by Robyn Young
Neil Campbell turned to look at the rest of his company.
‘Come on, you cur,’ murmured MacDouall, while his captive struggled and choked. After a moment, he ripped off the hood. Gray winced, turning his bruised face from the sun’s white light. There was a gag over his mouth, crusted with dried blood. MacDouall kicked him hard in the back of the legs, causing him to collapse, grunting in pain as his knees struck the dusty track. His hands were tied behind his back. Fresh blood gleamed wetly in the wounds on his head and body. MacDouall stood over him, drawing back his sword as if to thrust the blade through the back of his neck.
A shout echoed from the shadows of the trees on the hillside. A rider emerged from the woods and spurred his horse down the slope towards them.
Menteith inhaled sharply. There was only one man with that giant stature. As the rider drew closer his features became clearer, evening out into a scarred, brutish face with a nose that looked like it had been broken on several occasions, framed by a thatch of brown hair. William Wallace was clad in stained hose, wrinkled boots criss-crossed with leather and a coarse blue tunic, belted at his thick waist. He would seem little more than a peasant if not for the bulk of armour visible beneath his clothes and the double-handed axe that swung from a sling attached to his saddle. Menteith’s gaze was drawn from Wallace by the sight of more men emerging from the trees. A handful were mounted, but most came on foot, spears, clubs, bows and daggers in their hands. Sixty, maybe eighty strong, they came with purpose, marching down the slope in the wake of their leader.
Menteith gripped his reins. Behind him, he heard rasps of metal on leather as his men drew their swords. ‘What do we do?’ he questioned, turning to MacDouall.
Wallace hauled his horse to a stop as he reached Neil Campbell’s side. ‘Let my man go, Menteith.’ His voice was rough.
At the sight of his comrade, Gray had struggled to his feet, but his two guards had moved in to grab him and were holding him tightly. He was shouting at Wallace, but his words were muffled by the gag. One of MacDouall’s men cuffed him with a mailed fist, opening a new cut on his scalp and causing him to sag in their grip.
Wallace kicked his horse forward. ‘Let him go and I’ll let you leave here with your life.’
He stopped a short distance away, just in range, Menteith realised, of his two bowmen. Suddenly, Gray wrenched round and kneed one of his captors in the groin. As the man went down, the outlaw lunged, smashing his head into the other guard’s face. The guard’s nose snapped and he reeled back. MacDouall went for Gray, but he was off, running towards Wallace, bellowing through his gag. MacDouall turned with a roared command and four more men leapt from the back of the wagon. Two had horns in their hands that they began to blow, the strident notes ringing. Wallace’s band, advancing down the slope, faltered at the sound. Hefting weapons, they stared around them, roused by the prospect of danger. Some were shouting at their leader, but he paid them no heed, urging his horse towards Gray.
MacDouall turned on Menteith’s bowmen with a snarl. ‘Bring him down!’
The archers stepped forward and drew back their bows. Wallace shouted as he saw them. Two arrows sprang forward. One punched into Gray’s back between his shoulder blades, the barbed head stabbing through his shirt to bury itself in his spine. He arched, then collapsed on his stomach in the grass, hands still tied behind his back. The second arrow sailed over him and plunged into the neck of Wallace’s horse. The animal reared with a scream and twisted back on its hind legs, throwing Wallace from the saddle. Rolling with the fall, he was up in an instant. Lunging for the struggling horse he grasped the shaft of his axe and pulled the weapon free. The air was rent with battle cries as his men charged down the slope, coming to his aid. Menteith drew his sword with a rush of fear. But then, from the tall grasses of the meadow and the steep banks of the burn, scores of men began to rise.
Their green cloaks soaked with sweat and dew, limbs stiff from the long wait, they emerged from their hiding places, summoned by the horns. All held bows. In the distance, along the road to Glasgow, a plume of dust stained the sky, the faint thunder of hooves unmistakable. MacDouall shouted orders at the emerging archers, who primed their bows. Raising the weapons in unison, they let loose a barrage of arrows.
