The Guardian (70 page)

He would have lost the fight at Stirling, he swore, had it not been for Andrew, for it was Andrew’s insistence upon choosing the ground for the Scots defences that had ensured the security, and the ultimate victory, of the Scottish army. Andrew it was who insisted on drawing up the Scots host on the slopes below the Abbey Craig, with the wooded hillside at their back and the slopes of the Ochil Hills ensuring that the English would not be able to outflank them. “Pick your ground with care,” Andrew had told him. “Fight where the English horse are useless.” And so they had drawn up their lines and waited where the English would have to confront them without being able to outflank them. It was only when they saw the English advance proceed precisely as they had prayed it might in their fanciful imagining a week before that they decided to seize the opportunity presented to them by de Warrenne’s carelessness, and attack before the English could organize themselves properly.

I held up my hand and waved it in front of him until he stopped and looked at me. “Whose decision was that?” I asked. “To charge the causeway by crossing the flats?” He blinked at me as though he had
not understood the question, and so I repeated it. “Who called for the charge?”

“Both of us.”

“But who mentioned it first?”

“I did, I think.”

“Why? Why did you mention it?”

“Because I could see it, in my mind. It was what we’d talked about before, that night before we reached Stirling. You were there, when we were saying how we would love to see the English make fools of themselves, though none of us believed for a moment that they ever would. And then, on a sudden, there they were, doing exactly what we had wished they’d do.”

“And you pointed it out to Andrew?”

“I did.”

“And had he seen what was happening before you brought it to his attention? Had he seen the significance of it?”

“He would have, at any moment … I’m sure he must have.”

“
Are
you sure, really? Or do you simply believe he would have?”

“What is the point of this, Jamie?”

“Answer me, Will. Had Andrew noticed anything amiss with the English advance before you spoke to him about it?”

He paused, frowning ferociously, then shook his head. “No,” he said. “I remember now. He didn’t understand what I was saying the first time. I had to tell him twice, and remind him of what we had talked about.”

“You mean you reminded him of all that had been said that night about the English being stranded on the causeway while the Scots spearmen danced around them on the mud.”

“Aye, I suppose …”

“And what did he do then?”

“Nothing. He agreed with me.”

“And after that you split your forces and led the charge of your infantry down against the causeway.”

“We did. Andrew took his men to the east at the bottom of the slopes and I led mine west.”

I leaned forward and clapped my palms together. “So,” I said, “Andrew chose an excellent defensive base ground for your battle lines—a site you would
not
have chosen. Is that right?”

“It is.”

“But you had no need to use it. You, on the other hand, identified the enemy’s weakness and acted upon it, did you not?”

“We both did.”

“No, Will,
you
did. You saw the weakness. You identified it.”

He faced me squarely and set aside his cup, which he had not lifted to his mouth since he sat down. “I know what you’re trying to do, Jamie. You’re hoping to convince me that I’m wrong, and that Andrew’s death is of less import than it truly is. But you won’t succeed. It’s really not of any import that Andrew chose our defensive ground that day—as you say, we didn’t have need of the advantages it offered us. But what makes the difference between Andrew Murray and a man like me is that he knew
how
to choose the site. He understood the strengths and weaknesses with which he dealt— not merely the strengths and weaknesses of the army we commanded and the other facing us, but the strengths and weaknesses of the lie of the land itself—the marshy ground below and in front of us that would impede the English horse, and the dense, wooded slopes at our back that would render their cavalry useless while protecting us at the same time from being attacked by archers from behind. I know none of that kind of stuff, Jamie. I have none of that knowledge. But I am learned enough to know that we can never truly hope to fight and defeat the armies of England without it. Andrew knows it all—or knew it. We talked about it often, he and I, about the kind of force we would need to beat an English army in the field, and he always said we could not do it, that we were too weak—”

He looked at me fiercely as though daring me to contradict him, but when I offered no response at all he went on.

