by Robyn Young
Will was silent. He had been thinking these things over since he had come around the day before, but he still wasn’t sure how to broach the subject with Wallace. “You know you cannot win like this,” he said, deciding candidness was best.
“We won at Stirling.”
“They’ll not make that mistake again. They’ll make us fight these pitched battles and we will lose. This isn’t the way to defeat Edward. On a battlefield, he will always be superior.”
“What are you saying? That I should give up?”
“I’m saying you need to attack him in a different way. The alliance with France,” Will continued, before Wallace could speak, “the treaty made by the council when King John was in power, does it still stand?”
Wallace nodded. “When I was made guardian of the realm I wrote to King Philippe, telling him I wished to continue the friendship and trade our kingdoms have enjoyed.”
“Then use it now. Go to Philippe and the pope. Enlist the aid of men Edward is threatened by, men who can put pressure on him to stop this war. This is where he is weak.” Will ran a hand through his hair. “It was all so clear to me when I was in that cell with him. I’ve known Edward for many years and I know what he’s capable of. But I’ve never seen him afraid, until he thought the Temple was working against him.”
Wallace’s eyebrows lifted. “Is it?”
“I do not think so, not if Brian le Jay and the others were at Falkirk, but it did seem Edward wasn’t on good terms with the English master. My guess is he wouldn’t believe I’d have left the Temple. He thought I was there as a knight and it worried him.” Will looked down at his hands. “But whatever his relations with the order, it was clear he fears threats to his power. We know his barons have been angered by his war in Gascony, and being bested by Philippe in Flanders must have meant he had to work hard to regain their support. The victory here will raise his esteem for a time, but if Philippe and the pope put pressure on him, the barons would soon react. The threat of excommunication is a powerful one.” Will spread his hands. “To be outcast, alone and vulnerable to attack, all treaties suspended, all trade agreements rescinded: it could cripple a nation.”
Wallace was quiet, his blue eyes fixed on Will.
There was a cough behind them as Gray headed over. He spat in the fire, then nodded to Will. “You’re alive then.” He picked up a waterskin and sat. “Stephen’s brother died in the night,” he added, looking at Wallace. “How many more sons of Scotland do you think God will take from us?”
Wallace didn’t answer. The three of them lapsed into silence, broken now and then by Gray’s coughing.
Seeing Wallace wasn’t going to talk while Gray was there, Will rose unsteadily. “I’m sorry about that,” he said, tapping his forehead, where Gray still had a purple bruise from the crucifix.
“Just prove you’re worth saving . . . brother.”
Wondering if that was some allusion to Christian, Will headed off.
“I’ll think about what you said,” came Wallace’s voice behind him.
Will made his way slowly through the trees, pausing to catch his breath. His body had never felt so feeble. A couple of men he passed greeted him, but most were silent, subdued by the defeat and the scale of the slaughter at Falkirk. Everyone had lost someone they knew, comrade or kin.
As he headed for a clearing on the edge of the camp, Will saw Simon coming toward him, carrying a sack.
“I woke up and saw you gone,” said the groom, looking relieved. “For a moment, I thought . . .” He shrugged. “Well, never mind.”
“What’s that?”
Simon held out the sack. “I was going to give it to you when you’d recovered, but as you’re up . . .”
Will frowned as he took it. Opening it, he saw a belt curled up inside, a leather scabbard attached. His heart skipped. Taking hold of the hilt of the falchion, he pulled it free, letting the sack fall. “How did you find it?” he murmured, studying the broken blade.
“One of the cells we looked in at the monastery was empty, but for a pile of clothes and weapons. I recognized the scabbard. I don’t know if it can be mended.”
“Neither do I.” Will met Simon’s gaze. “Thank you.” He shook his head. “I’ve been a fool, Simon, a true fool. But I intend to make it right. I’m going back to Paris. I’ve spoken to Wallace of an idea I’ve had. He might come with me, but either way I’m going, as soon as possible. I think there are things I can do there, and things I must do.”