Neil Campbell raised his shield to protect himself as the sky darkened, but he and Wallace weren’t the targets. The missiles arced upwards, before curving down towards the mob of men. Few in Wallace’s band wore adequate armour and the arrows found easy victims, piercing throats and arms, or punching through boiled leather aketons. Screams rose as men and horses went tumbling in the first wave. But more came on, leaping falling comrades, yelling furiously.
The small company with Neil Campbell was riding towards Wallace, trying to flank him protectively. MacDouall shouted through his helm to his archers, pointing at the danger. The bowmen unleashed another volley. This time, Campbell was in range. As the knight hoisted his shield, two arrows thumped into it. His horse took one in the rump and set off at a wild canter. The mounted company meanwhile rode straight into the barrage. Horses reared and crashed into one another as the barbs struck. Men were jolted from saddles to be trampled, or crushed in the panic. Others managed to spur their mounts out of the fray, kicking them out of range.
Wallace had grabbed Gray and was hauling his comrade’s limp body behind his fallen horse, which was still kicking feebly. The rebel leader ducked down behind the dying animal as another hail of arrows sprang forward, plucking more men from the field. Despite their losses, the rabble kept on coming, rapidly closing the distance to Menteith’s company at the crossroads. A few of Wallace’s archers had now halted, priming their bows for a counter-assault.
Twisting in his saddle, Menteith fixed on the riders coming along the road from Glasgow – the rest of MacDouall’s force. They wouldn’t get here in time. One of his knights shouted a warning as several arrows plunged down around them, one striking the wagon, others the archers on the banks of the burn. One bowman took an arrow in the face, sending him flying back into the water. Another was struck in the shoulder and went down on his knees, gasping as he tried to pull out the shaft. Menteith urged his horse behind the wagon, panting in fear. MacDouall ducked as an arrow came darting towards him, then was up again, roaring orders at his bowmen.
Neil Campbell had managed to get control of his horse and now joined his comrades, but Wallace’s band had entered the optimum range of MacDouall’s archers. Those the barbs didn’t wound or kill, they blinded and disorientated, men forced to duck down behind their shields. Horses panicked and veered off in all directions, knocking men down in their haste to get away. Wallace’s archers kept on shooting, but they were no match for the continuous barrage coming from the roadside. Slowly, the rebel band ground to a halt, men hunkering down behind shields or fallen comrades. Less than a hundred yards of open ground lay between them and Wallace, sheltering behind his horse. Several more arrows had struck the animal, its great body twitching in death.
‘Bring him in, Colban,’ MacDouall commanded, turning to one of his men, who had been with him in the wagon. As Colban set off determinedly, MacDouall gestured five others to follow. ‘I want him alive!’ he shouted at their backs.
As the archers continued to shoot into the mob on the hillside, screams sounding whenever arrows found exposed flesh, MacDouall’s men approached the fallen horse. Neil Campbell, whose own horse had been brought down, yelled a warning at Wallace over the rim of his shield. The rebel leader rose, axe in his hands, as Colban and the others came at him. Colban just managed to get his shield up as Wallace’s great axe carved towards him. The blade smashed into the wood, breaking Colban’s arm with the impact. Forced to his knees, he howled with pain as Wallace wrenched the axe free, roughly flinging the shield and Colban’s limp arm to one side. Colban knelt there for a heartbeat, staring up at the rebel leader, before Wallace brought the axe crashing down into his skull, brain matter and blood bursting up as his head was cleaved in two. As Col
ban folded, Wallace heaved the blade round, swinging it two-handed into another of MacDouall’s men, who came at him.
MacDouall’s riders, fifty strong, were thundering towards the crossroads, dust billowing around them. At a command from their captain, they veered off the road and charged towards Wallace’s men. MacDouall’s archers ceased their onslaught, but the rebels, still crouched beneath their shields, were now taken by surprise by the riders. The mass of men began to break apart, some rising to counter the horsemen, hacking blades and clubs into the legs of the animals, others fleeing up the hillside trying to get to higher ground and the safety of the trees. Neil Campbell, struggling his way towards Wallace, was stopped in his tracks and forced to counter as two riders came at him.
