I stifled the urge to whistle. A groat, our smallest silver coin, was worth fourpence, and the maximum going wage for a skilled labourer was twopence a day. A groat a day, for two weeks’ worth of easy work, was a deal of money.
“So,” I said instead. “Did you find your four?”
“Five,” Ewan answered, his grin still in place. “Alan was the first, but there was a man there we had not expected to find. You remember Robertson, the archer Will bested the day he first met Mirren? Well, he was there, and Alan vouched for him. He remembered Will and was glad to see him—no hard feelings at all—so he was our second. Then there was Big Andrew Miller, who’s always ready for anything that smells of a fight, and Long John of the Knives was the fourth.”
The faces of the last two men flashed into my mind, although I had not seen either one in years. Big Andrew’s name was a jest, for he was one of the smallest men in Paisley, but he was lean and wiry and as strong as a braided sinew bowstring, and he carried a crossbow wherever he went. Long John of the Knives, on the other hand, towered several inches over Will, and there was never any doubt of where his name came from. He wore a heavy belt around his waist, and from it hung a dozen sheathed knives, all of different sizes. Long John could sink any one of them into any surface, with astonishing speed, from twenty paces. He was a peaceful man, though, and threw only at targets, perhaps because no one ever gave him cause to take offence. Will, I thought, had chosen well.
“Who was the fifth, then?”
“An outlander, a Gael from the northwest, from an island called Skye. He had been in Paisley for a month or so, and Alan and Robertson had both befriended him. No one knew much about him, but both men vouched for him as being tight lipped, trustworthy, and a dour man in a fight. They called him Shoomy, but his real name is Seumas, Gaelic for James. Will had been watching him since we arrived, and I could tell he was taken by the man, though it might just have been the sword. Shoomy carries a sword that’s much like Will’s bow—bigger and longer and more dangerous looking than any other to be seen. He’s a big lad, tall and lean, but well muscled and quick, and that sword gives him twice the reach of any man around.”
He scratched gently at the side of his nose. “So, there we were within the hour, seven of us in all, and a bargain struck. Will borrowed ink and pens from Jamie Crawford and went away to make his own arrangements for the following day, while I rented some nags for the five lads.
“We slept in the stable at the howff that night and were on the road by dawn. By mid-morning we were back at the Graham place. There was hardly anyone there—a few labourers lazing about and a huddle of women carding wool was all we saw. Will presented the steward with a completed contract for the delivery of nine bales of prime wool and the rental of a heavy wagon and team to transport them. It bore the name of Lord Thomas Ormiston of Dumfries—we discovered later that he had been dead for six years by then,” he added, flashing me a grin, “and the signature and seal of Alexander Graham himself, indicating the full amount had been paid months earlier, delivery to wait upon Lord Ormiston’s return from the north. We received a written bill of sale in return, left one of the nine bales as surety for the return of the wagon, then loaded the remaining eight and headed, everyone supposed, for Dumfries.”
“It was theft, then. So where did you go?”
“To Glasgow, to Bishop Wishart. He heard Will’s confession and granted him absolution once he’d heard the entire tale. Restitution received for harm done, he said—all right and proper. And then he sent us north with the wool, to Sir Andrew Murray.”
“In Moray? Why would he send you all the way up there?”
Ewan rearranged his long legs, crossing one over the other. “Because he is a bishop and God works in mysterious ways. You should know that, and you almost a priest.”
“I’m serious, Ewan. Why?”
Ewan looked at me directly then, no trace of humour in his eyes. “Because he is the senior Bishop of Scotland at this time and he believed, for reasons he didna see fit to explain to us, that sending Will up there would be for the good of this realm. There were fell things happening at that time. Edward of England had named Bishop Bek of Durham his deputy in Scotland, for one thing. Bek is a dour and humourless man devoted to his King before his Church. Wishart had no love for Bek then and has even less now.
“He required Will to make contact with the younger Murray and renew their acquaintance while delivering certain … matters—several documents of what he termed ‘some delicacy’—directly to Sir Andrew’s attention. He left us in no doubt of the importance of what he required of us.”