it might not redound much to his honour to give up a man who had
voluntarily taken refuge with him; and he therefore devised a middle
course, by which he might get rid of the Scotch leader without putting
him into the hands of his pursuers. He gave to Wallace a brief note,
addressed to his representatives at Rome, recommending the rebel chief
to their good offices, and through them to the pope. This note, strange
to say, is now preserved among the ancient records in our national
collection. A copy of it is given in the “Wallace Documents” (Edinb.
1841); and it is argued by the learned editor of that collection, that
this note proves that Wallace went to Rome, and saw the pope. But
surely it rather leads to an opposite conclusion. Had Wallace travelled
into Italy, and seen the pope, we should probably have found some
traces of him by the way, or in Rome itself. But no such foot‐marks
have ever been found. And again—had Wallace actually reached Rome, and
delivered that note to Philip’s agents, how should ever it have found
its way to the Tower of London? Obviously, the more rational conclusion
is, that the said note was a mere pretext on Philip’s part—a device for
getting rid of Wallace; and that the Scotch leader, having no money,
and knowing it to be useless to go to Rome without money, took the
note, put it into his pouch, escaped back into Scotland, and was, at
last, taken with the paper in his possession. So found, the document
would naturally be sent to Edward, and thus it would find its way into
the usual receptacle for the state‐papers of the time.
At all events, Wallace soon returned from France, and again betook
himself to his forest‐haunts in Scotland. And now, seeing all Scotland
once more quietly at rest under Edward’s authority, the obduracy of
this violent man began to give way. For more than five years he had
lived the life of an outlaw, “having no sustenance” but “robbing
always.” He now approaches as near to the king as he may venture—still
hiding in the forest, and he begs his friends to apply to the king on
his behalf. But the application was made in a wrong spirit. Langtoft
thus describes it:—
“Turn we now other ways, unto our own geste; (affairs)
And speke of the Waleys, that lies in the foreste;
In the forest he lendes, of Dumfermelyn:
He prayed all his frendes, and other of his kin,—
After that Yole (Christmas) they will beseke Edward;
That he might yield till him, in a forward (covenant)
That were honorable to kepe wod or beste;
And with his scrit full stable, and seled at the lest;
To him and all his, to have in heritage;
And non otherwise, als terme, tyme and stage.
But als a propise thing, that were conquest tille him.”
This assuredly was one of the most audacious demands ever made. The
outlaw knew full well that he had sinned in no ordinary manner and
degree, and that, not against Edward only, or chiefly, but against all
England. His name was heard throughout the realm with rage and horror.
Mr. Tytler justly describes his position in a few plain words:—“Wallace
was too well aware of the _unpardonable injuries_ which he had
inflicted _on the English_” to conceive it possible for Edward to
spare his life. And it is with wonder, therefore, that we read, in the
treaty made with Comyn in 1304, the distinct inclusion of Wallace:—“As
to William Walleys, if he thinks fit to surrender himself, it must be
unconditionally, to the will and mercy of our lord the king.”[129] In
another place it is said, that “William Walleys might put himself on
the grace and mercy of the king, if he thought proper.”[130] Now, as to
the meaning of such language in Edward’s mouth, there can be no doubt
whatever. We have just seen one instance in the case of the garrison of
Stirling; to whom he had refused the least promise of grace or mercy.
In fact, to be allowed to surrender, was tantamount to a grant of life
at least. As we have recently seen, when his judges reminded him that
“he might show mercy,” to a certain criminal, his exclamation was,
“_May_ show mercy! why I will do that for a dog, if he seeks my grace!”
On the other hand, when any one had sinned past forgiveness, like Bruce
in 1306, _then_ he was “not to be received;” and the young prince was
rebuked for holding any communication with him. As to Wallace, it is
evident that the king viewed him in the same light as he had viewed
the garrison of Stirling. He would enter into no engagement with them:
if they chose to surrender, it must be unconditionally, to the king’s
absolute will.