“He didn’t mean weak in resolve, or lacking in courage. He meant we lack the physical strength to challenge England nowadays. Scotland is too poor, he said, too lacking in wealth and resources, to field the kind of armies England boasts under Edward
and after four decades of unending wars. For while they have been fighting constantly these past decades, building their strength and battle-readiness, we have been at peace and growing fat and slack. We like to talk about being hard and sharp, but we’ve lost whatever edge we once had because we went for all those years without a need to fight.

“Look at what happened last April, at Dunbar, when we finally went to war. The flower of Scottish chivalry went down to defeat within an hour and were taken prisoners like sheep—Buchan, Comyn, Atholl, Menteith, Ross, the first names that come to mind, all captured. We lost everything at Dunbar, Jamie, except our damnable pride. But Edward confiscated everything we had, and now we have nothing with which to fight back. The bare facts that face us when we even dare to dream of defying him again are staggering. Never mind the leadership, though God knows we need that more than any other single thing. The Comyns, so hungry to seize power, have won us nothing since John Balliol took the throne. But even if we were to find a champion among the magnates, we could not back him, for we lack too much. We lack warhorses for our knights, and because of that our knights are too lightly armoured to withstand their English opposites. But Andrew Murray had the plans to redress all those things. Not by tomorrow, or even by next year or five years hence, but he knew what needed to be done, and he had the means to achieve his ends. He planned to enlist the magnates and mormaers to his cause in organized army-building—cavalry, footmen, and archers. And I truly believe he would have done it. Now, though, if he is dead, it will never happen.”

He stood up and turned to stare down into the flames of the brazier, clasping his hands at the small of his back and speaking to me over his shoulder.

“The noblemen would never work with me the way they would have worked with Andrew, one of their own.” He twisted fully around to look at me, a bitter little smile on his lips. “I know you don’t put much credence in the import of that, because they never have worked with me in the past and without them we won Stirling.
But you’re wrong, Jamie. Stirling is the past now, and I’m not the man to dictate the future. Not without Andrew, and not without the input of the nobles, for they, whether folk like you and me like it or not, are the men who make the rules by which wars are fought and won. And by those rules, those wars are fought by organized, professional armies, commanded by knights and noblemen and won by strategies tested and proved on formal fields of battle.

“That is the reality of the world, Jamie, and it’s a reality I can’t change. I know nothing of the crafts of knighthood or of soldiering, and because of that, if for no other reason, because I am no knight, the magnates will not follow me. I’m but a commoner. And yes, I can see you nodding your head and I know what you are thinking: I am an uncommon commoner and the folk will follow me where’er I choose to lead them. But you’re the priest, Jamie, so tell me, if you will, as a priest—where would I lead them
to
?”

He stared straight into my eyes, and when he spoke again, he spoke softly and clearly, in the language of the local people. “They’re
folk
, Jamie. Ordinary folk, wi’ ordinary lives to live and wives and bairns who look to them for safety an’ protection. Ordinary folk are just that—they’re
ordinary
. They canna win battles against squadrons o’ barded knights and men-at-arms, or against ordered regiments o’ sodgers supported wi’ massed Welsh archers. So where could I lead any o’ them but to death? I can fight really well in the woods, wi’ my ain men, an’ I can marshal them against any groups of sodgery who try to come into my forest, but I could never hae beat Warrenne and Cressingham at Stirlin’ had they no’ been as bare-arsed stupid as they were. They beat themsel’s wi’ their ain foolishness.

“But now I’m a giant, it seems. The English in Northumberland and Durham ca’ me a deevil, and the Scotch expect me to redeem them, to cure a’ their ailments and fling the English out o’ this land forever.” He grunted, a malformed, self-mocking laugh. “Well, gin Andrew Murray had lived, I would hae tried it, just out o’ belief in him. Wi’out him, though?” He shook his head. “Wi’out him, I doubt I could survive for a month.”

He fell silent then, and I knew he had nothing more to say. I was searching frantically within myself for words with which to answer him, but I knew, deep in my being, that I had no arguments sufficiently eloquent to counteract the simple truths he had stated.

