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  “They told me you were better, Father James,” he said to me in Latin, “but I am deeply pleased to see you looking so well. You had us sorely worried for a time. Thanks be to God, we have a veteran Knight Hospitaller in our fraternity, a man who learned the art of healing broken bodies in the Holy Wars against the followers of Muhammad. His name is Dominic of Ormiston, and though he remains a Knight Hospitaller he is now our hospitaller, being too old to remain with his companions in the order. Now he tends to our few needs and to those of the local populace. He it was who examined your wounds and reset and wired your jaw until the bones could heal.”

  That was a revelation, for I had believed that my jaw had been irreparably shattered and was therefore locked and useless. I was convinced that the tightness and pain I felt—along with the necessity of being fed with a tube of sheep intestine through the gap where teeth had been knocked from my mouth during the beating— would be a lifelong burden that I must endure as a penance for my sins. Now I blinked in disbelief and raised my hand slowly to my face, fully expecting to feel the knotted ends of wires protruding through my skin. I felt a heavy beard instead, and blinked again in surprise, for I had never been a hairy creature, and the sparse covering I had grown on my cheeks had always been light and carefully trimmed, a minor vanity that had never concerned me greatly.

  “The beard surprised you,” Prior Richard said through his smile. “Well, it is small wonder, if you but think on it. You have been here now for a month, motionless, your body encased in splints, your arms restrained for your own protection and your head locked in a vise throughout that time. You may not have been aware of the passage of time, for you have slept long and deeply most of the month, thanks to the infusions Brother Dominic fed to you in your broth and milk. Are you comfortable now, this minute?”

  I made a humming sound and raised one thumb.

  “Excellent. That is a blessing.” Prior Richard inhaled sharply before continuing to speak. “Word came to me mere hours ago that you were better and your arm and head restraints had been removed, and I came as soon as I could. I also thought to bring you some gifts.” He waved a hand towards the paper and charcoal. “These will permit you something of a voice again.”

  I reached towards them, but they were too far away to grasp, and seeing my clutching fingers, Prior Richard quickly bent forward and handed them to me. I propped the pile of papers against one raised thigh while I selected a charcoal stick and examined it carefully, unaccustomed to the flimsy weight of such a thing and knowing, from experience, how fragile charcoal could be. This batch, however, was of superior quality, dense, smooth, and hard. I cautiously set the point against the whiteness of the paper.

  Wonderful charcoal, I wrote in Latin.

  Prior Richard smiled. “Better than ink for much of what we do,” he said. “We have a gifted charcoal burner nearby, a true craftsman, and he uses only the finest wood for this particular purpose because he knows we use it for writing—not for anything permanent, of course, but it serves wondrously well for drafting copies and it saves much precious ink.”

  I wrote again, my hand trembling slightly from lack of custom with the charcoal. May I have ink later, as I grow better?

  “Of course. But parchment might be difficult.”

  No need of it, but why difficult?

  That prompted a wry twist of his mouth. “Because we have no ready source. We are a small priory in Lanark, not a cathedral in Glasgow.”

  I was growing more confident by the moment. How will they unwire me, when the time comes?

  Another smile. “By precisely reversing the manner in which your jaw was shut.”

  Will your Hospitaller do it? Is he here?

  “He will, but he is not here today. He has been gone for several days on his regular visits to the people in the surrounding countryside. He has told me, though, that it would take six weeks or so for your jaw to mend, given no further complications.”

  So two weeks remain?

  The prior nodded.

  Then he will undo the wires?

  “He will. He says the removal will be straightforward. He will simply snip the wires and pull them out. The holes will heal quickly and should not even bleed when we remove the wires. Silver wire, by the way, in case you are thinking of rusty iron.”

  Will I be able to speak afterwards?

  “We believe so. Your jawbone was cleanly aligned and set and you have been healing well. So yes, you should be able to speak as well as you did before.”