Wallace, as Mr. Tytler tells us, “was too well aware of the
unpardonable injuries which he had inflicted on the English” to be
able to believe it possible for the king to show him mercy; and thus
he threw away the only chance that remained to him. His demand, which
we have just given in Langtoft’s words—that he should have, under the
king’s hand, not only assurance of his life, but also an estate secured
to him and to his heirs for ever,—was just the surest way of raising
the king’s indignation. Obviously no pretension could have been more
preposterous. He was an outlaw, liable to be taken and brought to
justice; he was poor and wretched; and his offences, as he well knew,
were such as it must be difficult for the king to pardon. Yet, instead
of grasping at the single chance which was now offered him, he must
needs give the king fresh provocation. And thus his doom was sealed.
His demand was made known to the king, and Langtoft tells us the
result:—
“When they brought that tiding, Edward was fulle grim:
He belauht him the fiende; als his traitore in lond.
And ever ilkon his frende, that him susteynd or fonde.
Three hundred marke he hette unto his warison; (reward)
That with him so mette, or bring his hedde to town.
Now flies William Waleis, of pese nouht he spedis:
In moores and mareis with robberie him fedis.”
Obviously no other course could be taken. Edward had already stretched
his prerogative of mercy to an extraordinary extent, by expressing
his willingness to “receive” the outlaw if he made an immediate and
unconditional submission. Had he so submitted and received mercy,
it cannot be doubted that such lenity would have caused great
dissatisfaction among the English people. But Wallace preferred
to remain still in his hiding‐places, and justice was not long in
overtaking him. As two Scottish earls had guided the king to his camp
at Falkirk, so now a Scottish knight soon claimed the reward offered
for the outlaw’s apprehension. Sir John Menteith surprised him in bed,
bound him, and delivered him to the English authorities.[131]
He was carried through England a chained prisoner to his doom. He
arrived in London on the 22nd of August, 1305, “great numbers of men
and women,” says Stowe, “wondering upon him.” He was not lodged in
any prison, nor was any lengthened proceeding entered into. His chief
crime—the savage desolation of the northern counties, was a matter of
universal notoriety; nor did he for a moment deny it. He was therefore
lodged for one night “at the house of William Dilect, a citizen of
London, in Fenchurch‐street;” and “on the morrow he was brought on
horseback to Westminster,—Segrave and Geoffrey, knights, and the mayor
and sheriffs of the city, escorting him. He was placed on a bench in
Westminster Hall,” and his indictment was read by Sir Percy Malorie,
chief justice. It charged him—not, as the Scottish historians would
represent—chiefly or solely with rebellion, or with levying war, but
with those special barbarities which under the name of war, he had
perpetrated.
Some writers lay great stress upon the circumstance, which appears
in only one chronicle, that the criminal repudiated the charge of
treason—saying, “Traitor was I never, for I never gave my allegiance
to the king of England.” The fact may have been so, but it is wholly
immaterial. No doubt more than half the persons who have died for
treason since Wallace’s days might have pleaded the same excuse. It is
most probable that none of the Jesuit priests executed in Elizabeth’s
days had ever sworn allegiance; and we may be sure that Thistlewood and
his gang, who died in 1820, had never taken any such oath. But no one
ever imagined that such a fact made the slightest difference in their
guilt, or in their position.
Treason, however, or mere rebellion, would never have brought Wallace
from Scotland to Westminster Hall. Comyn, Fraser, and scores of
other distinguished men in Scotland, had been guilty of treason and
rebellion, and had received the king’s pardon. The great difference
between their case and that of Wallace consisted in those “unpardonable
injuries” which, as Mr. Tytler admits, “he had inflicted on the
English,” and which Edward, as the king and defender of the English,
found it to be now his duty to punish. And, accordingly, his indictment
justly describes him as “Willelmus Waleis, captus pro seditione,
homicidiis, deprædacionibus, incendiis, et aliis diversis feloniis.”
And so it runs throughout. It says little of his treason and
rebellion—it dwells more on his murders and his other cruelties. It
speaks of his murder of the sheriff of Lanark, “whose body he cut in
pieces,” reminding us of the fate of Cressingham at Stirling. Passing
on to his invasion of the northern counties, it charges, that “with
certain of his accomplices, he invaded the realm of England, and all
whom he there found, subjects of the king of England, he slew by
various kinds of deaths—men of religion, and monks devoted to God,
he feloniously massacred; sparing none who spake the English tongue;
but all, old men and young, brides and widows, infants and children
at the breast, he murdered in a manner more terrible than could have
been imagined.” No denial was given to these charges; in fact, none
could be given: “He pleaded no defence,” says Mr. Tytler, “_the facts
were notorious_.” His ravage of Northumberland and Cumberland,
“leaving nothing behind him but _blood and ashes_,” was as well known
and as certain a fact as the comparatively insignificant “massacre of
Cawnpore” in our own day.
