I was praying, Bruce declared accusingly, and the Bishop blinked, looked down and waved the Prior to his feet.
So you were, he replied, as cheerfully as he could manage, and I will be joining you afore long, mark me. Prior, your robing room will be perfect for a quiet meeting.
The Prior bobbed. He was not about to beg for what he knew all the canons wanted an end to the plunder and pillage and an assurance that no more robed prelates would be killed for it did not seem the time for it, when the Bishop of Glasgow stood in maille coat and braies and coif. Ironically, the mace dangling from one armoured fist was the only reminder that he was a Bishop of the Church in Scotland and forbidden to use an edge on any man though not, it seemed, forbidden to bludgeon one to death.
Bruce looked at the warrior Bishop, thinking the old man might expire of apoplexy wearing all that padding and metal in this heat. Thinking, also, that Wishart had the strained look of a man either unable to cope with a bad turd or bad news.
He followed the lumbering Bishop into the cramped, hot robing room and was surprised to find Wallace there, sitting on the only bench and leaning on his hand-and-a-half. He made no move to get up with due deference, which irritated Bruce, though he forgot it the instant Wishart spoke.
The Lords Percy and Clifford have raised forces and are marching up through Dumfries, Wishart said without preamble. Fifty thousand men, or so I am told.
Wallace never blinked, but his fists closed tighter on the hilt of the sword and Bruce heard the point of it grind into the stone floor. He saw Wisharts stricken face and knew the truth of matters at once.
You had counted on more time, he accused and Wishart nodded grimly.
Until next Spring, he growled. Edward is far to the south with an army he wants to take to Flanders to fight the French and he and the likes of the Earls of Norfolk and Hereford are in a sulk ower baron rights and tolts on wool. I didnae think there would be a force got ready until too late in the season, so would wait out the winter and come in Spring. I had
You had forgot the English Marcher lords, Wallace interrupted, and his stare was cold on Wisharts red, sweat-sheened face. You had forgot the shadow of Longshanks is long, Bishop, and growing ever closer. How is that from a man who is, folk tell me, a master of cunning?
Wishart clanked as he flapped one dismissive hand.
I did not expect Percy nor Clifford to raise forces, he grunted. I thought they would not thole the cost of it, since they made such noises about the money for Edwards French affair. Besides Percy is De Warennes grandson and would not want to make the old Earl of Surrey look a fool for governing Scotland as Viceroy from his estates in England.
Bruce laughed, nasty and harsh.
Aye, well, he said, shaking his head. There is you, scheming away and thumping every pulpit about how this is a kingdom, a realm separate from the English and with its own king so much, it seems, that you have lost sight of what the English think.
Aye, ye would ken that well enow, Wallace answered blackly, and Bruces smile had no mirth in it that any of the other two could see.
Percy and Clifford do not like Edwards foreign wars, Bruce said bitterly. But this is not a foreign war. Edward treats these lands not as another realm but as part of his own so Percy and Clifford cannot avoid raising forces to put down a home rebellion, no matter how it makes grandda De Warenne look. To do otherwise is treason. Besides Edward is coming and none of his lords in the north will want to face him without having done something. Even the Earl of Surrey will have to lever himself off his De Warenne arse and play the soldier once more.
Wishart looked miserably at the floor, then straightened, blew out of pursed, fleshy lips and nodded.
Aye, right enough, he said. It was a misjudgement. Now we have to deal with it.
Deal with it? Bruce bellowed. How do manage that, dye think? Even allowing for your spies seeing triple, the English have too many men, it appears. A fifth of fifty thousand would be enough, for nothing I have seen persuades me that this rabble Wallace leads will stand in the open field against them.
He broke off, breathing heavily, then nodded grimly at Wallace.
No offence.
None taen, Wallace replied, suddenly cheerful. You have the right of it, for sure mine are men best fighting out of the hills and woods, my lords. So that is where we will go.
Wishart looked as if he would protest and Bruce felt a sharp stab of anger at the presumption of Wallace, about to up and go without so much as a by-your-leave bow but he swallowed the bile of it and nodded soberly.
Aye, that will be the way of it but you should go with what men you have and what will go with you who are free of obligation to myself and the other nobles.
Wallace turned narrowed eyes and gazed at Bruce from under lowered brows.
And yourself, lord of Carrick?
