The Path to the Throne Page 5

  Although his father’s military service for the year was almost up, he decided that an opportunity to visit London was too good to miss.

  ‘As you know, the Guardians have agreed in principle to betroth Queen Margaret to the Prince of Wales,’ his father began. At first William couldn’t work out who he was talking about, then he realised that a marriage between the four year-old Maid of Norway and the three-year-old son King Edward of England was being proposed. ‘James Stewart is one of the two Guardians being sent to London to negotiate the terms of the betrothal and he has asked me to be one of his escort,’

  ‘But your service for this year is nearly up,’ William objected. He realised suddenly that subconsciously he had been looking forward to seeing Mary again and, hopefully, putting into practice some of the new techniques for arousal that he had learned from the whores in the stews of Edinburgh.

  ‘Yes, but the bailie can look after the estate well enough and I won’t have to serve next year if I do an extra forty days this year. It’s our one chance to see London, William,’ his father said in the tone that William knew meant that he wasn’t prepared to discuss it further. The mention of the bailie made William think of the man’s daughter, Mary. He sighed; he would have to wait even longer now to find out if she had forgiven him.

  A few days later James Stewart, the High Steward, and Robert Wishart, Bishop of Glasgow, set off for London with their escort and train of servants, clerics and scribes. The journey was uneventful, apart from the heavy rain which characterised most of days spent travelling from York to St. Albans. William was worried as his father had contracted an ague which he didn’t seem to be able to shake off. Eventually London appeared before them as they crested the last row of hills before they descended into the valley of the River Thames.

  Whilst the senior members of the Scottish delegation were lodged in guest chambers in the Tower of London, the rest had to find their own accommodation. Because his father was still suffering from shivering fits and could scarcely stay on his horse, William led him to the Cistercian Abbey of St. Mary of Grace just north of the Tower. Here the monks took him straight to the infirmary and allowed William to stay in the guest dormitory. The boy was too worried about his father to explore the delights of the capital city of England but, instead, helped the lay monks with their daily tasks.

  He had never lived in an Abbey before, although he had occasionally stayed in one overnight as a traveller, and he very quickly tired of the routine, especially rising three times during the night for prayers. He was therefore relieved for a variety of reasons when he father started to recover and they could move to a nearby tavern. This one was more expensive than the one in Edinburgh despite the fact that it was infested with both rats and bedbugs. After two nights of this William set off with another squire staying at the tavern, a seventeen year old Scot called Euan, to find better lodgings.

  They eventually found a basic but clean room for rent in the attic of a merchant in Cheapside and were walking back to let their masters know the good news when they turned out of an alley straight into the path of a palfrey being ridden by a portly knight. The horse was skittish and shied away from the two boys. The knight, who was obviously a poor rider, lost control of it and fell out of the saddle. William and Euan rushed to help the unfortunate man to his feet but, when they had done so, the knight struck William across the face with his riding whip.

  ‘Don’t you dare touch me, you ignorant peasant,’ he roared at them, attempting to strike Euan as well, but the youth ducked and the whip struck William on the arm as he raised it to protect his face, which was already streaming blood from the deep cut across his cheek.

  By now the Knight’s squire had calmed the palfrey and a third man, a serjeant, had dismounted and approached the two boys, drawing his sword as he did so.

  ‘Are you alright, Sir William?’

  ‘No, I’m not. Arrest these knaves for assaulting me.’

  ‘We’ve done nothing wrong. It’s not our fault that you’re such a poor rider you can’t control your horse,’ Euan spat out in indignation.

  The furious knight pulled out his own sword and thrust it into Euan’s stomach.

  ‘Bloody Scots; I might have known. Well, there’s two less of you scum now.’

  With that he pulled his blood-soaked sword out of the dying squire and attempted to thrust it into William Wallace. The serjeant was so taken aback he just stood there for a second or two. William was much quicker to react. He side-stepped the sword thrust and, pulling out his dagger, he stabbed the knight in the biceps, causing him to drop his sword. By the time that the serjeant had recovered his wits, William had darted back up the alley and disappeared.

