Braveheart (28 page)

The French stalled. The royal court studied and debated. By that time Wallace had been defeated at Falkirk, and Philip’s advisors felt vindicated in their caution. Now here he was, in France, presenting himself, requesting an audience with the king himself.

“He just arrives, asking for an audience?” Philip asked Deroux. It was considered a breach of protocol for anyone, no matter how prominent, to request a royal audience simply by arriving; one was expected to make arrangements through carefully worked out channels.

“Yes sire.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Since this morning.” Philip then understood the delay. Deroux didn’t want to grant the audience and didn’t want to deny it either. It was clear he even doubted for a time whether the visitor was in fact the legendary Scotsman. The king saw other advisors, men he had already dismissed for the day, filtering back into the room; Deroux must have solicited their advice and they wanted to see the outcome.

“Send him in,” Philip ordered.

Deroux waved to the guard at the door, and he admitted William Wallace. King Philip saw immediately the reason for Deroux’s reluctance and the evidence of how wrong he had been to doubt this man was who he claimed to be. The warrior before them was ragged and scarred. His clothes were plain. If not for his stature, the obvious power in his arms, the breadth of his shoulders, and the handsomeness of his face, scarred though it was, he would have passed for a simple commoner. But she could not conceal the force within him; it was in his posture, his stride; he was a man who would yield to nothing. His facial expression was frightening in that it looked dead. But his eyes were not. They burned. The man nodded to the king – no bow, just a simple tilt of his head.

“Sir William,” the king acknowledged.

“Thank you for receiving me” Wallace said in decent though heavily accented French.

He stood there in a long awkward silence, the king and two dozen of his richly attired gentlemen of the court all gazing at the warrior with the wild hair and the wilder eyes. And then the king surprised everyone, “ It looks like a fine evening,” he said, glancing out toward his gardens. “Come and walk with me.”

They moved along the raked gravel of the garden, surrounded by high manicured hedges. The flower beds were barren, spaded up and lying fallow for the plantings, and yet it was a calming place, all quiet and serene. Wallace took long slow steps, his gaze lowered, this thoughts seemingly distant. The king studied him as they walked. “You seek asylum,” Philip supposed.

“No,” Wallace said. “I did not come to hide. I came to fight.

Several of the royal advisors, among them Deroux, were trailing along behind. They pretended to be enjoying the stroll but were straining to catch every word, and now they looked all around at each other.

They had come to a stone bench. The king stopped and motioned for Wallace to take a seat beside him. This caused some confusion among the advisors, who had to stop ten paces and pretend they were keenly interested in patterns of the gravel walkway. The king smiled and said to Wallace, “You know there is a price on your head. Well, of course, you do. But I heard that with interest, for it proved you were real and not just a fanciful concoction of your countrymen. Longshanks would not offer money for a phantom. You can, I hope, understand the doubts we had about you. We heard such takes here. That you had killed a hundred men with your own sword at Stirling. That you had the English commander flayed and his hide turned into a belt three feet long….” The king shook his dead and shrugged.

“That was a lie, “ Wallace said. “It was four feet long.”

The king burst out laughing. Wallace smiled himself – and to the king the Scot’s face seemed surprised at what it was doing, as if the feeling of a smile was unfamiliar.

“Where have you been, Sir William?” the king asked. “Hiding?”

Wallace nodded. “But not from them. Let my enemies find me. Let them come on ---anywhere, everywhere, I am ready. But yes, I have been hiding. From myself.”

“There is no need to confer. Monsieur Deroux. Arrange lodgings for our visitor. Provide him with money. No,” he added quickly, for he saw Wallace glower, “not as a mercenary, but to secure proper food, rest, and weapons, for my generals should be at their best to do their best.”

“Your … general, sire?”

“You heard me, Deroux,” said Philip the Fair.

51

Paris in the year 1300 was already a great city, a place of trade and knowledge, an object of pride to the French, a people never considered to be lacking in their opinion of themselves or their sensitivity to the opinion of others about them. Their city possessed large inns serving fine food, and it was in the best of these that William Wallace was found that night, sitting alone in a corner by the fire, dining upon a joint of roasted meat presented by the inn’s owner who took special pains to provide for this guest in the knowledge that he was extending the hospitality of the king himself.

No one within the inn knew the identity of the visitor; they knew he was a Scot by his accent, and it was apparent from his stature and the scars visible upon his face and hands that he must be a warrior. Many other Scots had some across to serve as mercenaries; it was assumed by the other men eating and drinking at the inn that night that his man must be a mercenary himself – and one of extreme proficiency if the king was seeing to his keep. So the innkeeper’s other patrons – aristocrats all, for this was one of Paris’s finest establishments – kept their distance and watched with a mixture of curiosity and vague suspicion as the strange visitor sat silently in his corner, chewing his supper and staring into the flames of the fire.

The subdued atmosphere of the inn’s tavern room was instantly dispelled by Claude’de Bouchard, whose voice flew through the door several moments before his body did. “Where is he?” he shouted, already drunk. “Is he hiding? Let me look at him!” Bouchard stomped in, his boot heels heavy upon the plank floor, and everyone, except Wallace, turned to look at him. Bouchard was a tall, slender man with the prominent, straight nose of Gallic nobility and luxurious black hair falling in curls to his shoulders. He was a nephew of the king and wore the rich blue sash belt that designated him as a general in the king’s army. Everyone knew him and on one cared for him, but all tried to show him deference; the king had a great may relatives, but no one thought it is a good idea to offend any of them.

