To War With Wallace E-Book

Barbara Henderson

• Herausgeber: Luath Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 205

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Scottish Wars of Independence, 1297. Scottish resistance has been crushed, and King Edward, Hammer of the Scots, now rules the North. Doesn't he? At Chester Castle, young apprentice armourer Harry has no idea just how much his life is going to change from the moment he is told to guard an imprisoned Scottish nobleman: the rebel Andrew de Moray. The boy's momentary carelessness gives the prisoner all he needs: an opportunity to escape. Harry finds himself kidnapped, and on his way to Scotland. Soon, he is caught up in the Northern Rising with its skirmishes and stealth attacks. But these are nothing to the storm of questions in Harry's mind: Whose cause is right? Why has his new master joined forces with the outlaw William Wallace? Can his new friend Euphemia be trusted? As arrows fly and swords clash at the battle of Stirling Bridge, Harry must choose: Whose side is he on?

Leseprobe

BARBARA HENDERSON is an award-winning children’s writer and Drama teacher. Her energetic school visits take her across the length and breadth of Scotland, and sometimes beyond. As a teacher, she loves to get young people on their feet as they respond to stories. ‘Writing is like magic,’ she says. ‘I see something in my imagination, and I try to capture it by writing it down – nothing more than black marks on white paper. Much later, young people see these black marks on white paper and suddenly they see something too, feel something of their own. I cannot think of anything more special than that.’ Now that her three children have left to seek their own adventures, she shares her home with her long-suffering husband and a scruffy Schnauzer called Merry. Find her online at www.barbarahenderson.co.uk and as @scattyscribbler on social media.

DEBORAH SPENCE is a freelance illustrator based in Germany. Follow her at @spenceillustrations.

Teaching resources for To War With Wallace are free to download at

www.barbarahenderson.co.uk/resources/

By the same author:

Fir for Luck, Cranachan Publishing, 2016

Punch, Cranachan Publishing, 2017

Wilderness Wars, Cranachan Publishing, 2018

Black Water, Cranachan Publishing, 2019

The Siege of Caerlaverock, Cranachan Publishing, 2020

The Chessmen Thief, Cranachan Publishing, 2021

Scottish by Inclination, Luath Press, 2021

The Reluctant Rebel, Luath Press, 2022

Rivet Boy, Cranachan Publishing, 2023

Our Forth Bridge: Made from Girders, with photographs by Alan McCredie, Luath Press, 2023

The Boy, the Witch and the Queen of Scots, Luath Press, 2024

I Don’t Do Mountains, Scottish Mountaineering Press, 2025

First published 2025

ISBN: 978-1-80425-266-6

The author’s right to be identified as author of this book under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.

Typeset in 11 point Sabon LT by

Main Point Books, Edinburgh

Text © Barbara Henderson 2025

Images © Deborah Spence 2025

Illustration credits on page 9:

ship, whale, compass, map & sword – Pixabay; bird – Shutterstock

To all at the Andrew de Moray Project, whose dedication inspired me to write this book.

Contents

Map: Places in To War With Wallace

Prologue: Late Spring 1296, Chester

1  The Following Winter, Chester Castle

2  Andrew de Moray

3  The Unluckiest Boy

4  The River Bend

5  A Choice

6  North

7  Annan

8  Bothwell

9  A Priest and His Cat

10 North Again

11 Avoch Castle

12 Euphemia Pilche

13 Music at Ormond Hill

14 Be Certain of Your Side

15 The Northern Rising

16 Crisis Meeting at Inverness Castle

17 The Ambush

18 Siege at Urquhart Castle

19 The Countess’s Tricks

20 To War with Wallace

21 South

22 Do Not Ask Why

23 Stirling

24 The River

25 Think or Die

26 The Right Questions

27 The Battle of Stirling Bridge

28 Struck to the Bone

29 Haddington

30 The Sole Guardian of Scotland

31 Forward

Author’s Note

Glossary

Scottish Wars of Independence Timeline

Who’s Who?

Places in To War with Wallace

PROLOGUE

Late Spring 1296, Chester

‘OYEZ! OYEZ. HEAR, hear, ye people of Chester!’

