“ So you hate Longshanks that much that you would fight him anywhere you can.”
“I love my country so much that I will fight for it, even when it does not fight for itself.”
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.”
“And now you wish to fight again.”
“I do,” Wallace said.
“Your Majesty…,” Deroux said, stepping forward. “Could we please take a moment to confer?”
“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!”