by Jack Whyte
“He was angry, then, when he left?”
“Spitting, I would say, had I spared a moment to think of it. But why did you call him treacherous?”
“Think. Did you lose any arrows while you were there?”
Will’s headshake was immediate. “No, sir, I did not.”
“Are you sure?”
I saw Will’s eyes narrow. “I am always sure about my arrows, Uncle. I carry few of them, and when I travel I cannot replace them easily, and so I am aware of every one. I took twelve broadheads with me and eight bodkin target shafts. I brought them all back and have them with me now.”
“An arrow belonging to you—white fletched and painted with a central band—was found in a slaughtered deer—one of a slaughtered herd—on the Annandale lands. It was the only shaft left behind, and it was cut short, but it was one of yours beyond a doubt. Can you think of any way in which an enemy might have stolen one without your knowing?”
Will shrugged. “Aye, easily, if he broke into my hut in the woods. I keep a supply there. Anyone could steal some. But unless they had a longbow, there would be no point to such a thing. Those arrows are too big and heavy for flat bows.”
“There was a point. Do not deceive yourself. Someone used one of them to entrap you.” Sir Malcolm then retold the tale of the morning’s events, and Will sank into a chair and sat open-mouthed.
“This verderer, Tidwell,” he said when his uncle was done. “I’ve never met him. Why would he do such a thing?”
“He was suborned, clearly.”
“By whom, in God’s name?”
Ewan spoke up for the first time. “Clear your head, Will, and think. The man worked the Bruce lands next to our own. Who else do you know who works those woods?”
Recognition flashed across Will’s face. “Graham.”
“But Tidwell has been arrested,” I said, “so he will confess and name the man who suborned him.”
Sir Malcolm flicked a hand at me impatiently. “We don’t know that, Jamie. The bailiff went in search of him, but he may not have found him.”
“Why would he not, Uncle? If the fellow thought his plan had worked he would have no reason to hide and they would have found him easily.”
Sir Malcolm was shaking his head. “Not so, Jamie, not so at all. That is your priest’s mind speaking. This man Tidwell is corrupt. He was paid to lie under oath and therefore he is far more dangerous to the man who hired him than he can ever be to us. I doubt he’ll be seen again.”
“You mean he’ll run?”
“No, Jamie. I mean he’s like to die and disappear. Once he is silenced, no one can question him.” Sir Malcolm looked around the table, engaging each one of us. “This man Graham is clever. Let no one here doubt that. The sole flaw in this foul scheme of his was that he knew nothing of your plans to visit Glasgow, William. Had you remained here at home, you would now be in jail under sentence of death, and safely hanged and out of his way when next he goes wooing your young woman. This man hates hard and harbours great malice. Having met his kind before, I think it likely that he followed the bailiff and his men here to watch you be taken. And when he saw them leave without you, he might have been moved to protect himself by covering his tracks.”
“By killing Tidwell, you mean?” Will said. “But what could he gain by that? We know what he did. We know where he lives. He would be risking everything.”
“He would be risking nothing. Without Tidwell, we have no proof of his involvement in any of this. He would run free and probably return home to Kilbarchan, to dream up some other means of killing you.”
“Killing me?” Will’s laugh was a harsh bark. “That popinjay? He would never find guts enough to face me.”
“He would not need to face you!” Sir Malcolm’s shout startled us all. “Nor need he dirty his own hands. This popinjay, as you call him, is rich, William. He can hire others to do what he could not. Think you this Tidwell killed all those beasts alone? You’re a forester, so use your brain. Do you think for a moment that seven deer would stand calmly and let him kill them, one at a time? Besides, Ewan assured me Tidwell uses a flat bow, a short bow. He has never owned a long one. I’ll warrant he was nowhere near the place when those deer were killed. He went there later, knowing what he would find and what he had to say. Which means that others did the killing, using nets to pen and hold the beasts until they were done. It would take three men at least, possibly more.”
“So you mean—?”
