The Hunt for William Wallace

On the morning of August 23rd, 1305, there was something of a carnival atmosphere in London. Since the early hours of what promised to be a fine day for Edward I’s capital city, crowds had been gathering to watch that most appealing of spectacles, a public execution. Such an event was not, of course, unusual when the law was often capricious and brutal; thieves, coiners, servants who had struck their masters, the simple-minded and the irreligious, these were some of the subjects on which the hangmen could rely for employment.

But today’s proceedings promised to be special. The victim of the judicial process on this occasion was the Scot, William Wallace. Over the years English propaganda had depicted Wallace in the most extreme terms, as a man void of pity, one crueller than Herod, madder than Nero. Above all, he was portrayed as a traitor to Edward I and as such worthy of the worst the law could devise. Not since the execution of Thomas Turberville, the Englishman who had spied for France ten years before, had Londoners had the opportunity to enjoy the death of a traitor.

Through the abusive and threatening crowds, Wallace was brought to Westminster Hall, where a plaque marks the spot on which he stood to hear his fate from a commission headed by Peter Mallore, Edward’s justiciar. In keeping with contemporary practice, there was no trial as we understand the term; Wallace was present only to hear the charges against him and the sentence to be visited on him. He was not allowed to speak in his own defence, although he managed to cry that he was no traitor, since he had never sworn loyalty to the king who had judged and condemned him.

The farce over, he was led from Westminster Hall to face the first part of his protracted and horrific ordeal. In front of the expectant crowd, he was tied to a hurdle and dragged at the tails of horses over a distance of more than four miles to Smithfield, where a second plaque, on the wall of St Bartholomew’s Hospital, serves as a reminder of Wallace’s end. At Smithfield he was slowly hanged but cut down still alive, to be disembowelled and castrated, and his heart, liver, lungs and entrails were burnt. Only then was his head struck off and his body quartered. His head was raised on a pole on London Bridge to the delight of the public and his quarters were sent for display at selected sites in Edward’s kingdom, which now, despite Wallace’s heroic efforts, included Scotland.

And there, at Smithfield, it has long been believed, the legend of William Wallace began. According to this scenario, Edward, vicious and obsessive, had set out not merely to destroy Wallace’s body but also his reputation, to expunge his name from the Scottish consciousness. In this objective, the King is seen as having failed. The truth may be otherwise. The facts, such as they are, suggest a different interpretation, both of the hunt for Wallace prior to his capture and on the question of his reputation after his execution.

Who was this man who inspired such hatred in his English contemporaries but such devotion in Scots seven hundred years after his death? His origins are obscure, although there are tantalizing clues. A seal of 1297 portrays him as an archer and bears the legend William, son of Alan Wallace. We know of an Alan Wallace who was a crown tenant in Ayrshire but what connection, if any, there was between the two we cannot say. The same applies in the case of a William Wallace found guilty of theft in Perth. As so often with Wallace, there are more questions than answers.

Wallace emerged from obscurity with the brutal murder of William Heselrig, the English sheriff of Lanark, in May 1297. Tradition ascribes this act to revenge for Heselrig’s treatment of Wallace’s lover, Marion Braidfute: the truth is more likely to be found in the political situation in Scotland. In the previous year, Edward I had invaded Scotland when defied by John Balliol King of Scots over the matter of suzerainty. Edward defeated and imprisoned Balliol and imposed his own government on Scotland under Earl Warenne and Hugh Cressingham, the treasurer, whom the Scots came to know as ‘the treacherer’. Edward then left for the Continent, believing that Scotland was pacified.

In this, he was quickly shown to be mistaken. Rebellion against English rule broke out across the country. In the north, Andrew Murray led the rebels in a series of attacks on centres of English power. Further south, Wallace became the focal point of resistance. His murder of Heselrig, whether motivated by patriotism or passion, drew the disaffected to him. If not previously an outlaw, he was certainly one now.

At once, he demonstrated the vigour and military skill which were his trademarks. Soon after Lanark, we find him at Scone, eighty miles to the north, where he almost captured William Ormsby, Edward’s justiciar. He then swept the English out of Perthshire and Fife, and by August had laid siege to Dundee. In the vicinity of Stirling, he joined forces with Andrew Murray at the head of what the English called ‘a very large body of rogues’. Wallace, unsparing of himself and others, had left Dundee to the care of the townspeople on pain of loss of life and limb.

