Виктория Холт - The Hammer of the Scots

Karlé laughed and said, ‘Then I shall come with you.’

This was not unusual. Often when he visited the woman Karlé would come. He would sit below and talk to the servant, and usually drink some of her home-brewed ale and perhaps eat a piece of bread and bacon.

So they rode towards the town, leaving their horses tethered in the woods. Quietly and swiftly they went to the woman’s house.

The door was open but they did not see anything strange in this. William presumed that expecting him she had left it ajar.

He pushed it open. They were surrounded. Karlé reached for his dagger but he was too late. He fell bleeding to the floor. Wallace was seized. They did not want to kill him.

Edward wanted him alive.

* * *

It was the complete humiliation to ride in the midst of Menteith’s men, his hands shackled – a prisoner.

Jack Short had betrayed them. He had been deceived by that simple ruse. He had always been careless. But the biggest traitor of all was Menteith. He should not rave against Jack Short who was of little account. Menteith was the criminal. He had betrayed Scotland. That was what was important. And Karlé – beloved Karlé – had died because he had insisted on coming with him.

He himself was the prisoner of mighty Edward, who would never let him go.

He fears me, thought Wallace exultantly. He fears me as he fears no other. He knows that he can never be safe in Scotland while I live.

So they brought him to London and he was lodged in a house in Fenchurch Street.

They did not leave him there long and soon there came the day when he was taken to Westminster Hall to answer the charges brought against him.

His trial was brief. He was judged a traitor to King Edward.

‘I have never been that,’ he said, ‘for I have never acknowledged him as my lord.’

He made a brave show. His strength, his vitality, his aura of greatness must impress all who saw him. But he was Edward’s prisoner and Edward was determined that he should never again raise an army against him.

There came the day of his sentence. His crimes were enumerated. Sedition, homicide, depredations, fires and felonies. He had attacked the King’s officers and slain Sir William Heselrig, Sheriff of Lanark. He had invaded the King’s territories of Cumberland and Westmorland.

‘Your sentence is that you shall be carried from Westminster to the Tower and from the Tower to Aldgate and so through the City to the Elms at Smithfield, and for your homicides and felonies in England and Scotland you shall be hanged and drawn and as an outlaw beheaded, and afterwards your heart, liver and lungs shall be burned and your head placed on London Bridge in sight of land and water travellers, and your quarters hung on gibbets at Newcastle, Berwick, Stirling and Perth to the terror of all those who pass by.’

William listened almost impassively. It was the death accorded traitors to the King and the King would say, ‘This man was to me one of the greatest traitors who ever lived.’

Edward would say he was just and in his own lights doubtless he was.

* * *

On the twenty-third day of August the barbarous sentence was carried out with revolting cruelty. Many gathered at the Elms in Smithfield to see it.

No cry escaped from William Wallace. He knew he was not defeated. He knew his fame would live on after him and be an inspiration to all those who cared for the freedom of Scotland.

Wallace was dead. None should guess how relieved Edward was. Because a traitor had met his just deserts there should be little said. Edward feared the spirit of Wallace for he knew the Scots would continue to sing of him; he would still be their hero. But he was dead and one did not fear the dead – however death glorified them – as one feared the living.

He would arrange for a tournament. There should be rejoicing. They would have a feast of the Round Table and the great chivalry of the land would be present. Any of those who might remember the gory sight they had witnessed at Smithfield would forget it as they joined the merry party at Westminster.

True the head of the hero looked down on them. But all must know that he was a traitor. In Scotland it would be different. He wondered what people thought in Newcastle, Berwick, Stirling and Perth where parts of the once-great Wallace were shown.

But he would not think of it. There was reason for rejoicing. Marguerite was pregnant again. He thanked God for his Queen. She was always so gentle, so sympathetic, so understanding. Last year her beautiful sister, that Blanche on whom he had set his heart, had died and he had commanded that prayers be said in Canterbury for her soul, because she was the sister of his dearly loved consort. How glad he was that fate had been kind and given him Marguerite. He might have been mourning for his Queen now if he had married Blanche.

The tournament delighted all who took part in it and in the following May Marguerite gave birth to another child.

This time it was a girl, and Edward declared himself delighted. They had their two boys and now he wanted a girl, and his dear kind obliging Marguerite had given her to him.

‘I have a boon to ask,’ he said as he sat by her bedside. ‘Will you grant it, little Queen?’

‘It is granted before it is asked,’ she answered.

‘It might not please you.’

‘If it pleases you, my lord, I am sure it will please me.’

How docile she was! How eager to make him happy! Oh happy day which had sent him Marguerite!

He said: ‘Should you mind if we called this child Eleanor?’

She hesitated and he thought, Ah, I have asked too much.

Then she said, ‘Would it not sadden you to remember …?’

He took her hand and kissed it. ‘How could I be sad when I have the best woman in the world?’

A quick prayer to Eleanor. He had not meant it to slight her, only to comfort this living Queen. He would have prayers said for Eleanor’s soul and flowers laid at the foot of all the crosses.

