John, in his quiet voice.
“I was finished.”
“I was wondering, William, why do you not join the others for Mass in my chapel? You would be welcome.”
Will tried to hide his mockery at John’s use of the word; the chaplain’s church was a clearing in the forest with a tree stump for an altar. “I am used to praying on my own, but thank you.”
“Then perhaps you might speak to the men of the Holy Land at one of my sermons?” ventured John, as Will went to head off. “You could inspire them.”
“Inspire them?” Will turned back. “The Holy Land isn’t the Paradise men want it to be. When we went there with our crosses and swords we defiled it. What would I say to inspire them, when all I could speak of are death and horror? If what the scouts say is true and the English Army is on its way? Well, these men will soon see enough of that for themselves.”
John frowned. “These men have held out so far, against forces greater than their own.”
Will lowered his voice. “I do not dismiss their bravery, but their battles have been won through guile; ambushes against ill-prepared garrisons and supply lines.”
“They took Perth and Glasgow.” John’s placid tone deepened. “Routed the English justice at Scone, overthrew that bastard, the sheriff of Lanark, and slew fifty of his soldiers.”
Will had heard tell of these events almost every night he had been in the camp and with each telling and every cask of wine that was opened, many of which had admittedly been stolen from English troops, the tales got more lurid and outlandish. At first, Will had been impressed. Out on the estate, little news had come to them and he’d had no idea how widespread and effective the resistance had been.
The uprising had begun in earnest in the spring, headed by Wallace in the south and in the north by a young nobleman named Andrew de Moray, whose father had been the justiciar of Scotland. Before long, most of the realm was in open revolt. Wallace and his forces struck out on daring assaults against Perth, Glasgow and other English-held towns, then melted back into the vast wilds of Selkirk, laden with plunder. Now the magnates of Scotland were starting to take notice, some even forsaking their English estates to join the rebellion.
Will wanted to be buoyed up by the triumphs of Wallace and his men, feel that same confidence, flowing hot and determined in him. This was what he had sought by coming here: a new sense of purpose, a way to continue his fight against Edward, and perhaps he could have had it, but for Simon. The groom had entered his world like a shadow, a reminder of everything he had tried to shut out: the pain, the memories, discarded obligations and burdens of duty. Now, staring into John Blair’s inquiring face, Will felt more of that same unwanted pressure bearing down on him. “Wallace and his men have taken towns crowded with abused people, desperate to be rid of the English. They haven’t stood on an open field against a thousand heavy cavalry.”
“Our liberty is not an easy task,” replied John, after a pause. “Each of us knows this. We have bled hard for it already, in body and spirit.” The chaplain’s eyes were thoughtful, almost sad. “But each man here has something on his side. Something I think you might have lost.”
“And what is that?”
“Belief.” John inclined his head before Will could answer. “My chapel is always open should you change your mind. Good day to you.”
Will watched him go, part of him struggling against his doubts, wanting to believe the chaplain was right and the Scots could win through, for he was desperate for a victory after the defeat at Edinburgh. But ever since word had come that the English Army under Cressingham and de Warenne had set out from Berwick, he had felt only a creeping unease. He had seen that force. Unlike Wallace and his close comrades, sons of knights, trained to fight, most of the men were shepherds and farmers, blacksmiths, merchants. However valiant their leaders, this ragged band could not match the English might.
Pulling a dry shirt over his breeches, Will headed for the circle of tents near the center of the camp, resolved to speak to Wallace. He found the young giant with his generals. They were a motley crew, all battle-scarred and dirty, but laughing, relaxed, seated together around a spitting fire, over which an iron pot was suspended. Will smelled venison and herbs and his stomach groaned. David had killed the hart the week before. Wallace, his nephew told him elatedly, had said it was one of the best shots he had ever seen.
“No,” Adam was saying, shaking his head. “It was that time in Ayr. That wrestler.”
Gray chuckled. Wallace smiled, but said nothing. Will paused a short distance away, reluctant to talk while the others were there.
“What happened?” The rasping voice belonged to a man called Stephen, a warrior from Ireland.
“There was an English soldier in the town, a wrestler, who wagered he could beat any opponent,” said Adam. “You had to pay to fight him. What was it, cousin?” he asked, looking over at Wallace. “Three pennies?”
“Four,” answered Gray, before Wallace could speak.
“Well, William paid eight,” Adam went on, smirking. “And broke the idiot’s back.”
“Jesus,” muttered Stephen.
“The man’s comrades then set upon him and William killed seven.”
“I killed three,” said Wallace, his deep voice silencing them, “and you left out the part where they threw me in jail. They tortured me for five weeks. Starved and beat me. I felt my life draining with every day that passed until finally . . .” He shrugged. “I slipped away.”