I will gather up the Douglas, the Bishop here and others and we will make what resistance we can from our fortresses. The English will have to deal with us and that will buy you time to cause havoc.
Wallace stared at Bruce a long time, then slowly nodded.
Longshanks is coming. This will cost you dear, he said, looking from Wishart to Bruce and back.
In the noble cause, Wishart declared and Wallace clasped them both, wrist to wrist, then went out, silent as a wraith for all his bulk. It suddenly seemed to the others that the room had doubled in size. No-one spoke for a moment, then Wishart cleared his throat.
And the truth? he demanded. Bruce looked coldly at him.
My purpose in joining this now-failed enterprise has already been achieved, he said pointedly. The mason is buried anew.
Wishart nodded weary agreement.
So we will get ourselves to Irvine with what men we have and prepare to negotiate, Bruce added. Wisharts belly quivered under the armour as he dragged himself haughtily upright. Yed yield? Without a fight?
Bruces bottom lip stuck out like a shovel and Wishart, who knew the sign well, found some caution.
The king himself will come north, Bruce growled angrily. Like the black wind he is. Wallace will fight he has to, for he has no lands to his own name and is an outlaw, no more. You lose nothing bar some dignity for having to kneel and kiss Edwards ring, for the Church lands are sacrosanct.
He thrust his mace of a face into Wisharts own.
But we, he said, slapping the chevroned jupon, risk losing everything. We, the community of the realm you depend on to free it. Edward will come north with his scowl and his evil eye I could lose Carrick and my father Annandale. Gods Blood, Wishart, I place my rights to the crown in jeopardy here. Douglas will lose his Lanark lands do you want us all fastened up in Berwick, or the Tower?
More to the point of it, Wishart thought bitterly, is that Buchan and the rest of the Comyn, ostensibly supporting Edward but covertly allowing Morays rebels free rein, would come out smelling as if theyd been dipped in crushed rose petals. They play this game of kings more skilfully than the young Bruce, he saw, who needed some cunning heads round him.
Of course, he said, bowing to the inevitable, negotiation is tricky business. Involved and sometimes lengthy. And what of Wallace?
Of course, he said, bowing to the inevitable, negotiation is tricky business. Involved and sometimes lengthy. And what of Wallace?
Bruce grunted sourly.
Wallace owes nothing save allegiance to a deposed king who wishes nothing to do with his kingdom, he growled. He owns no lands, suffers the worry of no tenant and looks down his sword at each man he meets, asking only if he is for The Wallace. If not, he is against him.
No bad thing in these days, Wishart countered defiantly.
Simplistic, Bruce spat back over his shoulder as headed for the door. And probably brief. Whether negotiations are long or short, it will come out as it always does with us on our knees.
He paused and turned.
Save for Wallace, he added. He is of little account. Longshanks will never forgive him.
I am of account, he was thinking as he spoke. God Made Me and he made me to be a king.
The liberators of Scone toasted each other, their hero Wallace and even Bruce and the bishops. The alehouse was the only building not ransacked or burned, more sacred than any church to men with a thirst on them. Dark save for a few sconced torches gasping for breath in the cloy of the place, it heaved with bodies, stank of vomit and piss and stale sweat.
Sim, by main force, had found a corner and two scarred horn cups to blow the froth off, but Hal took time drinking his, squinting at the damp yellowed, blackened scraps he had pulled out from under his jack.
What does it say, then? the unlettered Sim demanded, loosening the ties of his own studded, padded jack and trying to struggle out of it in the roasting heat of the place.
If there was light I would tell ye, Hal muttered. It was too dark to see other than that the writing was cramped and in Latin. Still, he was fairly sure it concerned the death of the mason and was an investigation of his clothing, which had included a beaver hat tucked into his belt and cut in the Flemish style. Apart from that and a signature Bartholomew Bisset Hal could make out nothing more; he would have to wait for daylight.
Kirkpatrick was burning this? Sim muttered and paused as a loud jeering and catcalling erupted. A woman had come in.
Aye, so it seems, Hal said. The why of it escaped him, which he mentioned, sipping the beer and grimacing, for it was the temperature of broth. He felt the sweat sliding down him the summer night was muggy and the rough walls of the place were leprous and dripping.
Christ, I cannot think in here, Hal said and started to rise, only to find the woman in front of him, so sudden that he recoiled.
