The Guardian (46 page)

“So be it, then,” Will Wallace said, and stood up, extending his hand to the Highlander. “You have killed the last of my concerns. I will follow you now.”

Andrew rose to his feet, eyeing the other man levelly. “No,” he said. “I think not. I want you beside me, Will Wallace, not following me. We are friends, you and I, blood brothers these ten years past, so march with me as an equal, sharing command. And if we are to die in this Carse of Stirling, then let us die together.”

We came to the old bridge that crossed the River Tay at Scone just before noon the next day and spent most of the remainder of the day watching our forces cross it in good order. I was one of the first to cross, well ahead of the main body, and I went directly to the abbey to pay my respects to the abbot, Thomas de Balmerino, and to request his permission for our host to make camp for one night in the large riverside meadows belonging to the abbey. It was, of course, a request that the good man could not refuse, but I went out of my way to present my request courteously, in the names of both William Wallace and Andrew Murray of Petty, and he extended his permission graciously. But Abbot Thomas’s reception of me surpassed mere graciousness. It may have been because he deemed it necessary, aware that an entire army, commanded by the man Wallace who had raided Perth, a mere five miles down the road, was about to come knocking at his gates, but he was kind enough to receive me in person and in private, in his official quarters but without observers, where he offered me refreshment and a comfortable chair near a crackling fire.

I had met him six years earlier, at his official installation as abbot in 1291. He did not remember me at all, and neither did I expect him to, since mine had been but one strange face among the hundreds assembled to wish him well on that day. But when I told him I had been part of the entourage surrounding Bishop Wishart of Glasgow, Abbot Thomas seemed to hesitate, then looked at me differently, through narrowed eyes, as if he were attempting to recall something that lay just beyond his reach.

“Of course,” he said, almost musingly. “It was a long time ago, but I remember you now. Not your face, of course, but I recall your name, and your unusual gifts. We spoke of you at length that night, His Grace and I, and he pointed you out to me the following day before you left to return to Glasgow.”

I made no effort to conceal my surprise, but he smiled kindly and waved my splutterings aside. “I recall the incident clearly now,” he said. “We had been indulging ourselves, I fear, passing verbal judgments, though privily, on some of our so-called betters and the divergences between what they claimed to do and what they actually did, and we were deploring the duplicity of powerful men in general and political duplicity in particular. This was at the time, you may recall, when the court of auditors was yet in session, assessing the credentials of the various claimants to our throne—and His Grace mentioned that he had a young priest who was gifted with what he called an astounding ability—and I recall his words quite clearly now—an astounding ability to see beyond the facade and discern men’s true intentions and motives. He would give anything, he said at the time, to be able to find a score of others like you, but he had to be content that he had found you. And obviously he has been able to retain your services.”

I smiled, flattered and delighted to be remembered in such a gratifying manner. “He has, my lord abbot, and I am happy in the work he assigns me.”

“Praise be to God.” The abbot sighed. “I hope he is well, for he is no longer a young man and he will be sore missed while he is gone.”

So profound was my shock to hear those words that I forgot my place and spoke roughly. “What ever do you mean, he will be missed? Are you telling me he is in danger?”

Abbot Thomas blinked at me, his mouth falling slightly open. “You do not know? How can this be? His Grace is imprisoned in Roxburgh Castle, arrested by Henry Percy.”

“But—! We knew of the bishop’s plans to hold Percy in negotiations at Irvine, and we heard of the capitulation, but we knew
nothing of Bishop Wishart being imprisoned.” In my agitation I had stood up and begun to pace the floor. “Percy has been busy, it would seem,” I snapped. “But no matter how large the army at his disposal, my cousin Will and Andrew Murray are on their own way south to put the English upstart in his place.”

Abbot Thomas’s eyes went wide. “To put him in his place? Sir Henry Percy? How so, Father James?”

“Firmly and finally, my lord abbot. By defeating him in battle.”

