“Edward knew all that when he had his myrmidons choose John. He knew he could control him, bend him to his will. Bruce he could never have controlled, and I believe that fact alone barred Robert Bruce from ever being elected to the Crown. Balliol, though … Edward never had any doubt that he could control King John of Scotland, and through him he could control the realm.”
The Bishop placed the back of his fist on the oak tabletop and slowly opened his fingers, allowing the red silken cap to open up and cover his palm. He smoothed it into shape, then replaced it on the crown of his head and turned to look me in the eye.
“The Plantagenet is ruthless and calculating, and I see clearly now that he laid his plans for us long before we even knew he had a plan. We were too concerned with keeping order among our own … we being the Bishops, Fraser of St. Andrews, myself, Dunkeld, and a few others, along with the Abbots of Dunfermline, Dunblane, Kelso, Arbroath, and Cambuskenneth, and a few of the lesser magnates. We sought to avoid the crush of civil war between the Bruces and the Balliol-Comyn alliance, and initially we thought we had succeeded. Instead, though, we delivered ourselves into the hands of the English.”
I could barely bring myself to ask the question in my mind. “Do you truly believe things to be that bad, my lord?”
He looked at me with eyes that seemed close to pitying. “I do, my son. And you will, too, once you have considered all the details I will add today. You might even ask yourself how much worse it could be. We have been betrayed by those we implored to save us. Our country is now occupied by a foreign force. Occupied, Father, by an army that no one can doubt is hostile. Anyone who cannot see the truth of that is a blind fool, bemused by wishful thinking. English armies rule this land, and their leadership knows no restraint. And for reasons of politics and expediency our own so-called leaders—not the Church, but the civil leadership, including our new King—do nothing. They think they have too much to lose if they complain, beginning with the forfeiture of all their lands and holdings in England. They believe that would leave them impoverished. They cannot see that it would leave them free. They cannot see the value of this realm in which they live. They have no wish even to consider such a thing. They think of themselves as Englishmen and Frenchmen living in exile here in the north.”
“Aye,” I said quietly, unable to find a single point in his outpouring with which to disagree. “And the damnable part of that is that they ignore their people. They do not think about the Scots folk at all, and that tells me that they themselves cannot lay claim to being Scots.”
That brought His Grace’s head up quickly. “Do you truly believe that, Father James? Surely not.”
“Believe that they are not truly Scots? No, for they clearly are. But that their abuse and neglect is destructive? How can I not believe that, my lord? It is all around us, everywhere I look, in the arrogance of the English sneers and the suffering of our Scots folk. Were it not so, the Greens would not exist. The Greens were born of desperation, bred out of the people’s neglect, if not abuse, by the very leaders who should have been protecting them.”
“Your cousin and his Greens are protecting them. The people, I mean.”
“Perhaps so,” I concurred, too agitated to realize I was talking to the Bishop as though I were his equal. “But too few of them to really count, and not sufficiently to make a difference. Will is but one man, and a commoner to boot. His men are loyal and brave, but they are all outlawed, and no one in authority will heed him.”
“Not so. Will Wallace has his own authority. The English are heeding him, Jamie. And the Scots folk are heeding him.”
“Aye, but that’s not what is needed. What’s needed is for other, more powerful folk, here in the realm, to look at what he is doing and see that it’s a necessary thing. The magnates need to see what he is doing, and then they need to aid him in achieving it.”
The Bishop raised a hand, almost wearily. “They will, eventually, Father. The time is not yet right.” He looked back towards the window as the tolling of a bell began to echo outside. “It is midday, and I’m hungry and I need to empty my bladder, so go you and send someone to fetch us something to eat, but come directly back.”
3
Ireturned quickly, but to an empty room, and so I finished composing the letter I had been working on when the Bishop and I had begun to talk, and while I was doing so, two lay brothers from the kitchens brought in refreshments for us: a jug of small ale and a platter of bread and cold sliced beef, with crushed horseradish root in sweet whipped cream, and onions pickled in brine. I resisted the temptation to serve myself until my mentor returned. When he did, he was frowning.