Scottish resistance to English rule had not been uniformly successful. An aristocratic rebellion led by Robert Bruce, James the Stewart, and Robert Wishart, bishop of Glasgow, had ended in ignominious surrender to an English army at Irvine in June 1297. Wallace and Murray, with the only Scottish army in the field, were now about to face their own test of strength. Warenne and Cressingham at the head of a large army were moving north to deal with them. The English commanders were at odds; Warenne was loth to fight, while Cressingham, by contrast, was intent on glory. Their army, with its impressive heavy cavalry, outnumbered the Scots by a comfortable margin. The easy defeat of the Scots under Balliol almost certainly increased English belief in victory in any battle.

Wallace and Murray, however, were well prepared. Like the enemy, they understood the strategic importance of Stirling Castle, overlooking the crossing of the River Forth. They had positioned their army on the southward-looking slope of the Abbey Craig, about a mile from the only bridge available to the English. The ground at the foot of the Abbey Craig was unsuitable for heavy cavalry. Warenne, an experienced soldier, may well have realized this and made several attempts to persuade the Scots to surrender. In a memorable rejoinder, Wallace informed Warenne that the Scots were at Stirling ‘to do battle to defend ourselves and liberate our kingdom. Let them come on, and we shall prove this in their very beards’.

On September 11th, 1297, the English began to cross the bridge. It was so narrow that no more than two horsemen could ride abreast. When the vanguard had almost crossed, Wallace and Murray released their infantry in a downward charge which crashed into the English. Unable to deploy, the vanguard was slaughtered, while their colleagues watched impotently from the far side of the river. At least a hundred knights perished, among them Cressingham. Warenne fled. It was later said that the Scots skinned Cressingham’s body to make a belt for Wallace’s sword.

It was a remarkable but costly victory. Murray was grievously wounded and survived only until November. The burden of defending Scotland fell on Wallace. In recognition of his achievements, he was knighted and made Guardian of Scotland, the first individual to hold this office. After the death of Alexander III in 1286, the Scots, fearful of civil war, placed the government of the nation in the hands of men known as ‘custodes’ or ‘Guardians’. When we consider the composition of the first Guardians – two bishops, two earls, and two barons – we begin to understand the nature of Wallace’s achievement. Wallace recognized the value of restoring links with the Continent and was soon in contact with Lübeck and Hamburg. That winter he led a devastating series of attacks on the north of England, in which, it was claimed, ‘the service of God totally ceased in all the monasteries and churches between Newcastle and Carlisle’.

But his greatest task lay ahead. Wallace knew that only with the defeat of Edward himself could Scotland be free. He began to prepare for the onslaught that was to come. Edward returned to England from the Continent on March 14th, 1298 and at once set about gathering an army, which was to muster at Roxburgh on June 25th. While estimates of the size of the army vary, it is generally accepted that it was the biggest Edward ever raised for any Scottish campaign. Wallace could not hope to match such numbers; he chose to rely on the infantry that had served him so well at Stirling.

However, Wallace was anxious to avoid battle if possible. To this end, he engaged in a strategy of withdrawal behind a screen of scorched earth. Edward advanced, his lines of communication quickly overstretched. His army, unable to find the enemy, was in disarray, starving and with dissension in the ranks. By July 21st, Edward was ready to retreat. But he was saved by news from two Scottish earls that the Scots lay less than twenty miles ahead, at Falkirk. He acted at once with a forced march. He came upon Wallace in a strongly entrenched position, fronted by a morass. If Wallace had not intended to fight, he was nevertheless in a strong position. He had divided the Scottish infantry into four schiltroms, bristling with spears, each surrounded by a fence of stakes. A small cavalry force under fellow rebel John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch was present.