“But …” Abbot Thomas was clearly bewildered. “But he has no authority now, no military status other than as subordinate to his father-in-law, Sir John de Warrenne, the Earl of Surrey. He rides with the earl, according to what I have been told, but in a subordinate capacity. The earl himself is coming north at this time, at the head of a large army, and I have no doubt Sir Henry Percy rides with him.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head with conviction. “That cannot be true. De Warrenne went home to England in disgust last year, claiming to be too old for Scotland’s climate. He made no secret of the fact that he hates it here and he had no intentions of
ever
returning.”

The abbot grimaced. “I remember that well. But since that time England’s King has sailed for France and left his senior barons to keep peace in Scotland. I am told he reminded the Earl of Surrey of the meaning of the title he had bestowed upon him last year— warden of the kingdom and land of Scotland—and warned him of the consequences of inaction while his monarch was in France. And so de Warrenne is coming, with a mighty host, they say.”

“How mighty might that be, my lord abbott? Do you have any knowledge of their numbers?”

The abbot shook his head. “No, my son, I do not. But I do know that they are being augmented by a second army from Berwick and the lands of Northumberland, under the command of Hugh de Cressingham.”

“Great God in Heaven! Forgive me, Father Abbot, but I must take this news to Wallace and Murray at once. They know nothing of any
of this.” I froze as I remembered the initial purpose of my visit. “Pardon me again, Father, but I came here to ask for your permission for our forces to make camp in your water meadows overnight.”

He waved me to silence. “Of course you have my permission, and my blessing. How long will you remain?”

“Only this night, Father. This information makes it vital that we proceed to Stirling with all speed. Would you happen to know where the enemy is now? How far north have they come?”

The abbot shook his head sadly. “Even were I able to answer that, Father James, the ‘now’ I speak of would have been a week ago, and probably longer. I heard only that the armies were assembling and coming this way. The wandering brethren who deliver our tidings walk, and their information travels at the same pace.” He raised his hand and blessed me. “Go now in peace, and tell your commanders all of you will be in my prayers from this time on.”

I thanked him and left, escorted by a monk he had summoned to see me safely on my way, and as I headed back to look for Will and Andrew I had much to think about.

We had come here anticipating a fight with manageable numbers, under Percy and Clifford. Now, instead, we were faced with the prospect of meeting two far larger armies, rich in heavy cavalry and disciplined men-at-arms supported by large numbers of massed archers, and commanded by Hugh de Cressingham himself, the widely detested “Treacherer” of Scotland. Cold comfort there, I thought, for a temporary camp at the end of a long, hard march.

The two leaders took my ill news remarkably well, all things considered. Neither of them appeared to be in any hurry to speak up when I had finished what I had to say, and each of their faces remained unreadable as they digested what they had heard. After a time, though, Will turned to Andrew.

“What do you think?”

Andrew grimaced. “We should have been in Stirling yesterday,” he said very quietly. “Tomorrow might be too late.”

Will sucked a deep, quick breath. “You might be right,” he said. “But I doubt it. De Warrenne will be an unwilling traveller and the Treacherer’s a fat, lazy slug. Neither one will be racing to reach Stirling. They think they’re facing nothing more than a rabble of outlaws and serfs—no horsemen, no discipline, no archers, and no magnates to command them. So they’ll be in no hurry, and they’ll be expecting to swat us out of their way like flies.”

Sandy Pilche, who had been sitting with them when I arrived, cleared his throat. “Can we be sure they’re going north?” he asked. “Right away, I mean. What if they decide to stay in the south for a while instead and destroy everythin’ there afore they move on? If what we’ve been telt be true, and there’s that many o’ them, it shouldna be much trouble to them to mak sure they leave nothin’ ahint them that might be a threat at their back.”

“They won’t do that, Sandy.” Andrew’s voice was firm. “They have the south in hand, for now. Or so they think. If we in Moray think our northern lands have been stripped of their leaders, the situation in the south is twice as bad. England’s jails are full o’ high-born southern Scots.” He shook his head resolutely. “No, no. It’s in the north where trouble is brewing fastest for them. And that’s where their eagerness for victory and plunder will take them directly. They’ll be wanting to stamp us out, because they still believe we’re all up there fighting yet, and they’ll be looking to burn and plunder everythin’ they can lay hand to once they’ve dealt wi’ us. Believe me, they’ll have no interest in staying south o’ Stirling. Will, what say you?”

