He appeared to suck at something lodged in his teeth, then shrugged. “An honest man can serve only one master—in this case, one King. Any fool knows that. And Scotland has a King, crowned with all the blessings of Church and state. The allegiance of our so-called magnates is clear—their monarch is King John. Yet they fear to give offence to Longshanks, lest they lose wealth and privilege. Bluntly, they are duplicitous and treasonous, and I intend to keep myself and my family as far removed as I can be from all the stink of their corruption.”
He stood up and bowed stiffly to Bishop Wishart and the canon. Then, without another word, he was gone, closing the door quietly behind him. No one spoke for a long time, but then Wishart sighed and looked over at Lamberton.
“You did not even get to speak with him. Mea culpa. I pushed him too hard.”
Lamberton shook his head. “No, my lord. Master Wallace had passed the point at which anyone could push him further long before we came here. But no matter. I will seek him out later, once he has had time to cool down.” He glanced then at me, and his mouth twisted in a wry grin. “Your cousin is a man of strong opinions.”
“Aye, he is. But you always know precisely where you stand in your dealings with him. He is just and level headed. And he will talk to you later, so be it you do not attempt to change his mind or make him feel guilty about the decision he has made.”
“I have no intention of attempting either one. I merely wish to talk to him about a mutual friend, Sir Andrew Murray.”
“You are a friend of Andrew’s? Then he will talk to you, gladly.”
The Bishop cleared his throat and rose to his feet, pulling his breviary from his scrip. “I think there is little to be gained by remaining here now … in this room, I mean. I think I would enjoy walking alone for a while.” He nodded a farewell to both of us and made his way out into the encampment, deep in thought. Lamberton and I exchanged glances and then, with nothing further to say to each other, we went our separate ways.
4
From the moment I heard that the birthing had begun, I was swept up in a spate of fearful imaginings that I would not have thought, two hours earlier, could exist within me. Will himself fared little better. After being told that Mirren had collapsed and been taken indoors to the shadowy domain of the hovering midwives, my virile, assertive cousin was transformed: the colour vanished from his face, he appeared to shrink in size and bulk, and his very movements, normally firm and decisive, took on an aspect of uncertainty and timidity. The Bishop and his chancellor offered Masses for the welfare and safety of mother and child, but their presence had no real relevance for any of the rest of us. People like Ewan and Shoomy and Alan and Long John, faces familiar and everpresent, were far more comforting and supportive at such times than mere clerics could ever be.
Throughout that long, moonless, seemingly endless night we waited, huddled in cloaks around a leaping fire while shapeless, faceless women scurried back and forth among the shadows, on errands we were not equipped to guess at. From time to time we would hear noises, some of them loud but all muffled and meaningless, that made us squirm with discomfort over our own ignorance of what was happening. Then came a succession of harrowing screams that left us all chilled, afraid to look at one another. Thanks be to God, though, the last of those awful screams was closely followed by the wail of a newborn.
Shoomy barked a laugh and punched the new father lightly on the shoulder.
“Dada,” he growled, and everyone laughed and started to talk all at once in the welcome release of tension. Everyone, that is, except Will. He sat as tensely as before, staring towards the cluster of huts housing the midwives, unable to forget, I was sure, those last agonized screams. I crossed to where he sat and gripped him firmly by the shoulder.
“Stay here,” I said. “I’ll go and find out how she is.”
As I approached the nearest of the midwives’ huts, I saw a stirring in the shadows, and one of the elder wives stepped towards me.
“Father,” she said, neither questioning nor inviting comment.
“Mistress Wallace,” I said. “How is she?”
The woman raised one brow as she stared at me, and I knew exactly what she was thinking. A priest, asking after the welfare of the mother of a newborn child, was something rare, for in the matter of a newborn’s life, the greeting and harvesting of a new soul, the welfare of the mother was never a priority. If a choice became necessary between the survival of the mother and the life of the child, the child’s life took precedence.
