The Forest Laird(112)
As indeed they were. In the time it had taken Will to harness the dray’s team, the rear elements of the Bishops’ train, the monks and servants, had had time to assemble around the wagons. Will stood up then and gathered the reins of our team in one hand while picking up the whip from its holder by his seat, preparing to drive us out of the way. But on the point of cracking the whip, he hesitated and turned towards the Bishops again.
“Ye’ll be Bishops, then, I’m thinkin’, by the dress o’ ye. English Bishops?”
No one deigned to answer him, but he had not expected a response. He half turned and indicated me with his whip. “This is a Scots priest. A priest, mind ye, no’ a monk. A real priest. Said Mass for us this mornin’, before dawn. And we had nothin’ to pay him wi’ for his services. But we fed him. He disna’ need much else. He’s a priest. He kens God will look after him, ye ken?”
I had to stifle the urge to smile at Will’s acting the dimwit. His mix of English and simple Scots should have been intelligible even to an Englishman, but both Bishops were staring at him blankly, the younger in astonishment, the elder in disgust. The priest in the back seat leaned forward and spoke to me in Latin, not even glancing at Will.
“Have your man move aside, Father. Their lordships here are not to be kept waiting by the likes of him or you. Quickly now.”
The peremptory, intolerant snap of his voice released something inside me and permitted me to smile openly at the man, who was tall and clean shaven, balding yet broad shouldered and fit looking, with narrowed, pale blue eyes and a stern, humourless look about him.
“You are a Scot,” I said courteously in the same tongue, permitting but a hint of my surprise to show through.
“Of course I am. What has that to do with anything? I am here to serve as translator for their lordships.”
“In their dealings with the untutored savages, you mean.”
“You are impertinent, Father.”
“No, I am merely truthful … and powerless here, Father, as are you. In the first place, this man is not mine to command. He is very much his own keeper. And if their lordships are to be kept waiting at all, I doubt they could improve upon being kept by the likes of him. Look at him, Father. This man speaks for Scotland.”
“You’ve been away from civilization for too long. Your wits are scattered!” The glance the priest threw at Will was withering. “A hunchback woodcutter, to speak for Scotland?”
“Aye,” Will said in English, suddenly and clearly. “If need be, for it seems no one else will.” Then, ignoring the slack-jawed expression of surprise that had sprung to the priest’s face, he raised his voice to a shout, in the command his hundred had been waiting for among the grass. “Up, Greens!”
Within the space of two heartbeats the train on the road was surrounded by a ring of standing bowmen, and every monk, priest, and bishop in the gathering was the target of at least one levelled arrow. Will’s men had risen up in utter silence from the chest-high grass, their weapons at the ready, and their appearance wrung a chorus of dismay from the clerics as the threat sank home. Without being ordered to, men everywhere in the throng began raising their hands in bewildered surrender. Will watched them until there was no one, monk, priest, or servant, who did not have his hands in the air, and then he said, still in English, “Everyone down from the wagons. Now.”
As the Bishops’ driver and his bench companion scrambled down and away, their passengers moved to follow them, but Will waved them back into their padded seats. “Not you three. You stay there for now.” All movement had ceased on the other two wagons as people watched to see what would happen next, but Will merely waved a pointing finger. “The rest of you, off. Move!”
To his credit, the elder of the Bishops was the first to regain his composure. As his servants and retainers began clambering down from the wagons at his back, he stood up again quickly and stepped forward as far as he could in the confined space of the wagon. There he raised a peremptory hand, pointing at Will. “Take heed, Hunchback, lest you imperil your immortal soul! Would you dare molest and rob God’s servants in the solemn execution of their duty?”
“Dare to molest and rob God’s servants in the doing of their duty?” replied Will in Latin as clear and fluent. The Bishop’s skeletal face registered sheer disbelief. “No, Bishop, I would not. But dare to rob thieving rogues and lying scoundrels who usurp God’s good name and privilege unlawfully in the name of England’s King within the realm of Scotland? Aye, that I will, and with pleasure. Those I would molest and rob at any opportunity, and I thank you for this one.”