The men were hushed. “It is said you died,” ventured a comrade of Stephen’s.
“It’s true,” responded Adam soberly.
“Whether I did or not, the English thought I had,” said Wallace, taking a waterskin one of the men passed to him. “They tossed me in a dung heap.”
“Bastards,” growled one soldier.
“As fortune would have it,” said Adam, picking up the story, “an old woman who was a friend of William’s mother heard of his death, for the English were crowing about it. She found his body and had her sons put him on a cart to take him for burial. But as she was laying William out in his shroud, she saw his eyes moving. She took him into her house and nursed him back to health, her and her young daughter.” He grinned at Wallace. “Tel
l them, cousin.”
Wallace took a swig from the skin. “The old woman tried to feed me, but I was too weak to take a spoon, so she had her daughter do it.” His own mouth began to twitch. “She’d just had a baby and was still suckling.”
Gray roared with laughter and some of the others joined in, guessing what was coming.
“Let us say I woke up with a mouthful,” finished Wallace.
“What did she do?”
“She gave a start, then smiled down at me, told me she was almost drained and popped the other one in.”
“God, but you’re a hook for the women, Wallace,” complained Stephen. “How is it they all love such a brute?”
“It’s the size of his sword,” said Adam, nodding to the enormous claymore propped against the tree beside Wallace. The blade, almost six feet from pommel to tip, was taller than most of the men in the camp.
There were more roars, but Wallace had gone silent at Stephen’s comment. His fading smile was like the sun going in behind a cloud, his face drawing in on itself. He got to his feet, took up a couple of skins and moved off, leaving the men to continue the conversation.
After a pause, Will followed, heading in a wide circle around the tents, so as to avoid the notice of the others. Quickening his pace, he caught up with Wallace, who was headed for the river.
Wallace turned swiftly, reaching for his dirk, then relaxed. “What do you want?”
“To talk.” When Wallace kept on walking, Will went after him. “You have a lot of stories, you and your men, tales of courage and skill.”
“They aren’t stories.”
“Oh, I believe they happened. But perhaps you have all come to rely on your past accomplishments too much?”
“You should get back to your training, Campbell. The English Army won’t be long in coming and you’ve been out of the field for some time, so your nephew tells me.”
“Listen to me,” said Will, moving around in front of Wallace, forcing him to stop. “Beating guards in a street brawl is not the same as commanding an army on a field. I do not think your men fully understand what they will be asked to face in this war, or the sacrifices they might have to make.”
“Sacrifices?” demanded Wallace, anger leaping into his eyes. “It is you who does not understand. We tell the stories that hearten us, sustain us. You have not heard the others, the ones that wake us in the night, clawing at our souls. I had a wife once. I used to visit her in Lanark in disguise after I was outlawed for killing an Englishman who tried to take my uncle’s horse. Marion understood. Her brother had been killed by English soldiers, as had my father. She was eighteen and heir to her father’s estate, but I wed her for her spirit, not for any dowry as the English put about.” His voice was glacial. “After we married in secret she bore me a daughter. During one of our meetings, I was followed by soldiers and Marion helped me escape. When she refused to give me up to the sheriff of Lanark, he had her and my daughter killed and so I broke into his house and slew him in his bed. You do not know me, Templar, me or my men.”
“I’m not a knight,” said Will quietly, finding no comfort in the similarities between his life and Wallace’s.
“You think shaving your beard changes who you are?” Wallace shook his head. “You’re still a Templar who has lost his way and I’m still the widowed son of a nobleman who died trying to free his country. The forest hides these things, but it does not alter them. When you’ve been in here long enough you’ll discover that.”
As he walked away, Will went after him. “You and your men haven’t faced the English in full force. You have three thousand. They will have twenty, at least. Do you really believe you can beat them? Or is this just revenge?”
“Even before Balliol was stripped of his arms, even before he rebelled against the English, Edward’s men were ravaging our lands. While you have been fighting for God on foreign sands, we have been at war for seven years.” Wallace’s voice grew rough and impassioned. “When the magnates of Scotland swore fealty to Edward as their overlord, they let a wolf into our lands. A hungry, savage wolf. English soldiers crowded into the towns and castles. They treated it as their land and us as slaves. They called us coarse, uncivilized. We complained and they silenced us, with threats, then fists, then swords. The magnates of Scotland looked the other way as the violence grew, unwilling to endanger their fortunes.
