Виктория Холт - The Hammer of the Scots

‘That he will never do.’

‘You fool. Do not anger me now. I could harm you. Be sensible. Marry my son and we will forget your conduct tonight.’

‘I shall never forget it as long as I live. I am proud of it.’

‘You are mad.’

‘Nay, I am not. Happy I am that this night I saved my husband’s life.’

‘Your husband! You are saying …’

She did not care now. She was proud of Wallace, proud of herself. She wanted the whole world to know.

‘You are speaking to Lady Wallace, Sheriff. Show due respect, I pray you.’

He stared at her disbelievingly.

‘You think I would take your son when there is Wallace? I have been his wife two weeks since. You have lost your fortune, Heselrig.’

The stunning truth hit him like a sword thrust. He knew she was not lying. There had been gossip. A man had been visiting her. Wallace! The wanted man! And he had let him slip through his fingers. He had let her slip through his fingers.

It should not happen again.

He lunged towards her, his sword ready to thrust …

She looked at him in some surprise as the blade pierced her bodice. Then she was falling and her last thoughts were: ‘I died for William Wallace.’

* * *

William was roused from his sleep. Karlé was telling him that there was a woman to see him. Karlé was looking distraught. It was trouble, he knew.

The woman stood before him, her eyes wide with horror, her mouth twisted with grief. He recognised her as Marion’s personal maid.

When she saw him she covered her face with her hands and wept silently.

‘What is it?’ cried William. ‘Pray tell me. Your mistress …’

The woman lowered her hands and stared blankly at him. ‘Dead, my lord.’

‘Dead!’ He would not believe it. He could not. It was too much to bear.

‘The men came in … after you had gone. Heselrig was at their head. He went to her room. She told him she was your wife … and he ran her through with his sword.’

He could not speak. He could not move. He was too stunned by the grief which overwhelmed him. Reproach was uppermost. He should never have involved her in his affairs. He should have stayed to protect her.

That would have meant capture, said his common sense, and what good could you do to her if you were their prisoner?

But dead! Never to see her again. His wife of two weeks.

Karlé was at his side. ‘’Tis grievous news,’ he said.

‘It can’t be true. It must be wrong.’

There was silence, broken only by the twittering of the birds and the sudden gurgle of a stream as it trickled over the boulders.

‘It is true,’ said Karlé. ‘We must accept it. Come with me. Talk to me. Let us see what can be done.’

He watched the woman as she turned and went sorrowfully away.

‘Marion is dead,’ said William blankly. ‘I shall never see her again.’

‘You will recover from your grief,’ said Karlé soothingly. ‘Remember there is the cause.’

William turned on him angrily. ‘Do you think I shall ever forget her? My wife … Marion … She was so beautiful … she was all I ever wanted …’

‘Remember what you want most is the freedom of Scotland.’

‘I want only her … safe and well in my arms.’

‘That is for today,’ replied Karlé. ‘But there is tomorrow. William, it was disastrous from the first. Something like this had to happen. You have chosen the dangerous life and you must live it.’

He was silent for a few seconds. Then he turned to Karlé. ‘There is something left,’ he said. ‘Revenge. Yes, that is what I shall live for now. My sword shall not rest happy in its scabbard until I have had his blood. Vengeance,’ he cried in a voice of thunder. ‘Vengeance!’

* * *

He would not listen. They were a goodly company. They had failed before because they were so few. More had joined them. They were ready now to go into the town.

‘Heselrig for me. No man must slay him. His blood is for me.’ He was living for the moment when he should run his sword through that body, when Heselrig should die.

He planned carefully. They must succeed. He would never have a moment’s peace until he had avenged Marion’s death. But both Stephen and Karlé had warned him, he must plan with care. This time they must succeed.

They would creep into the town by night. They would go to Heselrig’s house. He would be in bed like as not – so much the better.

Wallace would divide his forces. But he with his own picked men should take Heselrig.

