“Well,” he said quietly, sounding vaguely disappointed, “that is hardly surprising, I suppose. You are the first person with whom I have tried to talk about this, and I know I looked at it for years myself without seeing it for what it is.”
He coughed, clearing his throat, then began again.
“Now listen closely to me, Father James, for I am about to open a new window and show you a world you have never thought of and could never imagine. Are you listening?” I nodded. “This world of ours is changing, as I have said. It is changing visibly, from day to day. We are witnessing an upheaval that will rival the fall of Rome. Believe me when I tell you that the burgesses of our towns—and of all the other towns throughout Christendom—will change the very world as we know it.”
I confess I was half afraid that my mentor was losing his mind.
“The system cannot coexist with these new burgesses, Father James, and it cannot survive without them. And therefore it must perish. Not today, and probably not within our lifetimes, but the system will perish. Of that I have no doubt.”
“What system, my lord Bishop?” I asked. I felt like a fool.
“The system that governs the world, my son. The system within which we live and work, the one by which we have survived these hundreds of years. There is always a system governing men’s existence. The Church is one; the pagan Roman Empire was another. We have no proper name for the one that governs us now, other than the system of fealty, in which society is bound by the laws of lord and liegeman, duty and allegiance, and honour is defined by loyalty and common service. But these burgesses are a new phenomenon and they exist outside the commonality. They are beholden to no one but themselves for their success, which means they owe fealty and allegiance to no one but themselves. They
have
no sworn lieges to whom they are committed, for their entire commitment is to their own commerce. They cannot be levied to fight for any lord and master, for they are their own men, and therein lies their threat. Think upon that, Father, if you will:
they are their own men
. That is a concept that has not been heard of since the days of Republican Rome. These are men without allegiance! Imagine, if you can, what that means.”
I was aware that somewhere outside, among the trees surrounding the cathedral grounds, the thrush had begun to sing again in a soaring crescendo of magnificent sound, but though I heard it, it was as if through a thick fog. I shifted in discomfort.
“It seems to me, my lord, that should what you are suggesting become known, these burgesses would all be wiped from the face of the earth, for the nobles could not live with such knowledge. They could not afford to countenance the possibility of people living within their lands who pay them no allegiance.”
“Ah, but you are wrong, Father James. The nobles cannot simply wipe the burgesses out, for they are already too dependent upon them. These burgesses all pay taxes on the profits of their enterprises. They pay them, albeit indirectly, to the nobles, and those taxes amount to vast sums of money. The nobles, on the other hand, produce nothing. They merely own the land on which others live and work. That is news to no one.
“But now, with the emergence of these burgesses, there are different elements in play, and they refuse to fit within the system’s status quo. The towns themselves, the burghs of Scotland—Glasgow and Edinburgh, Perth and Berwick, Aberdeen and St. Andrews and even Paisley—have grown too big and much too prosperous to be controlled by any single man, no matter how powerful a lord he may be in name. They are owned now by their burgesses and citizens—part of the realm still, but no longer part of the old system. No nobleman, be he earl or baron, chief or mere laird, can dictate anything but his displeasure to the citizens of Scotland’s burghs today. The burgesses have outgrown—not yet thrown off, but definitely outgrown—the power of the nobles.”
“What does that mean?” I asked eventually. “The King and his Council of Guardians yet govern the realm.”
“What it means, Father James, is that sooner or later—and I mean not tomorrow or even a decade or a century from now, but inevitably—the common folk of this land of ours will wrest control of it from the nobility who own it now in its entirety.”
I tried to grasp that thought, but it was too large and too tenuous for me to grapple with at that moment. I did make the leap, though, from what the Bishop had just finished saying to what he had said at the start.
“You believe Will Wallace will be a part of this great change you foresee. That’s why you want me to find him for you.”
“Hmm.” The old fox hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Your cousin will have a part to play in what transpires, I have no doubt of that, but he will be part of the
process
of change, not necessarily a part of the change itself. No, Father, I want you to find him because I have gained information that I must pass on to him, vitally important information concerning the welfare of this realm, and you are the sole means I have of delivering it to him without anyone else being aware of it.”