The schiltroms proved their worth against the initial English cavalry charges, their spears inflicting much damage on the enemy horses. The Scottish cavalry meanwhile had fled, for reasons unknown. Edward now called up his archers and they began the systematic decimation of the Scottish ranks. His cavalry completed the rout of the Scots in a further series of attacks. The schiltroms kept their discipline to the end, but losses were heavy; according to an English account, the Scots ‘fell like blossoms in an orchard when the fruit has ripened’.On the morning of August 23rd, 1305, there was something of a carnival atmosphere in London. Since the early hours of what promised to be a fine day for Edward I’s capital city, crowds had been gathering to watch that most appealing of spectacles, a public execution. Such an event was not, of course, unusual when the law was often capricious and brutal; thieves, coiners, servants who had struck their masters, the simple-minded and the irreligious, these were some of the subjects on which the hangmen could rely for employment.

But today’s proceedings promised to be special. The victim of the judicial process on this occasion was the Scot, William Wallace. Over the years English propaganda had depicted Wallace in the most extreme terms, as a man void of pity, one crueller than Herod, madder than Nero. Above all, he was portrayed as a traitor to Edward I and as such worthy of the worst the law could devise. Not since the execution of Thomas Turberville, the Englishman who had spied for France ten years before, had Londoners had the opportunity to enjoy the death of a traitor.

Through the abusive and threatening crowds, Wallace was brought to Westminster Hall, where a plaque marks the spot on which he stood to hear his fate from a commission headed by Peter Mallore, Edward’s justiciar. In keeping with contemporary practice, there was no trial as we understand the term; Wallace was present only to hear the charges against him and the sentence to be visited on him. He was not allowed to speak in his own defence, although he managed to cry that he was no traitor, since he had never sworn loyalty to the king who had judged and condemned him.

The farce over, he was led from Westminster Hall to face the first part of his protracted and horrific ordeal. In front of the expectant crowd, he was tied to a hurdle and dragged at the tails of horses over a distance of more than four miles to Smithfield, where a second plaque, on the wall of St Bartholomew’s Hospital, serves as a reminder of Wallace’s end. At Smithfield he was slowly hanged but cut down still alive, to be disembowelled and castrated, and his heart, liver, lungs and entrails were burnt. Only then was his head struck off and his body quartered. His head was raised on a pole on London Bridge to the delight of the public and his quarters were sent for display at selected sites in Edward’s kingdom, which now, despite Wallace’s heroic efforts, included Scotland.

And there, at Smithfield, it has long been believed, the legend of William Wallace began. According to this scenario, Edward, vicious and obsessive, had set out not merely to destroy Wallace’s body but also his reputation, to expunge his name from the Scottish consciousness. In this objective, the King is seen as having failed. The truth may be otherwise. The facts, such as they are, suggest a different interpretation, both of the hunt for Wallace prior to his capture and on the question of his reputation after his execution.

Who was this man who inspired such hatred in his English contemporaries but such devotion in Scots seven hundred years after his death? His origins are obscure, although there are tantalizing clues. A seal of 1297 portrays him as an archer and bears the legend William, son of Alan Wallace. We know of an Alan Wallace who was a crown tenant in Ayrshire but what connection, if any, there was between the two we cannot say. The same applies in the case of a William Wallace found guilty of theft in Perth. As so often with Wallace, there are more questions than answers.

Wallace emerged from obscurity with the brutal murder of William Heselrig, the English sheriff of Lanark, in May 1297. Tradition ascribes this act to revenge for Heselrig’s treatment of Wallace’s lover, Marion Braidfute: the truth is more likely to be found in the political situation in Scotland. In the previous year, Edward I had invaded Scotland when defied by John Balliol King of Scots over the matter of suzerainty. Edward defeated and imprisoned Balliol and imposed his own government on Scotland under Earl Warenne and Hugh Cressingham, the treasurer, whom the Scots came to know as ‘the treacherer’. Edward then left for the Continent, believing that Scotland was pacified.

In this, he was quickly shown to be mistaken. Rebellion against English rule broke out across the country. In the north, Andrew Murray led the rebels in a series of attacks on centres of English power. Further south, Wallace became the focal point of resistance. His murder of Heselrig, whether motivated by patriotism or passion, drew the disaffected to him. If not previously an outlaw, he was certainly one now.

