The Forest Laird(159)

Wallace stood up and moved to a cupboard against the wall, from which he withdrew a jug of wine and a pair of cups, signalling to me to bring out more. He placed a cup in front of the bishop, but before he could pour any wine the old man waved him away, and so he stood there for a few moments, holding the jug between his hands and looking from one to the other of us. “Well,” he said eventually, “I hope you’re right and that the hands in which we rest are truly good, for if they hesitate or fumble, this land of ours will go down into chaos, and the groans of the folk crushed under England’s heel will assault the gates of Heaven itself.” He placed the jug carefully on the table, untouched. “I hope you’re right, and I will pray that you are.”

“But you won’t fight.” Wishart’s voice was bleak, and Will sat down and gazed at him levelly. I could see that he was fighting against his temper and I found myself wondering if the Bishop had any idea of how close he was to receiving the full benediction of my cousin’s wrath. But as the moments passed, the danger of an explosion passed with them, and soon Will raised his hand, almost in a blessing.

“I told you, on the last occasion that we met, that if a just cause ever came along and the folk of Scotland marched to war united, I would join them. I have not since changed my mind. I am not yet convinced, though, that the unity of which I spoke is firmly in place … and yet on the other hand, I am greatly encouraged by what you told me today about the power of the burghs and the burgesses. That, I believe, is a mighty step towards what we had hoped to achieve, for if the burgesses can speak with one independent voice, then someday this country of ours could stand on its own as an independent land, governed by its own community for the welfare of all its people.”

William Lamberton studied him carefully. “What are you saying, Will?”

“That I am half convinced. That is what I am saying, I think.” He scratched at his beard. “I am half convinced; the other half remains in doubt. And so I shall half prepare for war; I will half fight. I will stay here in the forest with my folk and watch what happens, and if the English come to me in search of pain and grief and sorrow, I will supply them with all they can take, and more atop that. But I will not yet march away to war.” He straightened up and looked directly at the Bishop. “Show me a leader worth following and a war worth dying in, and I will fight. That I swear to you.”





CHAPTER SIXTEEN

1

“Thae priests are back, chappin’ at wir yetts,” was how Alec Scrymgeour put it five days later, when he interrupted Will and me to announce that the Bishop and the canon had returned. By “knocking at our gates,” we understood him to mean that they were close to arriving, approaching along the winding bog path from the south.

Will’s brows crooked in a small frown as he looked at me, but he said nothing. We had expected the two clerics to stop by on their return journey, but nowhere near as soon as this. They had left in search of the Earl of Buchan, who had last been heard of as being somewhere south and west of us, in the territories of Annandale, and we had anticipated it would take them at least a full day, and more likely twice or even three times that long, to find him. Given that the Bishop had ridden all the way from Glasgow to meet with Buchan and must therefore have had matters of great import to discuss with the Comyn earl, Wishart and Lamberton should not have been expected to return this way for at least another three days.

“Perhaps they ran into the earl on the road,” I suggested, and Will shrugged.

“Aye, and mayhap they missed him completely. He might not even have come south yet. That wouldn’t surprise me. The man’s a Comyn and an earl, unpredictable on both counts. Considers himself beholden to no one and answerable to even fewer. We’ll find out soon enough.”

Our visitors arrived less than half an hour later, and we were waiting for them as they emerged from the serpentine path into the water meadow at the southern edge of the encampment. They were evidently glad to reach us—especially when Will informed them there was wine awaiting them in his house and a young deer already turning on the spit in their honour—and they seemed cheerful enough, with no air of dejection about them to indicate a failed mission. But the protocol of the day dictated that nothing be said until the proper time, and so no one asked any questions or ventured any comments until the rituals of hospitality had been observed around the shallow fire pit outside Will’s hut, after which the casual attendees departed about their own affairs and the four of us were left alone to talk without interruption.