The Hammer of the Scots

Chapter XIII BETRAYAL

Queen Marguerite was travelling north from Canterbury where she had paused to make offerings at the shrine of St Thomas. She was pregnant and delighted with her state. It was an achievement to have conceived so early and she prayed to St Thomas to give her a healthy boy and at the same time preserve her own life.

Edward was marching north. He had told her that he would like her to be near him as his first wife had always been; and she, who felt that she must try to be as much like that first and well-beloved wife, was eager not to fail in her duty.

If she could give him a son how delighted she would be. Even the sainted Eleanor had only left him one son among all those daughters, although she had had several who had lived for a while and then died.

Poor Edward, she knew that he suffered great anxieties. His son Edward was proving to be too wild for his father’s comfort and that of the nation. There had been complaints about the life he led with his chosen companions and the King had confided in her that he dreaded to think of what might happen when he died and his son came to the throne.

He had said that he would like to spend more time with the younger Edward. But there was always pressing business to engage his attention. He had had the trouble in France and now as soon as he was home it was to hear that this upstart William Wallace was making trouble in Scotland.

The matter was very serious and depressed him greatly. She thought how overjoyed he would be if she could send him news that they had a son.

She was greatly impressed by the grandeur of Canterbury and she listened intently to the Abbot who told her how St Thomas had been done to death by the King’s knights and the spot where it had happened had become a holy one. He told her how miracles had been performed there on the stones where the blood of the martyr had fallen and she had knelt and begged the saint to look down on her and give her a son.

From Canterbury she and her retinue travelled north and crossed the Humber into Yorkshire. She was making for Cawood Castle, a country seat belonging to the Archbishop of York, but because there had been some delays on the journey she realised that it would be unwise to go further, and they came to rest at a little village on the banks of the Wherfe called Brotherton.

It proved that she had been right to call a halt for she had not been there more than a few days when she began to feel her pains.

She took to her bed for it was clear that the child was about to be born.

There was great rejoicing when it arrived for it was the hoped-for boy.

‘I shall call him Thomas,’ said the Queen, ‘for I know that it is to St Thomas that I owe this great joy.’

So the child was Thomas and a message was sent to the King to tell him that the Queen was safely delivered of a boy.

Edward received the news with joy. He was at York and ready to march on Scotland. Seven thousand horse and eighty thousand foot under his skilful generalship would soon put Wallace to flight.

It was a good omen, he said, that the child was a boy and healthy. It was Heaven’s answer to his doubts whether he should have married again. Eleanor in Heaven was looking down on him with that bland understanding which she had shown him throughout their lives.

As soon as the Queen was well enough to travel he wanted her to take the child to Cawood Castle and there he would be able to see them before he set out for Scotland.

Marguerite quickly recovered from her confinement and was eager to set out, and in a few weeks was on her way to Cawood, that castle which was situated on the south bank of the Ouse which the archbishops of York had used as a residence as far back as the tenth century. Like most castles it had little comfort to offer but as this was high summer they suffered more from the smell of the privies than the cold.

Edward’s visit was a hasty one for he had much on his mind. It was depressing to contemplate that after all his efforts Wallace should have managed to rally Scotland and challenge his supremacy.

He was delighted with the boy though and told Marguerite that nothing could have pleased him better and given him more heart for what lay ahead than the sight of her with their baby.

‘My lord,’ she asked timidly, ‘I have said he shall be Thomas, but if it is your wish …’

‘It is yours,’ he said fondly, ‘and therefore Thomas shall be his name. As for myself, I think at such a time it is well to honour the saint of Canterbury. I may need his help.’

She was anxious at once. ‘But you are going to subdue the Scots with all speed.’

‘Subdue them, yes, but with speed who can say? This fellow Wallace has caught the imagination of the people. They have made a hero of him. It is never easy to conquer a national hero as one who is despised. Baliol was easy. A weak man. This Wallace is different. But never fear, by the time our next son is born I shall have subdued the Scots and taught them what it means to flout me.’

Then he kissed her fondly and talked to her of his plans as he used to talk to Eleanor; and she listened attentively, so meekly and with such adoration that it might have been his first wife sitting there.

He joined his armies and marched across the Border. There was no resistance. But the Scots had laid waste to the countryside so there were no provisions. Good general that he was he had foreseen this and had ordered ships to sail up the Forth with what his army should need.

These were late in coming and he was fraught with anxiety. So many armies had been beaten through lack of supplies.

He took Edinburgh and waited there, and it was the end of July before the ships began to arrive.

There came also some of his spies who had roamed the country in the guise of beggars and pedlars. They had news for him. The Scots under Wallace were at Falkirk.

‘We shall attack without delay,’ said Edward, and he led his army to Linlithgow Heath, there to await the moment to go into action.