“They are both well,” she said eventually. “Mother and son are both hale and strong. Permit us time to clean the chamber and prepare the child, and then you may bring the father.” She nodded, graciously enough, then glided away into the shadows.
I went back to where Will still sat by the fire, every angle of his body radiating stiffness and tension. Long John and Ewan stood close by.
“God bless all here,” I said as I approached. “He has already blessed your newborn son and his mother. Both are well. Strong and healthy. God be praised.”
Will had raised his head, staring at me wide-eyed. “Mirren?”
“She is well, I’m told, and anxious to have you meet your son.”
He stood up slowly, holding my gaze, and reached out to touch me. I felt his hands grasping the front of my robe, and then he drew me towards him, without even being aware that he had taken hold of me. “She’s well, Jamie? She lives?”
“And waits to show you your new son, Cuz. Come now, by the time we walk over there they should be ready to receive us.”
Ready they were, too, and my throat swelled up with love and pleasure and gratitude to God in His goodness as I watched my cousin’s introduction to his first-born son. Mirren was startlingly, radiantly beautiful, and it was impossible for me to imagine her as the source of those appalling screams that had so frightened us a short time earlier. She was regally wrapped in furs and brightly coloured woollen shawls, and she held her son in the crook of one elbow, the fingers of her free hand tucked gently under his chin. As Will stepped forward shyly to stoop and kiss the top of her head, she reached up and tugged at the side of his beard with her fingertips, a gentle, loving gesture of tender affection, after which she held the swaddled child up to him with both hands. He took the small bundle from her as though it held the most precious substance in all the world—which, of course, it did—and raised it up in front of his face to where he could stare at the wondrous creature inside, and then he stood rapt, for long, long minutes, transfixed by what he saw.
It was also on that night of the child’s birth that I had the most memorable discussion of that entire visit with Canon Lamberton. Bishop Wishart had retired early yet again, but Will sat with us until long into the night, finally able to relax and enjoy himself, and I was glad to see him and William Lamberton warm to each other over a flagon of ale by the side of a leaping fire. The two Williams compared their experiences of having met and come to know their mutual friend Andrew Murray, and I was surprised to learn that Lamberton had met Murray in Paris. I did not know that Andrew had been in Paris, and neither did Will, but Lamberton told us he had been there on business for his father, a man of great power in the north.
Both Will and I knew that Sir Andrew Murray of Petty had been justiciar in the north about the time of King Alexander’s death and that he was closely connected by marriage to the all-powerful Comyn family. Those things were common knowledge, if little understood, in south Scotland, and now that the name of Murray is renowned, and has been for decades, it may seem strange to younger people that it was not always thus.
In the days before Wallace emerged from his woody lair, Scotland was a vastly different place, and the division of the kingdom into north and south, separated by the Firth of Forth, was real and alienating. The English called the Firth of Forth “the Scottish Sea,” and in fact it separated north Scotland from the south the way the narrow sea the English call the Channel divides France from England. The analogy i
s not inapt, for the folk north and south of the Forth spoke vastly different tongues and appeared to be even racially different, with Erse-speaking Gaels and Norse-descended folk of Danish and Norwegian Viking stock making up the bulk of the northern populace, while the inhabitants of the south spoke mainly English and a polyglot trading language that was becoming known as Scots. Between the two regions there lay a huge cultural gulf and a mutual sense of distrust that was tenuously held in suspension by the intermediary efforts of the Church.
Now, when Canon Lamberton raised the name of Andrew’s father, the senior Andrew de Moray, both Will and I began to question him.
“He’s a famous man,” Will said. “But I am not sure why he should be so famous. D’you know?”
