by E R Dillon
Unlike the showy display of wealth in the cathedral, the décor of the bishop’s receiving chamber was plain, the furnishings simple, without decoration or ornamentation to fill the empty spaces along the plastered walls. The only adornment was a crudely carved wooden crucifix that hung over a prie-dieu in the far corner. The kneeler of the wooden prayer stand was unpadded, which would surely cause its user a measure of discomfort while communing with God.
Kyle was examining the crucifix when the door behind him opened. The light quick step of someone advancing on him brought his head around.
The man who entered the chamber looked more like a soldier than a priest, with a tanned complexion and weather-beaten features that spoke of much time spent out of doors. The only indications of his religious calling were the tiny red cap covering his tonsure and the long red robe on his tall erect body. The silver hair and deep lines on the rugged face put him somewhere in his fifties.
“Bishop Wishart?” Kyle said tentatively, unsure of the identity of this vigorous creature.
“Aye, my son,” the bishop said in the rich baritone that earlier reverberated throughout the cathedral during High Mass. He extended a calloused hand on which the delicate gold signet ring looked out of place.
Kyle went down on one knee to kiss the ring. When he stood up, he gazed into clear gray eyes on a level with his own. “Your Excellency,” he said. “There is much I wish to say. Yet I don’t know where to begin.”
“I’ve looked forward to meeting ye for some time now,” the bishop said. “Please be seated, that we may talk.” He settled on a hard-backed chair at a wooden table and indicated for Kyle to sit across from him. “What do ye know about yer father?”
The question caught Kyle off guard. He blinked, an unconscious reaction to stall for time to think, much like suspects did during his own interrogations of them. He nearly laughed out loud at getting caught at his own game. He schooled his face and his voice to reveal nothing. “He’s dead. That’s all I know for sure.”
“I thought ye might have heard conflicting tales of his loyalty to the Scottish Crown,” the bishop said.
“I have,” Kyle said. “I trust you can tell me the truth of it.”
“Many were the times I wanted to write to ye about yer father,” the bishop said. “I dared not, for fear of putting others in peril.” He got up from his chair and began to prowl the chamber like a caged beast. He clasped his hands behind his back, his head bowed, as if in prayer. The repressed anger on his face, though, was hardly prayerful.
“Ever since King Alexander the Third’s untimely death eleven years ago,” the bishop said, “Edward of England has sought control over the Scottish throne. In his insatiable lust for power, he now seeks to gain dominion over the Kirk by replacing us, the Scottish clergy, with English priests. He will never succeed in either as long as I have a breath left in my body.” He paused, his gaze on Kyle. “Only a handful of men stand between King Edward and his total domination of Scotland. I am one such man. James Shaw was another, before they killed him.”
“Before who killed him?” Kyle said, half rising from his chair.
The bishop put a placating hand on Kyle’s shoulder before resuming his seat at the table. “There is much ye don’t know about yer father. It is true that he allied himself with the English, but only to gather information on King Edward’s communications with English garrisons across Scotland. Since James was expected to reciprocate, he and I together determined which reports on rebel movements were harmless enough to give to the English to retain his credibility in their eyes.
“Sir Nicholas de Segrave served as castellan of Ayr and warden of Galloway prior to Sir Percy. About five years ago, James sent a message to me advising that Segrave had found him out. He was able to maintain his subterfuge, though, because Segrave could not accuse him of treason without implicating himself. If King Edward were to learn that James had lent support to the Scottish rebels all those years under Segrave’s command, it would look as though Segrave knew about it and had been a willing party to it. That would cost Segrave not only his post, but his head as well.
“About a month after I received that message from James, Captain Fenwick waylaid a band of Scottish rebels in the pass at Loudoun Hill. His men slaughtered every one of the rebels and left their corpses lying in the road as a warning to others. Unfortunately, James was killed in the fray. By the time I heard of the incident, all of the bodies had been removed, likely taken by kinfolk who gave them a proper burial.” He looked Kyle in the eye. “I don’t know who took yer father’s body.”
“Is it possible he was buried at Loudoun Hill?” Kyle said.
“What makes ye say that?” the bishop said.
“While I was looking through the garrison archives,” Kyle said, “I came across Fenwick’s report on the ambush. In it, he claimed the rebels hacked my father to death and that his mangled remains were buried there in the pass. He also claimed that my father was the one who instigated the ambush.”
“Fenwick is an ambitious man,” the bishop said with a heavy sigh. “Ambitious men tend to stretch the truth to suit themselves until it resembles the truth no longer.”
“In other words, he’s a liar,” Kyle said. “From what you’ve told me of my father and how he purposely misled those around him, I would say he was a liar, too.”
“Ye are mistaken about yer father,” the bishop said.
“I hope so,” Kyle said, “because the man I remember, the man who raised me, taught me about honor and loyalty and trustworthiness. That man would never skulk about in dark alleys to indulge in schemes and intrigues.”
The bishop stood up and walked over to the prie-dieu. He opened the drawer at the top of the upright stand and removed a bronze medallion from it.