It was evening when he rode round his camp making sure that all was well and to give heart to his men. It had always been so. He knew they looked to him. When they saw his tall figure on its horse some new strength came to them. They had the belief that in battle he was invincible. He knew that that belief must be upheld and with an enemy like Wallace who would have a similar effect on his men, it was more than ever important to maintain it.

These men would follow him wherever he went and if he told them that victory was possible, no matter what odds they faced, they would believe him.

He did not, however, believe he faced fearful odds now, for even though Wallace had built up an aura about himself, that could not stand against a corresponding aura of a king who had proved himself a great warrior for many years and led a well-disciplined army. The Scots must lack the training of Edward’s men. They had beaten the troops of the garrison towns but that was not the English army. Wallace was a brave man. He respected Wallace. He understood Wallace. But if he captured him he would show no mercy. It was not good statesmanship to show mercy to the man who was responsible for driving him out of Scotland.

His son should be with him now. He was disappointed in Edward. He was showing himself to be unworthy of the crown. He had thought of this ever since he had held his young son Thomas in his arms. But a baby. It was years before he would grow to manhood. And in the meantime there was Edward. Edward had no desire to learn to be a king; he preferred to frivol away his time with companions like himself.

It had been a mistake to send Gaveston’s boy to him. He was getting quite a hold on him, Edward was following him slavishly as though their roles were reversed. He heard bad reports from their guardians.

Edward, soon to be seventeen, was no longer a young boy. He was old enough to show some manhood. Oh yes, he was very worried about Edward. He could not talk to Marguerite about him. It would seem disloyal to Eleanor in some way, but perhaps Marguerite heard tales of her stepson’s behaviour. If she did she was too tactful to say so.

He must stop brooding on family affairs. There was a battle to think of.

Daybreak. The trumpets were sounding. The men were rising and there was that excitement throughout the camp which must precede a battle. The King’s horse was frisky that morning. He was startled by the blare of the trumpets and seemed to resent the bustle and activity about him.

The King’s groom was waiting when Edward came out.

There was a grim satisfaction about him. Today was the day when he would begin to bring an end to the legend of William Wallace.

He was about to leap into the saddle when the horse turned abruptly. Edward was thrown to the ground and the horse attempting to move off kicked the King in the ribs.

The pain shot through him and fear with it, for he had heard the crack of bone.

Oh God in Heaven, he thought, on such a day!

It would be considered an omen. They would go into battle telling themselves that God had turned against them. The stories they had heard of the invincible Wallace were true. They would go into battle … without the King … and Wallace would be triumphant.

Never, Edward told himself. He stood up a little shakily. He put his hand to his side. The pain made him wince. He guessed that his ribs were broken.

His groom said, ‘My lord, you are hurt.’

‘Nay,’ growled the King. ‘Say not so. ’Twas nothing. Bring back the horse. It was the trumpets that startled him.’

The horse was brought. He patted its head. ‘Nothing to fear, my boy,’ he murmured. ‘Nothing to fear.’ And he was thinking, Oh God, how could You do this to me? First You favour this man Wallace and now You break my ribs just as I must lead my men into battle. But You’ll not beat me. It’ll need more than broken ribs to do that.

‘Help me up,’ he said. The groom did so.

He sat there for a second and then rode forward.

‘Ready!’ he cried. ‘What are you waiting for?’

The Scottish cavalry turned and fled; the archers followed them, but the infantry stood firm. Edward was invincible; seated firmly in the saddle he gave no sign that his broken ribs were causing him to be in agony as he shouted his orders and his men could always see him in the forefront of the battle.

None could stand against him. The Scots were fierce in their patriotism; they believed Wallace could lead them to victory. But this was mighty Edward whose name had filled them with dread even as Wallace’s had with pride.

He was there in person – the great King before whom Baliol had bowed, and young Bruce had not raised his hand. Only Wallace had stood against him. But even Wallace was no match for Edward Plantagenet.

It was bitter defeat for the Scots. Twenty thousand of them perished while few English lives were lost in exchange.

They had felt Edward’s might and they remembered it from the past. He had conquered Wales and vowed to do the same to Scotland. Even Wallace was no match for him.

The bedraggled Scots fled back to their mountain stronghold and Edward rode on to Stirling.

The Scots had taken the precaution of laying the land waste, but the English decided to rest there for a while. It was necessary for the King to recover from his injury.

He first saw to the defences of the castle and gave orders for his men to spy out what was happening in the land, attack where necessary and bring back what booty could be found.

Meanwhile he must retire to his bed, his physician in attendance. The neglected broken ribs must heal as quickly as was possible.