Then why all the obscure digression?
I thought. “Information. I see. Shall I write it down, Your Grace?”
“No. No, it is too … sensitive, too delicate and dangerous to put into writing, I suspect, and a letter can be stolen and traced. This information is but newly arrived and I must think it through. And I intend to think it through with you as my witness and sounding board, Father, so that, familiar with it and all its implications, you might then go on alone to meet with your cousin, carrying the information in your head. Would you agree to that?”
“Of course, my lord.”
“Good. Excellent. Listen, then. I received this word last night, roused from my sleep in the dead of night, the middle watches before matins. It was brought by a wandering priest whom I have known for years and trust completely. He had divined its import and brought it directly to me with all the speed he could achieve on foot. He was in Norham Castle one night nigh on two weeks ago and overheard a conversation that should never have occurred. He had arrived there late, after curfew, and unable to enter the castle proper, he had curled up in a gatehouse to sleep for a few hours out of the wind.
“Edward Plantagenet was in residence there that night, as was Bek of Durham, and they chose to walk together out of doors in the dead of the night, presumably to discuss matters of grave import without the danger of being overheard. Fortunately for us, that was not how things transpired, for they ended up walking a great distance from safety, outside the castle walls, only to have their discussion within a few paces of my visitor, who froze in place, fearing for his life.
“He told me that their entire conversation was about Scots bandits and their thieving activities in the Selkirk area—your cousin Will and his people. The stories that we hear of them up here in Glasgow are simple stories told by simple folk who enjoy having someone champion them even from afar, moral tales of wicked English trespassers brought to grief by intrepid Scots avengers. The reality, though, according to what my informant overheard, is far more potent. These Greens—and that is what the English King himself called them—are causing Edward much grief with their raids and depredations, far more so than any of us might have imagined. But it is Edward’s inability either to capture them or bring them to battle that is goading him to madness. He is faced with mutiny among his troops.”
He cut me off with a wave of his hand before I could even begin to react.
“I know there is nothing new in that rumour. That is precisely the point I wish you to make to your cousin, so listen closely. We have been hearing for years that Edward is having troubles among his own people in England, that his barons are on the point of rebelling against his incessant demands for more and more funds and fighting men for his campaigns in Aquitaine and Normandy and Gascony. That is a given of Edward’s life in governing his realm, and until now he has been able to cope with it and look after his affairs here in Scotland.
“But this … this situation here and now is different. This is in Scotland, and it is
not
a rebellion against unjust or overweening demands. This is a rebellion over money—gold, silver, and copper coins. The English soldiers in Scotland have not been paid in months, because three consecutive baggage convoys, northward bound from England and laden with payrolls and paymasters, have been intercepted by the Greens, their goods stolen and their armed escorts slaughtered. Each one in turn, according to English sources, was hit in overwhelming strength by outlaw forces from the forest as they passed. But now it appears that each of the last two convoys was accompanied by a military escort twice as strong as the force accompanying its predecessor, and still they were overwhelmed. Edward’s intelligence estimates an enemy force numbering upwards of five hundred in the last attack.”
“Five hundred …”
“Aye, that’s what I am told. So now the English are considering bringing their payrolls in by ship, establishing a military treasury in Leith or Edinburgh itself, and off-loading their paymasters’ cargo there. But setting up an English treasury on Scottish soil will take time to arrange, and it will involve a deal of negotiating with King John and the Guardians. It will not happen overnight.”
“No, I see no way that it could. So what will Edward do in the meantime? From what you have said, he will need to do something to change the situation as it stands.”
“He intends to. That was the purpose of such a secretive meeting between him and Bek. He will attempt to achieve by subterfuge what he cannot achieve by force.”
He hesitated but a moment, then launched into the details of the English plan.
The following morning, before dawn, I left Glasgow and headed south and east, towards Selkirk and its great forest.
