Insurrection (55 page)

Now, approaching the rebels’ camp in the dying light, Robert felt his anticipation at the prospect of the steward’s counsel rise again. But before they reached the outskirts his company was met by an armed patrol.

The group confronted them on foot, one man halting them with a raised hand. Hugely muscular with a bald head burned scarlet, he was incongruously dressed in dirty, calf-length braies held in place by a belt at his broad stomach and a fine, fur-trimmed cloak that he wore open to reveal a scarred chest. He was gripping a long-handled axe with a wicked, curved blade. The six men with him wore an odd mix of garments suggestive of a multitude of localities. One was wearing the short tunic of a Highlander and was barefoot with a long spear in his hands. Another was clad in a rather outdated mail haubergeon that was too big for him, suggesting it had been made for someone else, while two others wore stained gambesons and carried short bows, with cloth quivers filled with arrows slung from their belts. They had the bullish stance of confident, aggressive men and all looked as if they had recently seen battle, cuts and bruises decorating their skin, bloodstains soaked into their clothing.

The bald man in the fur-trimmed cloak had his eyes on Robert’s banner. ‘Who are you?’ he said, his voice like a bear’s growl.

When Robert stated his name, he noticed an immediate shift in the group’s demeanour. The bald man glanced meaningfully at the Highlander in the short tunic, who nodded wordlessly and headed across the grass into the bustle of the encampment.

The bald man turned back with a dour expression. ‘Wait here.’

‘I’ve come to see Sir James Stewart,’ Robert went on, biting back his affront. He couldn’t really have expected anything but a cold welcome considering, but still, to be treated so discourteously by such men was an insult to his nobility.

The bald man said nothing, but continued to stare at Robert, his axe grasped in his fists.

Robert sat back in his saddle, showing him indifference, while inside he wondered uneasily if he had made a mistake coming here, perhaps a dangerous one. He caught the eye of Alexander Seton, whose face displayed a similar concern, his hand on his sword pommel.

After a tense wait, several men appeared, moving through the crowded camp, following the bare-legged Highlander. Robert sat up as he recognised the blue and white chequered band on gold that decorated their shields: the arms of the steward. Pleased by the evidence that a friendly face might yet be found, he was nonetheless troubled to see that the steward’s knights greeted him with the same terseness as the bald man, their hands never straying far from their weapons as they bade him and his men dismount. Leaving his horse with Nes, Robert walked up the hillside behind the escort. Glancing back, he saw the bald man and his crew had closed in behind.

Moving past tents aglow with lanterns, through the swirling smoke of fires, Robert saw people looking round at his banner. Many of their faces hardened as they fixed on the red chevron. He knew he couldn’t blame them. He had spent two years at King Edward’s court and during the war his family had sided with the English. Even so, determined to challenge their view of him, Robert set his sights on a row of tents looming ahead. Outside, horses were tethered to stakes thrust in the ground, a mixture of sturdy coursers and rouncies. Smells of dung and food mingled with the odour of wood from a fire that was burning high into the flushed evening. There were many men around it, sharing bowls of drink and food, some laughing, others talking quietly. A few just stared into the flames, their sun-browned skin livid with wounds. Between the fire and the tents, Robert saw James Stewart. He was talking to a stocky man with a mottled face and tonsured head, dressed in robes trimmed with ermine. It was Robert Wishart, the Bishop of Glasgow. The two looked round at his approach. Robert smiled, but neither the steward nor the fierce-eyed bishop returned the greeting.

His retinue, along with Katherine and Judith, who held a struggling Marjorie, were corralled into a group by the escort of knights.

‘Sir Robert,’ said the steward, his tone cool. ‘It has been a while.’

‘I’m glad to see you, Sir James. My men and I have travelled from Kyle Stewart, where I had hoped to take counsel with you.’

‘I wondered if we might see you before long.’ The steward appraised Robert’s company. ‘We heard what happened at the castle of Lord Douglas.’

‘You heard?’ Robert was surprised. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, that the bald man had moved over to the fire and was speaking to someone, a tall figure, whose back was turned.

‘My sister came here a week ago on her way to safety.’ The steward paused. ‘I owe you my gratitude for letting her and my nephew go free. Had they been delivered into King Edward’s custody I am not certain I would have seen them again.’ The words, though seemingly heartfelt, were stiff.

