Will paused, gazing directly into the priest’s eyes before continuing. “Edward is facing mutiny today, though, because his mercenary dogs have not been paid. Three times now his quartermasters have attempted to bring English money into Scotland to pay their troops, and three times have those quartermasters’ trains been intercepted and—
taxed
—their contents confiscated. I know that to be true, Father Constantine, because it was we who took the money, levying the taxes against Scotland’s future needs.
“In so doing, we sought to teach the English King a lesson: that this land is ours, an ancient realm secure in its own legal right and beyond his grasp. His armies are unwelcome here and we will not allow him to maintain them here unlawfully. He seeks to make our Scottish laws conform to his own wishes, but no man, not even the divinely anointed and legally enthroned King of Scots, can do that. And so we have thrice denied Edward permission to pay his troops within this realm by denying him the means with which to do it, knowing that if the troops remain unpaid, they will return to England, one way or another, in search of payment. And that is our intent: to send Edward’s army back to plague him rather than us.”
Every man in the surrounding throng was rapt, caught up in Will’s explanation as the Latin speakers among them translated what he had said. Even the English prisoners appeared interested in what he was saying. He looked about him slowly now, aware of the hush awaiting his next words.
“That has been the truth in recent months, and for a while now we have been awaiting Edward’s next response. And here, this day, we have it. A new ruse being attempted. A scheme involving trickery and treachery, in which you are involved. A devious and underhanded ploy that will have far-reaching implications for everyone because it betrays an understanding that has governed this world of ours since first the Word of Christ came to these shores.”
Another pause stretched out as he moved his gaze from face to face among his listeners. “It has always been the truth that churchmen, being humble servants of the Christ, may travel unmolested throughout all the lands of Britain and elsewhere. None but the most depraved of madmen would ever stoop to rob a priest, because in doing so he would be seen as robbing and insulting God Himself. But there is honour and responsibility involved in that covenant, my friends, on
both
sides. In return for that freedom of movement and the lack of fear in which they travel, all churchmen bear a sacred trust of honesty in their travels and endeavours. They may transport the Church’s goods without molestation, so be it they are engaged upon the Church’s affairs and in the sole interest of the Church itself.”
Will turned back to the priest. “Tell me, Father Constantine, what do you think is in those chests in the wagon at your back?”
The priest frowned. “You mean the kitchen supplies and provisions?”
“No, Father, not those. The others. The locked chests.”
A terse headshake from the priest. “I do not know what you mean.”
Will pointed to two small groups of his men who stood listening beside the wagons. “You and you. Find them.”
Several men hoisted themselves into each of the two draft wagons, and for a time there was much pushing and shoving as cargo was uncovered and dragged aside. The shout of discovery came from the second wagon, directly behind the Bishops’ own, and a moment later one of the men straightened up.
“They’re all in this one!” he shouted.
Will nodded. “How many?”
“Eight o’ them. Wee ones, but they’re …” The fellow stooped again and there came a series of grunts and scraping noises. “Heavy whoresons … all padlocked.”
“Break one open. Any one of them.”
“No! In God’s holy name, I—”
It was the older Bishop who shouted, and before he could say more than the Lord’s name, Will had dropped the reins and whip and leapt into the other wagon. He seized the Bishop in one hand by the front of his robe, pulled him up onto his toes, and then slapped him hard, sending the man’s pileolus flying. While every one of the watching clerics gasped in horror, he hauled the grimacing cleric up to within inches of his own face and snarled, “And now I have laid violent hands on one of God’s anointed. Well, we will test the truth of that in time to come, Bishop Weasel. In the interim, though, I have too much to do and lack the time to waste on you. Catch him,” he growled and threw the cleric like a child’s straw doll down into the waiting arms of his men. They caught him with a shout, and before it had died away Will had turned to the other prelate, who flinched and scrambled over the side of the wagon, almost falling to the ground in his hurry to escape. Will raised his arms, pointing and shouting orders in Scots.
