“I would not do such a thing. The King would not demand that of me.”
Crambeth sighed. “The King, if you will forgive my saying so, Sir Brian, is a king, and an oath of fealty may never be retracted. If times and your King’s needs were to become desperate enough, you could be required to fight—and kill—your fellow Scots.”
Cressingham’s harsh voice filled the room like the braying of an ass. “Aye, and you might well be called upon to do precisely that, Sir Knight, if this miscreant Wallace continues his outrages against the King’s Peace. Him you might be asked to apprehend and bring to justice. The man is an outlaw—a thief and a murderer, with a following of like-minded vermin little better than a swarm of rats.” The treasurer rose to his feet. “I have already written to King Edward, requesting his permission to stamp out this pestilence of outlaws that pollutes this ungrateful land, and to make the forests safe for honest English travellers again. I wrote most eloquently of the need for haste and vehemence.”
Amid the furor that followed, I looked down the length of the table to where Antony Bek, the King’s deputy, sat glowering, his florid face the very picture of fury and discomfiture. His frown grew ever deeper, and I could see the effort it was costing him not to raise his voice and savage everyone, including the fool Cressingham, but he clenched his fists and took them off the table, lowering them to where no one could see the whiteness of his knuckles.
Beside him at the head of the table, Bishop Wishart sat silent, his eyes moving from face to face around the gathering. When they reached me, he raised one eyebrow, very slightly, and I nodded to him, signifying my understanding of what had taken place. Will’s name was on everyone’s lips, and none of the English party had anything good to say about him, the consensus being that he should be taken into custody as soon as possible, his punishment used as an example to others of the folly of attempting to defy English rule.
I caught Sheriff Hazelrig’s eye and thought he looked amused, so I leaned across the table and asked him what his opinion was on the matter of Wallace and the forest outlaws.
“Too much smoke and not enough fire,” he said with a casual shrug. “The man is an outlaw, beyond the law and beyond the protection of Church or state. He has managed somehow to acquire a reputation and has gained a small amount of fame among the local peasants. But he is a nonentity and a common criminal, and someone simply has to make a decision to put an end to him, and then go out and do it. He and his rabble cannot be expected to prevail against a strong force of disciplined soldiers. And his past activities, from what I have heard, are of the kind that can neither be condoned nor forgiven. I do not think he has been active within my territories of Lanark, but I might be wrong. I have not been here long enough to ask about that, but I will. Then, if I find he has transgressed against my jurisdiction, I shall move against him and destroy him without hesitation. If it is not me, it will be someone else. Sooner or later, all such nuisances are dealt with properly and finally. And legally.” He smiled, good-naturedly, I thought. “You’ll see. Someone will get him, soon.”
2
“Father.”
I was striding quickly, heavily muffled in my warmest winter cloak, but something about the voice stopped me in mid-step, and I turned around carefully to peer into the shadows beneath the walls on my right. It was dark and boneachingly cold, a wet, dismal, chilly night in November, and I was on my way back to my room after a late-night visit to the cathedral’s infirmary, where one of our oldest and most beloved brethren lay dying, beyond any aid that our medical fraternity could offer him.
“Who’s there?” Strain as I would I could see no one within the blackness facing me. I knew that there was a row of four rowan trees in front of me, between the footpath on which I stood and the wall of the building, but they, too, were swallowed by the blackness. I was alone in the darkness, facing someone, at least one man, whom I could not see and whose voice was filled with strain and wariness, but I sensed no threat to myself. I was about to repeat my question when the answer reached me.
“I am a stranger here, but I mean you no harm. I but seek your help.”
“My help in what, exactly?” The voice was coming from straight ahead of me and it was close enough that I felt I ought to be able to see something of the speaker, if only a darker or lighter shade of blackness, but still I saw nothing.
“In finding shelter. Sanctuary.”
I hesitated, thinking quickly about how I should best proceed.
“Shelter is simple to provide, especially on a night like this, but sanctuary? That might be more complicated. Who are you, and why would you seek sanctuary here?”