Fifteen days passed before he could sit a horse and the incident had aged him considerably, but his splendid vitality which was mental rather than physical was again with him. It was as though he defied fate to harm him while he had work to do.

He had subdued the land below the Forth; and he had no doubt that Wallace was re-forming his armies in the north; but Edward knew that if he advanced the problem of supplies would be acute, and he had no intention of making that error which a lesser general might have been tempted to do.

He marched through Clydesdale to Ayr, his intention being to go into Galloway, but again the spectre of the lack of equipment and food rose before him. He could not be sure that he could be successful. Moreover some of the lords were getting restive, the Earls of Hereford and Norfolk among them. Their men and horses were becoming exhausted; they needed a rest after such a campaign, they said; but the King suspected they were disappointed because they had received no Scottish land or castles as payment for their fidelity to their King. Edward would remember that; but at the same time disgruntled earls could be as much a hazard as lack of supplies. He must satisfy himself that he had crushed Wallace’s rebellion, and that it must be some time before the Scots could get together an army for their losses had been great.

He garrisoned the towns below the Forth and sent a deputation to certain Scottish lords ordering them to meet him. Wallace was not among them. They parleyed together and Edward promised them a temporary truce until Whitsuntide. This they eagerly accepted, needing the time to reorganise. Edward needed time too.

He returned to London.

The Queen was pregnant again. This was promising. Like her predecessor she was fruitful.

Joanna, the Countess of Gloucester, and her husband, Ralph de Monthermer, were at Court and the King’s daughter and his young wife had something in common, for Joanna also was expecting a child.

There could not have been two women less alike than the gentle young Queen and flamboyant Joanna.

But the King had thought it would be good for them to be together at such a time, and of course even Joanna could not disobey a summons from the King. Besides, Ralph wanted to be at Court. He was delighted because he had found favour with the King who had quite forgiven the pair their secret marriage and had bestowed the great favour on Ralph of allowing him to hunt in the royal forests and take away as much game as he chose. This was the greatest of favours for Edward was as devoted to the hunt as so many of his ancestors had been.

Ralph was very pleased with life. Great honours had come his way as husband of the Princess; the King liked him; and Joanna was as obsessed by him at this time as she had been when she had married him.

He was of course one of the handsomest men at Court, and Joanna had never for one moment regretted her hasty marriage. She disliked bearing children and was a little disgruntled at this time because she was expecting one in October and she said it was too soon after Mary.

It was irritating to have one’s activities restricted and be expected to sit and talk of babies with the young Queen whom Joanna secretly thought very dull.

As for Marguerite she could talk of little else but the coming baby and the one she already had.

She hoped it would be a boy. She believed the King wanted boys so much, but of course he was so kind he would never show his disappointment if it were a girl.

‘Of course he will not be disappointed if it is a girl,’ said Joanna. ‘My father loves his girls … better than he does his sons. He adored my sister Eleanor and he has been very lenient to me. On the other hand he is continually displeased with Edward.’

‘Edward I know gives him great cause for sorrow. Joanna, what do you think of Piers Gaveston?’

Joanna smiled secretly. ‘Very clever,’ she said.

Her sister Elizabeth was also at Court. She had lost her husband almost two years ago and had, after a suitable interval, come home to England. There had been rumours that the Earl of Holland had been poisoned; he had had so many enemies and as he had died of a dysentery – as so many people did – this could have been a possibility.

However, like all of Edward’s daughters she had never wanted to leave England and was delighted to be back. She had confided to Joanna that when she married again it would be in England. ‘You did,’ she said. ‘I shall do the same.’

‘You may need a certain amount of cunning,’ replied Joanna.

‘Then I shall come to you to help me.’

Joanna laughed aloud and said her wits were at her sister’s disposal.

Then they talked of their sister Margaret who had been less fortunate than they. From all accounts Margaret had a good deal to endure from Duke John of Brabant.

‘He fills his palaces with his bastards,’ said Joanna. ‘I’d not endure that.’

‘It is easy to say you would not when you don’t have to.’

‘Margaret was always too meek. If I were her I should ask our father to use his influence on her husband and make him stop his philanderings.’

‘Do you think he would?’

‘At least he would have to philander in secret which could be undignified for a ruler. But Margaret has the bastards there and treats them with honour.’

‘She always had a gentle loving nature. And now she has a son, I daresay she is happy enough.’

‘It would not be enough for me. But our sister Margaret is like the Queen. She needs little to satisfy her. She has her young Thomas whom she believes to be the most perfect child ever born, and now there will be this new one. It would not surprise me if young Thomas went the way of our brothers John and Henry. He has a delicate look about him.’

‘Oh, do you think so?’

‘Undoubtedly, and I don’t like his French nurse.’

‘She seemed pleasant enough.’