  I hesitated, thinking of when I had first met Prior Richard. He had been travelling through Selkirk Forest with visiting religious dignitaries on their way from England, prime among those John le Romayne, Archbishop of the Holy See of York, when they’d been ambushed by Will and his forest outlaws. I had been there with my cousin that day, having delivered instructions to Will from Bishop Wishart of Glasgow to intercept the English party on the road. His Grace of Glasgow had been forewarned by another bishop in England that the English archbishop was abusing his episcopal immunity and flouting the laws of God and Scotland’s realm by smuggling coinage north from England under the spurious auspices of the Church to pay the English garrisons in Scotland. Will, acting in the sovereign name of King John Balliol, had found and confiscated the hoard the archbishop had been transporting.

  “This man, John le Romayne, Archbishop of York,” Will, prompted by me, said in front of scores of witnesses, “has betrayed his conscience, his brethren, and his vocation, abandoning his vows to the King of Kings in Heaven to win favour of a king on earth, Edward Plantagenet.” He waved towards the pile of money chests in the bed of the wagon. “All men, from this day forth, will know that priests are as open to corruption as any other man, their holy orders notwithstanding. No priest has ever been molested in this land while on his churchly business. No priest has ever had his good faith or his goodwill questioned. But no priest will ever again enjoy the privileges this man here has abused. The impiety and treachery of John le Romayne, Archbishop of York, will be commemorated forever by that irreversible loss of an ancient religious privilege.”

  I saw that Prior Richard was looking at me expectantly, waiting for my next question, and so, without another pause, I asked it, my handwriting strong and confident. What can you tell me about my cousin Will?

  He read my question and frowned slightly. But instead of answering, he turned to Harald Gaptooth, who lay watching us. “Are you comfortable, Master Gaptooth? Is there anything you require?”

  Only when I saw the look of bafflement on Gaptooth’s face did I realize that the question had been in Latin and that the other man had likely understood no word of it beyond his own name.

  “Wha—? What’s that ye say?”

  “Your pardon,” the prior said, switching to English. “I merely asked if you are comfortable.”

  “Aye, like enough,” Gaptooth answered, his voice as truculent as ever. “I’m fine, save for listening to the two of you jabbering like heathens.”

  “I am glad to hear that, though I am the sole speaker and hardly heathenish. Forgive me for speaking Latin in your presence but, as you no doubt know, that is the way of priests.” He smiled apologetically. “We find it so much easier and more precise to speak the Church’s language in dealing with one another, but I will soon be leaving and will bother you no longer.”

  He turned back to me and smoothly reverted to Latin. “I had to be sure our friend here understood nothing of what we were saying before I answered your question. I fear, though, that I have little good to tell you—and even less of substance, since we hear little of the world outside our walls.” He inhaled softly, his eyes gazing into nothingness as he thought about what to say next. “That said, though, I will tell you what little I know.” A deep frown marred his wide brow. “You are aware, I hope, that your cousin lost his wife and children?”

  I wrote quickly, anxious to relieve him of his doubts. I was there, at the start of it when they were taken. That is when I received these
injuries. Later, before they brought me here, one of Will’s men told me they were all dead—and how they had died.

  “And you have heard nothing since then, obviously.” The frown on his face had not abated, and his eyes flickered around the tiny room. “We hear rumours here, largely unconfirmed. Some things, however, appear to be true, at least in part … Much has changed here in southern Scotland since that time. An English knight was killed within days of the murders, and I have been given to believe he was in command of the people responsible for the outrage of those tragic deaths. The word was that your cousin himself had slain the man in retribution for the deaths of his family. The English sheriff of Lanark was struck down, too, at about the same time. His name was Hazelrig and he had led a small army—almost the entire garrison of Lanark town—into Selkirk Forest to stamp out Wallace and his outlaws. But he died there instead, with all his men, overcome in their camp in the dead of night.”

  And then? The raid on Lanark?

  His eyebrows rose. “How did you—? Ah!” He glanced again at Gaptooth, who lay glaring at us as he fought uselessly to understand what we were saying. “Our uncouth companion told you, did he?”

  I nodded.