Bouchard was frequently loud and drunk, and this night he was exceptionally so. “A general they tell me!” he bellowed. “Ha! Someone who will give us advice? Is that his purpose? Where is ---“.

Then his reddened eyes fell upon Wallace, who still had not looked up at him. Bouchard seemed to find something in Wallace’s presence or appearance to be terribly amusing. He began to laugh and glance around at the others as if to see if everyone else got the joke. “This?” he chuckles. “This is someone who will teach the men of France how to do battle?”

“
Please Claude…..” one of the other aristocrats said quietly, moving to Bouchard and placing a hand on his shoulder. “The kin----“

Bouchard threw the man’s hand off. “The kind invites him to join us, yes I know!” He staggered to Wallace’s table and bumped into it before he could stop himself. “Are you the man?” he demanded.

Still Wallace did not look at him.

The aristocrat who had attempted to head Bouchard off now tried once again, laughing and saying, “Come Claude, you are drunk, so drink with us some more.”

“
I am not drunk!” Bouchard screamed. Wallace’s refusal to acknowledge him was making him ever more furious. “Look at me! Look at me!”

Wallace lifted his eyes. It should have frightened Bouchard; it frightened everyone else in the room. But Bouchard only made a face, pursing his lips and blowing out his cheeks in a look of mock ferocity. “So you are William Wallace!” the Frenchman bellowed. “The military genius! The one who is so smart he gets his entire army slaughtered! Yes, yes, you have much to teach us!”

Slowly, Wallace looked down again at his food.

“
Don’t look away from me! I am a true general of France!” This statement might have found several to dispute it, solely among those present; the presence of the king’s relatives, along with the sons, nephews, and cousins of France’s other noble families, among the army’s leadership had not helped then drive the English from their territory. Generals like Bouchard were present at banquets and not on battlefields. “Do you hear me! I command you to look!” He snatched Wallace’s shoulder with one hand and with he other withdrew the jeweled dagger he carried in the blue sash at this waist. He thrust the blade against Wallace’s throat. “You insolent common bastard. You think you can ignore me? I will teach you to fight! I will---“

Those were his last words.

52

PHILIP THE FAIR WAS UNABLE TO KEEP HIS MIND ON WHAT HIS ADVISORS WERE SAYING. He had tried to listen; for days and days he had tried. But now there was just so much droning on and on. Every day he would say to them, “What should I do with William Wallace?” and every day the talk would begin, so that he no longer heard individual words or arguments or could remember which side of the issue anyone took, since all of them seemed to take both sides all the time.

Whenever they moved on the other business of the kingdom, Philip kept thinking about Wallace locked away in his prison for the killing of a royal relative. And even Philip could not think clearly anymore.

Today it became too much for him. In the middle of a discussion about building roads—at least that had been the topic when the king last heard what his advisors were saying—he stood abruptly, walked to the center of the room and ordered everyone out. “Go. Now. All of you!” he said loudly and forcefully. “Yes, yes, everyone!” All of you out!” After a brief moment of surprise, for their king never behaved rashly, the advisors obeyed quickly, streaming toward the door. Herding them like a sheep dog chasing the flock into its pen, the king drove them on with “Leave me alone! I am not to be disturbed! Shut the door!”

And with the closing of the door, and its heavy wooden sound echoing through the royal audience chamber, the king found himself in blessed solitude.

He did not know what to do next; it was so seldom that he found himself all alone. He was uncomfortable standing there in the center of the great room, with no one telling him what to do next. So he began to pace from door to window and back again. At first he thought of nothing, just listened to the sound of his heels upon the polished stone floor; then he began to turn the problem over in his head: what must he do with William Wallace.

Then he heard the door opening. Philip was pacing toward the window when he heard the latch clattering and he could scarcely believe the sound. His normally even temperament began to erupt; he whirled and had already started shouting, “What is this? Did you not understand—“ when he saw her. “Isabella!”

“
Greetings to you, great king!” The Princess of Wales, Philip of France’s niece, sank in a respectful curtsey, but her face was radiant, and the king himself was glowing with the unexpected joy of seeing her. He hurried to her, seized her hands, pulled her up, and kissed her cheeks.

“
I had no idea you were coming!” he said, searching his scattered thoughts for the possibility that his aides could have mentioned such a thing, and he had failed to not it, as if that were possible.

“
Nor did I, “ Isabella said.

“
But how…?

“
I came without sending word. Since France is my county, too, and I have my own French guards to escort me, it didn’t seem necessary. The only trouble I had was getting through this last door. You have some gentlemen out here who seemed to think that entry was quite impossible.”

The king threw back his head and laughed. “Impossible for everyone but you!” He loved this beautiful young woman who stood before him, the daughter of his youth. He had reared her in the customary way, with nursemaids and tutors and all the traditional remoteness of king to female child. But she had always stirred up in him feelings that had made painful her betrothal and marriage to a foreign prince. The sight of her now brought back memories of summer days in the country when no court counselors rained schemes and questions and advice upon his head, and he had time to watch lovely girls become women right before his eyes, strolling across flowered lawns and in and out of the shade when the young aristocrats of France visited one estate after another with no other purpose than to enjoy life and get to know their peers. Isabella had made him proud even then. She was never intimidated by him or anyone else; if she wished to speak, she spoke; if she wished to dance, she danced; if she wished to ride, she rode; and it was that spirit that made her more than beautiful and made him proud.

And look at her now! She had been traveling for days, and he could see that she was tired, but her eyes were keen, she was full of purpose.

“
We’ll have food, wine,” he said and started toward the door to call his servants.