His sentence was therefore read. It was precisely such a sentence as
would have been passed upon any doer of the like acts in the reign of
William III., or in that of George III. It pronounced—
“That for the robberies, murders, and felonies, of which he had been
guilty, he should be hanged by the neck: That, as being an outlaw, and
not having come to the king’s peace, he should be cut down and beheaded
as a traitor: That, for the profanations and sacrileges committed by
him, he should be disembowelled and his entrails burnt: And that as a
warning to others, his head should be affixed to London Bridge, and his
quarters in the towns of Berwick, Newcastle, Stirling, and Perth.” This
judgment was carried into effect immediately.
This “barbarous sentence” is exclaimed against by most of the
Scotch historians; but their protests are strangely inconsistent
and forgetful. In Edward’s day, and for centuries afterwards, it
was thought right and necessary to visit great crimes with great
punishments. These complex sentences did not begin—we have already
remarked—in Edward’s day, but long before; and they were continued
for many centuries afterward. In Elizabeth’s day, when Walsingham
and Burleigh, Jewell and Hooker, flourished, many Jesuit priests
were sentenced to the same death which Wallace suffered, for merely
conspiring against the queen. Later still, we find Montrose sentenced,
by a very religious government in Scotland, to nearly the same death.
And in England we find William, lord Russell, the Christian patriot, in
1680, _protesting against the omission_ of the hanging and quartering
in the case of lord Stafford. In fact, the refinement of feeling
which, in our day, revolts against these disgusting details, had _no
existence_ in the fourteenth century, nor for several hundred years
after it; and to censure Edward for the cruelty of this sentence, is
as irrational as if we were to blame him for wearing armour, or for
not using gunpowder. For more than four hundred years after Wallace’s
death, no Englishman ever dreamed that there had been any peculiar
cruelty in the mode of his execution. But since Hume’s days it has been
the fashion to regard Wallace as a martyr, and to charge Edward with
cruelty, for permitting his execution. And even some of our best and
most recent historians continue to write in this strain. Thus, Sharon
Turner says, “Edward obtained the wretched gratification of destroying
his noble enemy; but his cruelty has only increased the celebrity of
Wallace, and indelibly blotted his own.”[132] And Mr. Pearson, still
more recently, talks of “new refinement of cruelty,” and of “this
atrocious sentence,” and of Edward’s “barbarity.”[133]
But might not a very opposite view be taken with quite as much reason?
Might we not blame the king, not so much for undue severity as for a
blameable lenity. He offered Wallace his life, if he chose “to put
himself on the grace and mercy of the king.” So confesses Mr. Pearson,
who says, “The words, I think, clearly imply that the king will admit
Wallace to mercy, though he will not promise him terms.”[134] In fact,
if the king’s words do not mean this, they mean nothing. Any criminal,
at any time or place, may give himself up to punishment, without any
royal proclamation allowing him to do so. But could Edward, in this
case, with any propriety, show mercy? That may at least be questioned.
Try it by a similar case in our own day:—A massacre of English women
and children was committed, a dozen years ago, at Cawnpore. Would the
Indian government have dared to grant a pardon, on any conditions
whatever, to the perpetrator of that crime? Assuredly not.
The same question might arise next year in Ireland. There are many men
in that country who feel precisely as Wallace felt, and who detest the
English rule as heartily as he did. One of these, if he could obtain,
a success or two, might gather round him a few thousands of men, and
might begin a civil war. If he conducted this war in the usual manner,
and failed in it, he might surrender and be pardoned. This lenity was
experienced by Comyn and many others in Scotland; and the same lenity
might Wallace have found, supposing, we repeat, that he had carried on
the war in the usual manner.
But supposing the Fenian chief to prefer a kind of warfare resembling
that of Wallace in 1297, and that of the Irish rebels in 1798; how
would the case stand then? Suppose him to adopt Wallace’s system of
“no quarter”;[135] to burn schools and churches with all the people in
them;[136] to “spare neither age nor sex;”[137] to leave behind him,
in his march, “nothing but blood and ashes”[138]—would it be easy to
pardon him then? Even in this day of universal lenity, would not the
general feeling be, “No, if this ruthless destroyer of men, women, and
children is not brought to the scaffold, it will be quite impossible
hereafter to hang any human being!