In the end, I made no effort to change his mind. I simply accepted what he had said, and prayed with him for half an hour, the only way I could believe with confidence that I might strengthen his resolve and ease his mind. But I decided, too, to report his concerns to my superiors as soon as I returned to the cathedral. He knelt to receive my blessing, and then we embraced and parted company.

When I returned to the cathedral, I discovered that the bishop and Canon Lamberton were still in conference. I was astonished, for to my certain knowledge they had been conferring for more than five hours by then, but I was also relieved, to a degree, because I had been determined to rouse both of them from their beds, irrespective of when they had retired.

The bishop’s secretary would have prevented me again from disturbing the two, but I was in no mood to be deflected, for I knew neither man would thank me for any delay in telling them about what had happened. I swept past him and threw open the door to the bishop’s office.

The large chamber was dark, its walls and high ceiling barely discernible even in the light from the dozen thick and heavy beeswax candles that blazed from the massive candelabrum in the middle of the long, oaken table that Bishop Wishart used as a work desk. The room’s two occupants were seated on opposite sides of the table, the entire top of which was littered with documents, some of them rolled up, tied or untied, others flattened and weighted down with pebbles and ink pots.

“Father James?” The bishop blinked at me owlishly. “How come you, here, at this hour of the night? And what hour is it, anyway?”

“Forgive me, my lord,” I said. “But I have news you will not wish to hear. My cousin Will believes he is unfit to continue as a leader of the realm.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

THE GUARDIAN

F
rowns chased themselves across Bishop Wishart’s face like moving shadows as he mulled over all I had told him. At length he sniffed, the sound loud in the silent room, then inhaled deeply and sat straight up in his chair.

“You were right, Father James. This is ill news, and it couldna hae come at a worse time … Where is he now, your cousin? Would he join us if we sent for him?”

“I doubt it very strongly, my lord. He was fretting about having been away from his command for too long, and he intended to be up and away on the road again before dawn. And now that I think of it, I don’t even know where he was going. I didn’t ask and he didn’t say.”

“And he didna even try to see Andrew, after comin’ a’ the way up here? That makes nae sense.”

“With respect, my lord, it does to me. He didn’t come here to see Andrew, for fear of what he’d find. What he came for was the truth about whether or not the rumours he had heard were true. Knowing Will as I do, I understand that
not
knowing the truth would be intolerable to him.”

“Hmm …” His eyes drifted away from mine, his gaze unfocused. “Damn the man, and damn his conscience, too,” he said quietly, speaking almost to himself. But then he looked at me and continued in a louder voice. “Did he say when he’d be back?”

“He did. He said he would return within the week. It will depend on where his raiders are when he gets back to them.”

“Aye, of course …” He shook his head. “I want to be angry at
him, but that would do us nae good, for in some ways he’s right. No’ completely right, mind you, but near enough, in some ways. He’s upset, an’ that’s understandable—he’s no’ a priest an’ he’s never been the kind o’ man wha thinks about God’s will and the ways He expresses it. But he is William Wallace, and he’s lookin’ at the world right now and seein’ nothin’ but darkness, and that’s no’ right— there’s light out there aplenty, he just canna see it. He must ken the entire Church stands solid at his back, surely?”

“My lord, I don’t think the support of the Church ranks high among Will’s priorities right now.” I saw his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “It does, of course, but what I mean is that his attention is too closely focused upon the potential loss of his friend and the effect that loss will have on his ability to do what he believes people, including all of us here, expect of him. He fears that if Andrew dies now—”

The bishop quickly raised a hand, its open palm towards me, and I felt a clutch at my heart. “Andrew
is
dead, Jamie,” he said. “God rest his soul, he died about four hours ago.” The open hand waved towards Lamberton on the other side of the table. “That’s why we’re still here, still workin’. They summoned us about three hours ago, but there was nothing we could do by then except pray for him. He’d had the last rites administered long since, and he was in a state of grace at the time of his death. And so we prayed for him and then returned here. We’ll bury him the day after tomorrow, in the cathedral cemetery.”