Robert noticed that some of the men at the fire were looking over. He resisted the urge to move closer to his daughter at the threat from so many unfriendly gazes. One man was heading over purposefully. He was thickset with windblown black hair, dressed better than most of the others in well-fitted mail and a blue cloak. There was something faintly familiar about his face. Robert, seeing three white stars on the breast of his cloak, realised where the familiarity came from. His suspicion that this must be the father of James Douglas was confirmed when the man spoke.

‘Sir Robert of Carrick, is it? I have learned you saved my wife and son.’ Before Robert could respond, Lord Douglas continued roughly. ‘Before I thank you, I would know why.’

‘We would all like to know that.’

The clear voice came from a tall figure striding from the fire. He walked beside the bald man, who looked suddenly small in comparison. Robert stared at this approaching giant, who was well over six feet, perhaps close to seven. His hands and feet were as big as spades, but in proportion to the rest of his muscular frame. Robert wasn’t short, but he felt dwarfed by this colossus. Even King Edward, admired and feared because of his great stature and known, popularly, as Longshanks, wasn’t this tall. The man had a square, brutish face with a nose that looked as though it had been broken a few times. A bruise clouded his brow, half hidden by tousled brown hair. His heavily muscled arms were veined with recently stitched injuries, one of which ran from his wrist up to his elbow. The most surprising thing about him was his eyes, a startling shade of azure, filled with sharp intelligence. He wore stained hose, wrinkled boots criss-crossed with leather to hold them up and a dark blue tunic, under which the bulk of a coat of plates was detectable.

The giant halted before Robert. ‘Why have you come to my camp?’

For a moment, Robert said nothing. So, this must be him. The man who refused to swear fealty to King Edward and who stabbed the son of an English knight who insulted him, then fought off five of his companions armed with only a rusty knife. The man who was imprisoned, beaten and starved until his breath stopped and his English gaolers threw him out with the night soil, and who rose from the dead two days later. The man who hounded the English justiciar out of Scone and chased Bishop Bek from Glasgow, and who hacked through half a town garrison to slay the Sheriff of Lanark in his bed, and with that stroke began the insurrection.

Robert was surprised, for although the young giant’s stature seemed to fit the outlandish tales William Wallace looked scarcely older than himself. He had attributed those feats of daring to a much older commander. Wallace, he saw, was wearing a strange necklace. Looking harder, Robert realised it was strung with human teeth. Moving his gaze from the grotesque trophy, he met the young man’s sharp blue eyes. When he had thought on the road to Irvine of what he would say when he arrived, his planned speech had been all about how he couldn’t hold his flesh and blood in hatred and needed to fight for the kingdom into which he was born. But in front of these scarred, hard-faced men those words now sounded pompous and insincere. ‘I came,’ he said finally, looking over at James, ‘to offer my support for the rising against King Edward’s occupation.’ His gaze switched back to Wallace, who looked utterly unconvinced. ‘For I am as Scottish as you.’

The bald man snorted derisively. At the sound Nes bristled and Alexander Seton’s hand, resting on the pommel of his sword, shifted to curl around the hilt.

Wallace’s eyes narrowed at Robert. ‘Are you? When your father still defends the city of Carlisle for the English king? When you refused to raise arms for King John and raised them instead for England? I have no need of a man who is merely Scot born. I have need of men who are Scots at heart.’

Robert stepped forward, wanting to demand how this barbarian, with only a veinful of noble blood, dared speak to him this way. But he forced back the words, hearing something sickeningly akin to his father’s scathing tones in them. ‘My family refused to fight because the man who ordered us to raise arms was a puppet king under the thrall of our enemies, the Comyns.’ He stared around defiantly at some of the incensed murmurs his words provoked. He fixed on the steward and Wishart. ‘Many of you supported my grandfather’s claim to the throne, set your names and reputations on his right to it. Where were you when his claim was overruled? You walked away, afraid to risk your positions under Balliol. That was understandable. And it was no less than what my family did when faced with the bitter choice of pledging fealty to an enemy, or keeping faith with the king who had passed us over, but in whose service we remained.’ His eyes swung back to Wallace. ‘Whatever you think of my actions, I have remained loyal in these years to the only king my family paid homage to.’ He paused. ‘But that loyalty has been tested beyond its limits.’