CHAPTER TWELVE
1
I
stretched my leg slowly and cautiously, I thought, to relieve a mild cramp in my calf, but the movement was sufficiently visible to startle the small herd of deer in the clearing in front of me. Barely a heartbeat after I had stirred, the entire herd was bounding away to vanish into the thick undergrowth that edged the glade. I cursed myself in silence and glanced guiltily at Shoomy, who lay beside me, but he did no more than purse his lips and frown gently, moving his head almost imperceptibly from side to side and spreading the fingers of his hand in a warning to be still. I lowered my head to the grass again, closing my eyes and straining to hear beyond my own heartbeat as I waited.
We had been in place for four hours by then, having arrived in the dead of night when there was little chance of being detected, and daylight had crept up around us as we sat or lay there, snugly wrapped in waxed woollen blankets, within the dense fringe of bushes that edged the glade, so that from the blackness of pre-dawn we had emerged almost imperceptibly into one of those unpredictable, seemingly magical mornings that sometimes come along without warning. In all that time together in the night-chilled darkness, save for the muted responses to the Mass I celebrated by torchlight when we first arrived, we had barely spoken, not because of any fear of making noise, but simply out of the human need to think without sharing what we were thinking.
Now, however, our stillness had a purpose. Shoomy had chosen this spot with care, deeming it most likely to yield rewards, and now we were waiting for someone to appear, and the need for silent immobility was absolute.
I was unsure what the first sound I heard actually was. It was too distant and indistinct to identify, but mere moments later it came again, and this time I recognized it as the fluttering sound of air being snorted through a horse’s nostrils. I knew the others must have heard it, too, and I forced myself not to move. A long time passed, it seemed, before the next sound came, and then it was the heavy, muffled thump of a stamped hoof on soft ground, and it was accompanied by a whispered shushing as the animal’s rider sought to keep it calm. Another long silence followed that, with none of us daring to breathe, lest the sound be too loud, but eventually there came another sound of movement, accompanied by the unmistakable creak of leather saddlery. The screen of leaves near where I lay shivered, then parted infinitely slowly, pushed aside by an extended hand, to reveal a man leaning far forward over the neck of a horse, his chin almost against its mane and his eyes peering between the beast’s twitching ears.
Nothing moved as the scout examined everything he could see ahead of him and on each side. He wore a conical steel helmet, which forced him to keep his head tilted severely back, and he was highly alert and vigilant, his very life dependent upon both. He examined everything minutely, meticulous and unhurried in his inspection, so that long before his questing eyes turned in my direction I had pulled myself down into the smallest possible bulk, hugging the ground as I sought to keep my head and the curve of my back beneath the gentle ridge that separated me from his line of sight. I waited to be discovered, but nothing happened, and then I heard him move again, the soft fall of hooves as he walked his horse quietly away. I heard no sound of sweeping branches, though, and so I raised my head again as slowly as I could and looked for him. He had vanished, evidently circling the clearing behind the screen of leaves that marked its edges.
I caught sight of him again moments later, emerging as before from the screening bushes, too far away now to see me easily even had he been looking in my direction. This time, however, he came through the screen, peering carefully about him as he rode into the green-shaded glade. His shield was slung diagonally across his back, and he held the reins easily in his left hand, his right grasping the hilt of a long-bladed sword in a grip that allowed the bare blade to lie along his thigh and rest gently against his knee, featherlight and unobtrusive, yet ready for instant action at the first flicker of movement.
Clear of the bushes, he drew rein for a moment at the very edge of the clearing, his eyes sweeping the open, seemingly innocuous space on both sides of him. Then he nudged his mount on again, leaning forward in the saddle as before and seeming to shrink even lower as he passed beneath the low-hanging branches of the huge elm that dominated the glade. He was in no danger from the overhanging boughs, for the lowest of them cleared his head by almost two feet, but his reaction was an instinctive avoidance of a sensed, potential threat. I remember thinking, though, that it clearly had not occurred to him that he might be attacked from above, for he did not once look up, and in consequence the man who leapt down on him caught him completely unprepared and drove him crashing to the ground and into unconsciousness. The only sound we watchers heard was the abrupt, wrenching thud of two bodies colliding and then hitting the earth concussively before the startled horse could even snort in fright.
