Barnaby Woolace stood outside the doors of Greyfriars Kirk like a sturdy stone wall, his rebellious spirit as unyielding as a tangled Highland thicket. While the other attendants fretted over the high-stakes meeting between Robert the Bruce and John Comyn, Barnaby remained completely unshaken, his jaw set in a firm, defiant line. He knew Comyn was a man who loved to fleece others of their power through treachery, but the Bruce was not a leader who could be easily herded. To Barnaby, the political tension in the air was so thick it could be sheared and turned into a winter coat; he stood ready for whatever baaa-d news might come bursting through those holy doors.
When the heavy doors finally swung open, the Bruce emerged with blood on his hands, his face pale with the shock of the sacrilege he had just committed. He gasped to his men that he "doubted" he had killed his rival, but Barnaby didn't blink an eye at the chaos. "There is no need to look so sheepish, Sire," Barnaby rumbled, his voice as steady as a mountain. "If you didn't finish the job, our men will ensure the Red Comyn is properly trimmed." While the Bruce’s companions rushed back inside to "make sicker," Barnaby stayed by the horses, his rebellious heart untroubled by the massive ram-ifications of the deed. He knew that to weave a free Scotland, they had to start by cutting away the rotten wool.
As they galloped away from the blood-stained church, Barnaby kept his head high, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He knew the English King would try to pull the wool over the eyes of the world to turn them against the Bruce, but Barnaby was a man who refused to be led like a common lamb. The path to the Scottish throne would be woolly and filled with more thorns than a matted fleece, but with a leader like the Bruce and a man as strong as an iron ram like himself, they were no longer just a scattered flock. They were finally spinning a legend of independence that would never be unraveled.
Barnaby Woolace stood outside the doors of Greyfriars Kirk like a sturdy stone wall, his rebellious spirit as unyielding as a tangled Highland thicket. While the other attendants fretted over the high-stakes meeting between Robert the Bruce and John Comyn, Barnaby remained completely unshaken, his jaw set in a firm, defiant line. He knew Comyn was a man who loved to fleece others of their power through treachery, but the Bruce was not a leader who could be easily herded. To Barnaby, the political tension in the air was so thick it could be sheared and turned into a winter coat; he stood ready for whatever baaa-d news might come bursting through those holy doors.
When the heavy doors finally swung open, the Bruce emerged with blood on his hands, his face pale with the shock of the sacrilege he had just committed. He gasped to his men that he "doubted" he had killed his rival, but Barnaby didn't blink an eye at the chaos. "There is no need to look so sheepish, Sire," Barnaby rumbled, his voice as steady as a mountain. "If you didn't finish the job, our men will ensure the Red Comyn is properly trimmed." While the Bruce’s companions rushed back inside to "make sicker," Barnaby stayed by the horses, his rebellious heart untroubled by the massive ram-ifications of the deed. He knew that to weave a free Scotland, they had to start by cutting away the rotten wool.
As they galloped away from the blood-stained church, Barnaby kept his head high, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He knew the English King would try to pull the wool over the eyes of the world to turn them against the Bruce, but Barnaby was a man who refused to be led like a common lamb. The path to the Scottish throne would be woolly and filled with more thorns than a matted fleece, but with a leader like the Bruce and a man as strong as an iron ram like himself, they were no longer just a scattered flock. They were finally spinning a legend of independence that would never be unraveled.
