Insurrection (64 page)

Robert got to his feet. Offering his hand to Alexander, but keeping his eyes on the archer, he helped his comrade up. ‘I’ve come to meet with William Wallace. I am Sir Robert Bruce.’

Other men were moving out of the undergrowth on the other side of the river. All carried bows and were clad in green and brown. Behind came calls of alarm as Robert’s men, alerted to the danger, hastened through the trees. Edward and Christopher were at the front, closely followed by John of Atholl. Robert halted them with a shout, looking back at the figures on the bank, who had all raised their bows. ‘We mean no harm here. Wallace is expecting us.’

The man who had first spoken lowered his bow slowly. ‘Gather your people,’ he said, after a pause. ‘We will lead you from here.’

59

Three hours later, as evening’s gloom was deepening, Robert and his men were led into the rebels’ camp. The light-footed archers had guided them unerringly through the failing light. Passing more of the white markers, they had encountered five other armed patrols since crossing the river. These groups had conferred with the archers in low tones, all the while eyeing Robert and his company.

Ahead, through the woods, came the murmur of many voices, punctuated by the barking of dogs and the sounds of horses. The air was murky with wood-smoke. Between the trees, men stood talking around fires, or moved purposefully on errands. They wore an assortment of garments, from the hukes and wooden clogs of peasants to the thigh-length tunics worn by Highlanders and the mail hauberks of knights. Some stopped what they were doing to stare as Robert’s company passed through their midst.

There were shelters formed from branches leaning up against trees and cloth canopies stretched from trunk to trunk, with blankets laid out on the mossy ground beneath. Men rested there, some of them injured. Robert saw a priest, his tonsured head bowed, kneeling beside a man whose leg had been severed at the knee, swaddled in a bloodstained cloth. Following their escort alongside a broad river where women washed clothes and children played in the shingle, Robert saw two large circles of men, all of whom were gripping long spears, pointing outwards. They seemed to be practising some manoeuvre, the front rows dropping to their knees at a shout from one, spears thrusting forward. Beyond was a clearing filled with tents.

Heading away from the spearmen, they entered the glade. Stumps of oak and alder showed where trees had been hacked down to make more room. There was a fire in the centre, around which the twenty or so tents were erected, along with carts piled with supplies. On one was a glittering array of silver plates, candlesticks, furs and chests – plunder, perhaps from Wallace’s raids on northern England. However much Robert had kept himself at a distance from the rebels, he hadn’t failed to hear of the outlaw’s achievements, rumour of which had surged through the kingdom.

Everywhere, after the battle at Stirling, men spoke in awed tones of the young hero who had led a peasant army to victory against English knights, who had rid them of the hated treasurer, Cressingham, and who chased the mighty Earl of Surrey all the way to the Borders. The shepherds, drovers and hunters who formed Wallace’s band soon swelled to include many freemen: burgesses, knights and squires, even lords. With the death of Andrew Moray, who passed soon after the battle, Wallace had become the sole leader of the rebellion and, his men still drunk on the blood spilled at Stirling, the fierce young Scot had led his army into England.

Early in the autumn they swept over the border into Northumberland to visit horrors upon the people of the north. Crops were ruined, livestock slaughtered, men and women put to the sword. Some said the violence was so excessive Wallace and his commanders were forced to hang some of their own men for offences too depraved to go unpunished. Whatever the truth of this, the people of Northumberland fled south in their thousands, leaving homes and chapels, schools and pastures burning on the horizon. It was only in midwinter, when the snows came, that the marauders crossed back over the Tweed. By then, Wallace had a new name. William the Conqueror.

As Robert dismounted in the clearing, he caught sight of the rebel leader near the wagon of plunder. Wallace stood head and shoulders above the men around him, nobles by their apparel. He looked out of place in the plain woollen tunic he wore over his armour, in the midst of their fine cloaks, decorated scabbards and polished mail. The group was talking intently, but as one of the archers crossed to Wallace, the man’s eyes shifted to Robert. Wallace appraised him, his expression cool, before nodding to the archer and turning away to speak to a bald-headed man Robert recognised as his cousin, Adam. He felt a stab of anger as Wallace moved off without any greeting, just as a familiar figure emerged from the crowd.