Lamberton sat back and laughed. “How does any man become famous, Will? He is rich, above and beyond all else, wealthy on a scale that folk like us cannot imagine.” He sipped at his ale pot before continuing. “He is the Lord of Petty, which means small, as you know, but there is nothing remotely petty about His Lordship, for he owns most of the enormous lands of Moray, which is unimaginably vast. His primary seat, from which he controls what most people would call his empire, is Hallhill Castle, a giant stronghold on the south bank of the Moray Firth, but he also holds the lordship of Avoch in the Black Isle, which is controlled from Avoch Castle, another huge fortress, said to be impregnable, that sits east of Inverness and overlooks the Moray Firth. He is also lord of Boharm, which is governed from Gauldwell Castle and contains the estates of Arndilly and Botriphni. Oh, and he also owns other lands and estates at Alturile, Brachlie, and Croy, in the Petty region. Young Andrew is heir to all of it.”
When he saw we were bereft of words, he chuckled. “Are you not glad you asked me that? Can you imagine what it must be like to own such wealth? No, of course you can’t. I can’t, and I’m a cathedral canon.” He sat up quickly and placed his hand over his lips, peering around as if looking for eavesdroppers. “Did I say that? Well, I’ll deny it if I’m accused of it. But quite seriously, you must be aware that such wealth brings with it great political influence. Sir Andrew served for years as the justiciar of the north and he is married to one of the Comyns of Buchan. The House of Comyn is the most powerful family in Scottish society, as I know you are well aware. But it is one thing to be connected to the Comyns. It is quite another to be connected as de Moray is. Sir Andrew’s second wife, young Andrew’s stepmother, is Euphemia Comyn, the niece of King John Balliol himself. She is also the sister of John Comyn, the Lord of Badenoch, one of the most politically influential men in Scotland. So there you have our mutual friend’s connections: Balliol, Buchan, Comyn, and de Moray. And, of course, the Church. The young man does not lack for influence.”
“What mean you, the Church? What influence has he there?”
“The name de Moray is well known within the Church in Scotland, and has been for years. There was an Andrew Moray who was Bishop of Moray early in this century. He was the man responsible for the transfer of the seat of the bishopric to Elgin about sixty years ago, if my memory is accurate. He built the town’s cathedral. A man well thought of by his peers in his own time, and his memory is revered today.”
“I dare say it is,” Will said, slightly awestruck, as was I. “Pity that the family has no friends or relatives here in the south. That way, we might have known more about them.”
Lamberton raised an eyebrow. “Did I give you that impression? Then I must ask you to forgive me, or to pour me some more of this excellent ale.” I replenished his mug, raising a lively head on it that he blew off before sipping reflectively and nodding his approval. “Let’s see,” he mused. “The south. Are you familiar with a place called Bothwell?”
“Aye, in Strathclyde,” I said. “I’ve been there. It’s but a hamlet.”
“No, it is the seat in Scotland of Sir Andrew de Moray’s brother, Sir William Moray. Sir William is almost as wealthy as his younger brother Andrew—in fact he’s known as le riche because he’s so rich. He has another younger brother, too, who is also in holy orders. Father David de Moray is rector of Bothwell church. He is also a canon of Moray.
“William le riche is currently pouring his fortune into the construction of a castle there, to be known as Bothwell Castle, overlooking the River Clyde, and in the manner of the truly rich, he has spent huge sums importing the latest knowledge of scientific fortress construction from all over Christendom. He is reportedly determined that his castle will set a new standard for all of Britain and the world.”
“He sounds like a braggart fool,” Will muttered. “You said this Bothwell place is his seat in Scotland. Does that mean he has seats elsewhere?”
“Heavens, yes. He owns extensive lands at Lilleford in England, near Lincoln.”
“Ah, I should have known. Another Scots magnate dependent upon Edward’s largesse. The bane of this poor land.”
“No, I think not, in this instance … at least, I am not sure. But I seem to remember Andrew telling me that the Lilleford lands have been in William le riche’s ownership for generations. And of course the lands will one day belong to him.”
“Andrew? They will be his?”
“Yes. Sir William has no heirs. So young Andrew will inherit all his uncle’s wealth, along with his father’s.”
“Good God! Pardon me, Fathers both. But is there anyone Andrew is not connected to?”