  Later that day the story was all around London, except that in this version of events Sir William Heselrig had been attacked by two Scots youths, dragged from his horse and wounded in a botched attempt to kill him. He had fought them off and killed one but the other had got away with just a cut across the face. A hue and cry had now been raised for him.

  Sir Alan Wallace had gone to see the High Steward immediately and told him the true version of events. Euan’s knight had also been to see the Bishop of Glasgow, in whose entourage he was, to complain about the unjust slaying of his squire.

  Negotiations about the royal betrothal and the subsequent status of Scotland after the marriage, when the Prince of Wales would become King of Scots by right of his wife, were at a difficult stage and neither of the two Guardians were about to upset things for a sake of a couple of squires. An hour later William, his father and the Bishop’s knight were making their way back up the road north. All three were relieved to have got through the city gates without being challenged but William Wallace had made a vow to himself that he would kill Haselrig in revenge for Euan’s murder if ever the opportunity presented itself.

  Chapter Three – The Competitors – 1290

  William had returned home something of a hero with the scar across his right cheek as testament to the incident. The twins whooped with joy to see him back and then stole his clothes when he stripped off to go and wash the dust of the journey off by swimming in the River Irvine that flowed through the glen. He got his own back by chasing them and then wading back into the river with one under each of his muscular arms. Although not yet fourteen, William was already as big as most boys four years older, and a lot stronger. It was probably the first bath the two young boys had had for years.

  Their struggles and screams of protest attracted quite a crowd. This was embarrassing for the twins, but even more so for William as he had omitted to gather up his clothes from where the boys had dropped them. He blushed even more when he spotted Mary in the crowd grinning at him. Eventually people dispersed and some kind soul, perhaps Mary, left his braies, hose and tunic on the river bank. Having fought so vigorously against their immersion in water, once they were wet the twins had a great time splashing each other and William and then trying to duck each other.

  The next four years passed uneventfully, apart from several exciting trips to the woods with Mary when she said it was safe to do so - neither of them wanted the complications that a baby would bring. The twins stopped being mischievous little boys as they grew older and William started to take them hunting. Apart from teaching them how to use a bow, William also started their military training using short swords he had bought especially for them. Then two things happened which were to change his life for ever.

  The seven year-old Margaret, Queen of Scots, arrived on the Orkney Islands in early September 1290. The intention was for her to sail from there down the East Coast to Leith, the port for Edinburgh; but the Maid of Norway never left the Orkneys, dying there on twenty-sixth of September. Her body was taken back to Bergen in Norway, where she was buried in the cathedral beside her mother. She had never even set foot on Scottish soil as the Orkneys belonged to Norway at the time.

  The news reached Ellerslie in late November when a messenger arrived for Sir Alan from James Stewart. The mess
enger was a serjeant from Renfrew and, as he had arrived as the sun was setting, he decided to sleep in the hall and continue in the morning. No-one knew what would happen now but he told Sir Alan and his son that the struggle for the vacant throne had already started. His master, the High Steward, was firmly in the camp of Robert de Brus of Annandale but others were backing John Balliol, Lord of Galloway in Scotland and Baron of Barnard Castle in England. The man had heard that there were other candidates putting themselves forward as well, including the Count of Holland and several descendants of the various bastards sired by King William the Lion, grandfather of Alexander III.

  The other news he brought was that Robert Bruce, grandson of the Lord of Annandale, was to be knighted by his grandfather, even though he was still only sixteen. William was initially incredulous as squires were not normally granted the accolade until they became adults at the age of twenty-one. Then, when he accepted what the serjeant had said was true, he was irate. He remembered the boy who had come to Ellerslie four years ago. William had thought that he was too young to be a squire then. Now he was a knight five years before the normal age. Had he tried to analyse the reason for his anger he might have realised that he was jealous.

