“What mean you, the Church? What influence has he there?”
“The name de Moray is well known within the Church in Scotland, and has been for years. There was an Andrew Moray who was Bishop of Moray early in this century. He was the man responsible for the transfer of the seat of the bishopric to Elgin about sixty years ago, if my memory is accurate. He built the town’s cathedral. A man well thought of by his peers in his own time, and his memory is revered today.”
“I dare say it is,” Will said, slightly awestruck, as was I. “Pity that the family has no friends or relatives here in the south. That way, we might have known more about them.”
Lamberton raised an eyebrow. “Did I give you that impression? Then I must ask you to forgive me, or to pour me some more of this excellent ale.” I replenished his mug, raising a lively head on it that he blew off before sipping reflectively and nodding his approval. “Let’s see,” he mused. “The south. Are you familiar with a place called Bothwell?”
“Aye, in Strathclyde,” I said. “I’ve been there. It’s but a hamlet.”
“No, it is the seat in Scotland of Sir Andrew de Moray’s brother, Sir William Moray. Sir William is almost as wealthy as his younger brother Andrew—in fact he’s known as le riche because he’s so rich. He has another younger brother, too, who is also in holy orders. Father David de Moray is rector of Bothwell church. He is also a canon of Moray.
“William le riche is currently pouring his fortune into the construction of a castle there, to be known as Bothwell Castle, overlooking the River Clyde, and in the manner of the truly rich, he has spent huge sums importing the latest knowledge of scientific fortress construction from all over Christendom. He is reportedly determined that his castle will set a new standard for all of Britain and the world.”
“He sounds like a braggart fool,” Will muttered. “You said this Bothwell place is his seat in Scotland. Does that mean he has seats elsewhere?”
“Heavens, yes. He owns extensive lands at Lilleford in England, near Lincoln.”
“Ah, I should have known. Another Scots magnate dependent upon Edward’s largesse. The bane of this poor land.”
“No, I think not, in this instance … at least, I am not sure. But I seem to remember Andrew telling me that the Lilleford lands have been in William le riche’s ownership for generations. And of course the lands will one day belong to him.”
“Andrew? They will be his?”
“Yes. Sir William has no heirs. So young Andrew will inherit all his uncle’s wealth, along with his father’s.”
“Good God! Pardon me, Fathers both. But is there anyone Andrew is not connected to?”
“Aye, certainly. He has no connection to the House of Bruce. He is, however, connected to the Douglases of Clydesdale. Sir William Douglas is a distant cousin of his, I believe.”
Will merely looked at me and shook his head at that, then said no more, and Lamberton moved on to talk about what I was beginning to believe was his favourite topic: the burgesses of Scotland and how they were beginning to make themselves recognized as owning a voice to be listened to. Although I had heard all this explained before, the essence of it continued to elude me. I can only suppose that my slowness to appreciate its import was tied in to the generally limited scope of my vision at that time, living as I was in the greenwood and ministering daily to the needs of a small and very local congregation.
Will, however, took to the new ideas Lamberton was presenting to him much as dry grass will take to an igniting spark. And marvelling at the briefness of the time it took Will to progress from polite interest to raging ardour, I saw, suddenly, why both my companions were so excited about this new idea, and I finally understood why it was so important, and inevitable, that Bishop Wishart, through this younger, vibrant intermediary, should bring this message directly to William Wallace.
In the eyes of Robert Wishart, William Wallace was a bellwether, whether he knew it or not. He was a flock leader, and his peers would follow him naturally, without being exhorted by him or anyone else. Will had always stood alone and had never been afraid to be different from those around him. And in the entrenched scorn he held for the Scots magnates, William Wallace had been saying for years that the system under which we lived was broken.
As I thought those precise words, I felt myself shiver with a rush of gooseflesh, remembering that it was William Lamberton, not William Wallace, whom I had heard use that expression the night before, and that the two men had not yet met when Lamberton said it. Now they were together, talking about that mutually recognized notion, and I knew that God Himself had brought them together for a purpose. Will, in his own quiet, unassuming way, had been living in political despair and disillusionment, bereft of any hope of repairing whatever it was that had broken down in the system that controlled the affairs of men. The nobility had been rendered impotent by time and change, incapable any longer of stimulating or inspiring the realm and its people, and the Church appeared to have been equally impaired. But now, miraculously, here was the Church itself, championing the emergence of a new social order, a new estate that was strong and virile and puissant, the voices and wealth of the burgesses of the combined burghs of the entire realm. Small wonder that Will Wallace embraced the notion like a breath of springtime air; and small wonder that he and his new companion completely forgot about my presence.