At once, he demonstrated the vigour and military skill which were his trademarks. Soon after Lanark, we find him at Scone, eighty miles to the north, where he almost captured William Ormsby, Edward’s justiciar. He then swept the English out of Perthshire and Fife, and by August had laid siege to Dundee. In the vicinity of Stirling, he joined forces with Andrew Murray at the head of what the English called ‘a very large body of rogues’. Wallace, unsparing of himself and others, had left Dundee to the care of the townspeople on pain of loss of life and limb.

Scottish resistance to English rule had not been uniformly successful. An aristocratic rebellion led by Robert Bruce, James the Stewart, and Robert Wishart, bishop of Glasgow, had ended in ignominious surrender to an English army at Irvine in June 1297. Wallace and Murray, with the only Scottish army in the field, were now about to face their own test of strength. Warenne and Cressingham at the head of a large army were moving north to deal with them. The English commanders were at odds; Warenne was loth to fight, while Cressingham, by contrast, was intent on glory. Their army, with its impressive heavy cavalry, outnumbered the Scots by a comfortable margin. The easy defeat of the Scots under Balliol almost certainly increased English belief in victory in any battle.

Wallace and Murray, however, were well prepared. Like the enemy, they understood the strategic importance of Stirling Castle, overlooking the crossing of the River Forth. They had positioned their army on the southward-looking slope of the Abbey Craig, about a mile from the only bridge available to the English. The ground at the foot of the Abbey Craig was unsuitable for heavy cavalry. Warenne, an experienced soldier, may well have realized this and made several attempts to persuade the Scots to surrender. In a memorable rejoinder, Wallace informed Warenne that the Scots were at Stirling ‘to do battle to defend ourselves and liberate our kingdom. Let them come on, and we shall prove this in their very beards’.

On September 11th, 1297, the English began to cross the bridge. It was so narrow that no more than two horsemen could ride abreast. When the vanguard had almost crossed, Wallace and Murray released their infantry in a downward charge which crashed into the English. Unable to deploy, the vanguard was slaughtered, while their colleagues watched impotently from the far side of the river. At least a hundred knights perished, among them Cressingham. Warenne fled. It was later said that the Scots skinned Cressingham’s body to make a belt for Wallace’s sword.

It was a remarkable but costly victory. Murray was grievously wounded and survived only until November. The burden of defending Scotland fell on Wallace. In recognition of his achievements, he was knighted and made Guardian of Scotland, the first individual to hold this office. After the death of Alexander III in 1286, the Scots, fearful of civil war, placed the government of the nation in the hands of men known as ‘custodes’ or ‘Guardians’. When we consider the composition of the first Guardians – two bishops, two earls, and two barons – we begin to understand the nature of Wallace’s achievement. Wallace recognized the value of restoring links with the Continent and was soon in contact with Lübeck and Hamburg. That winter he led a devastating series of attacks on the north of England, in which, it was claimed, ‘the service of God totally ceased in all the monasteries and churches between Newcastle and Carlisle’.

But his greatest task lay ahead. Wallace knew that only with the defeat of Edward himself could Scotland be free. He began to prepare for the onslaught that was to come. Edward returned to England from the Continent on March 14th, 1298 and at once set about gathering an army, which was to muster at Roxburgh on June 25th. While estimates of the size of the army vary, it is generally accepted that it was the biggest Edward ever raised for any Scottish campaign. Wallace could not hope to match such numbers; he chose to rely on the infantry that had served him so well at Stirling.

However, Wallace was anxious to avoid battle if possible. To this end, he engaged in a strategy of withdrawal behind a screen of scorched earth. Edward advanced, his lines of communication quickly overstretched. His army, unable to find the enemy, was in disarray, starving and with dissension in the ranks. By July 21st, Edward was ready to retreat. But he was saved by news from two Scottish earls that the Scots lay less than twenty miles ahead, at Falkirk. He acted at once with a forced march. He came upon Wallace in a strongly entrenched position, fronted by a morass. If Wallace had not intended to fight, he was nevertheless in a strong position. He had divided the Scottish infantry into four schiltroms, bristling with spears, each surrounded by a fence of stakes. A small cavalry force under fellow rebel John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch was present.