The Forest Laird(190)

I blinked twice and he frowned, then reached into the depths beneath his scapular and pulled out a folded letter, holding it up so that I could see my own name written on the front of it.

“Do you recognize this?” he asked me.

I blinked twice, with exaggerated slowness, and he sighed and leaned in closer, speaking more to himself than to me. “Yet again then, I must try. You appear to be wide awake, alert and aware of me, but I thought the same thing before, and here you are, with no memory of any of it.”

He sighed again. “Father James Wallace. Do you recognize that name?”

I blinked once.

“Is it your name?” Blink.

“Do you know where you are?” That stopped me, for I did not know how to respond. I thought I knew where I was, in a tiny monastery near Lanark, but suddenly I was unsure. Jacobus was watching me and must have divined what I was thinking, because he went on, “Do you remember speaking of the monks of Lanark?” I blinked, and he nodded. “Well, that is where you are. You have been here for five days, and have been in the care of Brother Dominic of Ormiston. Brother Dominic spent his life as a Knight Hospitaller. He was crippled early in the siege of Acre and is one of the few survivors of that catastrophe. He was shipped back to England, but his family is Scots, and so he came to Lanark and became hospitaller to the brethren here, using his medical and surgical skills for the good of the community. It was he who encased your body in restraints and wired your mouth shut to ensure that the break in your jawbone will heal cleanly, and he has been treating you with medicines from the Holy Land, medicines he calls opiates, to keep you free from pain. Sadly, those same medicines also cause you to forget everything that happens. Dominic believes, though, that it is better to have you slightly confused and free of pain than it would be to have you bright-minded and in constant agony. And so he feeds his opiates to you in the honeyed milk that is the only food you can consume. He says, in fact, that as long you are confined to bed and unable to move, honeyed milk is all the food your body needs. Thanks be to God that your ability to suck is unimpaired, for were it not, you would surely starve to death in the midst of plenty.” He broke off, looking perplexed, then asked, “Does none of what I am saying sound familiar? I have told you all of this three times already.”

I gazed straight at him and blinked twice. No, none of this is familiar. He shook his head in bemused disbelief, then looked away.

“Brother Dominic says it will take months for your injuries to heal, and weeks, at least, before you will be fit to travel to Glasgow. He told me that if all goes well, you should be able to sit up without restraints within the month, but you will be feeble and weak at first and will have to learn to walk again and to eat solid food again, as though you were an infant. And that reminds me of what else I must ask you. Remember, one blink for yes, two for no.”

Blink.

“Do you know who I am?” Blink.

“Do you know a man called Ewan Scrymgeour?” Blink.

“Is he a friend of yours?” Blink.

“Do you remember sending Ewan Scrymgeour to gather information?” Blink.

“Can you remember where you sent him?” Blink.

“Was it Lanark?” Blink.

“Do you remember what it was that you instructed him to find out?” Blink.

“Aye … Well, that’s good. Because Ewan’s not here now. He came back, three days ago, but you were too sick to talk with him, drifting in and out of awareness, and he had no time to wait for you to wake up properly. It was more important, he said, for him to reach Will in the forest before anyone else could. And so he dictated a message to me, for you to read when you grew well enough, and left it in my care. Since you cannot move, would you like me to read the letter to you?”

Blink.

“Very well, then. I must tell you that the words are Ewan’s own, exactly as he spoke them. He explained to me very clearly that he wanted me to transcribe his words verbatim. That was difficult, for he was speaking in the vulgate, and all my training has been in the formal Latin of the Church. Nevertheless, I have managed, I believe, to capture his words exactly.” The elderly priest sat up straighter and carefully unfolded the single sheet of parchment he was holding. Then he moved away, holding it at arm’s length and tilted towards the small window that was the room’s sole source of light, and when he was satisfied that he could see sufficiently well he coughed to clear his throat. “Can you hear me clearly?”

He paused, as though waiting for an answer, and then he came quickly back to my bed and peered down at me with a contrite look that might have made me laugh under other circumstances. “Forgive me, Father James,” he said. “I forgot you cannot speak. Could you hear me clearly?” I blinked once, and he moved away to the window again, clearing his throat nervously for a second time before he began to read.