“Line them all up over there. Keep them close and watch them, but don’t abuse them. These two here—the fat one and the black crow—I want them on their knees and bare headed. Bare arsed, too, if they give ye any trouble. I’ll come back to them.” He looked over to the wagon with the chests. “Sully, have you got it open yet?”
His answer was a loud, splintering blow. “Aye, it’s open now. Sweet Jesu!”
Will pointed at Father Constantine. “You. Come with me. Here, take my hand.” He took the priest’s proffered hand and steadied him across the gap between the Bishops’ wagon and our own, and when he was sure he had him safely across, he took the reins again and moved our vehicle to flank the next one in line.
He did not even have to speak, for the sight in the other wagon needed no words to explain it. Sully’s crew had smashed the lid of the small iron-bound chest that lay in the wagon bed in front of others exactly like it, and in doing so had scattered some of the densely packed coinage that the chest contained, so that large silver coins and smaller golden ones were strewn across the planking, gleaming and glittering in the sunlight that had now penetrated the clearing.
The startled priest began to speak, but he immediately bit down on his outburst, the muscles along his jaw standing out clearly. He turned his head to look at the two Bishops, his expression unreadable. The two Englishmen kneeling side by side in the road glared back at him, wild eyed, but neither one of them dared breathe a word. And finally he turned to me.
“Clearly there are grounds for suspicion here. As to whether what your companion alleges is true, I cannot say with certainty.”
“Then ask yourself why we are here, Father, and how we knew these chests would be here.” Will’s voice was a growl. “And weigh your own response against this one: I learned four days ago that this train would be coming from the south, and I was told what it would be carrying. I was also told how the plan to send it came about. My informant was a prelate of the Church in Scotland, warned by an associate in England who saw the perfidy in what was being done. Not all English bishops, it seems, are as duplicitous as these two. Some understand the difference between right and wrong and between honour and infamy.”
Father Constantine nodded slowly. “It may be as you say, and truth to tell, it looks that way. The fact remains, though, that I knew nothing of this, nor, I am sure, did Bishop Henry.”
He looked at Will again, before addressing the two English Bishops in a voice filled with genuine concern.
“My lords,” he began, “I may not help you here, for this is clearly beyond the scope of my duties to you, even did it not bring my personal honour and my loyalty to my King and realm into question. It does all of those things, though, and I intend to throw myself upon the mercy of King John, even though I know that, in allowing myself to be duped, I have been guilty in my failure to see what was going on beneath my nose. As for you and your case, I would recommend clemency in almost any other circumstances—penance and absolution—but I see no contrition in either one of you, and penance without contrition is pointless. It pains me to say that, my lords, but there is nothing I may do to change it. And so I must wash my hands of you.” He turned away from them and looked Will straight in the eye. “I am now in your hands, Master Woodsman.”
“Hmm. My hands are full, I fear, but I will think on that. In the meantime, come you and sit here, by our good Father James.”
As the priest began to make his way to join me, Will looked down at the two Bishops, who, as he had ordered, had been stripped of their outer garments. The larger man was kneeling dejectedly, staring down at his own knees, but the smaller, older man knelt upright, his head cocked as though he was listening for something.
“Now,” Will said, his voice addressed to no one in particular, “to business, for that is what this is, and let no man mistake it for anything else. We are dealing here with a sordid matter of trade and monies that has nothing to do with churchly offices or duties, save in the deliberate abuse of both.” He turned to the older Bishop. “You there, the Crow. If you are waiting for your mounted escort to come charging from the woods and rescue you, you wait in vain. Young de Presmuir and his scouts lost interest in your cause hours ago. In fact they lost all interest in everything.”
I saw the Bishop’s eyes narrow with bitter disappointment, but my mind was full of the young knight’s name, for my instinct had been correct. I had met the man. Henri de Presmuir, the knight of the Green Lion, had been a guest of Bishop Wishart on an evening soon after my arrival in Glasgow. He had been unarmoured, of course, but I recalled his livery of green on blue, and now I remembered that I had liked the young man, finding him amiable and pleasant to be with. Small wonder, then, that I had not recognized him in the murderous figure who had come charging at me through the misty trees that morning.