  “And did he tell you that he is the sole survivor of the English garrison?” He watched my reaction and dipped his head, satisfied that I had not known that. “Unsurprising. I’m sure he himself is unaware of it …”

  I waited, but the prior’s thoughts were far away, and I reached again to write. Will?

  He inhaled sharply. “The last I heard was that he had gone south after taking Lanark, leaving it undefended in order to march into Douglasdale, where Sir William Douglas was leading a full-scale attack on the English in his territory.” He did not need to tell me of his dislike for Douglas, whose reputation for violence, lawlessness, and turbulence was notorious. “But that is all I know and it is no more than rumour.”

  “Hmm.” That sound, at least, I could pronounce.

  “I think it best we get you up and well and back to Glasgow as soon as possible.” Prior Richard hesitated. “You yet remain on Bishop Wishart’s staff, do you not?”

  I dipped my head gently, not entirely certain that was still the case, but he nodded, too, looking slightly relieved. “I had hoped so. I wrote to the bishop with word of your arrival here and the condition in which you had been brought to us, but I have heard nothing in return. Does that surprise you?”

  I smiled and shook my head cautiously.

  “Why not? I confess it has surprised me.”

  Busy man. More to fret over than me.

  He sniffed, unimpressed, and I added, He will be glad to know I am safe—and grateful. And yes, I must return to Glasgow.

  “I agree. I will send Brother Dominic to you as soon as he returns. It might be a week from now, or within the hour, or any time in between.” He grinned, ruefully, I thought. “Brother Dominic obeys no orders but his own and God’s, the only man in this entire place whose duties I cannot dictate. He comes and goes as he pleases, driven only by his own perceptions of his obligations to the sick and ailing. And yet I thank God daily that he is one of us, for his very presence here is a benediction. But I will insist that he examine you as soon as he returns and that those wires be taken out as soon as may be safe.” Prior Richard surged to his feet. “And now I must leave you, for despite what you may think of our small place, there is always much to be done here.” He raised his hand and blessed me with the sign of the cross, then turned and blessed Gaptooth before leaving.

  “You look better,” Brother Dominic said by way of introduction four days later, his voice low and deep and unmistakably Scots. Then he looked towards my roommate. “And you do not.”

  Gaptooth merely gaped at him, and Brother Dominic ignored him from then on, coming to stand at the foot of my cot, where he scanned my face and then my tightly wrapped torso. From the way Prior Richard had spoken of the man, I had known he would be old, and he clearly was, but I had also expected to see in him all the accompanying signs of advanced age: the cadaverous face and stooped shoulders and the ragged, food-stained cassock of an elderly cloistered monk who cared nothing for worldly values or standards of dress.

  I could not have been farther off the mark. The man glaring at me now showed none of those attributes. He looked younger and stronger than his years should have dictated; he was burly and deeply tanned, his tonsured scalp fringed with thick, white, clean, and carefully tended hair. His thick black woollen cassock was spotless, as though it had been cleaned and brushed mere moments earlier. A girdle of whitened rope circled his waist, and above it, made of wood and painted starkly white, the distinctive wedge-armed cross of the Order of the Knights Hospitaller hung from a white string looped about his neck.

  He stepped around the foot of the bed and came closer, stretching out his hand. I felt him take hold of my face, spreading his thumb and fingers over my jaw, and then his grip tightened, moving my head this way and that as though it were a clay pot that he was contemplating buying. His fingers gripped me harder and I stiffened, waiting for the pain to come, but he ignored my reaction, simply tilting my head to one side, pushing, it seemed to me, against my jaw.

  “That hurt?” His voice was a low growl.

  I tried to shake my head, indicating that it did not, but he plainly had no interest in my answer. Instead he forced my head around to the other side with one hand while the fingers of the other dug deep into my neck from the back, as though trying to push my jaw forward, and all the while he was frowning fiercely in concentration.

  “That?”

  I made no move to respond this time, and he released me, stepping slightly back to look down at my chest.

  “Cough.”

  I hesitated, remembering the last time I had coughed. It was not an experience I wished to repeat.