“I mean that any man well enough paid to take part in a plot like this would take more money without thought to kill an ongoing threat to his paymaster. And Tidwell, through no fault of his own, has become such a threat.”
“No more than the others, surely?” My question earned me a pitying look from my uncle.
“Infinitely more, Jamie. We know Tidwell. That’s why he’s dangerous to Graham. The others are unknown. They could be anyone, anywhere.”
“So what must we do?” Will asked, addressing all of us.
“We must find a way to deal with this disgusting Graham fellow.” Lady Margaret’s contribution took everyone’s attention, and I am sure no one missed the emphasis she placed on her opening word. “You, on the other hand, dear nephew, must leave here until we have done so.” She whipped up a warning hand to cut off Will’s protest before it could be formed. “Do not argue, William. Your life is in danger, and we have no hint of the identity of the possible assassins, any one of whom could kill you from concealment at any time. And so you will leave here, for a time at least, and let us deal with this serpent Graham. We will put an end to him through his employer, as soon as his lordship returns. The Bruce will not tolerate such treachery among his people. Until then this Graham will no doubt think himself safe, with Tidwell gone, since he dare not ask questions that might point to his involvement and he knows nothing of what transpired while you were in Glasgow. And thinking himself safe, he will come after you again. But by then you will be far from here, in the south with Ewan, who has always wanted to visit Selkirk Forest. That was Ewan’s idea, and your uncle believes it to be a good one. I am not so sure, but I am prepared to accept my husband’s judgment.”
Will, from being unwilling to budge, was seduced instantly by the prospect of losing himself in the forest with Ewan, subsisting there on their own merits and unbeholden to anyone. Of course, it did not escape my attention—nor perhaps anyone else’s—that the route to Selkirk and the great southern forest led directly past Lanark, and Mirren’s home in Lamington was less than a good spit away from there.
Dinner that night was remarkably sombre, and although I was itching to know what Bishop Wishart had wanted to talk to Will about, I hesitated to bring the matter up when no one else did. Immediately after dinner, however, Sir Malcolm took Will away to talk to him alone, and I suspected that he, too, had the same curiosity but had not wished to air the subject openly at table. I stayed awake for a long time that night, waiting for Will to return to the room we shared, but at length I fell asleep, and he did not waken me when he sought his own bed.
3
“Are you ever going to tell me what the Bishop wanted you for?” It was early the next morning, and I was in the stable yard, helping Will brush down his horse, brushing the right side of the sturdy animal while he worked on the other. This was not the fine animal he had ridden on his previous journey, for this time he would be travelling through the lawless territory of the Selkirk Forest, where a fine horse would have been too much of a temptation to flaunt. So his mount this time, like Ewan’s, was a stocky Scots garron, the hardy, shaggy, sure-footed breed native to the North.
Will’s face appeared over the garron’s back, gazing at me with troubled eyes. “He’s in love wi’ me, Jamie,” he said in a deep, sombre voice. “He wanted me to do terrible, unnatural things, and my immortal soul’s in peril. I’d tell you what he said, but I’m feared to scandalize your priestly ears.”
I felt horror rise up in me, but then I saw the leering grin f
lash out.
“Whoreson,” I spat, and threw my horse brush at him. “You could burn in Hell for saying things like that.”
“The Devil isna ready for me yet, Jamie,” he said, bobbing back up, his grin wider. But then, within a heartbeat, he sobered. “He wanted to talk. To me,” he said in the scholarly Latin he had grown to love as a student. “Don’t ask me why, because I can’t tell you, any more than I could before. Not even Uncle Mal could tell me why. But that’s what he wanted.”
“To talk … Well, he’s wanted that before, for the same reasons, whatever they may be. And what did he want to talk about this time?”
“About this English business—the growing numbers of them and their reasons for being here. He’s worried that there’s more to what we’re seeing than what we’re seeing, if you know what I mean.”
“And? Did you tell him you agreed with him? That you think the same thing?”
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.”
