Insurrection: Renegade [02] (42 page)

Clifford’s voice cut through the moment. ‘Here!’

Humphrey and Robert urged their horses up a shallow bank towards the knight’s shout, closely followed by Valence. It had been growing dark while they were talking and the sun had set, the woods sinking into a purple dusk.

Clifford had dismounted on the edge of a large clearing. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing to a structure that thrust from the tangled undergrowth. ‘We must be close.’

Robert, sliding from his saddle, saw the skeletal frame of a siege engine between the trees. It looked abandoned, the lower beams strung with ivy, the timbers rotten and stippled with hoarfrost.

Behind them, the train of knights and squires pooled to a stop, men seizing the opportunity to relieve themselves, or flex their stiff muscles.

Clifford took the map from one of his knights. He looked from the crumpled parchment to the clearing. ‘See, here. I think this place is marked.’

Valence had come to stand beside him, barring the view of the map from Robert. He was nodding. ‘Three days from the river. Yes. You’re right.’

‘Sir!’

Several of Clifford’s knights had spread out into the clearing, their boots trailing lines through the snow. One had stopped and was motioning between the trees on the far side.

Clifford and Valence made their way towards him, Robert and Humphrey falling into step behind them. The knight, they soon saw, was pointing to something painted on a tree. In the encroaching shadows it was faint, but still apparent: a white circle with a cross inside. Robert’s heart sank as he recognised Wallace’s mark. There was another in the distance on the gnarled trunk of an oak.

Clifford smiled. ‘If the Scot was right, we’re no more than half a day’s march away.’

Less, thought Robert. Two or three hours at most.

‘I suggest we make camp here for the night,’ said Humphrey. ‘Then move in at dawn. It should give our scouts time to return with locations of any enemy patrols.’

Clifford nodded. ‘I agree.’

‘We’ll set up a perimeter of our own,’ added Humphrey, looking between them. ‘We don’t want the bastards coming on us unawares. This is their territory, remember.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Valence, his eyes on Robert. ‘My men will be watching.’

Robert headed back through the snow to where his men were waiting. As the voices of the commanders echoed, relaying orders, the knights dismounted. Any talk was subdued, the men wary now they were so close to the enemy.

Squires unpacked blankets and sheets of waxed canvas to lay on the ground, while others fed horses and fetched water from a nearby burn. In all the activity, no one took any notice of Robert talking quickly and quietly to Nes. When the young man unhooked a bucket from his saddle strap and headed into the trees, it was assumed he was going to fetch water with the others. Even Aymer de Valence, who saw him go, didn’t pay the young man, who was so beneath him he was scarcely worth notice, much attention. Night was soon upon them and the faces of the men huddled around the clearing faded to indistinct patches of pale. No one noticed one missing squire.

‘I will not do this.’

The voice of William Wallace rose over the crackle of flames. His face was illuminated by the campfire, the scars that carved his cheeks contoured by the flickering glow. His blue eyes raked the company of men who stood or sat around the clearing, the boundaries of which were defined by soaring pines, the cloud-like branches laden with snow. ‘How can any of you consider it?’

‘Have you not heard a word we have said, Sir William?’ said Ingram de Umfraville. He motioned to Lamberton, standing close by, the cowl of his black robe shadowing his face. Beside the bishop was James Douglas, eyes keen as he surveyed the men around him. ‘His grace heard the same words as me from the mouth of King Philippe. The king has chosen to make peace with Edward in order to concentrate on his Flemish war. Any hope we had of military or political support is gone. Balliol could no more hope to return from France and take the throne now, than he could rise from the dead. Surrender is our only chance for survival.’ Umfraville frowned at Lamberton, seeking support. ‘You agreed this, your grace, even before we knew the state of things here. Now, well . . .’ He shook his head. ‘It is futile to consider further resistance. Edward has all but won.’

‘With respect, you haven’t been here,’ answered Wallace. He turned his gaze on Lamberton. ‘Do you want to bow down before a tyrant, your grace?’