‘I think that a prince of the royal house should have an English nurse. We do not want French customs here.’

‘The Queen seems happy with her.’

‘Of course she is. They chatter away in French all the time. It makes her feel at home. But I don’t think she is good for the child and he does look delicate.’

It was clear, thought Elizabeth, that Joanna had taken a dislike to their half-brother’s French nurse, but it was a fact, however, that young Thomas was showing a certain delicacy.

Joanna pointed it out often to Elizabeth. She was irritated by the Queen’s fussing over her children. Joanna had little time for hers. Nurses were engaged for children, she said, and if they were good tried English ones all was usually well.

The King came to visit his family. A short respite, he thought, before he had to return to Scotland, which seemed to be inevitable at some time in the future. He could not expect peace to reign much longer; in any case he was determined to subdue Scotland as he had Wales.

Elizabeth thought he looked older and tired. She had heard how he had broken his ribs and gone into battle, which was characteristic of him of course, and although it might have won a battle it had certainly not improved his health. Because he was so vital he sometimes forgot how old he was.

Joanna, concerned with her own affairs, did not notice that the King was looking tired and old.

She enquired of him how he found young Thomas. Did he not think the child was pale and had he noticed his cough?

The King was horrified. He had noticed these things and was trying to persuade himself that Thomas was suffering from the ailments of childhood and would grow out of them. He said so to Joanna.

‘I believe the same thing was said about our brothers John and Henry,’ persisted Joanna. ‘I know what is wrong with Thomas. It is that French nurse. She coddles him too much; she overfeeds him. She brings French customs into your Court.’

‘Do you really think it can be so?’ murmured Edward.

‘My lord, I am the mother of children.’

She was, he thought, but it was said not a very good mother. She left her children a great deal with their nurses – even more so than was necessary – that she might be constantly in the company of her husband.

It was true Eleanor had left the children to follow him into battle and he had always thought her the best of mothers. Marguerite might have to do the same if the Scottish war broke out.

He watched the French nurse. Joanna had sown seeds of doubt in his heart.

He spoke to Marguerite about it. ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘I do not think the French nurse is the best for Thomas.’

‘Oh, but she loves him so.’

‘Perhaps that is why she overindulges him.’

‘Do you wish me to speak to her …?’

‘No, my love. I will arrange for an English nurse. Joanna knows the very one.’

‘But …’

He patted her hand. ‘The French nurse shall be sent back to France. I shall reward her well so that she thinks happily of her stay in England.’

Marguerite had difficulty in restraining her tears, but she managed to because she knew that Edward did not like them. She wanted to protest, Joanna has done this. But how could she make trouble between the King and his daughters!

What could she do but accept the decision? She was too much in awe of her husband to do otherwise and she did not want to offend Joanna.

By a strange coincidence when the new nurse came Thomas’s health began to improve. Joanna was triumphant and commented continually on Master Thomas’s rosy cheeks. ‘He has completely lost his cough,’ she said. And she reminded the King that she had brought about this happy state of affairs.

Poor Marguerite felt sad and lonely without the nurse, for it had been so comforting to talk of home sometimes.

Then the Court adjourned to Woodstock for it had turned very hot and the air was considered to be good there. On the fifth of August Marguerite gave birth there to another boy. She called this one Edmund.

Two months later on the fourth of October Joanna’s son was born. He was named Thomas. Joanna was delighted that the irksome business was over and left Court to return to Gloucester.

The Princess Elizabeth was determined to follow the advice of her sister Joanna. She was so happy to be back in England and had confided in her sister that she was going to find a handsome husband and marry him before her father found some foreign prince for her.

‘You have always said that as we married once for state reasons, the second time we should choose for love.’

‘I have and always shall,’ affirmed Joanna.

‘You have never regretted it?’

‘Never,’ declared Joanna; and Elizabeth thought that Ralph de Monthermer must be a very unusual man to have won her wayward sister’s affection so whole-heartedly.

Joanna was young and beautiful but there were times when Elizabeth felt that the flush in her cheeks was a little too bright and her beautiful eyes too brilliant. It was almost as though there was so much fire in Joanna that it was burning her up.

But Elizabeth was too concerned with her own affairs just then to think over-much about her sister. She had found the man she wanted to marry. He was Humphrey de Bohun, the Earl of Hereford and Essex and High Constable of England. He was also a very rich young man, witty and high-spirited. As soon as Elizabeth saw him she wanted him.

The King was at first not inclined to agree to the marriage for daughters should be good bargaining counters, but when she reminded him that he had allowed Joanna her free choice it was hard to resist. However, if he had retorted that Joanna had married without his consent, that might be considered an invitation for her to do the same. Events weighed heavily on him. He suffered pain in his ribs for he had never fully recovered from that accident. His doctors said that he should not have ridden into battle in that state and it was not surprising that he still felt pain.

