The Guardian Page 8

  “What triumph? The man is dead, and he died in exile.”

  “Not so. He died in England, on his own family estates. And his legacy is safe. Certainly, his Scots estates were taken over by his enemies of Comyn, but that’s a temporary thing to be remedied any day now that the Comyns have fallen from power in the aftermath of Dunbar. Nearly all of them are in jail in England, defeated and disgraced. Besides, the ordinary Bruce folk, the commons, did not suffer by the confiscations. They had nothing to lose, other than the name of their masters, and the Comyns are not tyrants to the folk they rule. So Bruce lands will soon be returned to Bruce, and the family’s claim to Scotland’s throne remains valid, passed on to the old man’s descendants, who are well situated to make use of it someday, now that the kingship is in dispute again.

  “On becoming Lord of Annandale, the first thing the younger Robert Bruce did—and he was clearly acting upon his father’s instructions—was to bestow his own earldom of Carrick upon his son, the seventh Robert Bruce. So now the Bruces hold vast tracts of southwest Scotland—Annandale and Carrick—and with their old enemies neutered, they flourish under Edward’s benevolence. The current Lord of Annandale is Edward’s loyal governor of Carlisle, and the young Earl of Carrick is treated by England’s King like a favourite son. Believe me, Father Martin, men have not yet even begun to perceive, let alone understand, the brilliance of that old man’s evasion of what should have been a disastrous situation. He out-thought and outmanoeuvred everyone, friend and foe alike, and took care of his own magnificently. As I said, an admirable man, in every way. Perhaps primus inter pares.”

  “Think you his son is capable of the same?”

  There was little now in evidence of the young, brash, thoughtless Irish priest. “That remains to be seen, my friend. But thanks to his father’s actions he will, at least, have the chance to demonstrate his fitness, one way or the other.”

  “I’m told that the youngest one, young Carrick, is a worthless fop,” he continued. “A prancing popinjay was the description I heard.”

  “Is that right? And where did you hear that, Father?”

  “I don’t remember,” he said, not looking at me and sounding elaborately casual. “Someone spoke of it, and those around agreed with him.”

  “Of course they did. And they all knew young Bruce well, of course, considering that he has not been seen in Scotland these eight years. He went to live and train in England two full years before his mother died, and was still a beardless boy when last he was seen north of Berwick.”

  He turned and looked at me, his face showing, I thought, a trace of discomfort. “I didn’t ask about that,” he said. “I didn’t know about it.”

  “Just as well, perhaps. But although the elder Bruce’s reputation in Scotland did not suffer much overall, the grandson is another matter, I’ll grant you that. I, too, have heard that young Carrick has grown into a feckless English fop, spoiled beyond recognition by the King, who seems to dote upon him like an addled grandsire. I find that hard to believe, but the boy had lived at the English court in Westminster for years before the family moved there, so there might be something more to it than spite and jealousy. On the whole, though, I do not really care. I would rather concern myself with the memory of a truly admirable old man than waste my time wondering about a young dandy I’ve never met and am unlikely to meet any time soon.”

  We lapsed into a silence broken only by the sounds of our progress: the hard, crisp clack of the heels of my new boots and the papery shuffle of his sandals’ soles. I began to pay attention to my surroundings and to think more carefully about my rapidly approaching meeting with my mentor and employer, Bishop Robert Wishart, and as though by magic, the mere idea of meeting him again had the effect of loosening my bowels. There was no reason why it should have, for I had no fear of the bishop and my conscience was clear, so it might have been mere coincidence that the stomach spasm hit me when it did, but there was no doubting the urgency of the summons. I quickly lowered my pack and dashed into a dense clump of shrubs.

  A thought occurred to me while I was alone, and I was mulling it over as I made my way back to the roadway to collect my pack and my staff.

  “Forgive me, Father James,” Martin said, “but you look … preoccupied. Is something wrong?”

