“As I said on that earlier occasion, gentlemen,” he began at length, “all we can do is wait and hope that history thrusts up a new hero in our midst, a man who will not fear the challenge of what is before us.”
It was silent several long moments. A few sipped at their glasses as they pondered their leader’s words.
“Are you referring to Andrew Trentham?” asked Buchanan at length.
“Perhaps . . . but only time will tell if he has the courage of a Bruce.”
“There is a rumor circulating that he is half Scot himself,” said Campbell.
“I’ve heard that as well,” added Macpherson.
“Is there anything to it?”
“I don’t know, though there were also reports that he spent a good deal of time in Scotland last summer.”
“Some kind of spiritual rebirth, the way I heard it,” put in Ross.
“Rumors mean nothing,” spoke up MacKinnon. “I of all people know that the sheets can’t be trusted. That story linking Trentham and me last summer had no basis in fact. Half of what they put in my mouth wasn’t accurate, so why should we believe anything they said about him?”
“He was probably just on holiday,” commented Macpherson. “People do visit the north, you know, for reasons that have nothing to do with the so-called Scottish question.”
“True enough, but I have the feeling there was more to it.”
“Why do you say that, William?”
“Because I also heard that he’s gone north again for the recess and may be in Scotland even now.”
“Perhaps we should have someone keep an eye on him,” suggested Ross.
“It would be pointless, Lachlan,” replied MacKinnon. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Andrew Trentham, it’s that he’s his own man. Pressuring him will be less than useless. Even if he is a Scot, he will have to make up his own mind. And if our future rests with him now . . . all we can do is hope that Caledonia will speak its magic to him.”
Eleven
Two mornings later, promptly after breakfast, Andrew was on his way north.
As he paused at the gate, the contingent of reporters scrambled toward his car with a flurry of questions.
“Where are you going, Mr. Trentham . . . do you have a statement . . . any further developments on the Scottish issue . . . have you been in contact with the SNP . . . ?”
“Gentlemen and ladies, please,” laughed Andrew, doing his best to quiet them. “I have no comment yet. You will have the news at the same time as everyone else. As far as my itinerary is concerned, I’m simply off for a brief personal respite before the storm breaks upon me again.”
“Where, Mr. Trentham?”
“Tell you what,” replied Andrew, smiling to himself, “—contact Patricia Rawlings of BBC 2.” Even if he hadn’t told Paddy anything, this ought to raise her stock in the minds of her fellow journalists. He’d telephone her the first chance he got and give her fair warning. “Ms. Rawlings knows how to reach me if it becomes necessary,” he added. “Any statements I have will be released through her.”
As the members of the press assimilated this unexpected bit of news, Andrew accelerated and then sped off down the winding road away from Derwenthwaite and toward the highway. He drove a little faster than was his custom in hopes of preventing any of them from being able to follow.
As he drove north into Scotland yet again a little over an hour later, this land of his ancestors once so foreign and unfamiliar was now a beloved part of the world he felt he was beginning to know as well as Cumbria. As strong as was the urge to head first to Ballochallater, he felt he must heed the advice of Duncan and the laird and visit the site of Robert Bruce’s historic encounter with Edward II of England undistracted by trying to sort out his feelings for Ginny. He had to be fair to his duty to the country. He would resolve the one issue first, then deal with the other.
As Andrew crossed the northern border, the words of the prime minister came back to him from a recent conversation after the surprise press conference.
“You realize what this means,” Barraclough had told Andrew. “Our Labour-LibDem coalition is at stake. The Tories will surely fight us on this. It may come down to the two of us in the end . . . and no one else.”
Now, as he motored north with a heart and brain full of many and varied sensations, Andrew had a feeling the prime minister was right. At any rate, he knew he was on the verge of something historic—for himself . . . and for the entire nation.
But he would not go directly to Stirling. Instead he would approach it as he had throughout his investigation—by reliving every story and legend in which he had become immersed during the previous fourteen months, placing each now against the contemporary backdrop of Parliament’s pending decision. If it took several days, even a week, so be it . . . even if his return to London was delayed. This was no matter that could be rushed. He must do the right thing and take whatever time was necessary to find out what that was.
Andrew now realized that he had not just been encountering isolated fragments from the past, each story interesting but separate. He saw that in reality it had been one single story all along—the sweeping saga of a land and its people, and whether their freedom was still a thing that mattered as it had in days of old. To find out, he would once more revisit the sites where Scotland’s history had come alive for him.
Driving north on the now-familiar roads, he recalled to mind the tale out of Duncan’s old book of the Wanderer and his son that had so captivated him as a boy.
As the terrain became lonelier and more mountainous, his thoughts drifted north to dwell on last summer’s sojourn into the desolate Highlands where Cruithne and Fidach had hunted and erected their monument from hich the stone of destiny had been hewn. With poignancy he called to mind their mutual pact not to allow unity and brotherhood to disappear from Caledonia. If only it might be so again—not in Caledonia only, but throughout the world.
