The Forest Laird(132)
We reached the point where the path had started to climb, and bore right from there, leaving the path and skirting a fringe of hawthorn trees and willows until we came again to the path, where it entered the water meadow. Ewan looked around quickly and pointed to a copse less than twenty paces from the pathway, and we followed him as he made straight towards it. The strange pair, whoever they were, would have to come along the path behind us and would pass us in the open, providing us with an unobstructed view of them. None of us spoke as we entered the trees and took up positions from which we could see the pathway without being seen ourselves, and we settled down to wait. Ewan, the only one of us with a weapon, strung his bow carefully and then thrust three arrows, point down, into the ground in front of him.
Mere minutes later, the two riders came into view from the north, and at the sight of the one wearing armour I straightened up. “It’s His Grace,” I said. “Bishop Wishart, in his other guise.” I stepped from hiding and walked out into the open.
Wishart called out my name and kicked his mount to a canter as soon as he recognized me, and the man behind him on the mule attempted to follow suit, but his mount had a mind of its own and refused to change its plodding gait, so that the gap between the two men widened rapidly.
“Who did you say this is? A bishop?”
Alec sounded skeptical, and I glanced at him, grinning. “The Bishop, Alec. You are about to meet His Grace Robert Wishart, the formidable Bishop of Glasgow. He is a grouchy old terror who has no time for fools or folderols, so smile, man, for I promise you will enjoy him.”
His Grace of Glasgow rode right up to us before drawing rein and scanning each of us from head to foot as we each bowed to show him our respect. Ewan and I bent more deeply than did Alec, who watched to see what we would do before he committed himself, then bent forward stiffly from the waist and lowered his chin. The Bishop merely eyed us during his examination; offered no greeting; expressed no opinion until he had completed his scrutiny. Finally he grunted.
“An unlikely trio at first glance, but not entirely unsuited to escort a prince of Holy Church. You look well, Father James. And you, Ewan Scrymgeour, look … like yourself.” He turned slightly to eye Alec again. “This one, though, I have never seen before.”
“My cousin Alec, Your Grace. Alexander Scrymgeour, lately come from Argyll to join us.”
Wishart’s eyebrows rose. “From Argyll? Then it is little wonder that I have never seen his face.” He looked directly at Alec. “And how is my old colleague Bishop Laurence? I knew him well at one time, though we have seldom met these past two decades. He has been Bishop of Argyll for nigh on thirty years … But of course, you know that, being one of his flock. I trust he is still hale?”
Alec dipped his head, clearly less than comfortable in making small talk with a bishop. “I have never met His Grace, my lord, but I know he is yet hale—old, as you say, and growing frail, but he yet governs his flock from Lismore and keeps them in order.”
“Aye. He was ever strong in that regard.”
What neither man mentioned, yet all of us knew, was that there was little love lost between the two Bishops. Bishop Laurence was a native MacDougall of Argyll and, as such, his sympathies coincided with those of the all-powerful House of Comyn, which was enough by itself to set him at odds with Wishart and several other bishops who aligned themselves with the House of Bruce. Wishart’s comment about having known the other Bishop well at one time was a reference to the period, twenty years earlier, when he himself had come into harsh conflict with his own cathedral chapter over a disciplinary matter, and Laurence of Argyll had been one of the two judges chosen by papal mandate—the other being the Bishop of Dunblane—to try to resolve the case. His Grace never spoke of the matter, and it had become one of those arcane little secrets known of, but never discussed, by the cathedral community.
The Bishop raised a hand and beckoned his companion forward.
“Father William,” he said, “I present to you two at least, and probably three, of William Wallace’s closest friends and supporters. Father James here, of whom you have heard me speak, is another Wallace, William’s cousin and close friend since early childhood. The hairless one is Ewan Scrymgeour, an archer but much more than simply that. Ewan is the man who inspired Will Wallace and taught him how to use the long yew bow. Thus, in many ways this man is directly responsible for our having travelled to be here today. About the third man you will have just heard.” He waved a hand then to include all three of us. “And may I present to you, in turn, Father William Lamberton, newly returned from France and installed this last week as chancellor of Glasgow Cathedral.”