  “No,” I said, surprised that my distraction had been so easy to see. “No, there is nothing wrong.” And I had to laugh, thinking of the comical way in which the mind could make connections. “It’s merely that in doing my business I was reminded of something Edward Plantagenet supposedly said to Antony Bek after having— again supposedly—conquered Scotland last year.”

  “Supposedly conquered Scotland? Why would you say that? He did conquer it.”

  “I said it because it’s the truth. They were returning, victorious, to England, and it was last August—less than ten months ago. Yet now, with the majority of the Scottish leadership safely shut up in English jails, English armies are being ordered back to Scotland. Had Edward’s conquest last year been as real as he supposed it to be, there would be no possibility of uprisings this soon. Edward’s armies beat us in a sore fight at Dunbar and took many nobles prisoner. But the truth is they came nowhere close to conquering the Scots people, the ordinary folk. That’s why this whole country is in an uproar now—because Edward failed to make sure that the task he thought was done had really been completed. He left a crew of ruthless, venal cutthroats to administer his interests, and now he’s paying the price of underestimating his enemy.”

  Martin had been listening closely, his brow furrowed. “That makes sense,” he said. “And I believe you’re right … So what was it Edward said to Bek?”

  “Oh, that. They had been discussing the conduct of their campaign and the success of their banishment of Balliol, delivering all of Scotland into the absolute power of England’s rule. ‘A man does good business,’ Edward is reported to have said, ‘when he rids himself of a turd.’”

  CHAPTER SIX

  REBELS AND MISCREANTS

  Father Martin and I walked in companionable silence for a long time after that, and several miles elapsed as the landscape surrounding us changed gradually from a sparse scattering of hawthorn and hazel, more shrubbery than trees, to hardy, dense clumps of shallow-rooted gorse and broom. These we watched die away completely within about an hour to leave us walking through a pale green countryside of low, rolling hills coated in short, sheep-cropped grass scarred by moss- and lichen-covered outcrops of the underlying rock that rendered the place unsuitable for any kind of agricultural activity other than the raising of sheep.

  Some time after that, I noticed that my companion was craning his neck to look around us, where nothing had changed within the past few miles. “We really should be drawing close to Maybole by now,” he said. “But clearly we have not come as far as I thought we had. I see a farmhouse, though, so we have at least reached civilization.”

  I grunted my disdain. “Habitation I will accept, but I would balk at civilization, in this part of the world.” I looked about me, taking in the rolling sweep of the surrounding craggy hills and the paucity of trees. “No signs of settlement that I can see, but I have no doubt Maybole will be here somewhere, and when we find it we will be in the very heart of the Carrick earldom. Pardon me, then, if I walk in silence for a while, preparing myself for the sight of its glories.”

  We walked on for another half mile until we rounded a bend in the road and came to the so-called town of Maybole. It was a hamlet: a cluster of buildings with two undistinguished taverns and a scattering of people who eyed our priestly robes incuriously. We considered stopping at one of the hostelries, but only briefly, deciding that we would be better to keep going for the remaining few miles to Turnberry. We turned right at the crossroads and kept walking, and the road led us along the bank of a narrow, noisy, fast-flowing brook.

  Martin had been walking with his head down, mulling over something, but now he glanced at the roadside stream. “Lots of wat
er around here,” he said. “Is this the same burn that we crossed in Maybole?”

  “Your guess would be as good as mine,” I said. “Running water is everywhere in these parts. There are dozens of these burns, all flowing into one another until they reach the sea as rivers. Some of the rivers have names, others don’t. It depends on how close they come to places where folk live.”

  “I’ve noticed that,” Martin said. “There’s one comes out right at Turnberry, forming the spit of land that holds Bruce’s castle, and I know it has a name, but don’t ask me what it is because I couldn’t tell you.”

  “And how far remains to Turnberry? I have enjoyed your companionship, Father, but our loving Saviour knows I’m ready to reach journey’s end this day, pleasant as it has been.”