Menteith, watching from behind the shelter of the wagon, saw Wallace bury his axe in the chest of one of MacDouall’s men. The rebel leader was roaring like a cornered stag, twisting this way and that in the closing circle of men, dodging blades that flicked towards him, swinging that great two-handed axe in savage arcs towards the necks and arms of his foes. He had already killed two. Now, he hacked at a third, shattering the man’s sword. They wouldn’t be able to contain him, Menteith realised; not if they weren’t trying to kill him. He sought out MacDouall, but the captain’s attention was on his riders, rampaging through the rebels. Menteith wiped the sweat from his eyes. He couldn’t let Wallace escape this field. Never mind the loss of any reward – the rebel leader would think he alone was behind this ambush. Wallace had murdered the Sheriff of Lanark in his bed. Menteith wouldn’t spend the rest of his life lying awake, waiting for death in the darkness. Turning to his bowmen, he spoke quickly.
MacDouall looked round as one of Menteith’s archers rose from behind the wagon and took aim. He went to shout. Too late. The arrow was loosed. Wallace had cut down a third man and taken his shield. He was turning on a fourth when the arrow punched into the back of his thigh. He staggered, dropping his guard. It was just long enough for one of MacDouall’s remaining three men to grab hold of his arm, pulling it and the axe wide, while another punched him in the side of his head. Wallace was knocked off-balance by the savage strike. As he was bent forward, the third man brought a knee cracking up into his face. Blood burst from his nose and he sagged to one knee.
For a moment, it looked as though the outlaw was down. Then, in an incredible feat of strength, Wallace raised himself up with a snarl, ramming his shield into the face of one of his attackers, staving in the man’s jaw. MacDouall was off and running towards him. As Wallace grappled with the last two men, the captain leapt the dead horse and came at him from behind, bringing the pommel of his sword smashing into the back of the outlaw’s skull. Wallace dropped with a surprised grunt, the axe falling from his hand. MacDouall kicked him in the back, sending him crashing on to his stomach. While one of the surviving men, gasping with exertion, straddled Wallace, the other unhooked a loop of rope from his belt and roughly bound his hands behind his back.
Away across the hillside, the rest of the mob was fleeing, scattered by MacDouall’s riders. They left the slopes littered with more than thirty dead. Neil Campbell had gone, pulled out of harm’s way by his comrades. The last of them were disappearing into the trees as Menteith rode over to MacDouall, who was overseeing Wallace’s restraint. Several of the captain’s archers had downed their bows and moved in to help. The rebel leader was still conscious. His huge body heaved occasionally trying to throw the men off him, but his wounds had worn him down and he no longer had the strength. Around him, the ground was awash with blood and gore from the bodies of Colban and the men he’d hacked apart. The stink of opened bowels was horrendous. Menteith slowed his horse and turned his head, feeling a rush of bile in his throat.
MacDouall straightened on seeing him. ‘You fool,’ he growled, striding towards him. ‘You could have killed him!’
‘Someone had to stop him,’ Menteith retorted. ‘He was cutting your men down like saplings!’
‘Gray’s still alive.’
MacDouall turned at the call from one of his men. Menteith followed as the captain crossed to where Wallace was being subdued. Gray was indeed alive, groaning through bloodied teeth, the back of his shirt slick with blood around the arrow.
MacDouall nodded to his man. ‘Finish him.’
Wallace, seeing what was about to happen, bellowed in fury, but he couldn’t move as Gray’s head was pulled back and his throat slit by the blade of a dirk. Wallace was still bellowing as MacDouall’s men tugged a hood over his head and, between three of them, dragged him towards the wagon.
With the rebel leader blinded and out of the way, MacDouall removed his helm. Several of his men, who had been tackling the outlaw’s band, came riding down to him.
‘A fair few escaped into the woods, Captain,’ said one. ‘Shall we follow?’
‘No need,’ answered MacDouall. ‘We have what we came for.’ He motioned to one of his men by the wagon.
As the man approached, Menteith saw he had a battered-looking leather bag in his hands.
He passed it to MacDouall who turned to Menteith. ‘Deliver Wallace to the English garrison at Lochmaben.’ He handed him the bag. ‘Give them this. Tell them it was found on him. Understood?’
‘What’s in it?’ Menteith asked, taking it. The bag felt light.