The attacker rolled and rose quickly to his feet, and I saw that it was Alan Crawford, now one of Will’s senior lieutenants. He spun back to the unhorsed man, crouching over him quickly with a bared dagger in his upraised fist. But a moment later he straightened up and sheathed the weapon, then summoned the others to come forward, giving orders to some to secure the prisoner and to others to fan out into the forest from which the rider had come. Now, as two of his men gagged the fallen man and bound him at wrists and ankles, Alan crossed to where I crouched beside Mirren and two other women.
“Right,” he said quietly. “This should have been the point man on our side. The others, four of them, will be behind him, spread out on either flank. They may not have met our people yet, but when they do, if anything goes wrong, we’ll hear about it quickly enough. Keep your ears open for noises on both sides of the road. We’ll give them another quarter of an hour to reach us, and if they don’t appear, we’ll know they’ve been dealt with. Then we’ll head across the road and join Long John and the others.”
The main north–south road lay to our right, little more than fifty paces away but hidden from us by the woods. The remaining scouts, we knew, would be riding on both sides of it, four now on this side, five on the other, searching for people like us, people who might pose a threat to the train they were escorting.
Our group, of which we were but one-fifth, faced south, commanding the eastern side of the roadway. Across the road, five more groups hunted the scouts on the western side, prepared to kill all of them if required. In the entire party of fifty dispatched to neutralize the ten scouts, only Mirren, her two women, and myself were unarmed, and we were there in the first place simply because it was the safest spot Will had been able to think of for this morning’s work, far enough removed from what would happen where he was to ensure that Mirren would be in no danger. My task, ostensibly, was to guard her, but the mere idea of that was ludicrous, and I knew I was there only because Will had been seeking some means of protecting my priestly sensibilities against the kind of murder and mayhem that was likely to erupt in the confrontation that lay ahead.
I had arrived unannounced in his camp four days earlier, bearing strange tidings and urgent instructions from Bishop Wishart to which Will had listened initially in slack-jawed astonishment. That bemused wonder, though, had been supplanted within moments by the realities of the looming situation, and from then on everything had taken place at breakneck speed in Will’s forest camp. Edward of England had moved decisively, far more quickly than even Wishart, with his privileged knowledge, had imagined. As always, by seizing the initiative, Edward had left no opportunity for anyone else—most particularly enemies like Will and his band—to do anything other than react to what he had already set in motion. I watched with awe in the hours that followed my delivery of Bishop Wishart’s tidings as messengers were dispersed at speed to summon fighting men from all across the southeastern region of the country. Large numbers of other men soon began appearing, too, obviously summoned from close by, and I could see these were all commanders of varying rank. They wore no insignia, but there was no disguising the air of confident authority that hung about them. They were unmistakably leaders of men, set apart by their very bearing. These men vanished almost as soon as they arrived, into gatherings that were clearly planning sessions; and as those sessions progressed, more and more orders began to be issued, and activity throughout the encampment increased visibly.
I learned within the space of that first day that my cousin’s following was far greater and his authority more far-reaching than I had ever imagined, and that made me aware, too, that my very presence there at such a time must be a distraction to him and might soon become a nuisance, and so I sought to efface myself by simply keeping out of his sight.
Out of sight, however, did not mean out of mind, and as word reached us the next day that Edward’s messengers had already passed Berwick town, little more than thirty miles to the south of where we were, Will turned his attention to the safety of his wife, who was, he informed me, newly pregnant, and to me, his favourite, younger cousin. He knew me better than I knew myself, knew the strengths and weaknesses of my character and thus knew that the greatest of these, in both respects, was my immense regard for the sanctity of the Church. He knew I would have great difficulty in accepting what was now afoot, and so he guarded me from it by entrusting me with the care and safety of his wife and his future family, forcing me to take them away and out of danger.