It was James Stewart who came to Robert’s defence. ‘None of us can deny what Sir Robert says. To my shame, I walked away from his family after the hearing despite the support I pledged to his grandfather.’ His brown eyes fixed on Robert. ‘It is a regret I live with still, more so since your grandfather’s passing.’ James looked to Wallace. ‘It takes a brave man, Master William, to stand up for his family when so many are against them. An even braver man to desert that family for the sake of his kingdom.’

Wallace shook his head. ‘I would agree with you, Sir James, but I fear he’s nothing more than a spy, sent by his father to learn our plans. Likely his actions in Douglas were a ruse, designed to make us trust him.’ He didn’t look at Robert as he spoke, blunt and frank. ‘He has been Edward’s man for over three years. He cannot be trusted.’ With that, Wallace turned and walked away, his long stride taking him back to the fire.

Robert, seeing the nods, even grim smiles of some of the men, went to go after Wallace, determined to challenge the accusation.

He was stopped by James Stewart. ‘You have had a long journey and the hour grows late. Let us speak for a moment alone, Sir Robert.’ He gestured to his knights. ‘See that food is brought for his men.’ When Robert continued to stare at Wallace’s retreating back, James added, ‘I’m sure your daughter must be tired.’

50

In grudging agreement, Robert followed the steward into the tent. Ducking through the flaps, he found himself in a warm interior, furnished with a bed, trestle and boards, and a few stools. Carpeted with faded rugs, it was lit with lanterns. There were two servants here. The steward ordered the older of the two to pour wine.

Robert, furious at Wallace’s words, went to refuse it, but the sight of the calm-faced steward standing there expectantly mollified him and, besides, he was thirsty. Taking the goblet, he drank, but when James motioned for him to sit he declined. ‘Why are you letting Wallace dictate to you? He is the son of one of your vassals. He isn’t even a knight! Worse, he’s a savage. Have you seen what he wears around his neck?’

James took a sip from his goblet, waiting until Robert had finished. ‘It is a delicate matter. Yes, I am far above William in station, as are you. But to many who now follow him he has become something of a saviour. They will listen only to him and their numbers make up most of this army.’ James spread a hand to the camp, visible through the tent flaps as a triangle of red dusk filled with smoke and shadows. ‘Such as it is.’

‘I’ve heard of some of the things he has done,’ said Robert, determined to make his point. ‘Torture. Murder. Are these the actions of an honourable man?’

‘No. They are the actions of a desperate man in a desperate time. I am not excusing his methods. But’ – James paused – ‘I can understand them.’ The steward seated himself on a stool, his yellow mantle shimmering gold in the lantern light. ‘For William the war began six years ago, during the hearing to decide who would take the throne. When the nobles were compelled to swear fealty to King Edward as our overlord, William’s father – one of my vassals – refused. Wallace was a good man, but proud and defiant. The king’s reaction was swift. As an example to others Wallace was outlawed, forced to leave his family. Shortly after, there was a clash between a group of Ayrshire men and English soldiers, supposedly there to keep the king’s peace. Wallace had come out of hiding to join this mob, who were responsible for the deaths of five soldiers. English knights pursued this band all the way to Loudoun Hill.’

Robert remembered his grandfather speaking of a skirmish there during the hearing.

‘William’s father was struck down, his legs cut away from under him. He was left to bleed out on the hillside. It was an appalling way to die. His wife died in poverty soon after and his sons were separated. By the time Balliol took the throne, William was living with his uncle, the Sheriff of Ayr. Already, he held a great deal of resentment towards the English soldiery, whom he held responsible for the deaths of both his parents. When war broke out last year it was the chance he was waiting for, but his hopes for revenge were dashed with our defeat at Dunbar. English officials poured into our towns, replacing local men. One was the new Sheriff of Lanark, a man named Hesilrig.’ James paused to take a drink. ‘During the early days of the occupation, I remember hearing of an English soldier, a wrestler, who was challenging men in Lanark’s market place, charging them four silver pennies to see if they could break a pole on his back. William took up the invitation and paid his four pence, but rather than break the pole he broke the fool’s back. The man’s comrades set upon him and he beat them down, all three. William was outlawed, his uncle robbed and his friends beaten in retaliation. The tail of his horse was even hacked off. Things got out of hand and the son of an English knight was killed, stabbed by William with his own knife. William was caught and imprisoned, but after weeks of torture he escaped.