One victim, then, and one only, had fallen on the scaffold; and even
that one, had he thrown himself on Edward’s mercy, would have been
spared. But when, especially in those hard and iron days, was so
great a change effected at so small a cost? When was a kingdom in
insurrection restored to peace with so little of bloodshed, or even of
minor punishment?
And now, there being “neither adversary nor evil occurrent,” the king
determined once more to attempt a thoroughly friendly and conciliatory
settlement of affairs in Scotland. In his usual frank and manly way,
he resolved to throw himself into the hands of the Scotch, and to
allow them to advise him as to the best plan for the government of the
country. He called upon Wishart, the bishop of Glasgow, who had already
been twice or thrice in arms against him; upon Robert Bruce, who,
though an Englishman, was earl of Carrick; and upon John Mowbray—to
consult together, and to agree among themselves as to time, place,
and other arrangements, for holding a parliament specially about the
state and affairs of Scotland; so that all things should be settled to
the full content of the whole Scottish people. At their suggestion a
parliament was held at Perth, in which ten commissioners were appointed
to confer with the king in London upon Scottish affairs. To these
Edward added ten Englishmen, with several of the judges. All these
were sworn to give the best advice in their power, without suffering
themselves to be biassed by friendship or interest. The result of their
deliberations was, that John of Bretagne, the king’s nephew, should
be appointed governor of Scotland, with the assistance of the present
chancellor and chamberlain: that for the administration of justice,
Scotland should be divided into four districts—Lothian, Galloway, the
country between the Forth and the mountains, and the highlands; to each
of which districts two justiciaries, an Englishman and a Scotchman,
should be appointed: that sheriffs and escheators should be named for
the several counties: and that the laws of David king of Scots should
be read in an assembly of the people of Scotland, for revision and
amendment.
On the 16th of September, 1305, a great council met on the affairs of
Scotland, at the New Temple in London. There were present the bishops
of Glasgow and St. Andrew’s, two Scotch earls, and several barons; and
the sitting lasted for about twenty days. A variety of points were
discussed and settled, and at last the commissioners came before the
king, at his manor of Sheen in Surrey, and read the ordinances which
they had made; which he then approved and confirmed. They then all
swore upon the Holy Gospels, “Robert Bruce,” says Mr. Tytler, “acting
a principal part,” for themselves and their heirs, and for the whole
people of Scotland, that they would faithfully keep and observe the
said ordinances. “They then took leave of the king, and returned home,
with great appearance of joy and satisfaction.”
In a few days after this, the king issued _Forma pacis Scotiæ_—the Form
of the peace of Scotland, in which he recounts—
“That the people of Scotland, after they were bound to us by oath of
fealty, and by their written engagements, did by evil advice make war
upon us, committing murders, robberies, burnings, etc., not only in
Scotland, but in parts of England also; but that afterwards many of
them returned and were received into our peace and favour; and now John
Comyn of Badenoch, and others of his party, desire to be so received:
now we, willing to do them special grace, have granted, and do hereby
grant, that their lives and liberties shall be safe, and that they
shall not be disinherited. And we also pardon the crimes aforesaid,
and remit the anger we had against them, they being bound to pay the
fines hereinafter mentioned.” Then follows a schedule of one, two, or
three years’ fines, on the principal persons concerned in the rebellion.
And so, apparently, was Scotland a second time pacified and brought
under regular government. Not a voice was now heard to disturb the
general tranquillity. One execution only, as in the case of Wales,
had been found necessary. One man in each of the two countries had
gone beyond the bounds of legitimate warfare, and had by special
crimes called down upon himself a special punishment. But towards
Scotland itself, as towards Wales, the conduct of Edward, both in 1296
and in 1305, was generous, wise, and thoroughly noble. Still, these
excellences could not protect him from treachery, perjury, and a third
rebellion. These closing troubles, however, of the king’s life must be
reserved for our concluding chapter.
