Randall Wallace - Braveheart

The generals had themselves grown so frustrated that they were willing to speak up in the king’s presence. “Sire, we are not prepared to winter here,” one of them said. “We could lose half our men to starvation and cold.”

Longshanks knew this already; he accepted the realities of war and had planned accordingly. “In the spring we will move our army across from Scotland,” he said.

A messenger, exhausted and mud-spattered, rode up, jumped from his lathered horse, and hurried into the tent. He bowed sharply and handed the king a scroll. As the king read, his face, which his advisors had been noticing was a bit pale of late, took on a flush they had not seen for some time. Then slowly Longshanks lowered the scroll, and through a mouth set stiff in anger, he said, “We have no more army in Scotland.”

INSIDE THE GREAT HALL OF EDINBURGH CASTLE, WILLIAM Wallace knelt before Angus Craig, foremost of Scotland’s ancient elders, who lifted a silver sword and dubbed William’s shoulders. “I knight thee Sir William Wallace!” Craig declared.

William rose and faced the great hall, crowded with hundreds of new admirers as well as his old friends: Hamish, his father — with one loose sleeve, but otherwise none the worse for wear — and Stephen of Ireland, all in new clothes and armor. Their faces were clean, their bruises healed, the blood washed from their hands and hair. William had never seen them look so sparkling. The stood erect and proud among so many others who had never once fought for the positions of power their finery proclaimed.

But those others, they were Scots, too. They stood looking at William with — what was it exactly that he saw in their eyes? It was like wonder, but not that sweet awe of a child lying on his back on the summer heather and looking up at the stars. Just behind the eyes of these noblemen in their furs and the ladies in their lace was the confusion of something not quite making sense to them.

In ten minutes, when William had walked out of the room and stood at a window alone, overlooking Scotland’s ancient royal city, he would understand what this look had really meant. Those people had never seen anything like him and his friends. To nobles, common Scottish warriors were mere brutes, but now they were confronted by something strange and baffling: a commoner who had outsmarted Scotland’s enemies. This was disturbing; it shook their assumptions. Yet they freely admitted their admiration of the strategy that had won the battle. They like to speak about it as if Strategy was a living thing unto itself, that is somehow rose up apart from the men who created it and put it into action. May be thinking of it this way made them more comfortable, for to admit otherwise would be to say that commoners were, if not superior, at least equal to the nobles.

William Wallace would see all that later when he had time to think about the new perspectives he had from this pinnacle of admiration. He would also see that this was a tremendous opportunity to unite both noble and common Scot in a campaign unlike any they had ever made.

But those were the thoughts of reason and reflection. Now, as he stood among the sparkle and the music of the castle, his mind did not yet weave the threads of sensation; it jus took them all in.

And in the center of his chest was an emptiness.

He lifted his eyes to the rear of the hall where the great balcony was backed by a magnificent arched window. He stared at the sunlight streaming in their, and in the center of is blinding brilliance, he imagined her familiar form: Murron, so real to him in this moment of triumph that he could almost see her, glowing alike an angel, could almost speak to her, touch her.

Almost.

Wallace reached inside the ornamental chestplate the nobles of Scotland had given him, and his fingers found the cloth that Murron had embroidered with a thistle, her gift to him on their wedding day.

Less than an hour after the knighting of William Wallace, old Craig convened a meeting of Scotland’s ruling nobles in the council chamber of the castle. A massive table ran across the width of the room. Aligned on either side were the two rival faction of nobles, one supporting the claim of Balliols for the vacant throne, the other, the claim of the Bruces; all of them were muttering among their allies and refusing to look at their opponents. Old Craig was in the center chair, with young Robert the Bruce on his right. Amid chair, with young Robert the Bruce on his right. Amid murmuring of the nobles, Robert leaned over and whispered to Criag, “Do you know this William Wallace’s politics?”

“No. The Balliols have spread the story that he supports them. Perhaps he does, but perhaps he does not. I sent my servants with food and help for his wounded after Stirling, and they reported back to me that Wallace’s men held you in esteem.”

“His men. But what of Wallace himself?”

Old Craig could barely keep from shaking his head at young Bruce’s naivete. Here he had grown up in one of Scotland’s noblest families, and yet he didn’t understand the enchantments of power, the human urge to imitate the influential, the seductions of synocophancy. “Wallace’s men admire him with the burning fervor. They believe he is like them, they want to be like him. He carries an aura of victory, of invulnerability. The Highlanders are a headstrong, independent sort, but they are men and they will seek to copy the one who leads them.”

Craig saw that Robert still didn’t quite understand his point; he made it more plainly. “Wallace’s men love him. They very nearly worship him; they would die for him. They would surely hold no opinion that seemed counter to his. If Wallace’s men favor you, then he surely must ha some sympathies in you direction.”

Robert the Bruce looked down at the table, rubbing his lip and taking this in. Is he innocent or dull? Craig wondered. Or is it that he is like Wallace and believes in action more than analysis? Then it occurred to Craig that this might be exactly what William Wallace did favor about Robert the Bruce. The Bruces were known to fight first on one side of an issue and then on another — But they were known to fight.

Whatever the state of William Wallace’s sympathies, they were now crucial to the interests of every nobelman in the room. Old Craig leaned back to young Robert and whispered, “Just remember this, young Robert and whispered, “Just remember this. Wallace’s weight with the commoners could unbalance everything. The Balliols will kiss his associations, so we must.

A court steward stepped in and announced with solemn formality. “Lords of Scotland:” Sir William Wallace!”

The nobles on each side of the table tried to outdo each other in their acclamation as Wallace strode in, flanked by Hamish, Campbell, and Stephen, splendid in their tartans. They stopped in front of Craig at the middle of the table.

Robert the Bruce had attended the knighting ceremony for Wallace, but the Bruce had kept himself back among the crowd as he had been advised to do by this father. After the way adoration for Wallace had swept the country in the aftermath of the victory at Striling, Bruce the Elder had told his son to observe the way people responded to him and how he carried himself in the presence of a crowd, for it was clear that this Wallace had something that could sweep up whole armies of men. Now, in these smaller surroundings, Bruce had the opportunity to study the man at close range.