“Rose?”
“Leaving her was one of my greatest mistakes, that and my treatment of you.”
Simon stuffed his thumbs in his belt and looked away, his eyes bright. “You want me to come?”
“Yes.”
“And David? Ysenda?”
“They will stay. It is possible my sister Ede is still in the north. If she can be found, they will have somewhere to go.”
“You know David won’t be happy.”
“I’ll talk to him today, but there is something I must do first.” Will handed him the sword. “Keep it for me, for now.”
Leaving Simon with the broken blade, Will continued to the clearing, where he had heard a host of men whispering the Paternoster the evening before. It was almost time for morning Mass. Sure enough, John Blair was there, washing his hands in the stream that trickled through the woods on the edge of the glade.
The priest turned as he approached. He eyed Will with some surprise, but gave a nod. “Good day to you,” he said, walking to where a leather-bound Bible was laid out beside a smoking censer.
“Will you hear my confession, Father?”
John studied him. “Of course.”
There in the wooded glade, Will knelt on the grass before the chaplain. John was silent, listening, as he began to speak, haltingly at first, then faster, louder. His words at times broke in his throat as he told the priest of his love for Elwen and the violation of his vows as a knight, their secret marriage and the birth of their daughter. He spoke of her betrayal with Garin, his failed attempt to save her from the burning house, the fall of Acre. Then, at the last, the words coming up and out of him like bile, he spoke of his murder of Garin, his former comrade, and the killing of the Templar at Falkirk. His sins, old and new, stagnant and raw, seemed to dissipate like smoke in the golden light that bathed them, as John put his hands on Will’s bowed head and absolved him.
17
The Docks, Paris
SEPTEMBER 17, 1299 AD
It was a bright, windy afternoon. The birds circling the towers of Notre Dame struggled against the gusts that buffeted them and sent ripples across the Seine. The trees swaying on the banks were tinged with the first blush of autumn. In just a few months it would be the end of the year and the beginning of a new century.
Will turned to Simon. “This is where we part.” He smiled. “For now.”
Simon stared over his shoulder in the direction of the Temple. “It’s going to be strange returning, after everything.”
“Just find Robert. He knows what you went to Scotland for, so you can tell him what you wish. If anyone else asks, say you transferred to Balantrodoch, but got caught up in the war.”
Simon blew out his cheeks. “I suppose that’s almost the truth.”
“It doesn’t matter. No one will check. Even if they did, the Temple in Britain would have been thrown into confusion with the death of Brian le Jay. Records could have been misplaced, mistakes made.” Will grasped Simon’s shoulder. “Don’t worry.”
“And you? Will you see Robert?”
Will looked around as Wallace hailed him. The rest of the party had gathered their packs from the boat and were waiting on the dockside. “In time.”
Leaving the groom to walk alone up the muddy banks, Will headed to Wallace, hefting his pack on his shoulder.
After being questioned by the guards at the Grand Châtelet, the six men crossed the Grand Pont onto the Ile de la Cité. A few people stared as they passed. Wallace’s height always dre
w attention, and although his woolen tunic and cloak were well made and his boots polished, he couldn’t quite shake off the look of an outlaw. His long hair was tied back, revealing his scarred face. As he strode along the bridge, past flower sellers and chattering shopkeepers, Will thought how notable Gray’s absence was from his side. The general had stayed behind to command the army, and without him, Wallace seemed at once alone. But rather than diminishing him, this solitariness gave him an aura of power that increased as he marched toward the royal palace.
Will led them to the entrance, between the towering walls of the Tour d’Argent and the Tour de César. The men standing sentry eyed the rough company suspiciously, but accepted the parchment Wallace handed over, marked with the seal of the king of France. As they scanned it, Will stared up at the slit windows of the towers and rubbed at his chin. He had scraped himself raw shaving that morning on the boat. He doubted anyone from the Temple would be in the royal palace, but he felt exposed nonetheless and pulled his hood lower as the royal guards ushered them into the Salles des Gardes; he wasn’t so certain he would receive the forgiveness Simon still believed he would for his desertion. But despite his trepidation it was a relief to be finally walking in through these doors.
