“I should be on my way, my lord, for it’s a long ride to Lanark and I am … expected. But another few minutes will make little difference if you think it important.”
“I do, and I thank you. I saw Murray but ten days ago, and when he found I was returning here to Paisley he asked to be remembered to you.” His eyes moved to acknowledge me. “To both of you. He has pleasant memories of his visit here, brief though it was. He is well, though not yet a full knight, for several reasons, and in service to his father as sheriff of his territories.” His mouth quirked into a tiny smile. “You made a strong impression on him, Master Wallace. He asked me—instructed me, in fact—to inform you that should you ever find yourself in need of employment, in any capacity, he will make a place for you at your request. That impressed me, in turn, I must admit. I can assure you, Master Wallace, there are very few men in this land to whom Andrew Murray would make such an offer.”
Will nodded, somewhat stiffly I thought. “I am honoured that you should mention it to me, my lord, and that Andrew should even think of it, but I have a place of my own here now and am content with it.”
“And that is as it should be.” Wishart hesitated, then glanced at me again and changed his tone. “How long will you remain in Lanark?”
“I have a month’s leave. I doubt I’ll return before that. Why do you ask, my lord?”
“Because I have matters I should like to discuss with you—within the month, or as close as may be. Would it be possible, think you, for you to come by Glasgow on your way home? It would take you a day or two out of your way to take the north road, but you will benefit from it if you make the effort, I promise you. I will be there by the end of this coming month and would welcome you.”
Will shook his head. “I can’t promise that, my lord Bishop, for I have already promised Sir Malcolm to come back directly from Lanark at the end of the month. But I will be in Glasgow in September. I have a cartload of fine arrows to sell, and I’ve heard that Glasgow is a better place than Edinburgh for such things—more markets and more archers. I could visit you then. It would be a few weeks later than you asked, but no more than two.”
Wishart nodded. “Done. Come to me as early as you can. And if you come to me first, before going to market your wares, I’ll see to it that your arrows are quickly sold at better than fair prices. Is that acceptable? If so, I’ll leave you two to your interrupted farewells.”
“What was that all about, do you suppose?” Will asked once the Bishop had retreated.
“I have no idea. But he seems to have some kind of liking for you. Hard to understand why anyone would feel that way, let alone a saintly bishop, but there you are. God works in mysterious ways.”
I ducked as he swung a hand at my head, but it was true. Wishart had always shown a keen interest in Will, ever since their first meeting that day with Andrew Murray. For the remainder of his time as a student in Paisley, Will had been summoned to undertake long and intense tutorial sessions with the Bishop each time Wishart visited the Abbey, listening in fascination after his initial reluctance, and absorbing as much as he could of the older man’s thoughts on such arcane matters as patriotism, loyalty, duty, integrity, and honour. Will and I always talked about these encounters afterwards, of course. He called them penances for a while because they seemed much like unwarranted punishments, taking him away from his beloved archery for hours on end, but it did not take long for us to learn to appreciate their true value, although we remained mystified as to the reasons underlying them. Their content, we soon saw, was not nearly as abstract as it first appeared. The Bishop tied everything he spoke of to the reality of the times, expounding upon the manly and patriotic virtues he so admired and relating them to the condition of the realm and the duties of a man to his king and kingdom, He put particular emphasis on the politics and family loyalties of the various magnates and the affiliations of their various fiefdoms within the realm.
It is plain to me now in my old age that even then, when Will was a mere boy, the good Bishop, who was perhaps the greatest and most selfless patriot in all the realm of Scotland at that time, had discerned in him that special quality that would propel him into greatness. That alone, I am convinced, could have induced in Wishart such painstaking efforts to shape William Wallace’s mind to his own way of thinking. He moulded the future Guardian of Scotland, though none of us then knew it, and Will was malleable.
We said no more on the matter after the Bishop had left us, and after bidding each other God speed again, I stood and watched as Will rode away to the east in search of his beloved Mirren.