“Is he likely to send his people sniffing around Sir Malcolm’s place, think you?”
Father Peter shrugged. “He might, but it will do him no good. You won’t be there and Mal is ready for him. Should he trespass too far, he will rue it. My brother is no man’s fool, and more than a match for any shiftless ne’er-do-well, rich or no. In the meantime, though, you must be on your way. Do you have everything you need?”
Will was eyeing the bales of wool. “Aye, Uncle, everything. Food for a week, ample clothing, and a good supply of arrows and bowstrings. We require nothing else. But I’m curious. How much would those bales be worth?”
Uncle Peter’s eyes narrowed at the unexpected question. “They have great value—sufficient to purchase daily Masses for a year, I would guess. Why do you ask?”
“Merchant Waddie is not known for his generosity. I’m surprised he would put up so much to pray for the soul of a man who was not related to him.”
Father Peter smiled. “I’m sure he hopes the old man’s wealthy son will be related to him soon. And besides, he’ll doubtless retrieve two more in recompense from the old man’s storehouses.”
Will reached out to touch one of the bales. “Aye, I suppose he will, now that you mention it.” He straightened. “I should be going now, Father.”
“Aye, you should. I wish you God speed and hope to see your frowning face again within a month or two. Kneel down now, and I’ll bless you.”
I walked back with my cousin to where Ewan waited with the horses, and as we went Will draped a long arm over my shoulders, pulling me close to him. “Work hard at your priestery, Jamie,” he said quietly. “You’ll be a good one someday.”
I grinned and pulled away from him. “Priestery, is it? That’s a word I’ve never heard before. Well, I intend to be good at it and I promise you, I’m working hard at it. How long d’you think it will take you to reach Selkirk?”
“Oh, I don’t know … D’you mean the forest or the town?”
Then, before I could respond, he said, “I’m going to need to write to Mirren soon, Jamie, to warn her about Graham and let her know where I’m going. I’ll send the letter to you within the next few days. Waste no time getting it to her, will you?”
“You know I won’t. I’ll look out for it. Now get out of here and be safe, and I’ll see you again soon.”
Had anyone asked me when we might meet next, it would have been inconceivable to me that two years would go by before I saw either one again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
1
When I bade farewell to Will and Ewan at the Abbey gates that day in 1290, I had no notion that Will had already changed his mind about where they would go and what they would do as soon as they were out of my sight. He told me nothing, in order to protect me from the need to lie later, and for the next two years I remained unaware of the truth, immersed in my studies.
It was some time before the matter of Alexander Graham’s perfidy was settled. For many months, Robert Bruce’s affairs took him far into the northeast, and he returned to the south only in early August. He stopped in Glasgow to confer with Bishop Wishart before continuing south to Lochmaben, his home castle near the English border. It was during that meeting that Wishart told the patriarch about the slaughtered herd of Bruce deer and the attempt to foist the blame upon Sir Malcolm Wallace’s nephew, reminding Bruce that he himself had met Will in the Bishop’s own palace precisely at the time the deadly charges of poaching were being brought against him. Shortly thereafter, Bruce arrived in Elderslie to speak with Sir Malcolm, and within hours, officers were dispatched to arrest Alexander Graham of Kilbarchan and bring him to the Wallace house for trial.
Graham protested his innocence, claiming that the case against him was untenable, but Robert Bruce’s certainty about Will’s innocence was absolute. The suspicions surrounding the events, including the one-sided rivalry over Mirren, attested to by herself in writing and witnessed by her local priest, combined with the mysterious disappearance of the perjured Tidwell, the sole witness against Will but far more likely a potential witness against Graham, proved overwhelming. Bruce’s judgment was Draconian. Graham of Kilbarchan was hanged on August 25th, his entire estate forfeited to Robert Bruce, in whose employ he had been and whose good name he therefore impugned when the crimes were committed. Bruce offered the estate to Sir Malcolm, as reparation for the harm done his family, but the knight refused any part of it.