“And waits to show you your new son, Cuz. Come now, by the time we walk over there they should be ready to receive us.”
Ready they were, too, and my throat swelled up with love and pleasure and gratitude to God in His goodness as I watched my cousin’s introduction to his first-born son. Mirren was startlingly, radiantly beautiful, and it was impossible for me to imagine her as the source of those appalling screams that had so frightened us a short time earlier. She was regally wrapped in furs and brightly coloured woollen shawls, and she held her son in the crook of one elbow, the fingers of her free hand tucked gently under his chin. As Will stepped forward shyly to stoop and kiss the top of her head, she reached up and tugged at the side of his beard with her fingertips, a gentle, loving gesture of tender affection, after which she held the swaddled child up to him with both hands. He took the small bundle from her as though it held the most precious substance in all the world—which, of course, it did—and raised it up in front of his face to where he could stare at the wondrous creature inside, and then he stood rapt, for long, long minutes, transfixed by what he saw.
It was also on that night of the child’s birth that I had the most memorable discussion of that entire visit with Canon Lamberton. Bishop Wishart had retired early yet again, but Will sat with us until long into the night, finally able to relax and enjoy himself, and I was glad to see him and William Lamberton warm to each other over a flagon of ale by the side of a leaping fire. The two Williams compared their experiences of having met and come to know their mutual friend Andrew Murray, and I was surprised to learn that Lamberton had met Murray in Paris. I did not know that Andrew had been in Paris, and neither did Will, but Lamberton told us he had been there on business for his father, a man of great power in the north.
Both Will and I knew that Sir Andrew Murray of Petty had been justiciar in the north about the time of King Alexander’s death and that he was closely connected by marriage to the all-powerful Comyn family. Those things were common knowledge, if little understood, in south Scotland, and now that the name of Murray is renowned, and has been for decades, it may seem strange to younger people that it was not always thus.
In the days before Wallace emerged from his woody lair, Scotland was a vastly different place, and the division of the kingdom into north and south, separated by the Firth of Forth, was real and alienating. The English called the Firth of Forth “the Scottish Sea,” and in fact it separated north Scotland from the south the way the narrow sea the English call the Channel divides France from England. The analogy is not inapt, for the folk north and south of the Forth spoke vastly different tongues and appeared to be even racially different, with Erse-speaking Gaels and Norse-descended folk of Danish and Norwegian Viking stock making up the bulk of the northern populace, while the inhabitants of the south spoke mainly English and a polyglot trading language that was becoming known as Scots. Between the two regions there lay a huge cultural gulf and a mutual sense of distrust that was tenuously held in suspension by the intermediary efforts of the Church.
Now, when Canon Lamberton raised the name of Andrew’s father, the senior Andrew de Moray, both Will and I began to question him.
“He’s a famous man,” Will said. “But I am not sure why he should be so famous. D’you know?”
Lamberton sat back and laughed. “How does any man become famous, Will? He is rich, above and beyond all else, wealthy on a scale that folk like us cannot imagine.” He sipped at his ale pot before continuing. “He is the Lord of Petty, which means small, as you know, but there is nothing remotely petty about His Lordship, for he owns most of the enormous lands of Moray, which is unimaginably vast. His primary seat, from which he controls what most people would call his empire, is Hallhill Castle, a giant stronghold on the south bank of the Moray Firth, but he also holds the lordship of Avoch in the Black Isle, which is controlled from Avoch Castle, another huge fortress, said to be impregnable, that sits east of Inverness and overlooks the Moray Firth. He is also lord of Boharm, which is governed from Gauldwell Castle and contains the estates of Arndilly and Botriphni. Oh, and he also owns other lands and estates at Alturile, Brachlie, and Croy, in the Petty region. Young Andrew is heir to all of it.”
When he saw we were bereft of words, he chuckled. “Are you not glad you asked me that? Can you imagine what it must be like to own such wealth? No, of course you can’t. I can’t, and I’m a cathedral canon.” He sat up quickly and placed his hand over his lips, peering around as if looking for eavesdroppers. “Did I say that? Well, I’ll deny it if I’m accused of it. But quite seriously, you must be aware that such wealth brings with it great political influence. Sir Andrew served for years as the justiciar of the north and he is married to one of the Comyns of Buchan. The House of Comyn is the most powerful family in Scottish society, as I know you are well aware. But it is one thing to be connected to the Comyns. It is quite another to be connected as de Moray is. Sir Andrew’s second wife, young Andrew’s stepmother, is Euphemia Comyn, the niece of King John Balliol himself. She is also the sister of John Comyn, the Lord of Badenoch, one of the most politically influential men in Scotland. So there you have our mutual friend’s connections: Balliol, Buchan, Comyn, and de Moray. And, of course, the Church. The young man does not lack for influence.”