The open expansive moor of Rannoch turned his reflections toward the ancient Pict warriors Foltlaig and Maelchon, who had battled to preserve Caledonia’s freedom from the Romans. Then, as he turned and began the descent from the high plateau down again into Glencoe, the story of Ginevra and Brochan came back to his heart and mind with all the vividness and drama as when he first visited this haunting region. He spent the night in the legendary valley, and the next morning he again walked along the River Coe and climbed up to Signal Rock, where he stood a few quiet moments before returning to his car and again heading north.
As he went on this day, he recalled the courage of Columba as he had ventured along this very route through the glen of Loch Ness to face the ancient Pict King of Inverness. Another visit to Culloden brought again to life his own bonds of descent with Sandy and Culodina of Cliffrose and his kilted ancestor Kendrick Gordon, Sandy’s father, whose portrait hung back in his home at Derwenthwaite, and whose links to Duncan’s family had recently been made clear to him.
From Culloden, Andrew drove around the northeastern coast with now a new destination he had passed through but not visited before—the town of Huntly in the center of the Gordon district. By the time he arrived, it was late in the day. He booked a room in a bed-and-breakfast, with plans to tour the ruins of Huntly Castle in the morning.
After a dinner on the small historic town square, he returned along cobbled streets to the B & B, where the headline of a newspaper in the sitting room of the establishment caught his eye: “Scottish Vote Too Close to Call.” He took the paper to his room and there read the article.
The outcome of the most historic vote to face the House of Commons in a century looks to remain uncertain down to the very end. Though Prime Minister Richard Barraclough has publicly instructed his own Labour MPs to vote their consciences rather than their party, even if it means splitting with him, it yet appears that most will adhere to party lines.
With approximately 275 Labourites on the record as favoring the measure and 270 Conservatives against, the final
outcome will therefore likely be determined by the largest two of the remaining parties, the SNP and the Liberal Democrats.
No doubt exists as to where the SNP stands. Adding its 21 votes to Labour’s, the vote stands at 296 in favor to 270 against, with 42 undecideds and uncounted MPs from the remaining parties, as well as 51 Liberal Democrats. With the LibDems reportedly voting as a bloc, anything could happen. If they come down opposing the measure, and with 15 MPs representing unionist sentiments and certain to vote nay, the Scottish Bill will surely fail.
Liberal Democratic leader Andrew Trentham could not be reached for comment. Scottish Nationalist spokesman Dugald MacKinnon released a statement yesterday in which he expressed his hope that the Liberal Democrats, as well as all undecided MPs, will look to the future and . . .
Andrew set down the paper and sighed. Even this far away from London, he could not escape the mounting pressure.
The article reminded him of Paddy. He had forgotten to call her. He would try right now.
After a morning in Huntly and a thoughtful walk about its magnificent castle ruins, Andrew drove to Aberdeen, where he spent the rest of the day and another night. The following morning, thinking of Dallais and Breathran and the fact that Kenneth MacAlpin was remembered for uniting Scotland into a nation while their royal links to Scotland’s kingship were forgotten, he drove south along Scotland’s east coast to Scone and finally to Dunfermline, where so many changes had come to Scotland. After a quiet and reverent walk through Dunfermline Abbey and a thoughtful minute or two beside the tomb of Robert the Bruce, he walked outside to the shrine of St. Margaret, where she and King Malcolm were buried.
Leaving Dunfermline, Andrew crossed the Firth of Forth to spend the remainder of the day in Edinburgh, viewing one final time the legendary Celtic stone that had been responsible for energizing his quest, once again resting safely in its well-guarded home in the heart of Edinburgh Castle. Leaving the Crown Room, he walked across the cobbled courtyard to the tiny chapel built by Queen Margaret. He was glad it was empty. He went inside and sat down on one of the plain benches, soaking in the quietness of the ancient stone walls.
“Lord,” he prayed quietly, “I can think of no more suitable setting to reflect on all that Scotland’s history means than right here, high above this city in its castle fortress, and in St. Margaret’s Chapel. If this land is again to be an independent nation, ruled from this very city . . . if Edinburgh is meant to take its place among the modern capitals of the free world, then show me clearly. I ask for your help in this most important thing I have ever done.”
Five days had now passed since his departure from Derwenthwaite. Only one stop remained, the single most important destination—the one toward which he had been bound all along.
He would have to get back soon. The House of Commons had reconvened yesterday. But still he felt he could not rush this important business he was on. He had been in private contact with Barraclough, keeping him abreast of his movements. They would not vote without him, and he must not return until he was ready.
From Edinburgh on the following morning, therefore, at last Andrew drove toward the center and strategic hub of Scotland.
Stirling had always been a magnet to history, and now the old city at Scotland’s crossroads was drawing him, as if there—and only there—could be found the resolution and culmination to Caledonia’s epic story.
Rather than entering the city, Andrew drove to the village immediately to its south. He pulled in at the Bannockburn visitor’s center, following two tourist buses into the lot, then parked and went inside.