Ah, ‘tis Walter, the town crier in the distance. I am on my usual route between the blacksmith’s forge and the castle, carrying a bag of curled metal on my back. The blacksmith provides the wire, but it is up to my master and me to turn it into mail, fit for use by any knight of the realm.

‘Oyez! Oyez!’

I slow my steps. No harm in hearing what the man has to say. It’s probably news of some marriage or other, or the fate of a highwayman hanged. But something in the crier’s voice compels me – and more of the good people of our town are hastening after him to the cross in the shadow of St Peter’s church. They seem to think he may have proper news. With war afoot in Scotland and Flanders, I should listen too – though I have no coins to loosen the tongue of the mischievous Walter.

I shuffle closer and drop my bag to the ground, rolling my shoulders to loosen my aching muscles. Boys of twelve should not be carrying loads like this one, and I know it in my heart. A grown man would insist on a donkey, yet I am sent between the castle master armourer and the blacksmith’s every day. I shall be crooked as a fishhook by the time I am thirty at this rate.

‘Oyeeeeeezzz!’ Yes, now he stretches the word as is his custom – he is finally going to begin. The town crier pulls himself up onto a makeshift wooden platform he has fashioned for the purpose and raises his considerable bellowing voice. It is half-shouting and half-singing, accompanied by the usual gestures and exaggerated facial expressions.

‘His Majesty our King Edward, may his reign be blessed by the Almighty God, has lately won a great victory against the rebellious Scots at Dunbar. Many were slain…’

There is a cheer from the crowd.

‘… many were captured…’

More cheers.

‘… and more than 2000 Scots nobles are set to sign the Ragman Roll to swear fealty to our blessed and glorious King Edward, acknowledging him as overlord of the wild lands of the Scots. Victory!’

The crowd applauds, with some adding their own cries of Victory.

The town crier lowers his voice dramatically. ‘The Scots rebel leaders have been captured, and are even now being taken to English dungeons, like the Tower of London…’

There is a sharp intake of breath from the crowd.

‘But, men and women of our burgh, we ourselves will soon imprison savages arrested at Dunbar here at Chester Castle – Scottish savages who have wielded their swords against us. Their arrival is imminent.’

There is immediate chatter, and grumbles rise from the crowd. I have heard enough. If the castle is to house more prisoners, there is work to do. Locks will need mending. Keys will need casting and swords will need sharpening. Time to go.

Hoisting my heavy leather bag onto my back once more and wincing under the weight of iron, I push my way past other onlookers and towards the castle walls. Time to make ready.

Whatever ready may mean.

CHAPTER 1

The Following Winter, Chester Castle

My hands are clammy. I press the pliers together so hard that my knuckles shake white, and the tiny rivet holds. Only another few hundred to go…

I sigh and reach for the next coil of metal, the next splinter of steel. It is fiddly work. The wind whistles a song of sadness through the cracks around the windows, causing the candle by the workbench to flicker dangerously. I wish I was back at the blacksmith’s in Foregate Street – I would not be able to see my own breath in the air there. But winter in a castle is the time for armour to be mended. I bite my lip in renewed concentration as I try to hold the mail coif in place to fix a broken section. Tricky as it is, I love working with mail. I just wish I was better at it.

The old master armourer finishes his afternoon’s task by wiping down the helmet he has been polishing with an oiled cloth. ‘Harry, the sun is well down. Time to head home.’

‘Yes, Master Alfred. I may just stay till this one is done.’

Home. My master knows well that I have no home to speak of. But if he means that it is time to retreat into the alcove above the armoury where I keep my possessions and lay my head, he is right. The moon is rising.

‘Goodnight, Master, and may God watch over you this night.’

‘And over you, Harry. See you tomorrow.’ He washes his hands in the bucket of water and dries them on his apron before reaching for his coat. There is no need for more words. We understand each other, the old man and I. He nods as he leaves.

I narrow my eyes and focus on the work of my hands once more, humming a happy ballad. My mind empties of all but the sounds – my own melody, the river lapping onto the thick stone walls of Chester Castle, the distant laughing of guards playing at dice, the faraway wailing of the prisoners in the dungeons. The clanking of copper pots in the kitchens, the whinnying of horses and hoots of owls in the nearby fields.