“Six years ago, near my family’s home in Ayrshire, some children were throwing stones at a castle where English troops were garrisoned. The English knights on the battlements shot them. Four boys and a girl. The oldest was twelve. That night a force of men, including my father and brother, overpowered a company of knights from the castle. Some of them managed to flee, but five were caught. They were hanged from a tree in the middle of the town. After that, the English pursued us in strength. There was a battle at a place called Loudoun Hill. In the struggle, my father was killed, his legs cut away from under him.” Wallace paused. “You do not know what it is we fight for. How could you? You haven’t been here.”
Some distance behind them, they heard the pounding of hooves and the calls of men. Wallace pushed his way back through the undergrowth, Will close behind him. Ahead, they saw two men dismounting from horses, surrounded by Gray and the others.
“What is it?” called Wallace.
“We have news of the English,” said Adam, heading over, with a suspicious look at Will. “The English Army under the treacherer and John de Warenne are headed for Stirling.”
“They will cross the Forth there,” said Wallace, nodding, “head north to try to undo what we have done. I imagine they will attempt to win Perth first, then relieve Dundee.” He drew a breath, his voice steady again. “Then Stirling is where we shall meet them.”
“The scouts bring other tidings,” continued Adam, his scarred face filling with exhilarated triumph. “Andrew de Moray and his army wish to join forces with us against them.”
A fierce smile broke across Wallace’s face. “Gather the men, cousin.” He glanced back at Will. “We ride out.”
14
The English Camp, Stirling, Scotland
SEPTEMBER 11, 1297 AD
John de Warenne, earl of Surrey, frowned across the land from the saddle of his destrier. The morning was glowing, golden. The grass beneath his horse’s hooves sparkled and the glints of light playing on the deep waters of the Forth dazzled him. There was a freshness in the air that hinted at autumn and the earl was glad of the heavy mantle of blue and gold brocade he wore over his surcoat and armor. He felt the cold more these days, since coming down with a fever during a hunting expedition. It had developed into a sickness in his lungs he hadn’t fully recovered from and the last place he wanted to be was astride his horse in this accursed country, the English Army restless at his back.
“The Dominicans should have returned,” rang a loud voice. “We cannot delay any longer.”
De Warenne’s brow knotted further as Hugh Cressingham pulled up alongside on a bay-colored stallion. It was a sturdy, thick-legged beast, which it needed to be considering its charge.
In the time since his appointment as treasurer of Scotland, Cressingham had turned from a pudgy, pompous clerk into an obese, arrogant official. It had taken four men to hoist him onto the horse, a group of sniggering Welsh archers watching as the squires heaved and strained. Stuffed in the oversized saddle in his bright mail hauberk, Cressingham looked like an enormous, shiny slug. His face was oily with sweat despite the cool, and the strap of his helmet had disappeared between two of his chins. De Warenne himself wasn’t the wiry man he had been in his youth, but beneath his old man’s paunch he was still slabbed with muscle. The flabby toad beside him had no business wearing the garb of a warrior, let alone sharing command of the thousands who crowded the plains between the banks of the Forth and the royal burgh of Stirling.
“We go when I give the order,” the earl said gruffly.
Cressingham arched an eyebrow. “Is that so? Because I was under the impres
sion you had already given that?”
De Warenne scowled, but couldn’t argue; Cressingham was right, he had given the order last night, and that morning, as dawn broke, the first ranks passed dutifully over the wooden bridge that spanned the river. Three hundred Welsh archers were followed by five thousand infantry, all stomping across the long, narrow bridge above the inky waters. By the time they had crossed, the sun had risen, but de Warenne was still at rest in his tent. With no sign of support from the bulk of the army, the advance had turned around and marched back across, the men muttering, irritable.
The earl blamed his illness for his torpor, but although this was true in part, there had been a more prevailing factor in his delay in sending the rest of the force across. For the past two days since their arrival at Stirling the weather had been drizzly, the land wreathed in mists that clung to the hills, obscuring the view. With this crisp morning had come a clearer picture of the terrain that faced them, and de Warenne’s resolve had faltered.
On the flat plains beneath Stirling Castle, soaring high on its rock, the ground was firm and level. But once over the bridge, itself a difficulty in terms of how few men could cross at once, the fields by the broad, looping river became soft and spongy, unsuitable for heavy cavalry. From the head of the bridge a causeway ran across these boggy fields, all the way to a rocky outcrop known as Abbey Craig, visible in the near distance. On this causeway there was room for only four horsemen to ride abreast. As the sun had begun to flash on the distant tips of spearheads and helmets, it became clear that the Scots had positioned themselves on some shallow slopes less than a mile to the north, just left of Abbey Craig. Rising behind the Scottish Army, the dark mass of the Ochil Hills were bald and scarred in the morning light. To reach their enemy, de Warenne’s army would have to funnel itself over the bridge, make its way across the exposed, narrow causeway surrounded by waterlogged meadows, then fight uphill. It was an unenviable prospect.
