He was weary of the Scottish troubles which were far from settled. He deplored the fact that he had been unable to complete the conquest. He was never sure when Wallace would appear again and drive the English out of the garrison towns. Then his brief victory would have been in vain.
He was too old and tired to enter into conflict with his daughters. He liked to see them happy. It was a marvel to him that Joanna had made the perfect marriage from her point of view. It was perhaps better for the princesses to remain in England particularly when, as they reminded him, they had married once for state reasons.
Elizabeth was appealing and beautiful in love. He had his good Queen Marguerite and was happy with her. He wanted his daughters to be happy too. In fact he was glad that he had failed to win the beautiful Blanche. She could not have suited him as well as Marguerite did. His Queen was docile and tender. Blanche would doubtless have been more demanding. How could he, who had been so lucky in both his Queens, deny his daughters their happiness?
It was a dull November day when the wedding of Elizabeth and Humphrey de Bohun was celebrated at Westminster.
Elizabeth certainly looked radiant in her golden crown which was set with rubies and emeralds, and there was great rejoicing throughout the city. It was clearly a love match and the people liked to think that their princesses were not married out of the country.
Joanna and Elizabeth were now both happy; Margaret had her problems, but she was far from home and, he believed, growing older was now able to look after herself; poor Mary seemed contented in her convent with the consolation that she would not have to consider a period of penitence when she grew older as so many did; if she had missed a happy family life in England, at least she was sure of her place in Heaven. Little Thomas was thriving – now he had an English nurse – and young Edmund was doing well. He had a fine family … with one exception.
Yes, it was true. That very one who should have given him most pleasure was the one who caused him the most anxiety. His son Edward.
He often said to himself: ‘Pray God I do not die just yet. God help England if my son were the King.’
He had a duty to live, to conquer Scotland, to make England great and to keep young Edward from the throne until he was more mature, more fitted to rule.
Edward was no longer a boy; he was getting on for twenty years of age. A man indeed. Yet how frivolous he was. Rarely had so much talent been wasted, for Edward was by no means unintelligent. He was tall and handsome and had ability. Alas, he was lazy and frivolous and liked to indulge in rough practical jokes which sometimes caused distress to those about him. There had been complaints and these disturbed the King because they were well-founded.
He often thought of the baby he had presented to the Welsh. What a bonny child he had been and how he and Eleanor had gloried in him! But something had gone wrong somewhere. Had Eleanor accompanied her husband on his travels when she should have been giving more attention to their children? Had he failed in some way?
He was sorry now that he had given him Piers Gaveston as a playfellow. He had only wanted to honour Gaveston’s boy. Gaveston had been a good and loyal knight of Gascony who had served his King well and so, when he had died leaving a young son, Edward had taken him into the royal nurseries and he had been brought up there.
Edward and young Gaveston had become fast friends. They were inseparable and Edward seemed to care for him more than he did anyone else.
It was not a relationship the King liked to see. He must do something about it.
Young Edward must accompany him when he went to Scotland.
The time had come to make war on Scotland. The King was feeling his age. He was advancing into his sixties and would not admit that he more quickly became exhausted as he never had in the old days.
He was obsessed by his dream of uniting England, Scotland and Wales, and the desire had become fraught with a feverish determination because time was running out.
There was little opposition in the south and he marched through Edinburgh and Perth and as far north as Aberdeen. In Moray the lairds submitted to him and the only town which did not fall easily into his hands was Stirling. As usual the nightmare of the campaign was the fear of running out of supplies – one which must always affect a commander when his army was far from home.
He was going to make a treaty with Scotland and for this purpose he summoned all the lords to St Andrews but there was one with whom he would not make terms. That man was William Wallace.
Edward had thought a great deal about Wallace. He knew that he was in hiding somewhere. He believed he understood the man well for he was not unlike himself. Wallace was tenacious, a patriot of the first order. Wallace would never make terms and while he lived he was a danger.
He wanted Wallace delivered to him. He wanted to see Wallace in chains. He would never rest until he had Wallace’s head on a pike over London Bridge as he had Llewellyn’s and Davydd’s. That was the way to subdue a people. Kill their leaders and humiliate them. And what could be more detrimental to a hero than to have his head severed from his body and placed where all could jeer at it?
He had made it very clear that there would be no truce with Wallace. With that man it must be unconditional surrender. He had hinted that he would make it well worthwhile for one of Wallace’s associates to deliver their leader into his hands.
Wallace had become a spectre which haunted Edward’s dreams. Wallace was in hiding somewhere and the mountains of Scotland provided a secure refuge. It was not easy to hunt a man down there. At any moment Wallace would rise and there was evidently a fire in the man, an aura of heroism and leadership which inspired men. Edward wanted inspired men on his side not on the enemy’s.
He knew what it meant to men to follow a leader. He himself was an example of that. Would he have won his battle if he had not got onto his horse, ignoring his broken ribs, and ridden at the head of his men? He was sure the battle would have been lost if he had given way to the advice of his attendants and called his doctors. Soldiers were superstitious; they looked for omens. Listening to the legends of his ancestor, William the Conquerer, he knew what store that great man had set on superstition. He had never let it work against him, and even when it appeared to he would find some way of assuring those about him that it was in truth a good omen they were witnessing and he would twist the argument to make it so. Victory must be in men’s minds if they were going to conquer.
He could subdue Scotland and soon; but not while William Wallace lived.
There were many Scots who were not entirely loyal to the Scottish cause. Some had worked with him if they had thought it would be to their advantage. The Scots would know the hideouts in the mountains better than he did. Some might even know the whereabouts of Wallace.
He sought in his mind for the man he felt best fitted to the task and after a great deal of thought the name of Sir John Menteith came into his mind.
Menteith was an ambitious man who had been a prisoner in England briefly. Edward had released him on condition that he follow him to France and serve with him against the French. When Menteith had returned to Scotland he had joined Wallace and harried the English. He was a man who found little difficulty in changing sides and he liked to be on that of the winners. Edward despised such men but it would have been foolish not to admit that they had their uses.