He said, ‘I loved well three, all Eleanors … my mother, my daughter and my queen. God took them all but he sent me my Marguerite who has given me nothing but joy since I first saw her face.’

That was enough for Marguerite.

Little Eleanor was baptised in the royal chapel of Winchester for the Court was there at this time. After the christening the baby, lying in her state cradle covered with ermine and a counterpane of gold, was shown to the nobles.

Edward was delighted with her. Dearly he loved his daughters. They all enchanted him. His little sons were adorable but in his heart it was the girls he loved best.

That set him thinking of his eldest son. He wondered how he and Eleanor could have had such a boy.

That brought back the nagging thought that very soon he would have to do something about Edward.

* * *

In the solarium in her manor of Clare in Gloucester Joanna was sitting with her women while one of her minstrels played for her amusement. She seemed deep in thought as he strummed on his lute and sang those songs which were special favourites of his mistress – usually of love and passion.

As she watched the boy desultorily she was wondering how he had fared at her brother’s Court whither she had sent him to play some of the newest lays. Edward had liked them and so had his great friend Piers Gaveston. In fact, Gaveston only had to like something and Edward was sure to like it too. He was rather foolish about that young man and Gaveston knew it. He was continually asking favours and being indulged.

The King did not like it and had spoken to her about it. Young Edward simply did not care. He himself would be King one day and Gaveston was constantly reminding him of it.

She shrugged her shoulders. Edward would be very different from his father. She was sure he would not want always to be riding off on these boring wars. Why could not a man be allowed to enjoy life? Why must they always be thinking of this conquest and that?

It was due to her father’s war that Ralph was away at this time. She was resentful, thinking of her handsome husband far away in the north, possibly in Scotland. Edward had said that if he was given the glories of knighthood he must honour them. She would join him, for she could not bear to be so long away from him. It was not right that they should be apart. She would be with him now but he had left in such haste on the King’s business and she had been rather surprised during the last few days by the lethargy which seemed to have come over her. She wanted to be with Ralph, God knew, but the thought of the journey appalled her. That was strange, for previously she had thought nothing of journeys. She would have gone to the Holy Land with her husband – as women had before – if the need had arisen. Yet for the last few days this tiredness had beset her.

Perhaps she was growing old at last. She was thirty-five. She was no longer very young. She had been reminded of that last year when her eldest daughter Eleanor had been married to Hugh le Despenser. Eleanor was only thirteen years old it was true, but to have a marriageable daughter made her feel she was really getting old.

It was a sweet song the minstrel was singing. It took her back over the years. She had first heard it when she had been Gilbert’s wife. She was smiling. How enamoured he had been of her, that old man! There had been nothing he would not do for her, and how glad she had been when he had gone and there was Ralph …

‘We shall marry,’ she murmured. ‘I care not what my father should say …’

She was back in the past … the excitement of those days … her determination to defy the King … the first moments of passion with the man she had wanted so fiercely … Blissful, invigorating, stimulating, entrancing … all she had ever dreamed of.

‘Ralph,’ she whispered, ‘you should be here now … You should have defied him … refused to leave me …’

One of the women leaned towards her. ‘You spoke, my lady?’

She did not hear. She did not see the woman. She had slipped forward in her chair, for the scene about her had faded suddenly and she was descending into darkness.

‘My lady is ill,’ said the attendant, looking fearfully at the minstrels.

They dropped their lutes and ran to her. They lifted her head and looked into her strangely remote face.

One of the minstrels said in an awed voice, ‘My lady is dead.’

* * *

The King could not believe it. He was sick with grief. Joanna, his beautiful daughter … dead! But she was so full of life, the most lively of all his daughters. One never thought of death with Joanna.

He was so old; she was so young. His own daughter. And she had died as her sister Eleanor had died. They were too young to die. Some of the children had died and their deaths had not been unexpected. They had ailed from birth. But Joanna …

He was tired and weary and very, very sad.

He must write to the Bishop of London and tell him that his dear daughter Joanna had departed to God. There must be private masses and orisons for the soul of his daughter. He felt that Joanna would need some intercession in Heaven, for he suspected that she was scarcely free from sin. Nor had she been given the time to repent before she was taken.

He sent letters to every prelate in the kingdom.

‘Pray, pray,’ he commanded, ‘pray for my daughter Joanna.’

* * *

He roused himself from his grief. He felt sick and ill. He kept thinking how unnatural it was that Joanna should be dead and he live on.

It could not be long, could it, before he was called?

He looked into the future. Scotland was yet to be won. Who would have thought it would take so long? But Wallace was dead now. Could he complete the conquest before he died? And if he did could young Edward hold it? Oh God, why did You give me such a son? You gave me good daughters and my son … my eldest son – the only one of Eleanor’s to live – is unfit to wear the crown.

He must speak with him. He must imbue in him a sense of duty. Unworthy kings were a danger to themselves and the nation. Remember, oh remember my grandfather John. What misery he brought to England … and himself! And my father – my beloved father – he had not the gifts that make a king!