And footsteps.

Footsteps? Yes, footsteps approaching, slapping hard onto the flagstones of the corridor outside. Every muscle in my body tenses, and I jump as the wooden door to the armoury flies open.

‘Is Master Alfred here?’ an unshaven guard demands impatiently.

‘Gone, sir. Not half an hour ago.’

The man curses and looks around, as if my master could be hiding behind the racks of broken armour or amid the pikes and swords of the armoury. Then his eyes come to rest on me. ‘You’ll have to do then. Come with me, boy!’

My eyes flit from my delicate mail work to the intruder and his weapon. He reaches down and yanks me to my feet. ‘For the sake of all the saints, there is nothing to you boy. How old are you?’

‘Almost thirteen,’ I answer, extricating myself from his grip and standing protectively between my unfinished repair job and this man. ‘And you can call me ‘Harry’, not boy, if you please. I am learning the armoury trade,’ I add stupidly, as if that was not obvious, or likely to make any difference.

‘Not tonight, you’re not!’ he interrupts me. ‘Three of the night guards have come down with the sweating sickness, and we’re short.’

I blanch. I am not the sort of person to scare a prisoner, skinnier and hungrier and weaker than any of them. ‘Sir, please, I have worked hard all day, running errands and fetching…’

‘I care nothing for your excuses,’ the man says, beginning to walk towards the door and snuffing my candle out as he passes. ‘Leave it; leave it all. We have to hurry.’ He pushes me into the cold stone corridor and pulls his sword from its scabbard for good measure. With a painful shove in the back, I stumble towards the narrow winding staircase of the Agricola Tower. The pained moans of the prisoners get louder. I catch my breath, distracted by the dancing shadows of tallow candle flames on the stonework.

My outraged stomach heaves with hunger but the merciless guard behind me prods me with his sword and I know better than to risk his wrath. I speed along to where he is pointing: the dark end of the passage where a single prisoner lies stretched out on a thin and patchy layer of straw. I see his breath in the air, illuminated from high above by barred shafts of moonlight. His cell is secured by a metal gate, solidly locked. An unreliable-looking wooden stool stands lopsidedly beneath the sconce where two more meagre tallow candles burn.

‘Here,’ my tormentor rumbles, shoving a blunt sword and a set of keys at me, hard. ‘Sit!’

Reluctantly, I do.

‘Do not leave here, do you understand? Do not sleep, do not look away, do not speak with the prisoner. Keep your distance, keep your mouth closed and keep your eyes open. Got it?’

Somewhere in this God-abandoned place, my voice rises in response, small like a beetle scurrying back into its crack in the ground. ‘Yes, sir.’

The man casts the prisoner a scornful glance before turning away. His footsteps echo in the distance before vanishing altogether.

Tying the heavy keys to my belt, I concentrate on breathing. In. And out. My heart bangs loudly on the wall of my chest. Eventually, it seems to settle into its normal rhythm, and I try to breathe more quietly, until I hear another sound.

Subtle, barely there.

It takes me a moment to work out that it is the prisoner.

Laughing.

CHAPTER 2

Andrew de Moray

I TURN MY face away.

‘Ho, didn’t you hear? You are supposed to keep an eye on me.’ He chuckles.

I cannot quite hide my surprise at his English – I thought these rebels spoke only Scots, or even the wild language of the Highlands. It is as if he reads my mind. ‘I’ll have you know, I can speak French too. I am no savage, young man. My family own land from the north to…’

‘Hush!’ I cut him off, sounding much more confident than I feel. ‘Be quiet.’

To my consternation, he rises and leans casually against the metal gate separating me from him. I scramble backwards, the keys clinking loudly on my belt.

‘Now, now, why so nervous, my boy? Look at me – what harm could I possibly do you? I’m unarmed, and behind bars. Look!’

I frown and grudgingly turn to face him. A young man in his prime, certainly, upright and proud. However, his hair hangs matted down his back, and the bristles of his beard catch the golden tinge of the candlelight. There is no privy, other than a bucket in the corner. He must certainly be used to more luxury than this. His hose is torn at the knee and his jerkin scuffed, but I can tell both were once expensive fabric.