“No argument from me,” Will said. “They’re bound for the Highland Line, and to get there they’ll need to cross the Forth at Stirling, so that’s where we should be waiting for them.” He shook his head. “It’s not just a matter o’ bein’ there. It’s a matter o’ bein’ there first and bein’ ready to stop them. I agree with you that we should hae been there yesterday, and failin’ that, we should be marching this minute. But it’s too late in the day now and the men need to sleep. So we’ll be up and away come dawn and we’ll no’ stop until we reach the Carse o’ Stirling from the northwest, around
the back o’ the Ochil Hills. That way, if they’re there before us, they’ll no’ see us comin’.”

His brows wrinkled in thought, and then he looked at me. “Jamie, I’ll need you to ride for me again. Find that fellow Lamberton who impressed you so much and hae a talk wi’ him, quick as you can, and then come back here wi’ whatever information or instructions he can give us. He’ll be in Glasgow, I jalouse, at the cathedral, for he seems to be the one deputizing for Rab Wishart during his absence, and he’ll no’ be far from the centre o’ things. You’ll be bringing back the only reliable information we might have about what’s going on wi’ Warrenne and Cressingham.”

I nodded. “I’ll leave before dawn. Can you arrange for me to have a couple of good horses?”

He frowned. “That’s too dangerous. You’ll attract attention riding on your own and wi’ a spare horse. You’ll need an escort.”

“Fine,” I said. “But not a large one. I still have the letter of safe conduct signed by Edward, and the documents attesting that I ride on church business, so I’ll need only two well-armed men to discourage thieves.”

“You’ll take four men. I’ll have Sir Iain assign his best to see you safely there and back.”

“Go with God, Jamie,” de Moray said. “And gin He smiles on us, we’ll see you again in Stirling.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE PATH TO STIRLING

I
remember how keenly aware I was of the emptiness of the countryside as we rode that morning, for being part of an army changes one’s view of everything in every way, and it seemed to me like a very long time since I had gone anywhere without being surrounded by a multitude. Our journey south was uneventful, and we made excellent time, riding openly and travelling the entire distance from Perth to Stirling without seeing a single sign of English presence. The plain truth was that our little jaunt to Glasgow would not have been worth more than passing mention in this tale had it not been for one unexpected encounter that resulted in an unprecedented opportunity to acquire information about the enemy’s plans.

I went directly to the cathedral when we reached Glasgow. Father Malachi, the oldest member of the cathedral chapter, scuttled away, wide-eyed, to tell Canon Lamberton that I wished to speak with him, and mere moments later Lamberton himself came striding out, smiling widely, to greet me in person. He shook my hand warmly and took me by the arm to walk back with me across the cathedral precincts to the bishop’s residence, where he was staying while Wishart was imprisoned in Roxburgh, and there he permitted me to exchange greetings and pleasantries with all my old friends and colleagues on the diocesan staff. Before long, however, he dismissed everyone and took me into the bishop’s sanctum, where he ushered me into a chair by the welcoming fire in the hearth, and I was reminded that even on the hottest summer day in our land, large houses are dark and dank inside, for sandstone blocks are impervious to sunlight and warmth.

At ease in his role as the bishop’s deputy, the canon poured a cup of wine for each of us and came to sit across the fire from me, and as the questions began I quickly discerned that he was as starved for reliable information here in the southwest as were we to the north. Fortunately, however, each of us knew enough about the other’s lack to permit us to put each other’s mind at rest.

He had heard rumours of failure out of Moray, the most worrisome yet least substantial of those being that Andrew Murray had been taken and hanged by the hapless Reginald de Cheyne, the English-appointed governor of Moray. According to the report he had received, he told me, Murray had been hanged and drawn—a barbarous, scandalous death for anyone, let alone a nobleman— after Pilche, his rebellious accomplice, had betrayed him under torture before dying himself.

I listened in disbelief, and as soon as he had finished speaking I said, “Believe me, Canon, Will and Andrew will be much impressed by that tale when they hear it, and so will Sandy Pilche, unless these events took place yesterday, for all three men were alive and well the day before that, when I left them.”