Footnotes:
[117] The Scottish historians, who wrote _a century after_, claim
the victory in all three engagements; but Hemingford and Trivet,
who wrote _at the time_, distinctly declare that Neville repulsed
the Scotch, and recovered many of the prisoners. Hume and Tytler,
as Scotchmen, give credit to their own chroniclers; and yet
they are uncandid enough to profess to take their accounts from
Hemingford and Trivet. But these latter writers, who are the only
contemporary witnesses, plainly assert that the advantage, in the
third engagement, rested with the English.
[118] Tytler’s History of Scotland, vol. i., p. 186.
[119] Hailes’ Annals, vol. i., p. 304.
[120] Tytler, vol. i., p. 191.
[121] Archæological Journal, No. 27.
[122] Tytler’s History of Scotland, vol. i., p. 191.
[123] Tytler, vol. i., p. 192.
[124] Tytler, vol. i., p. 196.
[125] Matthew of Westminster, 1304.
[126] Tytler, vol. i., p. 197.
[127] Matthew of Westminster, 1304.
[128] Langtoft.
[129] “Endroit de Will. de Walleys, le Roi entent, qu il soit receu
a sa volute ’t a son ordainement.” (Palgrave.)
[130] Rymer’s “Placita,” p. 370.
[131] Langtoft says,—
“Sir John of Menetest followed William so nigh,
He toke him when he feared least, one night his leman by.”
[132] History of England, vol. v., p. 97.
[133] History of England, vol. ii., p. 428.
[134] History of England, vol. ii., p. 424.
[135] “They spared none, but slew all down.”—WYNTOUN.
[136] Blind Harry.
[137] Encyclo. Britan.
[138] Sir Walter Scott.
XIII.
BRUCE’S REBELLION: THE WAR WHICH FOLLOWED.—THE DEATH OF EDWARD: HIS
CHARACTER.
Properly to understand the portion of history to which we are now
coming, it is necessary to bear in mind that the Bruces with whom
Edward had dealings, were three—the father, the son, and the grandson.
The first was the competitor for the crown in 1291, 1292. This Robert
de Brus, or Bruce, died in 1295; leaving a son, also Robert de Brus,
who was through life Edward’s faithful and familiar friend. This, the
second of the three, died in 1304, and was followed by his son, the
third of the same name, who raised the standard of rebellion in 1306,
and finally became king of Scotland.[139]
Of the Brus, or Bruce, family, we may adopt lord Campbell’s account. He
tells us, that—
“Robert de Brus, or Bruis (in modern times spelt Bruce), was one of
the companions of the conqueror, and having distinguished himself
in the battle of Hastings, his prowess was rewarded with no fewer
than ninety‐four lordships, of which Skelton, in Yorkshire, was the
principal.” “Robert, the son of the first Robert de Brus, became a
widower while a young man, and to assuage his grief, paid a visit to
Alexander I., king of Scotland, who was keeping his court at Stirling.
There the heiress of Annandale fell in love with him, and in due time
he led her to the altar.” “The fourth in succession married Isabel,
the second daughter of David, earl of Huntingdon, grandson of David
I. Robert de Brus, afterwards the competitor, was their eldest son.”
This de Brus “practised in Westminster Hall from 1245 to 1250. In the
latter year he took his seat as a puisne judge; and in the 46th year of
Henry III. he had a grant of forty pounds a year salary.” He married
a daughter of the earl of Gloucester, and his son (the second of the
three), was, in all probability, born in or near Westminster; where
the judge must have dwelt. In 1268 he was appointed chief justice,
and remained in that post until the end of Henry’s reign. Not being
re‐appointed, he retired to his castle of Lochmaben. Here (in 1289) he
became one of the commissioners for negociating the marriage of the
heiress of Scotland with the young prince of Wales. On the death of the
youthful Margaret, he advanced his own claim, as the son of David of
Huntingdon’s second daughter; but the superior claim of John Baliol was
preferred, he being the grandson of David’s _eldest_ daughter. De Brus,
disappointed, and resolving not to pay homage to Baliol, “retired,”
says Sir Walter Scott, “to his great Yorkshire estates,” where he died
in 1295, the year preceding Edward’s first entrance into Scotland. He
had been, through life, ranked among the barons of England, and had
been always a steady supporter of the crown. We find him on Henry’s
side at the battle of Lewes in 1264. We find him also acting as sheriff
of Cumberland; and he was buried in 1295, at Guisborough in Yorkshire,
where his tomb still remains.