My son, she said, her face twisted and worn with grief. Have ye seen him? A wee boy only. I have looked everywhere. Yell know him clear, for he has a wish-mark on his face.
She paused and managed a wan smile, but it was clear the tears had not all been wrung out of her on a long, fruitless night of search.
Strawberry, she added. I ken well wishing for strawberries afore he was born. I had a wee passion for them
The boys face, smeared with dung and midden filth, the strawberry stain bright in the flames
No, Hal said desperately. No.
The lies choked him and he dived headfirst into anger, the sudden face of his own dead son a knife-sharp image etched so bright he was blinded by it.
Get away, wummin, he blustered, ducking past her grief and hope, heading out of the linen-thick fug into the smoke-stained breath of the street. Am I the fount of knowledge? What do I ken of your son, mistress ?
He banged past her into the rutted street and stood, trembling like a whipped dog, sucking in air lashed with char and burned meat; after the inside of the alehouse, even that seemed nectarine. He gulped it and shook his head. Johnnie the loss of him was an ache that only added to the misery of this night, this entire enterprise.
Christs Bones could matters get worse?
Wallace sends for us, said the growl of Sims voice, and his blackness bulked up at Hals shoulder, his face pale and sheened, his stare pointed. Over his shoulder a man waited, dark and impatient, to take them to The Wallace.
He wants to ask aboot a dead mason, Sim added mournfully.
Wallace was in Ormsbys chambers, stirring the half-burned papers with the tip of a bollock dagger, while bare-legged kerns grinned savagely at a trembling canon. Outside, the rest of Wallaces army had muted itself to a roar.
I have had a wee chance to consider matters, Wallace said, slowly and in good English, Hal noted, so that the priest could follow it easily enough. Wallace jerked his head at the priest, but kept his eyes on Hal and Sim.
This is Brother Gregor, he said, while Hal stood, feeling like he was six and in trouble with his da. Brother Gregor has been persuaded to help. He reads Latin and had it dinned into him in Hexham Priory.
He broke off and grinned at the shaking English monk.
I well ken how that feels, he said with some sympathy, though I never learned as much as I should, for my teachers were not inclined to belt me more than the once.
Hal flicked a look at Brother Gregor, who stood with his eyes down and his hands trembling; he had an idea what sort of persuasion had been used but why would you need to threaten a priest to read some documents? Why would a priest refuse in the first place?
Brawlie, Wallace said admiringly when Hal muttered this out. Your mind could cut yourself, it is that sharp and so ye are the very man for what I have in mind.
Which is? Hal ventured.
Wallace turned to the nearest kern and whatever he did with eyes and nods got Brother Gregor huckled out, leaving Wallace alone with Hal and Sim; the night wind sighed in through the unshuttered window, stirring the Ormsby wall hanging which Sim had replaced.
I guddled about in the slorach of this, Wallace said, indicating the charred, damp mess of papers that Hal had not dared take once Wallace had spotted them, and fished out some choice morsels but the canons of this place refused to read them.
He paused and looked at them.
Only yin man could put the fear of God into them over this and that is the wee English Prior. Now where did he find courage for that?
Bishop Wishart, Hal thought at once, and said so. Wallace nodded slowly.
Aye. Promises made atween Christians, as it were. Well, I then sought Brother Gregor and almost had to hold his feet to the fire to persuade him to the work, Wallace went on. In the end, he came up with a Scone mason red-murdered near Douglas and a report in a wee, crabbed hand by some scribbler called Bartholomew Bisset. That man is a notary to Ormsby. He has gone out the window as well but I will get him and put him to the question.
He broke off and looked steadily at Hal until the eyes seemed to be burning holes; Hal fought not to look away and eventually Wallace nodded.
Ye are joined to Bruce, he said and then grinned and picked the polished table idly with his dagger point. But not willing. Nor favouring me neither.
I thought we were all on the same side, Hal lied and then felt ashamed at the scornful stare he had back for his false naivety, admitting it with a shrug.
Bruce and the Bishops and others are off to Irvine, Wallace declared and cocked one eyebrow to show what he thought of that.
Percy and Clifford are coming with an English army and Wishart has made a right slaister of matters, so Scotlands gentilhommes are waving their hands and sounding off like a kist of whistles. I am away to the hills and the trees and most of the fighting men are with me sorry, but a wheen of yer own are among them.