Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

“Aye, by God—but I am right in the other also!” Douglas cried, banging the table with his fist.

“That we should turn south.

To the Border. Leave your Glasgow and north of Forth. They will wait. Make the West March secure, and then turn on Her wick, I say. That is where we may hit the English where it hurts them most …”

“My lord of Douglas has large lands in the West Borders!”

Moray interrupted tersely.

“What of it, man? From those lands we shall win many men.”

“Sir William would avenge his defeat at Berwick, I swear!”

the Graham put in.

“But we have more to do than restore his honour! We have all Scotland to win.”

“You know not what you say, sir …!”

Still they argued, loudly, acrimoniously, with the Bishop and the Steward seeking to calm, soothe and guide. Here were divided counsels, with a vengeance.

Douglas was still holding forth, seeking to carry the day by main force, when the door was thrown open and three newcomers entered. And, strangely, even Douglas’s forceful eloquence died on his lips.

Perhaps it was not so strange, for the visitors presented no ordinary sight; or, at least, one of them did not. Quite the largest man that Bruce had ever set eyes upon stood there, a young giant of nearer seven than six feet, of a width of shoulder and length of arm that would have been gross deformity in anyone less tall.

Bareheaded, with a wealth of curling auburn hair and a bushy beard, this extraordinary individual had a smiling open face, high complexion and intensely bright blue eyes. He wore a sort of long tunic of rusty and battered ring-mail, with boiled leather guards bound on both arms and legs, making these enormous limbs look even larger. A huge two-handed sword, quite the mightiest weapon Bruce had ever seen, was sheathed down his back so that its great hilt stuck up behind the man’s head. He was probably four or five years older than Bruce himself—certainly under thirty. His companions scarcely merited a glance in comparison.

One was a ragged priest, half in armour; the other little more than a youth, though armed to the teeth.

“I greet you all, my lords and gentles,” the giant said, deep voiced but genial.

“It is a fine night. To be up and doing!”

Sir John the Graham alone of the company got to his feet and strode to welcome the newcomers. Douglas raised his voice.

“Who … who, a God’s name is this?”

“Wallace. Wallace of Elderslie,” somebody told him.

Exclamation, comment, remark rose from the company as Wallace clasped

the Graham to him affectionately-and beside him that well-built young

knight looked a stunted stripling. Bruce turned to his nearest neighbour, the Lord of Crawford, though his eyes remained fixed on the newcomer.

“This man? This Wallace. Who is he?” he asked.

“You do not know, my lord? You have not heard of the Wallace?”

Lindsay said, surprised.

“When all Scotland rings with his deeds.” He corrected himself.

“All Scotland of the baser sort, that is!”

“I have heard of Wallace of Riccarton. A small knight, nearby here somewhere. Vassal of my grandsire.”

“This is nephew to him. His father, Sir Malcolm, younger brother to Riccarton, got Elderslie, at Renfrew. A mean enough place, of the Steward’s. This is the second son. His brother will laird it there now, since their father was slain by the English at Loudoun Hill.”

“Ha—slain? And did I not hear that this man’s wife was slain, also?

At Lanark. For which he slew Hazelrig?”

“Aye. So you are not entirely ignorant of the Wallace, then, my lord!”

“I heard his name only yesterday. For the first time. As an outlaw, a brigand.”

“Aye, that is the style of him. A man of no breeding. Of the old native stock. Little better than the Irish.” De Lindsay, of good Norman blood, coughed a little, recollecting that Bruce’s own mother, and his Carrick earldom, were of the same Celtic origin, however respectable was his father’s line.

“He impudently be labours the English. They say that he has slain a round hundred of them himself, with that ox-shaft of a sword!”

“He is a skilled warrior, then? A champion?”

“Skilled no! He fights, they say, like a brute-beast. Without regard to the knightly code.”

“But you say he is the son and nephew of knights …?”

The object of this dialogue had stalked across the hall, to bow briefly in front of the Steward, whose vassal he was. Now he interrupted all talk with his deep rumbling voice.

“My friends, I am new come from the Forest. From Ettrick.

With news. From the East March. From Berwick. The English are on the move. Surrey, they tell me, has dispatched an army north, from Newcastle. A great army. Forty thousand foot, no less.

Though bare a thousand horse. Under command of Surrey’s grandson, Henry Percy. To deal with your rising, my lords.”

“Forty thousand …!” Bishop Wishart could not keep the quaver out of his voice.

Men stared at each other, appalled.

“Aye. So it is time to be up and doing, is it not, my friends? Not sitting here, at table!” Wallace laughed as he said it, however, and reached out a huge hand to grasp and tear off a foreleg of mutton from a roasted carcase on the table. He bit into it there and then, standing there.

“Forty thousand foot will move but slowly,” Douglas declared heavily.

“Ten miles a day, no more. No need to spoil our dinner!”

“Sir Robert de Clifford has three thousand at Berwick. Half cavalry.

They will be on their way now. In advance of the greater host.”

“You are well-informed, fellow!”

“I make it my business to be, my lord. Since my life could depend on it. Captured, lords are ransomed. I would hang!”

“That is true, at least!”

“Certainly these tidings force us to a swift decision,” the Steward intervened.

“And since this great host comes from the south, it would be folly, with our small numbers, to go meet it.

We must move north, then. Seek to raise more men in the North.”

“I shall rest happier behind the walls of Glasgow town …”

“Rest, my lord Bishop?” Wallace took him up, chuckling.

“Rest, I swear, is no word for use this night. With much to do.”

“Tonight, man? You would have us go tonight? It is not possible.

Such haste would be unseemly. Besides, most of the men will be asleep

…”

“So, I think, may be the English.”

“English? What English? What mean you?”

“The English in Ayr, my lord. But a few miles away. We must smite them. Before it is too late.”

“Attack Ayr? Tonight?”

“What folly is this?”

“Is the man mad?”

Everywhere voices were raised in protest.

“That is why I came to Irvine, my friends,” the big man asserted, when he could make himself heard.

“To take Ayr.”

“The more fool you, then!” Douglas cried.

“Away with you, and take it, then! If you can. Me, I shall finish my dinner.

Douglas does not skulk by night, like some thief or cutpurse!”

”Aye—enough of this. Have done with such talk.”

“You will not take a strong castle by night, man.” That was Lindsay speaking.

“Think you its walls will be unmanned, its bridge down, its gates open? These English are not as they were at Lanark—unawares. These know we are here, and will be on their guard. You will not take another castle by surprise.”

“No? That is my lord of Crawford, is it not? Then hear this, Sir Alexander. Last night, from Ettrick, I came by Tweedsmuir and over into upper Clydesdale. By Crawford, indeed And took your Tower Lindsay, in the bygoing! Around midnight. Thirty Englishmen now hang from its parapets. That is all its garrison today. It is your house again, my lord-cleansed of the English who held it. You may possess yourself of it, at will. As I did, last night!”