“Aye, certainly. He has no connection to the House of Bruce. He is, however, connected to the Douglases of Clydesdale. Sir William Douglas is a distant cousin of his, I believe.”
Will merely looked at me and shook his head at that, then said no more, and Lamberton moved on to talk about what I was beginning to believe was his favourite topic: the burgesses of Scotland and how they were beginning to make themselves recognized as owning a voice to be listened to. Although I had heard all this explained before, the essence of it continued to elude me. I can only suppose that my slowness to appreciate its import was tied in to the generally limited scope of my vision at that time, living as I was in the greenwood and ministering daily to the needs of a small and very local congregation.
Will, however, took to the new ideas Lamberton was presenting to him much as dry grass will take to an igniting spark. And marvelling at the briefness of the time it took Will to progress from polite interest to raging ardour, I saw, suddenly, why both my companions were so excited about this new idea, and I finally understood why it was so important, and inevitable, that Bishop Wishart, through this younger, vibrant intermediary, should bring this message directly to William Wallace.
In the eyes of Robert Wishart, William Wallace was a bellwether, whether he knew it or not. He was a flock leader, and his peers would follow him naturally, without being exhorted by him or anyone else. Will had always stood alone and had never been afraid to be different from those around him. And in the entrenched scorn he held for the Scots magnates, William Wallace had been saying for years that the system under which we lived was broken.
As I thought those precise words, I felt myself shiver with a rush of gooseflesh, remembering that it was William Lamberton, not William Wallace, whom I had heard use that expression the night before, and that the two men had not yet met when Lamberton said it. Now they were together, talking about that mutually recognized notion, and I knew that God Himself had brought them together for a purpose. Will, in his own quiet, unassuming way, had been living in political despair and disillusionment, bereft of any hope of repairing whatever it was that had broken down in the system that controlled the affairs of men. The nobility had been rendered impotent by time and change, incapable any longer of stimulating or inspiring the realm and its people, and the Church appeared to have been equally impaired. But now, miraculously, here was the Church itself, championing the emergence of a new social order, a new estate that was strong and virile and puissant, the voices and wealth of the burgesses of the combined burghs of the entire realm. Small wonder that Will Wallace embraced the notion like a breath of
springtime air; and small wonder that he and his new companion completely forgot about my presence.
From that evening until the two churchmen left to return to Glasgow three days later, they talked incessantly of politics and probabilities, and for the most part, I was content to leave them to it, happy to see my cousin walking again with that spring in his gait that I remembered from our boyhood.
5
The year that followed, the first year of little William’s life, was the happiest I ever knew, for as Will and Mirren settled into their new life, so, too, did I in mine, and the child became almost as much a part of my life as he was of theirs. I quickly came to love him and to dote on him as though he were my own son, and as his mother learned to trust me with him, I came to know the delights of the milky, sweet smell of his skin just after feeding, and learned to clean and tend him at both ends, changing his swaddling and generally luxuriating in the miracle that he was.
Surprisingly, too, the transition from bandit leader to simple forest dweller was far easier for Will than we had all anticipated. From the moment of the boy’s birth, Will let it be known among his people that he no longer sought to lead men, or to fight. He made no secret of the fact that he considered nothing more important than his family, and that all he wished to do was live with them, undisturbed, and provide for them in the best way he could. And unsurprisingly, his people accepted his wishes.
Looking back, I can see that the change was greatly helped by the fact that, for a period of months, from mid-July until October of that year, there was almost no outlawed activity within the greenwood. Troop movements continued, of course, mostly from south to north as English soldiery continued to advance into the realm, but the numbers of men on the move were invariably too large, and their composition too powerful, to draw any kind of interference from the forest outlaws. Furthermore, any pickings that might have been gleaned from robbing passing baggage trains were rendered unattractive, not so much by the difficulty of winning them as by the certainty of grief thereafter as large numbers of English were loosed into the woods to punish anyone they could find and recover the stolen property by any means available.