‘Nothing you need concern yourself with. Remember, Menteith, you alone captured William Wallace. My men and I were not here.’
Chapter 46
West Smithfield, London, 1305 AD
The late August afternoon was humid and overcast, the sky threatening rain as Robert and his men made their way west through the Outer Liberties. Ahead, London’s walls dominated the view, rising over the houses, churches and workshops that clustered close along their stone line before gradually giving way to marshland and meadows interspersed by hamlets, leper hospitals and imposing religious houses through which the road curved its way down towards Westminster. Smoke from bakehouses, chimneys and open fires rose to mingle in a grey fog that hung in the muggy air, tainted by the briny stink of the marshes.
The road on which they travelled was strangely empty and the villages quiet. Robert caught sounds of cheering that seemed to swell from beyond the walls and he wondered if there was some kind of festival going on that had drawn the residents of the suburbs into the city proper. The speculation was brief, overshadowed by more internal preoccupations.
The death of the king’s daughter had cast a terrible gloom over Christ Mass, lingering into the new year, at which point the court finally left Yorkshire and made its way south, down through Lincoln, towards Westminster. To Robert it had seemed as though Scotland’s fate was being pulled along by the same inexorable march south, to be set, at the autumn parliament, in the stone of law. His hope, heading for Writtle in late spring, had been that the news he had been waiting for would be there to greet him. But he had found only incomplete accounts, buildings in need of repair and confused tenants who had long needed the attentions of a sober lord.
As spring gave way to summer, his impatience for an answer from John Comyn had intensified to the point where the sound of hoof-beats approaching the manor would have him at the nearest window. Still, no word had come. Now, after two months in Essex, dealing with the remnants of his father’s affairs, Robert was returning to the king’s court, the grim parliament upon him. After tomorrow, Scotland’s new constitution would be drawn up and the council established, subordinate to their English masters.
A burst of harsh laughter drew him from his thoughts. He looked round to see four youths running fast along the verge. A fifth, younger than the others, was lagging behind, struggling to keep up. The older boys took little notice of the mounted company, but the youngest halted with a grin as Fionn bounded over to him.
‘You’ll miss him swing, Stephen!’ shouted one of the others, glancing back.
After patting the hound, the lad sprinted after his comrades. ‘We should’ve gone by Newgate,’ he panted, his Eng
lish broad and thick, as if he’d never spoken anything else.
‘Dullard! The streets are packed. This way’s quicker. We’ll get ourselves a place on Bartholomew’s wall. From there we’ll see him spill his guts!’
More rough laughter rose as the youths ran on. Robert heard another cheer swell from somewhere, louder than before. He realised he could hear the low hum of a multitude of voices, punctuated occasionally by incoherent shouts. Ahead, the road turned sharply left at the same angle as the city walls, which veered south at Cripplegate. Robert’s company, following its curve, soon saw the grand buildings of the Priory of St Bartholomew, less than half a mile distant. Beyond, the smooth plain of West Smithfield stretched into the dull haze of the afternoon. The sight that greeted him caused Robert to pull his horse to a halt.
The green expanse, cut by the waters of the Fleet, was covered with a seething mass of people – hundreds upon hundreds. Even as Robert watched, more joined them, funnelling out of the city from Newgate and Aldersgate like a dark oozing tide flowing to pool on Smithfield’s plain. The cause of the suburbs’ quiet and the empty road was suddenly clear. It was as if all of London was gathered on the fields before him. His first thought was the August Fair, which Humphrey had introduced him to years earlier. But as his gaze moved across the shifting crowds he realised there were no stalls selling wares, no horse-racing, no roasting spits.
‘What is this?’
Robert glanced round as one of the Essex knights, a man called Matthew, spoke. Matthew’s gaze, like that of the rest of the company, was transfixed by the sight. Looking back, Robert’s eyes came to rest on the skeletal frame of the gibbet that thrust above the crowds. Often, bodies could be seen hanging there. Today, it was thronged not by the dead, but by the living, men standing on the platform beneath a row of empty nooses. The snatched conversation of the London youths came back to him with disquieting sense. ‘It’s an execution.’
