From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember’d;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother;
— William Shakespeare,King Henry V, Act 4, Scene III
Lochmaben Castle,
Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland,
August 28, 1305
“William Wallace is dead.”
For a moment, Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, Lord of Annandale, and one-time joint Guardian of Scotland, couldn’t speak. Though death had been inevitable for Wallace since his capture a few weeks ago, expectation did not lessen the crushing blow of finality. The hope that the brave-hearted Wallace had lit in his heart—in the heart of every Scotsman who chaffed under the yoke of English tyranny—flickered.
Scotland’s champion was dead. The torch would pass to him—if he chose to take it. ’Twas a heavy burden and, as Wallace’s death had proved, a deadly one. He had everything to lose.
Bruce forced back the errant thoughts and acknowledged the prelate’s pronouncement with a grim nod. He motioned for his friend to sit on the wooden bench and warm himself by the fire. William Lamberton, Bishop of St. Andrews, was drenched to the skin and looked ready to collapse from exhaustion, as if he had been the one to ride day and night from London with the news himself.
Bruce poured a cup of dark red wine from the flagon on the side table and sat beside him. “Here, drink this. You look as if you need it.”
They both did.
Lamberton accepted it with a murmur of thanks and took a long drink. Bruce did the same, but the pungent fruitiness of the wine soured in his mouth.
Lowering his voice, he steeled himself for the rest. “How?”
Lamberton’s gaze darted back and forth. With his round, boyish face and cold, reddened nose, he had the look of a hare sensing danger. And a plump one at that. But Bruce did not let the prelate’s unthreatening appearance fool him, for behind the inauspicious mask lurked a mind as nimble, shrewd, and cunning as King Edward’s himself. “Is it safe?” the bishop asked.
Bruce nodded. “Aye.” Lamberton was wise to be wary. They were alone in his private chamber, but Lochmaben Castle belonged to Edward now, and Bruce was being watched. The King of England might call him friend, but he did not trust him. Edward might be a tyrant, but he was a shrewd one. “No one can hear us,” he assured the bishop. “I’ve made certain of it. Tell me.”
Lamberton’s dark eyes met his, and the starkness reflected there augured the horror of what was to come. “He suffered a traitor’s death.”
Bruce flinched. Then suffered Wallace had. His jaw clenched, and he nodded for the other man to continue.
“They dragged him behind a horse through the streets of London for three miles, to Smithfield Elms. He was hanged, drawn, and quartered, but not before they chopped off his manhood, eviscerated his bowels, and burned them before his eyes. His head sits on a pike atop London Bridge.”
Bruce’s eyes burned with rage. “Pride has made Edward a fool.”
Lamberton looked around again, but the only movement was the flickering shadows of the candlelight playing across the tapestry-lined stone walls. His fear was understandable: Men had been sent to the tower for uttering less. When soldiers did not come bursting through the door, however, he relaxed. “Aye. Edward’s vengeance has made a powerful martyr. Wallace’s ghost will haunt him far more than the man did. ’Tis not like Edward to make such a mistake.”
“He’s a Plantagenet.”
Lamberton nodded. It was explanation enough. England’s royal family was well known for their terrifying fits of apoplectic temper. Bruce had been on the wrong side of that temper more than once. Thus far he’d managed to survive, but he knew the next time he would not be so fortunate.
Reading his thoughts, Lamberton asked, “You haven’t changed your mind?”
The expectation in his gaze weighed down on Bruce with paralyzing force. All that he had to lose flashed before him: his lands, his titles, his life. He thought of Wallace’s unimaginable suffering. The pain must have been excruciating, the axe that took his head a welcome blow. If Bruce proceeded in this course, there was every likelihood that he would share the same fate.
In that one instant Bruce wavered. He was, after all, only a man. Not yet a king, though the crown belonged to him. It was in that knowledge, in the belief that permeated every fiber of his being, that Robert Bruce found the courage and resolve. He, not Edward, was the rightful King of Scotland. The realm needed him.
He would take up Wallace’s torch of freedom, no matter what the cost.
