The Guardian (52 page)

For the rank-and-filers of Surrey’s army, the most mundane tasks associated with setting and breaking camp each day quickly became torturous. The pitching and dismantling of tents was a nightmarish struggle, every evening and every morning, with slimy, water-soaked leather panels or equally heavy sodden sailcloth tenting and rough, thick hempen ropes with wet, obdurate knots. For that reason, very few tents were pitched on that march, most of the knights and men-at-arms and all the footmen preferring to find whatever shelter they could by themselves, since they could be no
wetter or colder than they already were. None but the senior commanders slept under tents, the large, high-peaked rectangular kind known as pavilions, and that was more a matter of convention and dignity than one of warmth or shelter, for the very fabric of their roofs and walls was saturated with rain, and the ground on which they were erected was heavy mud. And while it was true that fires could be lit beneath the soaring roofs of the great tents, nothing could be dried effectively there, and worse, the tents themselves trapped the heavy smoke from the wet wood burning in the braziers, making the atmosphere almost unbreathable. Even the sleeping cots were wet, their covers heavy and cold with dampness. And in consequence of that general misery and squalor, there was little talk at night before men slept. Men ate in grumpy silence, unhappy with whatever food the hapless cooks had managed to prepare, and then they sought oblivion in sleep, hoping the rain would stop before they woke again.

I heard the weather change finally, in the small hours of morning on the sixth day of September, because I was already astir, preparing to assist Father Thomas in celebrating a pre-dawn Mass, and the abrupt stillness when the rain stopped thundering on the leather roof of the tented pavilion we were using as a church caused both of us to look up. We looked at each other with raised eyebrows—we were the only two people there—smiled quickly, and returned to the sacrifice under way, but I know that I, at least, was unable to focus completely upon it thereafter. Too many thoughts and possibilities were now swirling in my mind, and I wondered, not for the first time, how my friends had fared in Stirling throughout the week-long deluge.

I had already been out of doors for an hour before daybreak, enjoying birdsong for the first time in many days and breathing deeply the fresh, clean air, and when the first rays of the sun lanced into a blue and cloudless sky, I imagined that everyone else would be as happy as I felt. I was soon disillusioned on that count. After a week of unrelenting rainfall, everything—clothing, bedding, tents, provisions, supplies, weapons, and livestock—was not merely
soaked, but much of it had begun to grow mouldy. I realized that it would take much more than the promise of a bright, dry day to lighten the loads—both physical and emotional—of the bedraggled host that surrounded me.

By then, though, couriers had arrived from Stirling Castle, reporting the presence of “a large host of Scotch rogues” in the vicinity of the town, and the English commanders knew they had run out of time. And so the woebegone army took to the road again, hauling their rain-sodden possessions with them.

More than a week had passed since we had organized our system of messengers to ferry information from our camp to Stirling, but we had not sent out a single word in all that time other than that we had nothing to report. Our situation in the English camp, which had seemed so exciting and filled with potential for great success in duping the enemy, had produced nothing, thanks to the foulness of the weather.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

THE INVISIBLE PRIEST

I
t was the eighth day of September, a Sunday, before we finally completed an entire day’s march without being rained upon, and we arrived in the middle of that afternoon at the spot where we would spend our last night of that particular stage of this campaign. We were perhaps three miles from Stirling town, and the castle, clearly visible atop its soaring crag in the distance, seemed to beckon to us as the feverish activity of setting up another marching camp broke out yet again.

The surrounding countryside, so tranquil when it first came into view, was transformed within a single half-hour as the army spilled out of its line of march and became an amorphous, sprawling multitude of men and beasts and wheeled vehicles of all descriptions. We priests, the score of us, moved as one small part of the enormous mass, for our own role in this diurnal ritual was now as well known to us as the soldiers’ were to them. Since it was my turn that day to drive the wagon I shared with three others, I guided my team into place in our five-wagon chaplains’ procession to our assigned location and then set about the preparations for celebrating evening Masses in several locations, one for the Earl of Surrey and his personal entourage in the privacy of the big tented pavilion that served as the earl’s private quarters, and a number of others throughout the vast encampment that was being created all around us.