It was dark as they came into the town. There was no sign of activity. Only a few guards to give the warning but they were speedily despatched before they could utter a sound.

Into the streets they went. All was quiet. Everything had gone according to plan.

He was standing at Heselrig’s door. He knocked on it imperiously. ‘Open … open on the King’s business.’ He laughed exultantly. It was indeed King Edward’s business for he was going to find himself a sheriff the less after this night.

The bolts were drawn. The startled face of one of the guards looked at him only briefly before he was felled to the ground.

Wallace started up the stairs shouting: ‘Sheriff. Come forth. It is an urgent matter.’

Heselrig appeared at the top of the stairs, a robe hastily thrown about him.

‘Who comes?’ he asked in consternation.

Wallace was before him. ‘Death comes,’ he answered, and lifting his dagger plunged it into the Sheriff’s heart.

For a moment Heselrig looked startled. Then he shouted, ‘Help me. Assassins …’ as he fell to the floor, the blood gushing from his mouth.

William bent over him and stabbed him several times.

‘For Marion,’ he cried. ‘For my lost love.’

There was a sound above him. He heard a voice.

‘Father, what’s wrong? Where are you?’

William stood up, laughing inwardly. The son! The one who had aspired to become Marion’s husband!

Let us have a look at this brave young fellow, he thought.

The young man appeared on the stairs. He looked at the body of his father and screamed.

William caught him by the arm and he saw the terror leap into the young man’s eyes.

‘What …?’ he stammered. ‘Who …?’

‘Wallace,’ answered William, ‘husband to Marion Bradfute. She was murdered by your father. He has paid the price and so shall you.’

He lifted his dagger.

The lifeless bodies of the Sheriff and his son lay side by side on the stairs.

* * *

There were shouts in the town.

‘Heselrig is dead! The tyrant has been slain. Wallace is here.’

The people came running into the streets. Some had weapons which they had previously managed to conceal. Now was the time. The Sheriff could harm them no more and Wallace was here.

There was slaughter in the streets of Lanark that night and the English, who had been taken by surprise, were defeated. By the morning William Wallace had won his first town for Scotland. Those English who were not killed had fled. Wallace had come for revenge and he had won victory as well.

It was unhoped-for success.

They must make the most of it. He garrisoned the town for fear the English should return. The citizens were with him. They would fight with Wallace against the oppressor. Heselrig the tyrant was dead and could no longer harm them.

They rallied round William Wallace, calling him their saviour, their deliverer.

* * *

It was a beginning. Wallace had killed Heselrig and taken Lanark. Throughout the country there was a call to arms. At last there was a hope of driving out the English. Even Wallace, in his wildest dreams, had not imagined such success.

This was just what he needed to take his mind off his misery; he could throw himself into the fight; it was magnificent. All over the country people talked of Wallace. He had become a legendary figure and it was said that the English shuddered at the mention of his name.

He was acclaimed as commander of the Scottish armies. He declared he was acting on behalf of the King, John Baliol whom he called the prisoner of the English, and more and more flocked to his banner.

William Douglas joined him and they took Scone together. They overran the Lennox. Volunteers were joining the victorious army by the thousand.

Within the space of months the whole of Scotland was free and the Scots had even made forays over the Border into Westmorland and Cumberland.

This was the state of affairs when Edward returned from France, free of his commitments there, and married to the sister of the King of France.

He decided at once that he must subdue Scotland for ever.

Queen Marguerite was travelling north from Canterbury where she had paused to make offerings at the shrine of St Thomas. She was pregnant and delighted with her state. It was an achievement to have conceived so early and she prayed to St Thomas to give her a healthy boy and at the same time preserve her own life.

Edward was marching north. He had told her that he would like her to be near him as his first wife had always been; and she, who felt that she must try to be as much like that first and well-beloved wife, was eager not to fail in her duty.

If she could give him a son how delighted she would be. Even the sainted Eleanor had only left him one son among all those daughters, although she had had several who had lived for a while and then died.