“There’s no need for that, Mirren,” I said. “Bishop Wishart would never ask Will to do anything dishonourable.”
“Dishonourable? Are ye daft, Jamie Wallace? What in the name o’ God do you think I’m talking about here? What does honour have to do wi’ anything ither than the witlessness o’ stupid men strutting like fighting cockerels?” She looked at me wild eyed, as though she could not believe that I could be so obtuse as to miss her meaning, and continued in a voice that was little louder than a sustained hiss. “I’m no’ talking about that kind o’ rubbish. I’m talking about puttin’ my man’s life in danger, about sending him out to do something brave and stupid that could get him killed and leave me here wi’ a newborn babby an’ nobody to raise him. I’m talking about my Will, your cousin and closest friend, dyin’ for that auld man’s notions o’ what’s right for Scotland. And I’ll tell you, Jamie Wallace, I wouldna gi’e a handful o’ acorns for this whole holy realm o’ Scotland and a’ the bishops in it if it came down to a choice between its life and my Will’s.” She stopped, breathing deeply.
I raised a placatory hand, but only half-heartedly, because I truly did not know what to say to her. “That will not happen, Mirren,” I said, hearing the uncertainty in my own voice. “It would never come to that, or anywhere close to that.”
“Close to what? Close to what, Jamie? To fighting? To war? To my Will getting killed?” Her voice was granite hard, her eyes scornful. “Tell me ye dinna seriously believe that tripe.”
“Of course I believe it, Mirren. It’s true.”
“True? Sweet Jesus, Jamie Wallace, listen to yourself! There’s been mair folk killed around here in the past three years than in the thirty years afore that, when King Alexander was alive. And that’s just plain Scots folk. When ye start addin’ in strangers and English sodgery on top o’ that, it doesna bear thinkin’ about.”
“But that’s all banditry, Mirren, not war. And besides, the worst of it seems to be over now.”
“Oh, is it? Och, I’m so glad ye told me that.” The contempt in her voice was chilling, and even though I knew her scorn was not aimed at me, I cringed inside. “I’m sure a’ they dead folk would be glad to ken it was banditry that killed them and no’ war.”
“What do you want me to do, Mirren? What can I do that will help?” I had to swallow my impatience forcefully.
I don’t know what she had expected me to say, but her head jerked up and her eyes went wide. And then, to my absolute horror, she began to weep, not noisily or even audibly, but hopelessly. She was staring at me and her eyes were enormous, the helpless agony in them spearing through me as her tears welled up and spilled profusely down her face to drip from her chin. She simply sat there, letting them flow.
I had not spent much time alone with Mirren, but as I had slowly come to know her I had learned to appreciate and respect her strength of character and will as being truly extraordinary, and I had heard Will himself say, many times, that she was the strongest woman he had ever known. To see her reduced to tears like this was, therefore, appalling to me. I knew, of course, that her condition, so close to being brought to childbed, was precarious and that her behaviour could be expected to vary from what was normal, but so pathetic was my ignorance that I had no appreciation of what normal was supposed to be. And so I merely sat there, praying for inspiration and assistance.
The assistance came first and was provided by Mirren herself when her tears dried up spontaneously and she raised a hand as though to bless me. “Forgive me, Father James, I shouldna be sayin’ such things to you.” It was the first time she had addressed me by my title. “I know you’re no’ to blame for any o’ this,” she was saying as I collected myself again. “Auld Bishop Wishart formed his interest in my Will long afore you were ever in a position to influence him one way or the other. But, God forgive me, I’m feared o’ losin’ my man … losin’ my babby’s father.”
I sat down resolutely in front of her and leaned towards her, looking her straight in the eye. “Listen to me, Mirren. Listen carefully to what I’m going to tell you. I swear it’s true and it is something you might never have heard before. Will you listen to me? I’m going to tell you something Will confessed to me … swore to me, in fact.” I saw her eyes flare with surprise and I knew instantly she had misunderstood. “No, no, no.” I reached out and took hold of her wrist. “It was a personal confession between friends, not a sacramental confession binding me to silence. Do you understand the difference?”