He was weary of the Scottish troubles which were far from settled. He deplored the fact that he had been unable to complete the conquest. He was never sure when Wallace would appear again and drive the English out of the garrison towns. Then his brief victory would have been in vain.

He was too old and tired to enter into conflict with his daughters. He liked to see them happy. It was a marvel to him that Joanna had made the perfect marriage from her point of view. It was perhaps better for the princesses to remain in England particularly when, as they reminded him, they had married once for state reasons.

Elizabeth was appealing and beautiful in love. He had his good Queen Marguerite and was happy with her. He wanted his daughters to be happy too. In fact he was glad that he had failed to win the beautiful Blanche. She could not have suited him as well as Marguerite did. His Queen was docile and tender. Blanche would doubtless have been more demanding. How could he, who had been so lucky in both his Queens, deny his daughters their happiness?

It was a dull November day when the wedding of Elizabeth and Humphrey de Bohun was celebrated at Westminster.

Elizabeth certainly looked radiant in her golden crown which was set with rubies and emeralds, and there was great rejoicing throughout the city. It was clearly a love match and the people liked to think that their princesses were not married out of the country.

Joanna and Elizabeth were now both happy; Margaret had her problems, but she was far from home and, he believed, growing older was now able to look after herself; poor Mary seemed contented in her convent with the consolation that she would not have to consider a period of penitence when she grew older as so many did; if she had missed a happy family life in England, at least she was sure of her place in Heaven. Little Thomas was thriving – now he had an English nurse – and young Edmund was doing well. He had a fine family … with one exception.

Yes, it was true. That very one who should have given him most pleasure was the one who caused him the most anxiety. His son Edward.

He often said to himself: ‘Pray God I do not die just yet. God help England if my son were the King.’

He had a duty to live, to conquer Scotland, to make England great and to keep young Edward from the throne until he was more mature, more fitted to rule.

Edward was no longer a boy; he was getting on for twenty years of age. A man indeed. Yet how frivolous he was. Rarely had so much talent been wasted, for Edward was by no means unintelligent. He was tall and handsome and had ability. Alas, he was lazy and frivolous and liked to indulge in rough practical jokes which sometimes caused distress to those about him. There had been complaints and these disturbed the King because they were well-founded.

He often thought of the baby he had presented to the Welsh. What a bonny child he had been and how he and Eleanor had gloried in him! But something had gone wrong somewhere. Had Eleanor accompanied her husband on his travels when she should have been giving more attention to their children? Had he failed in some way?

He was sorry now that he had given him Piers Gaveston as a playfellow. He had only wanted to honour Gaveston’s boy. Gaveston had been a good and loyal knight of Gascony who had served his King well and so, when he had died leaving a young son, Edward had taken him into the royal nurseries and he had been brought up there.

Edward and young Gaveston had become fast friends. They were inseparable and Edward seemed to care for him more than he did anyone else.

It was not a relationship the King liked to see. He must do something about it.

Young Edward must accompany him when he went to Scotland.

The time had come to make war on Scotland. The King was feeling his age. He was advancing into his sixties and would not admit that he more quickly became exhausted as he never had in the old days.

He was obsessed by his dream of uniting England, Scotland and Wales, and the desire had become fraught with a feverish determination because time was running out.

There was little opposition in the south and he marched through Edinburgh and Perth and as far north as Aberdeen. In Moray the lairds submitted to him and the only town which did not fall easily into his hands was Stirling. As usual the nightmare of the campaign was the fear of running out of supplies – one which must always affect a commander when his army was far from home.

He was going to make a treaty with Scotland and for this purpose he summoned all the lords to St Andrews but there was one with whom he would not make terms. That man was William Wallace.

Edward had thought a great deal about Wallace. He knew that he was in hiding somewhere. He believed he understood the man well for he was not unlike himself. Wallace was tenacious, a patriot of the first order. Wallace would never make terms and while he lived he was a danger.

He wanted Wallace delivered to him. He wanted to see Wallace in chains. He would never rest until he had Wallace’s head on a pike over London Bridge as he had Llewellyn’s and Davydd’s. That was the way to subdue a people. Kill their leaders and humiliate them. And what could be more detrimental to a hero than to have his head severed from his body and placed where all could jeer at it?

He had made it very clear that there would be no truce with Wallace. With that man it must be unconditional surrender. He had hinted that he would make it well worthwhile for one of Wallace’s associates to deliver their leader into his hands.