3
T
ry as I might I could see no smallest sign of shame or contrition in either of the two Bishops, who knelt on the ground glaring up at the enormous figure who loomed over them from the wagon’s height. Will raised his eyes to look towards the group of monks clustered behind them.
“Who is your leader? Who speaks for you?”
“I do,” someone answered in a deep, resonant voice, and a tall, lean man stepped forward. “My name is Richard of Helensburgh.”
“Helensburgh? Another Scot?” The tall monk nodded, and Will continued. “These Englishmen are well supplied with Scots to help them in whate’er they are about. And you are Cistercians, are you not? What are you doing here, then, with such as these? Are you a part of this charade?”
The monk’s face remained expressionless and dignified. “No, Master Woodsman, not at all. We belong to the community of the Abbey of the Holy Trinity, near Newcastle, and we have been travelling with their lordships since they passed through our Abbey lands, but we are not part of their expedition. We were commanded by our holy Father Abbot to travel with them for safety’s sake, and we have been obedient to his orders. We have barely spoken with any of their group, keeping ourselves to ourselves. Our task is to reach Lanark town, where we are to reclaim and refurbish a priory of our order that burned down some years ago and has lain abandoned ever since. Many of us resided there at that time, and after the fire we were received by our brethren in the Abbey of the Trinity. We have been there ever since, awaiting the proper time to return to our priory.”
“And that time is now?”
The monk dipped his head. “So says our Abbot Nicodemus, and we are bound to obey him in all things.”
“Then you may go in peace to find and rebuild your priory, Brother Richard, but ere you do, I require of you, in the name of King John and the realm of Scotland, that you bear witness to what is happening here.”
“As you wish,” came the quiet reply, and Will turned back to the kneeling men.
“What are your names?”
Both men stared through him, defiantly.
Will turned to Father Constantine. “Father? Do you know their names?”
“Aye, I do. Both are named John, but only one is a bishop. The elder is John Romanus, a bishop of south England. The other one is Brother John, Prior of Whithorn in Galloway.”
Will looked at the priest in surprise. “A Prior in
Galloway
? But he’s an Englishman, is he not? I thought all you Galloway people were close-knit and jealous of your holdings.”
Constantine shrugged. “We are, by nature … close-knit and close-mouthed. But the truth is that Edward’s people gained the right to appoint English bishops and priors to Scots benefices five years ago. Pope Nicholas saw to that. As for me, I’m but a simple priest. I do my duty, celebrate Mass daily, tend for the people in my care, and keep my nose clear of politics. But the Diocese of Galloway, and with it the Priory of Whithorn, has been subservient to the Archdiocese of York for a hundred years and more. That’s a fight that has been going on for years now, with the Scots Bishops wanting to keep England out and the English equally determined to rule Scotland’s Church.”
“That’s right. Of
course
!” The suddenness of my interjection brought both men round to look at me in surprise. “John Romanus, you said? A bishop of southern England?”
“Aye.” The priest was looking at me warily, as though expecting me to do something violent.
“What diocese would that be?”
“How would I know that? I never met the man until three days ago. The south of England was all he said when he named himself to me.”
“And you did not think that strange?”
“Why should I think it strange? Does England not
have
a south?”
Will interrupted. “What’s wrong, Jamie?”
I threw up my hands. “I cannot believe he does not know who this man is. We have a noble prisoner, it seems. The man is John le Romayne, Lord Archbishop of York. He holds primacy over the Diocese of Galloway and its Bishop, Henry, as well as over the Priory of Whithorn and his companion there, its prior. How could this man, a priest of Galloway, not know who he is?”
Constantine spun to face the English bishop, then turned angrily back to me. “I do not know him because I
am
a priest of Galloway! A priest, nothing more. I have never seen the man before. I know him by name and by repute, I know his status as primate of Galloway. But I had never set eyes on him until I joined his party at the border.”