The Forest Laird(141)

We followed the moonlit footpath around one more bend and found ourselves back where we had started. Ahead of us the fire I had built up before we left had dwindled to a glowing pile of embers, and we made our way straight towards it.

“Have we been gone an hour?” Lamberton asked as I pushed and prodded new fuel into the coals, stirring up a storm of sparks and blue- and purple-tinted flames.

“Close to it. When was the last time you were awake this late by choice?”

He laughed. “Other than in all-night vigil, I have no idea. And I cannot even remember my last vigil, so it has been a long time. We will probably both regret it tomorrow.”

“I think not. The time has not been wasted—not from my viewpoint, at least. The discussion of ideas is never a waste of time. Tell me, if you will … It seems to me we lost sight of the importance of Will’s outlaws in all we were discussing. Where do they fit into all of this?”

“They do not, and that is precisely why they are important. Their importance here in Scotland echoes that of the French burgesses: they have never had a voice before, but from now on they will. Make no mistake, Father James, the outlaws living here today—in Will’s community, certainly—are historically different from the outlaws who once hid from justice in these woods. Most of those people had set themselves outside the law by their own actions. They were criminals at least, and some of them were monsters. But most of the people living here in the greenwood with Will are outlaws through oppression, not through choice. They have been dispossessed and uprooted, cast out of their homes and villages through no fault of their own. They are victims themselves, not victimizers.”

“I understand that. But how will they have a voice?”

“Because they are the people, Father James, and their voice is a new one, and once it has been raised, it will never die away. The people of this land are making themselves heard as they have never been before. The burgesses are demanding a new place in the scheme of things, and so are the common folk, and once that has begun, nothing can stop it. People here in Scotland are talking about themselves as a community—the ‘community of the realm’ has become a common phrase today. For the first time in history there is talk everywhere of the will of the people—the people, Father. All the people, not merely the landowners, the magnates, or the earls and barons. The people!”

He rose to his feet. “I think I might sleep now, for an hour or two. My eyelids are grown heavy suddenly. And tomorrow I will meet your cousin Will, who, though he does not yet know it, represents—or, I believe, soon will represent—the voice of the people of Scotland. Think upon that before you fall asleep yourself, tonight, if you sleep at all—William Wallace, vox populi, the voice of a people.”





CHAPTER FIFTEEN

1

Bishop Wishart officiated at Mass before dawn the next day, with Lamberton and myself as co-celebrants, and as soon as we had broken our fast afterwards, he set out with Canon Lamberton to visit my two junior colleagues, Declan and Jacobus. Aware that part of the Bishop’s objective that morning would be to assess my performance and general fitness through the observations of my two subordinates, I settled down to read my breviary, and I was still deep in meditation when a messenger arrived to tell me Will had returned and wanted to see me.

I was glad to see Mirren standing with Will in their doorway, glowing with health and smiling happily up at her husband from the crook of his arm. Her belly was enormous, but there was no doubting her well-being, and I offered a swift prayer of thanks that my misgivings of the previous evening had been baseless. Will had seen me as soon as I emerged from the trees, and he waved, beckoning me to follow them as he turned and moved into the hut, his wife still held close. By the time I stepped inside, though, Mirren had disappeared. I assumed that she had withdrawn behind the painted screen of reeds that separated their sleeping chamber from the remainder of the dwelling and called a greeting to her, but I received no answer and so looked at Will, raising one eyebrow in inquiry.

“She went out through the other door. She’s meeting with her women. Come and sit.” He was already sitting in the large, padded chair he had built for himself in the corner by the empty stone hearth, and he waved me to the chair facing it.

“Wishart’s here, I’m told,” he said as I moved to sit. “What does he want, d’you know?”

“I have no idea. You’ll have to ask him that yourself. But he was none too happy when he found out you weren’t here, so it might be urgent.”

“Who’s the other fellow with him?”