Wallace had become a spectre which haunted Edward’s dreams. Wallace was in hiding somewhere and the mountains of Scotland provided a secure refuge. It was not easy to hunt a man down there. At any moment Wallace would rise and there was evidently a fire in the man, an aura of heroism and leadership which inspired men. Edward wanted inspired men on his side not on the enemy’s.

He knew what it meant to men to follow a leader. He himself was an example of that. Would he have won his battle if he had not got onto his horse, ignoring his broken ribs, and ridden at the head of his men? He was sure the battle would have been lost if he had given way to the advice of his attendants and called his doctors. Soldiers were superstitious; they looked for omens. Listening to the legends of his ancestor, William the Conquerer, he knew what store that great man had set on superstition. He had never let it work against him, and even when it appeared to he would find some way of assuring those about him that it was in truth a good omen they were witnessing and he would twist the argument to make it so. Victory must be in men’s minds if they were going to conquer.

He could subdue Scotland and soon; but not while William Wallace lived.

There were many Scots who were not entirely loyal to the Scottish cause. Some had worked with him if they had thought it would be to their advantage. The Scots would know the hideouts in the mountains better than he did. Some might even know the whereabouts of Wallace.

He sought in his mind for the man he felt best fitted to the task and after a great deal of thought the name of Sir John Menteith came into his mind.

Menteith was an ambitious man who had been a prisoner in England briefly. Edward had released him on condition that he follow him to France and serve with him against the French. When Menteith had returned to Scotland he had joined Wallace and harried the English. He was a man who found little difficulty in changing sides and he liked to be on that of the winners. Edward despised such men but it would have been foolish not to admit that they had their uses.

It had come to Edward’s ears that Wallace was in the Dumbarton area and it was almost certain that he had a mistress there. Women had played a certain part in Wallace’s career. He had nearly been captured once at the house of a prostitute; and then the affair at Lanark had come about because the Sheriff Heselrig had killed another of his women.

Perhaps it would be better to seek him through a woman.

When he was in St Andrews he summoned Menteith and taking him into a private chamber sounded him on the matter of Wallace.

‘My Lord Menteith,’ he said, ‘I have thought much of that traitor William Wallace and it is my desire to bring him to justice. You know that he is one with whom I will make no terms. I want him … dead or alive.’

‘My lord King,’ replied Menteith, ‘Wallace is as slippery as an eel. It would not be easy to apprehend him.’

‘Nay. If it were we should have done so long ere this. But the man is a fugitive, hiding in the mountains, awaiting the moment when he may strike me in the back. It was hinted to me that he is in hiding somewhere in the Dumbarton area. I believe he does not like to stay too long away from the towns for he is rather fond of women. Would you say that, Menteith?’

‘I believe, my lord, that there have been some romantic adventures in his life.’

‘Then depend upon it, he will not want to cut himself away from the society of that sex. I believe there was an occasion when he was almost caught visiting a leman.’

‘That was so, my lord.’

‘I am ready to bestow the post of Sheriff of Dumbarton on one whom I would consider worthy to hold it … It is a fine town, Dumbarton, a fine castle.’

How Menteith’s eyes sparkled! He is my man, thought the King.

‘Of course, if the rebel was in an area it would be the duty of one soon to be its sheriff to deliver him to me.’

Menteith nodded. ‘But a hard task, lord King.’

‘Hard tasks are meant for those worthy to hold high office. Once they have proved themselves honours come their way.’

‘My lord, you fill me with the desire to serve you well.’

‘Forget not, Menteith, that that is your duty.’

‘I shall not forget my duty, sire.’

‘Nor the rewards of duty. If you bring me Wallace I shall be grateful to you. But I want him … and I want him soon. While he lives in hiding we can never be sure when and where he will rise with fools to follow him.’

Menteith bowed and retired, his head full of plans.

The idea came to him suddenly when he thought of what the King had said. Through a woman, yes. There must be a woman in Wallace’s life. It was almost certain that he would come into Dumbarton or some such place at dead of night to visit some woman.

Then he remembered Jack Short, one of his servants, so called because of his small stature – a wiry man with darting ferret eyes. Menteith had employed him now and then for some unsavoury task. The man had few scruples and he and his brother – now dead – would do anything if the reward was good enough. Jack Short was a man who knew what was going on. He made it his business to. He could be plausible; he had an oily tongue and oddly enough numerous people could not see through his falseness.

There was one person for whom Jack Short had really cared. That was his brother – another so like himself that the two were often mistaken for each other. The brother had been killed in an affray and his killer had been William Wallace. Jack Short hated William Wallace.

Therefore he was an excellent choice.

Menteith summoned him and explained what he wanted. ‘Jack,’ he said, ‘if I can deliver Wallace to Edward I shall be rewarded and so will those who help me. I believe you could be of service to me in this matter and that would bring great good to you – apart from giving you the satisfaction of revenge.’