  “Six miles, I’d think, something like that. Less than two hours, at any rate.”

  “Two hours to kill, then. So what will we talk about now?”

  “You tell me,” he said pleasantly. “It should be my turn to talk, in fairness. What?” he asked me, frowning quickly. “What did I say?”

  “You said almost nothing, Father. I’ve been talking. For hours.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said as I felt my face break out in a wide smile.

  “Nor should you,” I said. “How could you?”

  “What on earth are you talking about, Father?”

  “I’m talking about anything and everything, it seems,” I said, and then laughed aloud. “Martin, you’ve cured me. I’m talking as easily and fluently as I did before my injuries, and I haven’t been aware of it until this very moment.”

  ‘What injuries?”

  “My mouth, my face.”

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “Nothing, obviously, and for that I thank the Lord God. You have no difficulty understanding me?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because—” I realized that I was being foolish. The young priest had never heard me speak before today, so he had nothing against which to judge my prowess. But I had, and I was exultant. I had no doubt I was taking greater care with my enunciation, but I was doing it with ease and confidence. “Because I did not always speak, or sound, the way I do today,” I finished. “But so long as you can understand me without difficulty, then I am content. You were about to take over the talking for this next part of our journey, so tell me about France and the university at Paris. I have never been in France but I’ve heard great things about Paris and its university.”

  “Ah! Well,” he said, “if you’ve never been to France, that makes Paris difficult to describe, for there’s nothing here in Scotland, or in Ireland for that matter, that comes close to matching it.”

  We conversed on that subject for some time, and I gently twitted Father Martin for his rhapsodic devotion to the beautiful city, to which, apparently, there was not another town in the entire world that could withstand comparison.

  “I have a friend who was there for years,” I told him, “and he, too, speaks of it much as you do.”

  “Oh? What’s his name? I may know him.”

  “I have no do doubt you do. He’s a canon of Glasgow Cathedral.”

  “Canon Lamberton! You are a friend of Canon Lamberton? Then you are fortunate indeed.” His tone, verging on reverential, left me in no doubt of his sincerity. “What an admirable man he is. You’ll be surprised to know I owe my current post to him. I met him there, in Paris, several years ago. We came to know each other slightly, and for some reason he decided I might do well in Scotland. Not too long afterwards, he wrote to me saying he had prevailed upon his bishop to offer me a clerical position on the chapter staff in Glasgow.”

  “Aha! And what, precisely, is your function on the staff there, apart from representing the adherents of St. Dominic?”

  He treated me to the full glory of his engaging smile. “Well, Father James, to tell the truth, I’ve had no time for staff duty, for I’ve been filling in for you while you have been away. I arrived in Glasgow while you were in the south with your cousin, and when you were unable to return, the bishop set me to completing the assignments you had been working on before you left.”

  “I see,” I said. “So you have replaced me …”

  “Heaven forfend! No, Father.” He had the grace to look horrified. “No, no, don’t say that. Bishop Wishart has been champing at the bit like a warhorse, waiting for you to climb back into your saddle. He believes that you and I together might make a worthwhile team, if you could bring yourself to work with me, but I swear by all I believe in that the thought of my replacing you has never crossed his mind—or mine. He thinks too highly of your skills and talents.”

  I confess his oath of truthfulness set my mind at ease, and I was now more curious about this young priest. Whatever his gifts might be, they must have been prodigious to earn the sponsorship he had won from William Lamberton in Paris. “So,” I asked him, “have you met my cousin?”

  “I have, several times now. A fine, big man he is.”

  “Is he with the bishop now?”

  “No. He was, for a while, but about a week ago he took off back to his forest den.”

  “That does not surprise me. Will always was a forester at heart. When did you first meet him?”

  “About a month ago, when he returned from Perth.”

