Then a new voice broke in. “Him? That can’t be William Wallace! I’m prettier than this man!”
They all looked at a slender, handsome young speaker, who spoke with the lilt of Ireland. He seemed to be talking not to any of them but to himself. The Irishman paused for a moment, frowned as if hearing instructions he could scarcely believe, and then burst forth again as if in reluctant compliance: “All right, Father, I’ll ask him!” The Irishman stared suddenly at William and demanded, “If I risk my neck for you, will I get a chance to kill Englishmen?”
“Is your poppa a ghost, or do you converse with God Almighty?” Hamish asked scowling.
“In order to find his equal, an Irishman is forced to talk to God!” the newcomer declared. Then, apparently hearing more instructions unperceived by everyone else, he shouted, “Yes Father!” Turning back to William, he announced, “The Almighty says don’t change the subject, just answer the fookin’ question.”
“Insane Irish –“ Campbell said.
The newcomer whipped a dagger from his sleeve, and with a speed that surprised everyone, he put the blade against Campbell’s throat. “Smart enough to get a dagger past your guards old man,” the Irishman said. But then he froze as he felt the steel of a broadsword against his own neck. Not daring to twitch, for the edge of the sword was already biting into his flesh and the sword had slipped from it’s scabbard with such speed it was frightening, the Irishman’s eyes traced the steel into the hard, hungry hand of William Wallace. Behind the sword’s hilt, Wallace was smiling.
“That’s my friend, Irishman!” Wallace said. “And the answer’s yes. You fight fro me, you kill the English.”
“Excellent!” the Irishman said, lifting his dagger away from old Campbell’s throat and stepping back from him. “Stephen is my name. I’m the most wanted man on Emerald Isle. Except I’m not on the Emerald Isle, of course, more’s the pity.”
“A common thief,” Hamish said in disgust.
“A patriot!” Stephen protested.
“Give me your dagger,” Wallace said and stretched his hand out for it. The Irishman stared back at him.
“Now.”
The Irishman shrugged and handed the blade over, handle first. Wallace shook his head and moved back to the fire. “When you prove you can last through the cold and the hunger and the lack of sleep, we’ll give you a chance to prove you can fight as well as you talk,” he said, and the sentries took the newcomers to find their own spaces.
27
A COLUMN OF ENGLISH LIGHT CAVALRY — A HUNDRED riders — moved in ordered formation across a field of bluebells, lush in the Scottish summer. At the head of the column was English Lord Dolecroft, and as he rode, he twisted in his saddle to admire the precision he had maintained among his men. For three cool wet months they had pursued William Wallace and his band of rebels through the counties between Edinburgh and Glasgow. They had felt themselves so close to their enemy, they had found fires still smoldering. Only a week before they had come upon a campsight so hastily abandoned that they discovered meat cooked but uneaten and knew, here in this hungry land, just how close that meant they had come. But they had never seen their prey. Still his men maintained their discipline; they kept their horses healthy, their weapons sharp; they did not straggle. Dolecroft knew that sooner or later this would pay off. It had to.
Just as he had this thought, the scout at the head of his column gave a low whistle, and Dolecroft spun back to see five Scots trudge out of the forest up ahead. Even at that distance Dolecroft could see they were exhausted men. They walked on wobbly legs, clearly weakened from hunger; they hadn’t even lifted their eyes to see the English column. Even so, they were in a formation of their own, a huge redheaded brute at the center of a V formation, as if they were the vanguard of a larger band. Dolecroft stared, scarcely able to breathe. It was as if he could halt his men right there on the road, and the spent Scottish outlaws would march right onto the points of the English spears.
Then the Scots saw them; the big redhead staggered, spun round, snatched at the men on either side of him, and virtually hurled them back toward the forest from which they’d come. The startled Scots ran like frightened deer, and Dolecroft know instantly that they had just made their second blunder — this one fatal –for in tier surprise they were leading him straight back to their main band, possibly even to Wallace himself!
The scout was waving wildly, but it was unnecessary; every rider in the column had seen the Scots already. “After them!” Dolecroft shouted and spurred his horse.
Hamish and his men –for it was Hamish that Dolecroft had seen — changed direction, but the English scout spotted them crossing a hilltop and led the column after them.
Scrambling over rocks, tripping and falling, tumbling downhill and clawing their way up again, the emaciated Scots ran for their lives. The English horsemen galloped in pursuit, closing the gap quickly. The Scots changed direction onto rockier ground. Dolecroft shouted the order, “Patience! Mind the footing!” and his experienced rides slowed their pace so their horses could handle the harder footing without danger and still drew nearer their prey.
Hamish now made his final blunder, leading his men in panic across an open field surrounded by low hills. The Scots were boxed in; there was no escape. Dolecroft felt a passing pang of disappointment that the feeling men had not led him to the heart of the whole band, but they could still take one or two of these harried men alive, and who could say what a little torture might reveal? Dolecroft spurred his horse on, and his whole column charged into the open field.
The English scout was the first to notice something wrong. His horse was staggering, having difficulty with the footing. “We’re in a bog!” the scout shouted.
And so they were. The Scots, bounding from grassy clump to grassy clump like rabbits through a familiar field, were trotting along with surprising ease, but the horses were miring halfway up their forelegs in the soggy earth. This was not comforting to the hoses; it made them jittery. “Here, it’s firm this way—“ Dolecroft called.
But as soon as they moved toward the firm ground, fifty Scots appeared on he crest of the hill on the far side of the bog. A grizzled redhead –old Campbell —stood at the front, and he was smiling. On the hills to the left and the right more Scots appeared; the English were boxed in the bog. Dolecroft wheeled and looked to his rear; and there stood William Wallace, his broadsword resting on his shoulder, fifty more Scots behind him.
Dolecroft scarcely had time to realize his blunder. Wallace lifted his broadsword, screamed, and led the charge. The Scots swarmed in from all directions; the English horses could barely move, the bog sucked at their hooves. Wallace’s broadsword swung so fast that it blurred in steel and blood.
It was a slaughter.
When Lord Pickering, head of the English occupational army in Stirling Castle, was handed new of the disaster, he was dipping his fingertips into a bowl of berries sent to him by the king himself, who was campaigning in France. Lord Pickering read the message and his face turned as white as the porcelain bowl. “Another ambush! My God!………What about our infiltrator?” he asked his assistant.
“He has already joined them, m’lord,” his assistant told him.