Thinking of that, I found myself smirking at the irony of what had happened just moments earlier. Had we not fled Will’s camp, we would have been nowhere near the enemy scout who had come so close to us with his long, bare blade. But the thought was overwhelmed by a sudden commotion in the trees at my back. I heard a muffled grunt, an explosive breath, and then the lethal clang of steel on steel, followed by a scream that was cut off in mid utterance. Then came the plunging, stamping sounds of a heavy horse forcing its way through thick growth, and the bushes split apart, yielding to the advance of a heavily mailed and helmeted rider on an enormous destrier, the largest animal I had ever seen. My first, fleeting impressions were of an upraised visor and a red-bearded face with bright, glowering eyes. Then I saw a broad-bladed sword sweeping down, its bright steel fouled with blood, and as it fell it seemed as though someone leapt to meet it, springing effortlessly up towards the blade to counter its thrust. Blade and body met and seemed to melt together, motionless for a flicker of time, and then in a leaping spray of blood the sword continued its downward slash, taking the body with it and casting it aside, severed and broken.
The rider now stood up in his stirrups, ignoring his victim and looking about him. He slammed his visor closed with the crossguard of his sword and pulled his horse up into a rearing dance before launching it forward, and I found myself face to face with a charging knight at a distance of less than forty paces. He was enormous, as was the armoured creature beneath him, and the high crest on his visored helm made him look even larger. The crest was a rampant green lion, and the rider’s shield and surcoat were pale blue with the green lion, jarringly familiar, blazoned across the front of both. I knew this knight, had seen him somewhere before, perhaps even met him, but that faded to insignificance as he set spurs to his mount with a savage, rowelling kick and came thundering towards me and the three women huddled beside me. It never crossed my mind that he had seen us. I knew that with his head encased in his massive steel helm, his vision was severely restricted. He could see solely what was directly ahead of him, and that imperfectly, his sight constrained by the slits in his visor, and this close to me and my three charges, thundering directly towards us, he was no more than a blind and lethal juggernaut. His enormous warhorse, though, trained to kick down and kill any assailants in its path, was Death incarnate.
I started to crouch down, to cry to the women to get out of the creature’s way, but even as I did so I hesitated, appalled by the lumbering spectacle of the beast’s approach, and so I merely crouched there, wide-eyed with terror and unable to move, watching death come towards us.
But then an arrow struck squarely in the centre of the knight’s breastplate with a clean, violently metallic clang.
Bodkin
, I thought. The bodkin was a war arrow with a solid, cylindrical head that tapered to a point, and it was designed to pierce plate armour. That they seldom did nowadays was due, I knew, to their being deflected more often than not by the newer, harder steel being forged by smiths today. Sure enough, in less time than it took for its impact to register in my awareness, the missile had vanished, spinning off into the distance. Nonetheless, the mounted man felt the full brunt of the impact and reeled in his saddle, almost unhorsed by the savage weight of the strike. He threw both arms up, fighting against the thrust of the missile’s impetus, and his shield went whirling away, end over end, ripped from his grasp. His horse, too, went down on its haunches, driven backward by its rider’s rapidly shifting weight. The horse quickly regained its balance and heaved itself back up onto all fours with a triumphant scream, and precisely at the moment when it looked as though the knight had won and would wrest back control of his animal, a second arrow struck, entering one of the slits in the rider’s visor and piercing his skull, killing him instantly and hurling him out of the saddle.
I stood stunned, weaving in shock. Someone grasped me by the shoulder and pressed me down towards the ground, and I sank gratefully to sit beside the women, my legs shaking. The man standing above me, his hand still on my shoulder, was an archer called Jinkin’ Geordie, so named because of an affliction that rendered him incapable of remaining still for any length of time without twitching. Even as I looked up at him, he twitched nervously. But it was plainly true, as I had heard before, that his affliction failed to affect his prowess in a fight.