Having made the decision to return to Paris the previous year, Will had been impatient to be under way with the journey, but Wallace had been more circumspect, wanting things to be done properly. His first act was to resign his position as guardian of the realm. That heavy cloak and the intricate robes of politics that came with it had never fitted him anyway. He was always more comfortable in the wild, living by his own rules. Some time later, they learned Robert Bruce and a man named John Comyn had taken over as joint guardians. Wallace had been satisfied with the choice.
While this was happening, Edward was leading the English Army on through Scotland, securing castles, invading towns. There were several minor skirmishes, but nothing decisive, and by the end of the summer, his men growing mutinous, he was forced to retreat across the border. He had won a bloody victory at Falkirk, but it cost him dear. The Scots were grimly satisfied by reports from their scouts informing them that the English were forced to feed on their dying horses to survive the journey home. The war had paused. But it wasn’t over.
As autumn drew in, Wallace wrote to Pope Boniface and King Philippe, requesting an audience. By the following spring, he received replies from both, inviting him to meet them to discuss the future of the nation, for John Balliol remained in Edward’s custody and Scotland was still without a king. Wallace made his final preparations during the summer, amid disturbing rumors of a truce being formed between Edward and Philippe.
These were strange days for Will, assailed by mixed feelings of anticipation and sadness, though the wrench he expected to feel leaving his family was lessened by the timely arrival of a message from his elder sister. A letter Ysenda had sent to Elgin with one of Wallace’s scouts had found its way into the hands of an old neighbor of Ede’s, who knew she had taken up residence in a new dwelling close by. The scout returned with Ede’s elated reply and Ysenda at once made to journey north with her children. David agreed to go with her, but on the day they left he pledged solemnly to Wallace that he would fight by his side once more when he returned. David then clasped Will’s hand for a time, neither of them speaking. Alice and Margaret embraced him in turn, but Ysenda held him the longest. After this, there was one more farewell for Will. He said it down by the river in Selkirk Forest late one afternoon, the wych elms shedding gold from their branches. What words passed between him and Christian he spoke of to no one, but kept hidden, locked inside.
As the royal guards showed them into the grand reception hall, sending a servant hastening through one of the doors to inform the king of their arrival, Will stared around him at the marble pillars and silk hangings. Pages and officials moved briskly through, some frowning curiously at Wallace and his men. This chamber hadn’t even been here when he had last visited the palace, a youth of David’s years. The same age, he realized with a discomforting jolt, his daughter would be now. After ten minutes, the door the servant had disappeared through opened and a thin man with a sallow complexion came to greet them, eying them all with wary disdain.
“Sir William Wallace, the king will see you in his private chambers.”
Rose knelt before the door, fingers splayed against the wood. Her heart knocked in her chest as she placed her eye to the keyhole, catching movement in the room beyond. Philippe strode across the chamber, unlacing his shirt. She winced as he shrugged it over his shoulders, revealing the web of scars that traced his back. She once heard Jeanne say to one of the handmaidens that when she touched him it felt as though all his veins were on the outside. As he took a silk robe from the bed and pulled it on, she imagined tracing those lines with her fingertips. Philip the Fair. She formed the words with her mouth in silence, her breath warm on the wood. His people had given him that name. At least, his ministers had, but the royal household had learned to say it, repeating it often in business with visiting dignitaries, until now all of France knew him by it. It was best in the langue d’oïl. In English it came across as coarse, in Italian, which she had spoken most in her childhood, it sounded gregarious and showy. But in French it was subtle. Seductive. You could whisper the words, let your tongue flick over your teeth to make the softer sounds.
Philippe le Bel.