He raises his hands. ‘Believe me, I mean you no harm. Just being friendly and passing the time – and there is a lot of time to pass in a place like this. You have nothing to fear, my friend.’

I frown hard and look at him deliberately. ‘You are no friend of mine! Certainly not! You are…’ I search for the right words. ‘You are a rebel of the realm, an enemy of this kingdom.’

He widens his eyes in mock-shock and points to himself like an actor in a miracle play. ‘Me? I am not even of this kingdom! I want nothing to do with this kingdom or your king. I am a Scot. No – it is your king who will not leave our border in peace.’

‘Save your words. I have no business talking to you.’ Resolutely, I walk over to the sconce and replace one of the candles which has burned dangerously low. The last thing in the world I want is to be left in complete darkness here, with this savage. The sounds in the distance are much duller here than in the armoury workshop.

Sinking onto the stool, I fight the urge to sleep. It is as if an invisible trader stacks weight after weight on my eyelids, forcing them down... down…

I change my sitting position. The night guards sleep all day. I, on the other hand, have laboured since sunrise. The darkness outside is almost complete, like black evil oozing in through the arrow slits of the tower. I long for my alcove, the simple mattress filled with wool, the plain blanket and pillow, my own space. Not this hole where the night air creeps through the cracks. At least the prisoner has finally given up trying to engage me in conversation. I wonder if Master Alfred will give the guard a piece of his mind tomorrow – after all, I will hardly be fit for intricate metalwork, and so much armour is in need of repair before the knights depart for Flanders. My master will make sure this doesn’t ever happen again, I have no doubt. With that comforting thought, I slide to the ground and wrap my garment close around me. Despite the winter temperatures, the stone floor is preferable to the wobbly stool – the draught passes above me now, and in any case, my poor bones simply refuse to hold my body up anymore. The last candle flickers out, and I do not have it in me to care. Let it be so.

I stretch my body to its full length. That’s better. I shiver and tuck my hands into my armpits beneath the jerkin. No. Now the keys dig into my side, so I turn around to face the wall. I sigh. This may be as comfortable as I get. Now all I have to do is persuade my tired limbs that I am lying on my mattress in my alcove, the stars wheeling above the castle in the way they have done since the creation of the world. I allow my eyes to droop. Tomorrow, the sun will rise, and the day guards will come, and I will explain all to my master, and…

Somewhere in the dark beyond the gate, the prisoner snores. And that is the last I remember.

Until, I feel a rough yank on my foot, hard as a hammer and so sudden that I bang my head on the stone wall. Where am I? It’s black as a pit. Oh, I remember now. Panicked, I try to extract my hands from beneath my jerkin, but my limbs are stiff from the cold and won’t obey me. The hand around my foot is clenched tight as a vice, and in my pain, I convulse and bang my head again, biting my tongue for good measure. Curse the stones of this tower! Something in the back of my mind urges me to call for help, but no voice will come, no words at all, and everything happens so quickly – my slight body, still trying to unfold itself, is dragged across the floor towards the bars of the gate. Another strong hand pulls me close by my jerkin. If only I could see, I could fight back – but I may as well be blind, powerless against my silent attacker. I ball my fists and punch towards his face, hitting the metal bar between us with an agonising crunch. My voice comes then.

‘Argh!’ I howl as I struggle upright. ‘Let go of me! Let g…’

But then something silences me altogether. Through the bars, the prisoner has clasped one hand over my mouth, cold and unyielding as iron. But the other, oh Lord help me, has removed my sword and is fingering the knot on my belt from which the keys dangle. For an eternal moment we are locked together in a silent struggle. The next thing I hear is the sound of the metal keys as they scrape together, and my belt lightens. I should try to run now, but I can barely breathe. He restrains me with one hand, my arm pinned under his and my head forced back against the metal as the key searches for its lock from the inside. This, too, happens quickly. At long last, my eyes begin to detect shapes and shadows in the blackness as they get used to the dark and I gasp for breath.

Think, Harry! What will happen next? I must anticipate what he will do.

Too late.

He throws the unlocked gate open so hard that I go flying across the floor and crumple against the wall.