James Stewart crossed to him. ‘Sir Robert.’

Robert greeted the steward distractedly, his gaze lingering on Wallace.

As Robert’s men began to dismount, James motioned for him to follow out of earshot. ‘I fear we parted on bad terms at Irvine. I hope you know that I would never have sanctioned the proposal Henry Percy made to take your daughter as a hostage.’

Robert saw no lie in the steward’s face. ‘For my part, I am sorry for the way things went.’

‘That is past. I am glad you have come, Robert.’ James seemed on the brink of saying something further when a large figure interrupted them. It was the Bishop of Glasgow.

‘Sir Robert,’ Wishart greeted curtly.

‘I heard you were imprisoned, your grace,’ said Robert, surprised and wary to see him.

‘I was for a time, but I appealed to Archbishop Winchelsea for my release and, God be praised, he granted it. I doubt I would have been so blessed had Edward been present, but the king was in Flanders and his court in disarray. The Archbishop of Canterbury felt my imprisonment was an infringement of Church liberties.’

‘And Lord Douglas?’

The steward and the bishop exchanged a look.

‘Lord Douglas was taken into custody in the Tower,’ said Wishart. ‘I heard a rumour before I left London that he died there. That rumour has since proven to be true. Robert Clifford has been given his lands.’

Robert thought of the Lady Douglas and her bold young son, James.

‘Another of God’s fallen warriors,’ Wishart went on gruffly. ‘Still, the rebellion continues, despite our loss. We have learned of your successes in the west – the liberation of Ayr and Irvine.’

It sounded like praise, but it was difficult to tell from the bishop’s hard tone. ‘It was a small victory,’ admitted Robert, ‘in comparison to Wallace’s achievements.’

Wishart grunted in agreement. ‘Well, indeed, Master William is the reason we have gathered here. He is greatly deserving of the accolade that will be conferred upon him tomorrow.’

‘Accolade?’ questioned Robert, glancing at James.

‘His election as guardian of Scotland,’ replied the bishop.

Robert stared at him.

‘Until the throne is occupied again,’ James cut in.

‘Scotland needs a defender, more than it needs a king,’ responded Wishart, giving James a meaningful look. ‘William Wallace will be made guardian of the realm on the morrow and, God willing, will lead us to victory. King Edward is known to be gathering a vast army. Soon, a day of reckoning will be upon us all.’

With confirmation that war was coming, Robert’s thoughts filled with the question of what Wallace’s election meant for his own intentions. Before he could ascertain anything more, his brother came up.

‘We have company,’ said Edward tightly, nodding through the trees.

Robert turned to see another group entering the clearing. He recognised the two men at the front immediately. One was in his mid-fifties with coarse grizzled hair, the other was closer to his own age. Both had lean, pale faces and were dressed in black, their red shields decorated with three white sheaves of wheat. Robert stared at them, years of hostility bubbling to the surface. ‘I was told the Red Comyn and his son were captured at Dunbar,’ he murmured.

‘They were freed by King Edward on the condition they help quell the rebellion,’ answered Wishart. ‘They were with John de Warenne’s forces at Stirling, but after William’s victory they slipped the earl’s company during his flight to the Borders and came to our side.’

‘Wallace trusts them?’

‘They fight for the same ends,’ was Wishart’s blunt response.

Robert watched as the bishop crossed the clearing to greet the new­comers. By tomorrow William Wallace would be the most powerful man in the kingdom. Wishart was right – the rebel leader was fighting for the very thing the Comyns wanted: the return of John Balliol. The very thing that would destroy his plans. ‘Have the men make camp,’ he told his brother, not taking his eyes off the Lord of Badenoch.

As Edward nodded grimly and moved away, the steward stepped into Robert’s path.

‘We must talk.’