‘He killed my brother,’ said Jack Short, his eyes glowing in his usually cold face. ‘He was close to me when he died. Wallace lifted his sword and cut off my brother’s head. I was too late to get him but by God if …’

‘This is your opportunity. Let us decide how we shall set about this. Vengeance, and reward for it. A good combination, eh Jack?’

William Wallace was in fact living in a disused hut in the mountains close to Glasgow. With him were a few of his friends, Karlé and Stephen, those two faithful stalwarts, among them. Wallace always said that he would rather have twenty men he could trust than a thousand whom he couldn’t.

He was saddened by the way things had gone. Edward had changed everything. He might have known that Edward was a formidable enemy. He could have conquered the others: he had succeeded until Edward had arrived, with his armies and his military skills. Edward was a legend. So was Wallace. They were two strong men coming face to face, but Edward was the King of a great country and he had the arms, the men – everything that Wallace had so sadly lacked.

But he would not despair.

One day, he promised himself, he would conquer Edward.

In the meantime there was nothing to do but wait and plan with his good friends. They would talk together of gathering an army again, of marching against Edward. They would learn the lessons of defeat for there were more to be discovered in them than in victory.

Sometimes he was impatient. Then Karlé would soothe him. Karlé, Stephen! What good friends they were and always had been!

But he was in hiding. He hated having to skulk into Glasgow at night; he wanted to disguise himself and go by day. But it was dangerous. He went at night to the house of a woman. She was pretty enough and generous, and although she did not know him as Wallace sometimes he thought she suspected him of being that great warrior.

One night, as he lay with his friends round the fire they had lighted in the hut, they talked of what one of them had heard that day in Glasgow – that Edward was at St Andrews and many of the Scottish lords were swearing fealty to him. That made Wallace furious. That Scotsmen should so far forget their country as to bow to Edward!

And as they sat there one of the guards came in with a small draggled figure wrapped in a ragged cloak.

‘I found him prowling nearby,’ said the guard. ‘So I brought him to you for he said he knew you and wanted to offer himself.’

‘You know me, man?’ said Wallace. ‘Come near the fire and let me look at you. By what name are you known?’

‘As Jack Short,’ said the man. ‘I knew you once, Sir William.’

Wallace said, ‘I remember. I never saw men so short as you … and was there not a brother?’

‘Ay, a brother. You killed him, sir.’

‘I killed him? Then he was an enemy of Scotland.’

‘Not so, Sir William. He was a fool of a man, my brother. He wanted to fight for Scotland though. He was there at one of the forays and lost his way in the battle. You believed him to be on their side. ’Twas not so, I swear.’

‘Why do you come here?’

‘I have searched for you, far and wide. I wanted to tell you that my brother was no traitor. I want to make you understand that, sir.’

‘I killed your brother. Then if he was no traitor you must hate me for that.’

‘No, sir. He was soft in the head, my brother. You would never have killed him … if you had known. He wanted to serve Scotland and he did … but his brain was addled and he did not know which way to turn. He wouldn’t be sure who was the enemy. So I come to tell you he was no traitor and to serve you with my life.’

William said, ‘Do you fancy yourself as a fighter then?’

‘Nay. I am short as my brother but my brain is not addled as his, poor boy, was. I cannot fight … though I might be of some use on a battlefield. But I can fish and cook over a fire and help a gentleman to dress.’

‘We all look after ourselves here, Jack Short.’

‘But ’twill be easier for you to give your mind to greater matters, sir, if I do things for you. I was fishing this afternoon and I have good fish with me. Let me cook it for you and you shall taste my skills.’

William was amused. ‘Why not? We should like a tasty meal, eh Karlé?’

Karlé was thoughtful. He was too apprehensive about everything, thought William. He looked for danger in every pool and tree.

‘Come! The fish, Jack Short, and you shall stay with me and be my servant. How like you that?’

Jack Short knelt and kissed William’s hand.

He was good. There was no question of that. Life was easier with him. He had a talent for catching and cooking fish. He would go into the town and come with provisions they needed.

‘It saves our taking risks,’ even Karlé admitted.

One day Jack Short said to William, ‘My lord, you should never go into Glasgow. Your leman should come to you.’

He knew of course why William made his nocturnal visits. Jack Short could be trusted to know everything.

‘What,’ cried William, ‘would you have us all betrayed?’

‘God forbid that that should ever come to pass. I would but make it easier for my lord.’

‘You do make life easier for me, Jack,’ said William. ‘I am sorry for what I did to your brother.’

‘’Twas his fault. No … not his fault … his folly. Forget it, my lord. For I have found joy in serving you.’