He had no beard this time, but by pulling his cap low and his coat high around his neck, by looking down and keeping to himself, he managed, as he had on most occasions these last weeks, to get through the day mostly unrecognized.
Leaving the throngs a few minutes later with a couple of pamphlets under his arm, Andrew walked out through the treelined avenue up the slight incline to the battle monument. The exhibition building behind him was full of interesting artifacts and a hundred books he would like to examine. But it wasn’t data that Andrew was seeking today. No mere facts would satisfy this quest. He had to be alone, to drink in the spirit of the place . . . and also to pray.
Twelve
Paddy Rawlings heard Kirk Luddington and her editor, Edward Pilkington, talking in the latter’s office for some ten minutes before the buzzer on her own telephone rang. She answered it, then rose and obeyed the summons. The moment she was inside, Pilkington nodded for her to close the door behind her.
“Do you know where Andrew Trentham is?” asked the editor when the three of them were alone.
“Why would I know?” shrugged Paddy.
“It’s no secret that you and he are chummy,” replied Pilkington. “Our man at his place up in Cumbria specifically heard him say he would be in touch with you before he disappeared. I thought you two talked every day.”
“Hardly that.”
“We need to know,” now said Luddington in an importune tone.
“Look, Paddy,” said Pilkington, “this is no time to play it coy. I put you on camera after the arrests were made, but you’re not going to be able to ride that story forever. All markers are in. This might even be a bigger story yet. I want to know what you know.”
“Honestly . . . nothing.”
“Nobody in town’s seen Trentham for days. The vote’s coming up, and he’s the center of the whole thing. You’re our ticket to some kind of inside scoop. I can’t believe you don’t have something. Are you saying he hasn’t contacted you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“So he has?”
“He called me a couple days ago.”
“From where?”
“He didn’t say. He just wanted to alert me to the comment he’d made, that’s all—that he had put the rest of the press on to me to get them off his back.” She smiled at the thought. “But he didn’t divulge a thing,” she added. “Honestly, he’s keeping this one to himself all the way.”
“Where do you think he is?”
Paddy paused before answering.
“I’m sure he’s in Scotland, Mr. Pilkington,” she answered softly after a moment.
“Could you contact him?”
“I have his private mobile phone, if that’s what you mean.”
“Then call him, Rawlings,” interjected Luddington. “Why are you stalling?”
“I’m sorry,” answered Paddy, “I can’t do that.”
“What if I make you?” said Pilkington.
“I’m sorry, then I would have to say that I won’t do it.”
“Even if it costs you your job?”
“That’s right. I will not disturb him. I think I know well enough what he is doing—and we have to respect that. He needs to resolve this alone, and I will not interfere. You can fire me if you want, but I will not contact him.”
Paddy rose and left the editor’s office.
Thirteen
Andrew had driven across a small bridge fifteen minutes earlier, whose simple sign noting the “Bannock Burn” signaled his arrival at the historic intersection of Scottish history two miles south of Stirling. And now, as he walked, he quietly approached a point overlooking the site of that ancient battle where British history had been changed.
Andrew slowed, gazing down across the gently sloping plain, allowing the quiet impulses of destiny to speak their faint words . . . that he might feel the legend.
Scotland was famous for her historic memorials. Its National Trust had probably done as much, if not more, than anyone else to preserve the heritage of this land. In a book or on a map of Scottish places of historical significance, one might easily find a thousand sites noted, from a few piled stones to magnificent castles to exquisitely excavated prehistoric ruins. Andrew had visited many such centers last summer.
But none was fuller or richer—none contained more symbolism and significance—than the precise spot where Andrew Trentham now stood.
Andrew glanced in the opposite direction.
In the distance, singularly situated at the very heart of Scotland, Stirling’s castle rose out of the valley floor itself, as if the ground had burst apart one day and exploded upward with granite, growing of itself the mighty gray fortress-flower that sat proudly atop it.
Andrew stood silent a long time, gazing out over castle and burn, all but overwhelmed by the sense of convergence he felt here.
He had been to Iona, Culloden, and Glencoe, Balmoral and Loch Lomond, the Galloway Hills, the Western Isles, Scone, and Dunfermline. He had walked Edinburgh’s Royal Mile and St. Andrews’ sandy shoreline. He had climbed Scotland’s highest peaks and stood overlooking massive cliffs on the wildest of its seascapes. He had toured castles of magnificence and visited humble crofters’ cottages. He had enjoyed some of Scotland’s finest cultivated gardens and walked its loneliest Highland moors.
But here in the center of it all, where geography itself seemed to demand a reckoning . . . here did the history of a proud people draw together into an inevitable and dramatic climax.
Andrew walked the rest of the way to the battle monument. Slowly he made his way around the circular area, reading the posted information with patriotic and historic reverence.
Leaving the circle after a few minutes, he walked on farther toward the giant bronze statue of Robert Bruce himself. In the same way that the castle to the north emerged from the rocks of the valley, the silent, massive sentinel from the past seemed to grow up from out of the surrounding terrain.
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