Rose stiffened, hearing footsteps in the passage outside her room. She looked around, poised to spring should the handle to the dormitory begin to turn. A door somewhere close by was rapped. She pressed her eye back to the keyhole to see Philippe look around, placing his circlet over his light brown hair. He stood there, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze on the door. After a measured pause, he spoke.
“Enter.”
Rose watched as a group of men filed into the king’s private chamber. Guillaume de Nogaret entered first. Her eyes narrowed with dislike on his pinched face, then moved to the newcomers. The first was startling: a colossus of a man, against whom even Philippe looked short. He wore a tunic of dyed wool and had a menacingly large sword in a scabbard strapped to his back. She wondered if this might be William Wallace. There had been rumors flying around the palace for weeks of his impending arrival, this ogre from the wild north. She saw him bow to Philippe, then extend his hand with an easy smile, as though the king were an old friend.
Philippe stared at the plate-sized palm outstretched before him, then coughed politely.
“A drink for you and your men, Sir William?” questioned Nogaret, stepping forward. He snapped his fingers at a servant by the door.
The giant let his hand fall. “Thank you.”
The awkward moment passed as the servant busied himself pouring wine into goblets.
“Please,” said Philippe, gesturing to the table near the bed, where two stools were placed. “You must be weary from your journey.”
Accepting a goblet from the servant, Wallace sat. Rose watched the stool, wondering if it would hold his weight. She sighed with irritation as the other men crowded in around the table, blocking her view of Philippe. Three, dressed like Wallace in woolen cloaks, had their backs to her, but Nogaret remained in plain sight.
They began to talk; the usual formalities men felt it necessary to work their way through before discussing business. She found it was like swordplay, each man studying his opponent’s reactions to simple questions and statements, finding weak spots for the real duel to come. Philippe, she had observed, was very good at it. But his practice today was short-lived, the giant coming quickly to the point.
“What of this treaty with England, my lord?” Wallace drained his goblet. “Are the rumors true? Have you agreed to a peace with Edward?”
One of the men blocking her view shifted on his feet and she saw Philippe throw a swift glance at Nogaret, before the Scot moved in again.
“News travels faster than I would have thought to your borders,” Rose heard the king say. There was a pause. �
�The rumors are true, but I can assure you it is a peace of convenience alone. I have no intention of keeping any truce with my cousin. The war in Gascony has paused momentarily while I concentrate on the more immediate problem posed by Flanders. Unfortunately, Guy de Dampierre is continuing to resist our attempts to negotiate the joining of our territories.”
Rose’s gaze flicked to Nogaret, who looked sour. She had overheard many conversations about “the problem of Flanders” over the past year: at dinner in the Great Hall, filing out of the Sainte-Chapelle, through this very keyhole. She knew the plan to annex the count’s territory had been Pierre Flote’s. Nogaret hadn’t wanted to abandon Gascony after all the effort they had put into the region, but in the end the chancellor had won the argument. There were still royal troops stationed in and around Guienne, but the conflict had halted.
Wallace was talking again. He seemed relieved. “Then I shall look forward to discussing the future of my nation in greater detail, my lord.”
“You may stay as long as you wish. Our Scottish friends will always be welcome here.”
“I thank you for the kind offer, but I must accept your gracious hospitality for one night only. Tomorrow I plan to continue to Rome to speak to His Holiness, the pope. I will return when I am able, but in the meantime one of my men will stay to begin those discussions with you.” Wallace gestured to a Scot, who still had his back to Rose. “If that pleases you?”
“That can be arranged certainly, but let us speak more over dinner.” There was a scrape of the stool as Philippe rose. “I insist that you join me.”
Seeing the meeting was over, Rose was about to stand, when she heard her name spoken. She put her eye back to the keyhole, thinking she must have been mistaken, then started back, seeing one of the servants coming toward the door. Vaulting to her bed, she tugged off her shoe. As the servant opened the door, she pretended to be pulling it on, then stood, bowing her head, partly in respect, partly to hide her flushed cheeks.