We arrived at our allocated spot—always close by the earl’s quarters—and quickly settled into our daily routine, drawing our five wagons together in a rough circle that we knew would be left unmolested by the soldiery who otherwise swept everywhere as they
searched for the things they needed. While some of us, myself among them, began to unload necessities from the wagons, others of our number dug a central fire pit, while others went searching for stones with which to line the fire bed, and still others went to gather firewood. And writing about that now, I find myself a little in awe, for no one who has never been part of an army on the march can appreciate the difficulties involved in such seemingly simple activities. Unless you have been in such a situation, you might never think to question the ease of lighting a campfire. You dig a pit, line it with flat stones, and gather firewood to burn in it. It all seems perfectly straightforward—unless you are in the midst of an army of five or ten thousand men, with women and children in tow, all arriving in one place at the same time and all looking for the same materials.

We had all completed our various tasks by the time evening approached, and while everyone was waiting for the army cooks to prepare dinner, Thomas and I walked over to say Mass at Earl Warrenne’s command centre, easily distinguishable with its cluster of imposing high-peaked pavilions topped with the brightly coloured banners and bannerets identifying the various noblemen and lesser knights of the commander’s party. The centre was well sited, pitched on a hillside plateau above a tree-filled valley, with a fine view of Stirling to the northwest.

This had been the first day to pass without a drop of rain since we’d left Lanark, the third consecutive day of intermittently sunny skies, and it had taken this long for the effects of the week-long drenching to wear off. The crowd around the headquarters enclosure, awaiting the summons to table, was noisy and cheerfully animated as we picked our way among the throng, heading towards the earl’s pavilion and the altar that had been erected inside it. Earl Warrenne was there in person, I saw, enjoying the sunshine in front of his pavilion and surrounded by most of the people represented by the banners and bannerets atop the surrounding poles.

I recognized the blue and yellow lion rampant banneret of Henry Percy, and I knew that he had arrived the day before from England, having ridden north with a small party of adherents. I had no way of
recognizing Percy himself, never having knowingly set eyes upon the man, but I saw the massive figure of Hugh de Cressingham standing at the earl’s shoulder and then realized, disconcertingly, that his dark, glowering eyes were staring directly at me. I looked away at once and said something to Thomas. I told myself that Cressingham had never set eyes on me until that moment and I must therefore have imagined his interest in me, yet I was afraid to look back at him again for fear his gaze might still be following me. I could not quell my curiosity, though, and when I did glance back I saw that Cressingham now had his back turned towards me. I swallowed hard, relieved to be relieved, and put the thought of having been recognized out of my mind.

Only a few moments later, walking by Thomas’s side in companionable silence, I became aware of raised voices somewhere in the near distance. I paid little attention at first, but then as the noise continued to grow, I stopped and turned towards the source of the sound, rising on my toes to see what was going on. Everyone else, though, turned to do the same at the same time, and so I saw nothing at all except a wall of broad backs.

Thomas nudged me. “What’s happening? What is it?”

As I strained to see between the bodies ahead of me, I heard someone say, “Scotchman” or “Scotchmen.” I heard someone else repeat it, and then another voice said something about “come to parley.”

I turned back to Thomas. “Did you hear that?” I asked, mangling my French deliberately as any listener might expect from a Basque.

“Hear what? I heard nothing I could understand.”

“They’re saying there are Scotchmen here, to parley.”

“Shit! Are you sure?”

“That’s what I heard. Let’s get closer.”

I can think of few things more difficult than trying to conceal your curiosity and disguise your excitement when you are agog with surprise, when you suspect that matters of great moment are unfolding all around you but you do not really know what is going on, and most particularly when you are agonizingly aware that to
betray the slightest sign of your excitement could be lethal. But of course while my inward coward was quaking with guilt and dismay, my outward persona betrayed nothing at all. I moved forward with the crowd, craning my neck and searching for information as eagerly as everyone else in the vicinity, and like them trying to make sense of the garbled scraps that came my way.