  Once again the Irish priest confounded me, for the town of Perth lay far to the north of Glasgow, in the waist of Scotland, close to the Abbey of Scone, which had housed the Stone of Destiny, the sacred stone upon which the Kings of Scotland had been crowned since time immemorial, until Edward had seized it and had it removed to England.

  “Perth?” I repeated inanely, as though I had never heard the name before. “What was Will doing up there?”

  That earned me another of Martin’s flashing grins. “Why, Father Jamie, you must be the only man in Scotland who would ask that question, for I swear everyone else knows the answer. You know the fellow Ormsby, William Ormsby?”

  “That odious man of Edward’s, the fellow he appointed justiciar of Scotland last year, after dethroning King John. I have seldom met a man I disliked so heartily.”

  “That’s the very man, instantly and eternally lovable. He established himself in Perth, making it the seat of his justiciary. His prime task was to administer English justice in Scotland and to see to it that all Scots who had not already done so would swear allegiance to Edward.”

  I nodded, remembering the outrage that requirement had occasioned. “Swear it not, as they had before, to England’s king as Lord Paramount of Scotland, but to Edward Plantagenet the man. And worse, in person.”

  “Ormsby was authorized to use any means at his disposal to achieve that objective,” the Ulsterman continued, “and he quickly made himself detested by everyone who encountered him.”

  “Detested in Perth, you mean.”

  “Aye, in Perth. He set himself up there because it was within easy reach of all that he wished to plunder. It took no time at all for him to make himself widely loathed.”

  “In the north,” I insisted. “His infamy was not so widespread to the south. I heard of what he was doing, but I heard little to convince me he was the kind of devil you describe. Mind you, in those days I was spending much of my time carrying messages to and from Selkirk Forest, and that gave me enough to fret about without being distracted by the outlandish behaviour of another of Edward’s malicious officeholders.”

  “You were fortunate to be so well removed from him, then,” my companion said. “Those nearer to him felt the wrath of Hell about their ears.”

  “Aye, including Will, it would appear.”

  “Including Will, though only indirectly. What I heard was that, just as the fighting ended on the night your cousin overthrew the English garrison in Lanark, someone brought him word that another English force was close by, besieging Sir William Douglas in Sanquhar Castle. Wallace knew the castle was an easy march to the south, and since he apparently admired the Lord of Douglas and t
he timing seemed right to him, he led his men there, knowing they would feel invincible after their victory at Lanark. They surprised the English from the rear and rescued Douglas, who immediately placed himself under your cousin’s orders and declared himself to be a Wallace man. When they returned to Glasgow together, word of Ormsby’s most recent excesses had everyone agog with outrage, and a short time later they departed on horseback bound for Perth.

  “Of course they were unexpected, and the raid was a complete success. Ormsby barely escaped being taken and had to flee, leaving all his possessions and his entire baggage train behind as booty for the raiders. Your cousin’s reputation grew greatly with that exploit.”

  I was confused. “On horseback?” Will, I knew, was a fair horseman, trained by the stablemen on our uncle Malcolm’s estate in Elderslie, but his men were rough forest outlaws, bowmen, mostly, and all ordinary peasant folk, none of them wealthy enough ever to have thought about riding, let alone owning, a horse. “How was that accomplished? And who on earth could have paid for such an expedition?”

  “Now there I cannot help you, Father. You’ll have to ask that of the bishop when we find him, for he’s the man with all the information you’re seeking. All I know is that Ormsby needed to be stopped, dramatically and publicly, and the Perth raid achieved that. But I have only the vaguest understanding of the politics involved. I know they were as much religious as they were regal. Bishops and princes, Church and state all intermingled. Edward wants to make Scotland’s Church answerable to York Minster, just as he wants to see all Scotland under the heel of his tax collectors. And to defeat those aims, William Ormsby, justiciar of Scotland—the King of England’s hated functionary—was sent packing, ingloriously. But without your cousin there as leader, the raid would not have had anything near the same effect.

  “The ordinary folk,” he went on, “have no trust in the magnates. They never have.”