  ~#~

  When his father had sent for him Robert had left Renfrew wondering why he had been summoned back to Turnberry. He had expected to be Sir Andrew’s squire for another four years or more.

  ‘With the Maid dead there will be difficult times ahead for us and for Scotland,’ his father had told him. ‘It’s time you got used to the role you will play from now on. Being a squire is good training for knighthood but you are destined for much greater things, Robert,’ his father told him.

  The night before he was due to receive the accolade he bathed and dressed in a simple white linen robe ready for his vigil alone in the castle chapel. As he was making his way over there his grandfather arrived with a small escort. The old man was now eighty and the journey from Lochmaben had obviously taken its toll on him. He looked weary and in pain. Once Robert had greeted him dutifully and his grandfather had been escorted into the keep by his mother and father, he turned to resume his walk over to the chapel, but his way was blocked.

  A boy who looked to be about twelve or thirteen stood in front of him grinning at him so widely that it looked as if his face would split in half. At first, although the face looked vaguely familiar, he couldn’t place him then, with a start, he recognised Gavin Stewart, the boy he had befriended at Lochmaben when they were both pages.

  ‘Gavin, what are you doing here? By God’s teeth it’s good to see you again.’

  ‘You didn’t recognise me at first did you, Rob? But I suppose I’ve changed rather more over the past four and half years than you have. I knew you straight away, though the simple white shift and the knowledge that you were to receive the accolade tomorrow was a bit of a giveaway.’

  The two smiled at one another then Robert repeated his question.

  Gavin seemed nervous for a moment, looking at his feet. Then he looked Robert in the eye and asked him if he had selected a squire yet.

  ‘A Squire? Why no. I haven’t got used to the idea of being made a knight yet. It came as a bit of a shock, if the truth be known. Though I suppose I will need one, won’t I?’ Then the reason for Gavin’s question struck him. ‘You mean you?’ A smile slowly spread over Robert’s face. ‘I can’t think of anyone better.’

  ‘That’s good because your grandfather had already asked me. That’s why he brought me with him, as well as my few possessions. But I can go back to Lochmaben with him if you’d rather have an older, more experienced youth.’

  ‘Huh, it’s going to be difficult enough being the youngest knight amongst my fellows by many years without having a squire the same age as me. In any case, it will be good to have a friendly face around in these uncertain times. Now I must get over to the chapel and recite my knightly vows to the chaplain.’

  Gavin stepped aside saying as Robert walked past him ‘You’re going to be very cold in there at this time of year dressed like that.’

  ‘I suspect that’s the whole idea. I’ll see you tomorrow if I haven’t frozen to death,’ Robert called over his shoulder.

  The next day was wet and miserable as Robert made his way up to the great hall dressed in chain mail from head to foot. His surcoat was mainly yellow with red shoulders and a red saltire across both his chest and his back. He bore the same coat of arms as his father and grandfather but, to distinguish him from the others, a red lion rampant had been embroidered as a charge above the saltire. It escaped nobody’s notice that the red lion rampant on yellow had been the heraldic shield of the Scottish kings since the time of William the Lion.

  His grandfather, father and Gavin Stewart stood waiting for him in the centre of the hall whilst the place was packed with those who had come to see the ceremony and enjoy the feast afterwards. Robert walked forwards and stopped a foot in front of his grandfather.

  ‘The chaplain says you know your vows, Robert.’ He struck his grandson across the face with a leather gauntlet. ‘That’s to make sure you remember them.’ Then he kissed the youth on his right cheek. ‘Be thou a good and faithful knight,’ he added before stepping back.

  Gavin handed the Earl of Carrick a sword in a scabbard covered in red leather and suspended from a red stained leather belt embossed with gold studs. His father belted the sword round his son’s waist then told him that, as his sponsor, he would also present him with a destrier and a courser as his two war horses as well as a rouncey for his squire to ride. Gavin, who was wearing a black gambeson with a badge showing Sir Robert’s new shield sewn on the left breast, now knelt and strapped a pair of gold spurs to his chainmail clad heels. As he straightened up Robert took a dagger with a red velvet handle and a black leather covered sheath from a page and presented it to Gavin to mark his elevation.