When I felt Thomas’s hand grip my arm I almost leapt with fright. “Quick,” he said. “The earl will need his chaplain.” He spun away and I followed him. Within moments we were within hearing range of Warrenne and his coterie, taking a place standing slightly behind them as the crowd in front of them parted and swept to either side, clearing the way for a dismounted party of five to approach the pavilion. They were leading their horses and followed by a vigilant and hostile-looking phalanx of English guards. I immediately recognized these newcomers, for the High Steward of Scotland, Lord James Stewart himself, was first among them. He was flanked by two of the proudest Gaelic mormaers in the realm of Scotland, both of them known to me by sight because both had had dealings with my employer, Bishop Wishart. They were Maol Choluim, the Earl of Lennox, whom the English called Malcolm, and Maol Iosa, Earl of Strathearn, whom most folk called Malise. Behind that trio, walking no less proudly but maintaining a distance of half a step behind the three leaders, walked two men whom I knew to be kinsmen of the High Steward. The mere sight of them filled me instantly with trepidation, since both were likely to recognize me. They were Sir Alexander Lindsay and Lord James’s younger brother, Sir John Stewart, and both had shared a table with me at the Earl of Carrick’s castle of Turnberry, the night we had been rousingly addressed by Father David de Moray.

Sure enough, as soon as the Steward’s party came to a halt, Sir Alexander looked directly at me. I saw the exact moment when he recognized me and began to smile, then frowned. His eyes widened as he attempted to make sense of seeing me there in the English camp, and he opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it quickly as the frantic quality of my frown and the furtive shake of my head
made him bethink himself. I held my breath and waited to be challenged, sure that some sharp-eyed soul among the crowd must have noted our brief interaction. But no accusing shouts rang out. All eyes were on the two principals, the Earl of Surrey and the High Steward.

It was John de Warrenne, the Earl of Surrey, who spoke first, turning away from Cressingham, who was spluttering with indignation at the effrontery of these rebellious Scots interlopers.

“Lord James,” he said civilly, managing to convey his surprise in the two words. “How come you here, to Stirling? My nephew Percy tells me he left you safely abed in Ayr mere weeks ago, so you will understand my surprise to see you here, and in such company.” He waved a hand to indicate the two Scots earls. But Lord James was too old a fox to allow himself to be so easily placed on the defensive.

“We would have waited upon you in Stirling, Lord Warrenne,” he replied, “but your constable there is much perturbed by the presence of a host of Scots under arms nearby. And so, aware that we, as Scots ourselves, might increase his unease by requesting entrance to his castle, we decided to come to meet you here.”

“And how did you know we would be here?”

The Steward smiled. “All Scotland knows you are here, my lord—knows it and regrets it deeply.”

“So why are you here? What would you have of us?”

“Words, Lord Warrenne. We come to exchange words, to mutual benefit. And we come alone in demonstration of good faith.”

“Words … On what topic, Lord James?”

“On that topic most important to all of us: the army waiting on the far side of Forth.”

His words brought a silence that lasted until Warrenne replied, “Then here is no place to talk of it.” He raised a hand in a signal to his guards, indicating that they should look after the visitors’ horses, and half a dozen men stepped forward to obey, already reaching for the reins as the earl turned on his heel, his right hand sweeping out and around in an invitation to his guests to walk with him into his pavilion. A sigh of disappointment arose from the watching throng
as the command group moved into the tent and a screen of guards stepped forward to safeguard their privacy.

I was about to turn away myself when Thomas plucked at my sleeve, and with a muttered “Come” led me through the entrance and into the pavilion’s spacious interior. No sooner were we inside than Earl Warrenne beckoned to Thomas, and we both stopped.

“Father Thomas, I fear we must postpone the celebration of the Mass for now, for we have pressing business here. Will you wait until it is concluded?”