  “Cough, damn it.”

  I coughed, tentatively, and felt nothing.

  “Again! Harder this time. Cough hard.”

  He looked into my eyes for the first time and watched me closely as I obeyed, reluctantly at first and then with more confidence as I began to believe the agonizing pain from my broken ribs had vanished. Four more times he made me cough, each time harder than before. Then he grunted and stepped away to the foot of the bed again, his arms folded over his broad chest, obscuring his white cross.

  “I came back this morning and Prior Richard sent for me as soon as he heard. He wants you out o’ here an’ back to Glasgow as quick as may be. To be truthfu’, when I first heard that, I thought he was mad, thought it was too soon. But ye’re young an’ strong and healthy, for a priest, an’ ye’ve healed well and arena’ showin’ any pain, so it may be I was wrong. It wouldna be the first time, God knows. We’ll get ye out o’ that shell about your ribs this afternoon, see how ye fare wi’ that. We can aey strap ye up again gin we need to. But gin they’re sound, an’ gin I’m satisfied they’re sound, then fine, the jawbone might be mended, too, and we’ll think about the wires. But I’ll tak nae chances, for once thae wires are out, there’ll be nae puttin’ them back. An’ if they come out too soon, the jaw could break apart again, an’ then ye’d really be in trouble. D’ye understand?”

  I nodded, trying to conceal the excitement that was leaping in me. I would be out of the rib splints today and I wanted to crow with joy, but I was strangely anxious not to annoy the man in front of me. And he looked capable of being annoyed quickly and effortlessly.

  “Fine, then,” he growled. “But hear me clearly now, for this is important. Even gin we remove everythin’ and all the bones prove sound, don’t be thinkin’ ye can go runnin’ to Glasgow right away. Ye canna. It’ll tak at least a week, and like as no’ twice that, before ye’re ready to leave here.” He saw my eyes widen and raised a hand. “Listen to me now. Listen. For one thing, even though ye disagree, ye’re too weak to go anywhere. Ye’ve been flat on your back for more than a month, so your whole body’s useless and ye’re goin’ to hae to learn to walk again. Ye’ve had
enough nourishment to keep ye alive, but nowhere near enough to keep up your strength, let alone to build strength. That’s goin’ to tak time and hard work, just to get back the strength ye had before. An’ forbye that, ye’ll have to learn to talk again, because your mouth’s different now from the way it was before it was kicked in. We’ll no’ ken how well the jaw’s shaped until ye try it—it might hae knitted differently frae what it was. Even if it’s perfect, though, ye’ll find it different beyond belief at first. Ye’ve nae teeth left in front, for one thing, so ye’re goin’ to feel stupit when ye try to say some o’ the things ye’ve been sayin’ all your life. Ye’ll no’ be able to say ess ever again. It’ll be eth for you from here on. Can ye whistle?”

  I nodded.

  “No’ now, ye canna. Ye need teeth to whistle. And ye’ll hae to cut up your food into bits afore ye try to eat it, for ye canna bite now an’ ye canna chew—no’ in the front o’ your mouth, anyway. Forbye, it’ll tak days for ye to learn to stomach food o’ any kind, for there’s been nothin’ solid in your belly since ye took that beatin’.” His eyes narrowed again. “Are ye startin’ to understand what I’m saying?”

  I nodded again, trying to disguise the pain of what I was hearing. My mood had changed, in mere moments, from raging elation to profound dismay as I listened to his litany of all the things I could no longer do.

  “I’ll come back after nones,” he grunted, then swung away and left without another word, leaving me to rail at him in silence for his ill-tempered words and his brusque unfriendliness.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE ROAD TO AYR

  It was to be almost six full weeks more before I left the priory and set out for Glasgow, and they were among the most difficult weeks of my life. Everything that Brother Dominic had warned me about proved true. On that first day, and for a week after my restraints were removed, Prior Richard, may God rest his soul, assigned Harald Gaptooth to another room, affording me the dignity of being able to recover in privacy.