The Forest Laird(59)
He shook his head. “I didn’t tell him anything. I listened, and he talked, the way he always does.” And then his frown faded and his whole face lightened as though the sun had shone on it. “But d’you know what? I think I know now why he did it, why he’s always done it. It just came to me this minute.” He stood staring into the distance, smiling strangely.
“Well come on, then,” I said. “Or are you going to keep me standing here all day?”
“Oh … He wanted to talk because he needed to, Jamie. I still don’t see why he’d pick me, but I’m probably one of the few people he can speak his mind to without fear of criticism or of being influenced by how I reply. A memory of him talking just came into my mind and I saw him sitting in front of his fire, talking to me very seriously, his brow creased, and it came to me that he was talking at me, not to me.”
“Cousin, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His grin flickered back. “I’m not sure I even know, but I think the Bishop has come to trust me over the years. He’s a powerful man, with much influence, and everyone in his world appears to want something from him. That’s why he’s so tight mouthed and selfcontained all the time. But somehow he learned that he could talk to me, test his ideas and opinions and even voice his private thoughts and suspicions straightforwardly, without fear of being used or betrayed. Does that sound sensible to you?”
“Perfectly,” I said. “So what did he talk about this time? You mentioned the English situation. Does he really see that as grounds for concern?”
“Aye, he does. He worries about Edward of England, about what’s in his mind, for though the man himself has done nothing wrong, and everything he does appears to be straightforward and to a noble end, aspects of his behaviour have Wishart worried: his attitude, above all. Why is Edward allowing his men to behave as they do on foreign soil, flouting the laws of our land in defiance of all the rules of protocol and hospitality? He is encouraging them by his silence, there’s no doubt of that. But no one dares call him to task on it, because his goodwill is deemed too important to the realm in this matter of the young Queen’s succession.”
“So what does Wishart want of you?”
“Of me? Nothing. He spoke much of Andrew Murray, though, and ventured the hope that, should anything go wrong, which God forbid, he would like me to offer my services to Murray on the realm’s behalf.”
“And what did you say to that?”
“What do you think? I told him I would, if Murray would have me.” His smile widened. “But that’s not going to happen. The Maid is still a child and the Guardians of the realm are all at their posts. One of these days, we’ll have a young, new Queen to bend our knees to, and Edward Plantagenet will be settling back to dream of a grandson who will inherit Scotland’s throne. You wait and see.”
We finished our preparations for departure, then went into the house, where we broke our fast with the family, said our farewells, and were on the road by mid-morning as planned, arriving at the Abbey shortly after noon. The brother on duty at the gate was watching for us and informed us that Father Peter, who had set out from Elderslie with Brother Duncan before dawn, was waiting for us in the common room. Surprised, because the community was at noon prayers, we left Ewan with the horses and went directly to where our priestly uncle waited for us, standing with his hand on one of two chest-high bales of fine, recently shorn wool that filled the common room with their distinctive oily smell. He barely nodded to us before slapping the one beneath his hand.
“I thought you should see this, Will, before you go anywhere. Mirren’s uncle brought it in this morning.”
“Two bales of wool?” Will glanced at me, his face blank. “In return for what?”
“Not simply wool, Will. Rich, prime wool. His best. An offering, in return for Masses for the soul of Alexander Graham. The old man died last night.”
Will was slow to respond, but eventually he asked, “Why did you think it important for me to see this now, Uncle Peter?”
“Because it changes everything we talked about last night. Now young Graham can legitimately quit his employment with Lord Bruce. He’ll return to Kilbarchan to claim his inheritance, free of obligation.”
“And free of any penalty for what he did to me. Is that what you are saying?”
Father Peter shook his head. “No, not quite. Lord Bruce will still have jurisdiction over what was done while Graham was his man. No doubt of that. But that will yet have to wait upon Bruce’s eventual return, so nothing has changed there save that Father Abbot informed me earlier that he does not expect to see his lordship any time soon. Apparently the Bruce has ridden north, beyond the Forth, and may be gone for some time. What has changed, though, with the old man’s death, is that Graham will now be free to do whatever he wishes, at least until he is brought to justice. He is now a man of property and substantial wealth. If he chooses, he could move against you immediately, so you should waste no time in losing yourself. Prior to this”—he nodded towards the woollen bales—“you had at least a few days of grace. Now it is conceivable that you have none at all.”