  As everyone applauded, Robert left the great hall, attended by Gavin, to change into something more comfortable whilst the hall was prepared for the feast.

  ‘Thank the Lord that’s over,’ Robert muttered as Gavin closed the door of the bedchamber behind them. ‘Now help me out of this damned uncomfortable armour.’

  ‘Yes, Sir Robert, of course, Sir Robert,’ Gavin replied with a smirk, which quickly faded at the bleak and unfriendly look that his new master gave him.

  ‘We aren’t pages anymore, Gavin. If you’re going to remain as my squire then you need to adopt a more professional and deferential attitude. No, deferential is not the word I want, dammit. What I mean is, I hope that we can remain friends but there is a line you mustn’t cross, and never mock me. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Robert. Of course; I apologise. I wasn’t mocking you. I was stupid but I was just so glad that my part in the ceremony went off without my dropping the sword or your spurs.’

  ‘I understand. I’m relieved it’s over as well.’ He smiled. ‘Now help me out of this armour.’

  The newly knighted Sir Robert Bruce sat in the council chamber at Turnberry Castle with his parents, his grandfather and their senior vassals and allies. These included James Stewart, Domhall mac Uilleim, Earl of Mar, and Robert Wishart, Bishop of Glasgow.

  ‘It seems a straightforward matter to me,’ Robert’s grandfather was saying. ‘Alexander II named me as his heir before his son was born and now that both that son and his only surviving descendent, the poor wee Maid of Norway, are dead surely King Alexander’s will must come into force?’

  The High Steward shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Unfortunately some of my fellow Guardians don’t see it that way.’ He glanced across at Robert Wishart, who was also one of the four Guardians.

  Wishart cleared his throat noisily. ‘Neither William Fraser nor John Comyn are prepared to back your claim to the throne, my lord. They favour John Balliol. Although Alexander’s nomination and the laws of tanistry support your claim, they are saying that tanistry no longer applies and it is now the law of primogeniture that must be use
d. Although you are nearer to King David, by one generation, Balliol’s claim is senior to yours as his descent from King David’s grandfather, David, Earl of Huntingdon, is through his eldest daughter Margaret whilst yours is through the middle daughter Isobel. That’s their position anyhow,’ his voice trailed away to a mumble as Robert de Brus of Annandale glared at him.

  ‘Comyn’s mother, Eleanor, is Balliol’s sister so he is hardly unbiased,’ James Stewart pointed out, referring to John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch, known as the Red Comyn.

  ‘As the Guardians are evenly split in their support, which of the earls can we count on and who will support Balliol?’ the newly knighted Robert Bruce spoke for the first time. He had opted to drop the Norman de Brus in favour of a more Scots friendly equivalent when he was knighted.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s relevant at the moment. Your question implies an armed struggle for the crown and we need to avoid that at all costs; it would tear the country apart.’ The bishop gave the young knight a hard stare. ‘We need to find a way to decide the issue without bloodshed.’

  ‘And how do you suggest we do that?’ Robert of Annandale sneered. ‘Scotland is difficult enough to rule with a strong king like the late Alexander on the throne. No-one is going to sit down and debate this rationally; they’ve all got too much to lose if the wrong man gains the crown – us especially.’

  ‘What we need is a strong arbiter that no-one can gainsay,’ the bishop replied.

  ‘Like who? The Pope? With Fraser on Balliol’s side we all know where that would lead.’ Domhall of Mar spoke for the first time. William Fraser was Bishop of St. Andrews and, as such, the Primate of the Church in Scotland.

  ‘No, I was thinking of Edward Longshanks. He’s the one person who the nobles of Scotland will listen to, especially as many of them have estates in England as well.’