Lamberton’s eyes glinted in the firelight. ‘You know this is not what I wanted, my friend. But, I admit, I can no longer see a way through this disaster. The king does not want a protracted war in Scotland, any more than he wanted one in Wales or Gascony. I believe we may be able to convince him to offer us decent terms of surrender. That way, most men here might just come out of this with their lands and lives. The same cannot be said if we refuse to yield.’

‘Look at what King Edward has taken this past year,’ said Umfraville, nodding emphatically at Lamberton’s words. ‘He has hacked away at our army and our territories reducing us to this.’ He spread his gloved hands to take in the ragged company of men gathered in the glade. Beyond, through the trees, a few figures flitted between other fires, but the Forest encampment, once the home of thousands, was mostly quiet. ‘We have to admit defeat. Lay down our arms and pray the king will be generous.’

A few murmurs of agreement rose from the circle, the loudest from Robert Wishart, hunched on a rotten trunk, his huge frame mantled in furs. The Bishop of Glasgow, crippled by gout, had spent much of the year barricaded in his manor near Peebles. ‘Sir James Stewart isn’t here to add his voice, but I believe he would agree with the sentiment of my good brother,’ he said, nodding to Lamberton. ‘Do not forget, Sir Robert Bruce has become a trusted man of Edward’s. The Earl of Carrick may prove a useful bridge between our sides when negotiating terms.’

There was much murmuring at this suggestion, particularly from Gray, Neil Campbell and Simon Fraser. Alexander and Christopher Seton, standing with these men, remained silent at the mention of their former friend. Alexander’s face was grim. Beside him, Christopher stared into the flames.

Wallace fixed on John Comyn. ‘And you, Sir John, I would have thought, of all here, you would not go along with this. All your grand plans? Your determination to lead our army to victory? Do you now wish to yield?’

Comyn met Wallace’s gaze, his own eyes hooded from lack of sleep. Over the past few months living rough in the Forest his beard and hair had grown long and unkempt, making him look far older than his twenty-nine years. His skin had a sallow tinge in the firelight and his face was hollow from the meagre diet they had all been forced to subsist on. ‘I no more want to bow down before the English king than you do. To give up my guardianship?’ His brow knotted, the strain clear in his face. ‘To give up my hope of ever . . .?’ Comyn fell silent, then shook his head and turned away. ‘Edward’s campaign took everything. What point is there in being free if we cannot live the life we choose? Lochindorb Castle has been taken from me, my lands raided and burned. What do I fight for now?’ His eyes scanned the men around him, among them the Black Comyn and Edmund Comyn of Kilbride, John of Menteith and Dungal MacDouall. ‘What do any of us fight for without hope of victory?’

None of his comrades answered. All had been tested by the hardships of a winter in the Forest. Accustomed to feather beds and armies of servants, a diet of Bordeaux wine, venison and boar, they had been reduced to this frozen half-life, living hand to mouth on what their squires and footmen could scavenge, plagued by lice and fevers. All the while growing more frustrated as reports filtered in of their lands and castles falling to Edward’s forces, their cellars and coffers plundered, walls torn down, vassals captured and killed. None of them was born to be an outlaw.

‘We cannot hope to win,’ John of Menteith agreed. ‘Not after we lost so many men in Cumberland.’

Wallace’s eyes flashed with fury. ‘And whose fault was that?’

Menteith drew himself up in the face of Wallace’s accusation. ‘How dare—’

‘What was it you said when I told you we were in danger of becoming trapped in that town?’

Menteith flushed in the firelight. ‘I was not the only one!’

‘
Who will challenge us, pray tell?
’ Wallace continued, doing an uncanny mimicry of Menteith’s high-pitched, haughty tone that had Gray and others smirking. ‘You thought of nothing but lining your own purse. Your greed cost us the lives of those men. All of you,’ he snarled at Comyn and the other nobles. ‘You cost us this war, damn you to hell!’

‘I will not stand trial by this brigand!’ shouted Menteith, but his voice was drowned by others.

‘By God, you insolent cur,’ the Black Comyn growled at Wallace, wrenching his sword from its scabbard.