Downstream from the main camp the river tumbled over a series of rocky plateaux before draining into a deep, glassy pool. Robert and the steward stood on a spur of rock above the pool, the cascade of water concealing their conversation from anyone who might pass on the banks. Away through the trees, flickering campfires were interrupted by the shadows of men.

‘I wanted to speak to you back in Irvine,’ the steward was saying. He stood at the end of the outcrop facing Robert, his eyes black in the torch flames. ‘But events conspired against us. Bishop Wishart is right. William Wallace’s achievements have been far beyond what any of us could have expected. There is no doubt the man is deserving of the title that will be bestowed upon him at our council tomorrow.’

Robert didn’t answer.

‘But we need to look beyond the victories of the present to a time when our stability as a kingdom can be sustained without battle and bloodshed.’ James seemed to be choosing his words carefully. ‘I understand Wishart’s enthusiasm, but I have stared long into the future these past months and it is that which concerns me, more than current strategies for war and the honouring of heroes. Our future can only be certain with a king upon our throne and the line of succession secured.’ His voice lowered, until Robert had to strain to hear him over the surging water. ‘There is no certainty King John will ever return to fulfil that role, however much William and his men demand it of Edward. However many battles they win. It is my responsibility, as steward of this kingdom, to plan for that possibility.’ He paused, studying Robert. ‘Your grandfather was believed by many, myself included, to be the rightful candidate. I believe Edward saw that too and feared he would not be as malleable as Balliol.’

Robert nodded.

James’s dark eyes were intense. ‘In looking to the future, Robert, it is you that I have seen as the one who could step into the void left by Balliol. You have the blood right and also, I believe, the virtues necessary.’

At these solemn words, Robert felt relief flood through him. Despite all the things he had done to advance his ambition these past months, he hadn’t been able to silence the voices of doubt within him. They lingered still, harsh with the abrasive tones of his father, telling him it was impossible for him, a traitor, to take the throne; that the people of Scotland would not accept him and that, ultimately, he had neither the courage nor the will to stand up to King Edward. If a man of such wisdom and experience as James – a man from a long line who had served Scotland’s kings in the esteemed office of the high stewardship – believed in him, then surely it was possible. There by the rushing river, the trees stretching into shadows all around him, he could almost hear his grandfather telling him it was.

Robert told the steward of the decision he had made in Irvine. ‘It is a long road, I know,’ he finished. ‘The Stone of Destiny is held in Westminster and I don’t know how to win the trust of our people.’ He faltered. ‘And now Wallace is to be made guardian, I’m afraid the small victories I have gained in the west will benefit me little. I cannot stand beside Wallace and expect the men of the realm to respect me as they do him, no matter the strength of my claim to the throne.’

James nodded, but rather than appearing discouraged by the challenge he looked keen. ‘I agree it will not be easy. I cannot yet see the way ahead, but I do have an idea of how we might start. There is something you could do at the council tomorrow. Something that will make all those present take notice of you and your commitment to the kingdom.’

60

Above the clearing the rising sun gilded the tops of the encircling pines. Spiders’ webs decorated the branches like strings of tiny pearls. Below, the men were gathering, the murmur of their voices drowning the birds’ chorus. In the centre of the glade was a cart, with a set of wooden steps at the back. On this makeshift platform the Bishop of Glasgow was speaking with James Stewart.

Robert made his way towards the cart, negotiating the crowds already thronging the edges of the glade, the men of the camp all keen to bear witness to this ceremony, a momentous occasion for their leader and their struggle. The mood was buoyant, the soldiers plainly excited by the prospect of Wallace’s election. The Setons were ahead with Walter and five Carrick knights, clearing a path for him as best they could. Christopher kept a hand near his sword. Alexander was subdued, the atmosphere between him and Robert rather cool after the discussion about Katherine. To either side of Robert were his brothers-in-law, John and Gartnait, and close behind came Edward. As Robert approached the cart with his retinue, ignoring the hostile stares his presence generated, he caught the eye of James Stewart. The high steward nodded to him. Taking up his place at the front of the rows of men, Robert felt tension crackling within him at the thought of what was to come.