Jack would lie at his master’s feet and talk about what news he picked up in Glasgow. He told of the women he saw there. ‘There is one,’ he said, ‘fair of hair and rosy of cheek with sparkling blue eyes and a ready tongue. I noted her specially.’

He watched his master. He knew by Sir William’s smile that she was the one. He had discovered where she lived. If he could but follow Wallace there one night that would be good but he had to take care, for Karlé was a most suspicious man.

What he had to find out now was when Wallace was visiting the woman and he did not always say. Jack Short asked his questions slyly, obliquely. But he had to find the exact time. There must be no mistake. If anything went wrong and he was betrayed as the spy he was, Menteith would kill him, even if Wallace’s men did not, and he would never enjoy that reward which had been promised him.

He went fishing and was late coming in with the catch. The fire was slow in burning.

‘Hurry, man,’ said Wallace, ‘I am going to the town this night.’

Jack’s heart beat fast. Serve them with fish … then take one of the horses and gallop into town. He knew what he had to do. Menteith and his men had been waiting in the town ready for the day.

He slipped away, leading the horse at first lest they should hear him.

In the town Menteith was glad to see him.

‘Tonight,’ cried Jack Short. ‘He is coming tonight.’

Menteith said: ‘To the woman’s? We will take him as he comes in.’

Karlé had a sixth sense where his master was concerned.

‘I like not these trips into the town,’ he said.

‘I like them,’ answered William.

‘Can you not do without women?’

‘No, Karlé. They revive me. They lighten this dreary exile.’

‘They have been your downfall before.’

‘Never. I escaped narrowly from Ellen’s house I know. And Marion … It was because of her that we took Lanark, remember.’

‘Have a care.’

‘It is safe enough.’

‘Don’t go tonight.’

‘I must. I have said I will. She will be waiting.’

‘Perhaps she can find another friend.’

‘Tonight is my night. She is faithful to me when I am there.’

Karlé laughed and said, ‘Then I shall come with you.’

This was not unusual. Often when he visited the woman Karlé would come. He would sit below and talk to the servant, and usually drink some of her home-brewed ale and perhaps eat a piece of bread and bacon.

So they rode towards the town, leaving their horses tethered in the woods. Quietly and swiftly they went to the woman’s house.

The door was open but they did not see anything strange in this. William presumed that expecting him she had left it ajar.

He pushed it open. They were surrounded. Karlé reached for his dagger but he was too late. He fell bleeding to the floor. Wallace was seized. They did not want to kill him.

Edward wanted him alive.

It was the complete humiliation to ride in the midst of Menteith’s men, his hands shackled – a prisoner.

Jack Short had betrayed them. He had been deceived by that simple ruse. He had always been careless. But the biggest traitor of all was Menteith. He should not rave against Jack Short who was of little account. Menteith was the criminal. He had betrayed Scotland. That was what was important. And Karlé – beloved Karlé – had died because he had insisted on coming with him.

He himself was the prisoner of mighty Edward, who would never let him go.

He fears me, thought Wallace exultantly. He fears me as he fears no other. He knows that he can never be safe in Scotland while I live.

So they brought him to London and he was lodged in a house in Fenchurch Street.

They did not leave him there long and soon there came the day when he was taken to Westminster Hall to answer the charges brought against him.

His trial was brief. He was judged a traitor to King Edward.

‘I have never been that,’ he said, ‘for I have never acknowledged him as my lord.’

He made a brave show. His strength, his vitality, his aura of greatness must impress all who saw him. But he was Edward’s prisoner and Edward was determined that he should never again raise an army against him.

There came the day of his sentence. His crimes were enumerated. Sedition, homicide, depredations, fires and felonies. He had attacked the King’s officers and slain Sir William Heselrig, Sheriff of Lanark. He had invaded the King’s territories of Cumberland and Westmorland.

‘Your sentence is that you shall be carried from Westminster to the Tower and from the Tower to Aldgate and so through the City to the Elms at Smithfield, and for your homicides and felonies in England and Scotland you shall be hanged and drawn and as an outlaw beheaded, and afterwards your heart, liver and lungs shall be burned and your head placed on London Bridge in sight of land and water travellers, and your quarters hung on gibbets at Newcastle, Berwick, Stirling and Perth to the terror of all those who pass by.’

William listened almost impassively. It was the death accorded traitors to the King and the King would say, ‘This man was to me one of the greatest traitors who ever lived.’

Edward would say he was just and in his own lights doubtless he was.

On the twenty-third day of August the barbarous sentence was carried out with revolting cruelty. Many gathered at the Elms in Smithfield to see it.

No cry escaped from William Wallace. He knew he was not defeated. He knew his fame would live on after him and be an inspiration to all those who cared for the freedom of Scotland.