Dungal MacDouall did the same, although the movement was awkward for the captain, his right arm not fully healed from the injury Robert Bruce had inflicted upon him. That was nothing compared to what had happened to his left hand. Delirious with pain and blood loss, he’d been pulled out of the burning town alive, only to face the removal of his half-severed hand. One of the Disinherited had done it, while four others pinned him down. MacDouall had felt both the severing of the limb and the fire as they cauterised his flesh, before slipping into unconsciousness. Now, all that remained was a livid stump swaddled in dirty linen, and a fading ghost of sensation.

Gray and Neil Campbell moved swiftly to counter, pulling free their own weapons. Lamberton and Wishart were shouting to make themselves heard, but no one was listening.

It was James Douglas who first saw the figures emerging from the darkness beyond the campfire. Two patrolmen, dressed in the customary green and brown of Wallace’s infantry, were leading a third man between them. His face was covered with a hood and he was stumbling blindly in their grip, his hose and tunic soaked with snow. Another two foot soldiers followed, scrabbling through the undergrowth, dirks in their hands.

‘Your grace,’ said James, catching Lamberton’s attention.

Lamberton’s eyes narrowed as he caught sight of them. The rest of the company were still arguing over one another. Gray and MacDouall were up in one another’s faces, weapons hefted, spittle flying as they snarled threats. Any moment, it would come to blows. ‘Silence, all of you!’ roared Lamberton.

‘Sir William,’ called one of the patrolmen. ‘We caught this spy trying to enter our camp. He says he has a message for you, from the Earl of Carrick.’

Wallace pushed through Gray and MacDouall to see the captive better. ‘Who is he?’

One of the men removed the prisoner’s hood. The young man whose face was revealed stood blinking in disorientation at the crowd of people staring at him. His cheeks were scratched from branches and briars, his skin chapped with cold.

‘Nes!’ exclaimed Christopher Seton.

‘You know him?’ Wallace asked the Yorkshireman, not taking his eyes off the captive.

‘He’s Sir Robert’s squire,’ answered Christopher, unable to disguise his pleasure at seeing the young man.

Alexander was frowning. John Comyn had moved forward and was looking at Nes in a mixture of dislike and fear.

‘What message?’ Wallace demanded.

‘The English are less than three miles north-east of here. They will be coming for you at dawn.’

Wallace raised a hand to silence the host of voices that erupted. ‘Sir Robert sent you?’

Nes nodded. ‘My master is with the English, but he ordered me to warn you.’ He faltered under Wallace’s hostile gaze, then steeled himself and added, ‘He takes a great risk in doing so.’

‘How large is the force?’

‘Around three hundred on light horses led by Aymer de Valence, Robert Clifford and Humphrey de Bohun.’

There was another outburst at the names of these feted commanders, all well known by the Scots. James Douglas stiffened at the mention of Clifford, the man who had taken his lands.

‘They plan to destroy the camp,’ finished Nes, ‘and take the leaders of the rebellion alive.’

‘Why would Sir Robert warn us?’ Lamberton wanted to know.

‘It could be a trap,’ ventured Neil Campbell.

‘I cannot say, your grace,’ answered Nes.

‘Cannot or will not?’ burst out Alexander Seton. ‘Christ, Nes! Speak! What is the truth here?’

Nes wiped sweat from his forehead with his arm. ‘Please, Alexander, do not ask me what I cannot tell you. Just know this is no lie.’

‘Take him away while I consider this,’ Wallace ordered his men.

Nes’s eyes lingered on Christopher and Alexander Seton, as if he wanted to say something more. Then the hood was pulled over his head and he was marched off by the patrolmen. Wallace waited until they were out of earshot, before turning to the others. ‘We can use this to our advantage. We—’

‘We move out,’ John Comyn cut across him.

Wallace turned on him. ‘What?’

‘I will not be hauled before Edward in chains. I’ll go to the bastard of my own free will if that is my only choice. If we surrender, we may win back our lands,’ he added to his comrades.

‘We know the English are coming, you fools!’ roared Wallace, beside himself at the thought of surrender to the men who had taken so much from him – his home, his father, his wife and daughter. ‘We can make a stand here! Set an ambush!’