The Forest Laird(92)

I must have been one of very few who cared nothing for how Douglas and Balliol regarded each other, for I had matters of my own to attend to that late winter and early spring. I was almost entirely lost in preparing for my elevation to the priesthood, for I was to be ordained at Easter. Bishop Wishart, who would officiate at the ceremonies, had assured me in person that my ordination would take place at last, even if politics were to take precedence again and he were forced to arrange the matter privately at an ordinary Mass, without pomp or panoply.

My aunt Margaret fell sick early in February of that year, too, and we knew from the outset that there was little chance she would recover. It was clear to all of us that she welcomed the idea of death; she had simply lost the will to live and she looked forward to being reunited in Heaven with her beloved husband. Sir Malcolm’s death almost two years earlier had taken a heavy toll upon her, and not even her youngest daughter’s wedding or the prospect of new grandchildren could sway her from her need to be with him again.

The other matter that drew at least some of my attention over that year-end period between 1292 and 1293, of course, was the welfare of my cousin and his wife, now living in the wilds of Selkirk Forest. I seldom heard from them, although I did receive a message at least once each month from some stranger passing through Paisley, and from these I deduced that all was well with the Wallaces in the fastness of the greenwood; they appeared to be content with the life they were leading there, and I gathered that they lacked for little. From time to time memories of Will—his smile, a gesture, a remembered opinion—would pop into my mind, and I would find myself smiling at the recollection of one shared occasion or another. What I remembered most often, however, was one of the last things he had said to me, when he told me to finish studying and become a priest, because he might one day need one in his forest haunts. I would think of that and smile too, never for an instant believing that it might be realized.

4

There came a day when I found myself lying prostrate at the foot of the altar steps in the Abbey church, dressed all in white and listening to Bishop Wishart asking the attending brotherhood if any one of them knew of any good and proper reason why I should not be raised to the priesthood. Face down as I was on the thick bed of fresh rushes strewn in front of the altar, I could not look up, for the ritual in which we were engaged demanded immobility of me, but even had it not, I would not have dared to raise my head, for one of the men gazing down at me from above was Antony Bek, Bishop of Durham, who had last set eyes on me at his camp, the morning he had met with Will. I felt sure he must recognize me eventually, and so I kept my face down, waiting for his cry of condemnation.

The silence around me stretched and seemed to shiver, but the anticipated challenge did not come, and eventually, incredulously, I heard Bishop Wishart begin to intone the Litany of the Saints. The massed voices of the congregants broke over me in the first responses, and I knew that God had sheltered me. I allowed myself to breathe again and sagged with relief.

I had spent most of the previous day in isolation, preparing for the rites I was now undergoing, and had then passed the entire night in prayer, surrounded by my closest brethren as they stood vigil with me. Bek had arrived sometime in the evening, making an unexpected, diplomatic visit to the Abbey on his way to St. Andrews. He had not expected Wishart of Glasgow to be in residence, but when he discovered the veteran Bishop’s presence, and the reason for it, he was most affable, I learned afterwards, and insisted upon attending the ordination ceremonies and assisting His Grace of Glasgow with the ritual. The two prelates had never liked each other from first meeting, when Bek of Durham first set foot in Scotland; their mutual antagonism was based solidly upon their opposed priorities, for each of them was dedicated solely to the welfare and security of his own realm.

The litany ended and Bishop Wishart raised me to my feet with his own hands, then blessed me and laid his hands on my head, calling upon the Holy Spirit to imbue me with the grace to conduct my duties thenceforth with dignitas and rectitude.

Bishop Bek stepped forward in his turn to bless me by laying his hands upon my head, and I stood frozen in wide-eyed terror, my heart almost bursting with fear. But he barely glanced at me, his eyes raised to the high altar as he laid his hands on my newly tonsured scalp, and I realized, incredulously, that I was safe and that he would never dream of associating the white-robed, purified novice in front of him with the filthy, grey-clad cleric he had cast out of his camp the day he had thrashed the upstart Scot who had so offended him. I stood slightly dazed and alone after that, in front of God’s high altar, while Bishop Wishart anointed my head and hands with holy oils, then dressed me in the vestments of priesthood, the blessed stole and the heavy, cloak-like chasuble. I took the chalice from him for the first time, feeling the weight of the wine and water it contained as I gazed at the flat, square paten of stiffened cloth that covered it and held the bread of the host. Then, as the sounds of the offertory bells died away, Bishop Wishart seated himself in his chair in front of the altar, and I stepped forward, holding a lighted candle, my offering, as a newly ordained priest, of light and purity to him. He took it from my hands and rose again, and together we proceeded with the Mass until, in unison with him, I uttered the sacred words of consecration for the first time and transformed the bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Christ.