And now I know what will happen. He will use the weapon.

And that will be the end of Harry, the armourer’s apprentice.

CHAPTER 3

The Unluckiest Boy

I CLOSE MY eyes and try to pray.

But instead of a blade to the heart, I feel my whole body hoisted up. He hauls me over his shoulder. I helplessly pummel him with my fists. ‘Let go. No. Please. No, sir!’ I am thrown left and right as the prisoner navigates down the narrow stair and approaches the entrance to the inner ward.

More guards must be posted outside, surely. ‘Help!’ I call out, but my voice rasps to silence. With no care for secrecy, the prisoner throws his weight and mine against the heavy wooden gate and we emerge into the cold winter air. No guards here either. Can everyone be laid low with fever? ‘Now. Hush, if you value your life!’ he snarls at me. ‘Not a sound! Which way to the river?’

I curse myself for my stupidity, but I have fallen for it and pointed to the Saliport tunnel, leading to the river in the direction of the Horsegate where the beasts are watered. With a suppressed grunt of effort, the prisoner throws me over his other shoulder and staggers across the courtyard towards the small hole. He shoves me ahead and follows me into the dark. We emerge on the steep slope leading down to the city wall. The roofs of the port buildings lean against it on the other side. He must be the luckiest man alive, and I the unluckiest boy. I had imagined the wall guarded by many men at night, but today the only light is barely visible in the misty distance: Someone is patrolling far beyond the bridge. I inhale to scream for help and the man seems to sense it, dropping me roughly to the ground and drawing the sword that the guard gave me hours ago from his belt. ‘Pay attention, boy! I do not wish to hurt you, but you leave me no choice if you scream,’ he hisses barely above a whisper, and slightly out of breath from the exertion. ‘Stay silent and by my side, and you will come to no harm.’

He drags me forward by my collar. By the city wall lie two ladders, of course they do. Can my luck be any worse? On the other hand, I should perhaps be grateful that I do not lie slain beside the cursed prison cell where we started. He props the ladder up. Perhaps I had my last chance to run right there, but he would easily catch me up with his much longer legs, and then I really would be dead. I am astonished how easy it seems for him – the wood creaks beneath our weight, but he is deft on his feet, light as a cat. We scramble silently across the warehouse roof. A blurry sliver of the moon momentarily emerges from the fog and sprinkles the surface of the river with light, just enough of it. By noon there will be grooms and stableboys here, watering their horses, and laundresses singing as they work, too. Servants will draw buckets of water for the townspeople. Not now. Now, the riverside is deserted, frequented only by shadows and devils like my companion. The warehouse roof slopes. Oh no, he means to jump it. His grip on my collar tightens – he knows I would make a run for it given the chance. ‘Let me go!’ I plead, trying to dig my feet in and leaning back. Embarrassingly, it comes out as a whimper, but he ignores me in any case. The ground pulls us both towards it.

I land heavily and am momentarily winded. ‘There!’ He drags me along the shore towards a small boat, pulled clear of the water.

In a wild effort to regain my voice, I half-heave the words: ‘No, don’t…’

I feel myself pushed hard and tumble over the side of the wooden vessel and into it with a thud. Every part of me hurts, but not so much that I don’t hear the scrape of gravel – the prisoner is pushing the boat across the shore towards the river, and me with it. Finally, I come to my senses and attempt to rise. Immediately, I lose my balance on the moving boat and fall over. The splashes of the River Dee are too near! Far too near! I feel the water take the weight of the boat, and try to rise once more, before being knocked over again by the weight of a grown man jumping into the vessel. Arms of icy water fling themselves at us both before dripping harmlessly into the bottom and sloshing around our feet. As soon as the boat moves, the prisoner rights himself, balancing the boat, and the current takes us silently beneath the wooden creaks of the old Dee Bridge.

Finally, he lowers the sword in his hand and tucks it into his belt again. His mouth is tight, and he is breathing heavily from the effort.

He points to the sword. ‘This thing is blunt – even if I wanted to, I could do little harm to you.’ He grimaces.

He could always throw me overboard.

I cannot swim.

Thankfully, I know better than to say it aloud.

CHAPTER 4

The River Bend

WE SIT IN