Try as I might I could see no smallest sign of shame or contrition in either of the two Bishops, who knelt on the ground glaring up at the enormous figure who loomed over them from the wagon’s height. Will raised his eyes to look towards the group of monks clustered behind them.
“Who is your leader? Who speaks for you?”
“I do,” someone answered in a deep, resonant voice, and a tall, lean man stepped forward. “My name is Richard of Helensburgh.”
“Helensburgh? Another Scot?” The tall monk nodded, and Will continued. “These Englishmen are well supplied with Scots to help them in whate’er they are about. And you are Cistercians, are you not? What are you doing here, then, with such as these? Are you a part of this charade?”
The monk’s face remained expressionless and dignified. “No, Master Woodsman, not at all. We belong to the community of the Abbey of the Holy Trinity, near Newcastle, and we have been travelling with their lordships since they passed through our Abbey lands, but we are not part of their expedition. We were commanded by our holy Father Abbot to travel with them for safety’s sake, and we have been obedient to his orders. We have barely spoken with any of their group, keeping ourselves to ourselves. Our task is to reach Lanark town, where we are to reclaim and refurbish a priory of our order that burned down some years ago and has lain abandoned ever since. Many of us resided there at that time, and after the fire we were received by our brethren in the Abbey of the Trinity. We have been there ever since, awaiting the proper time to return to our priory.”
“And that time is now?”
The monk dipped his head. “So says our Abbot Nicodemus, and we are bound to obey him in all things.”
“Then you may go in peace to find and rebuild your priory, Brother Richard, but ere you do, I require of you, in the name of King John and the realm of Scotland, that you bear witness to what is happening here.”
“As you wish,” came the quiet reply, and Will turned back to the kneeling men.
“What are your names?”
Both men stared through him, defiantly.
Will turned to Father Constantine. “Father? Do you know their names?”
“Aye, I do. Both are named John, but only one is a bishop. The elder is John Romanus, a bishop of south England. The other one is Brother John, Prior of Whithorn in Galloway.”
Will looked at the priest in surprise. “A Prior in Galloway? But he’s an Englishman, is he not? I thought all you Galloway people were close-knit and jealous of your holdings.”
Constantine shrugged. “We are, by nature … close-knit and close-mouthed. But the truth is that Edward’s people gained the right to appoint English bishops and priors to Scots benefices five years ago. Pope Nicholas saw to that. As for me, I’m but a simple priest. I do my duty, celebrate Mass daily, tend for the people in my care, and keep my nose clear of politics. But the Diocese of Galloway, and with it the Priory of Whithorn, has been subservient to the Archdiocese of York for a hundred years and more. That’s a fight that has been going on for years now, with the Scots Bishops wanting to keep England out and the English equally determined to rule Scotland’s Church.”
“That’s right. Of course!” The suddenness of my interjection brought both men round to look at me in surprise. “John Romanus, you said? A bishop of southern England?”
“Aye.” The priest was looking at me warily, as though expecting me to do something violent.
“What diocese would that be?”
“How would I know that? I never met the man until three days ago. The south of England was all he said when he named himself to me.”
“And you did not think that strange?”
“Why should I think it strange? Does England not have a south?”
Will interrupted. “What’s wrong, Jamie?”
I threw up my hands. “I cannot believe he does not know who this man is. We have a noble prisoner, it seems. The man is John le Romayne, Lord Archbishop of York. He holds primacy over the Diocese of Galloway and its Bishop, Henry, as well as over the Priory of Whithorn and his companion there, its prior. How could this man, a priest of Galloway, not know who he is?”
Constantine spun to face the English bishop, then turned angrily back to me. “I do not know him because I am a priest of Galloway! A priest, nothing more. I have never seen the man before. I know him by name and by repute, I know his status as primate of Galloway. But I had never set eyes on him until I joined his party at the border.”
Will ignored both of us and turned slowly to the kneeling Bishop. “Is this true? You are Archbishop of York? Then what, in God’s great and holy name, are you doing here?”