“Every day,” he said, closing his hand around the medallion, “our countrymen are beaten, maimed, or hanged without cause or provocation. Women are abused. Children are left to starve. Homes are burned. Property is confiscated. Ormesby, the man responsible for this brutality, does so with the English king’s blessing. Ormesby has chosen to set up his headquarters at Scone: the ancient symbol of our unity, the most sacred site in the heart of Scotland, the place where Scottish kings of old were crowned. His presence there is an affront to the Scottish people and a desecration of all we hold dear.”
The bishop returned to his seat and laid the medallion on the table. “According to the Holy Scriptures, there is a time and a season for everything under the sun. A time to kill and a time to heal, a time to love and a time to hate.”
His gray eyes lit with an inner fire. “It is now the time for all of us with Scottish blood in our veins to take a stand against men like Ormesby and against those who rush to do his bidding. The English have already stripped us of our king, our heritage, and our dignity. They will soon strip us of our land and our lives. It is now the season, so saith the prophet Joel, to beat our plowshares into swords and our pruning hooks into spears.”
He drew in a deep, calming breath and let it out slowly. “Yer father did his part for the Crown of Scotland,” he said. “It cost him his life, as it will one day cost mine. Knowing the fate that awaits me does not stop me from doing what must be done.” He put his forefinger on the medallion and pushed it toward Kyle. “If the time ever comes when ye think ye can fit into yer father’s shoes to carry on his work, return this to me. I’ll know what to do.”
Kyle gazed down at the medallion. The image on it was that of St. Columba, the protector and advocate of the Scottish people, who during his lifetime served as a trusted advisor to the rulers of Scotland and went on diplomatic missions for them. He slid the medallion back across the table to the bishop. “I shall resign my post as deputy before I indulge in perfidy and deception for any cause.”
“Yer resignation would bode ill for those who look to ye for protection,” the bishop said. “Ye alone are the bulwark standing between the Scottish folk and the English.” He leaned forward to rest his elbows on the
table. “Ye are yer father’s son, Kyle, and God willing, ye will soon take up where he left off. Until that time, Quentin shall continue to look after my interests at Ayr Garrison and report to me whenever there is news.”
“Is Quentin that old English soldier with a flair for making himself practically invisible?”
“I can’t say,” the bishop said with a shrug of his shoulders. “We’ve never met. We exchange messages by way of a mutual acquaintance.”
“A black friar, I suppose, who comes and goes without being noticed?”
“So, ye did notice,” the bishop said. “Well done.”
“I keep my eyes and ears open,” Kyle said. “Speaking of Quentin, has he ever mentioned anything to you, through your mutual acquaintance, of course, concerning Sir Percy’s clerk?”
“Why him in particular?”
“Neyll is in a position to see all and hear all, and he’s a mite too friendly with the English marshal to suit me.”
“That seems to be Quentin’s favorite subject of late. He is of the opinion that Neyll is responsible for the raids on homesteads in Ayrshire.”
“Neyll is up to something,” Kyle said, “but I don’t think he would go that far. I think Sir Percy is behind them. Unlike Neyll, Sir Percy is free to act without hindrance, answerable only to his king. He has the manpower at his disposal and the authority to enforce his orders. He has ready access to the tax rolls, from which he could obtain pertinent information to direct Sweeney and his men to the best pickings among the homesteads in the shire.”
“I knew enough about Captain Sweeney when he was alive to believe him capable of that,” the bishop said.
“I am certain of it,” Kyle said. He recounted the discovery of the bruise on the upper right shoulder of Sweeney’s body. “It was still purple, so it was relatively new, and it was in the same location as the blow I inflicted a day or so earlier upon a raider of comparable height and weight.”
“Do ye think being a raider led to his murder?”
“I don’t know,” Kyle said. “I do know that folks hated Sweeney for his harsh treatment of them, and somebody made him pay for it.” He leaned back in the chair and folded his arms across his chest. “I am sure there is a link between the tax rolls and the raided properties, and that a comparison between the two will show why certain homesteads were chosen, while others were passed over.” He went on to relate how his recent efforts to procure the current tax roll ended abruptly with a glimpse of a sexual tryst between Neyll and the English marshal from Ayr Garrison.
The bishop sat up straight, his interest evident on his lined face. “Were they actually engaged in―?” he began. He left the question unfinished, but a raised gray eyebrow spoke volumes.
“Aye,” Kyle said, with a slight inclination of his head. “It was a sight I won’t ever forget.”
“If word of that ever got out,” the bishop said, “the consequences to them would be devastating. The Kirk would excommunicate them, and King Edward, who can barely tolerate the sight of his own son because of the young man’s similar inclinations, would condemn them without mercy to burn at the stake.” He stroked his clean-shaven chin in thought. “Would ye be willing to commit what ye saw to writing? Not the lurid details, naturally. Just the fact that it did occur and that ye were witness to it.”
“What purpose would that serve?”
“Leverage, my son,” the bishop said. “It has been my experience that the threat of exposure is more effective than actually revealing such information.”
“It seems like a despicable thing to do.”
“No more so than robbing folks of their means of living or burning them out of their homes. And the knowledge that this document is in my possession will surely encourage the English marshal to be more discerning in his choice of those upon whom he metes out punishment.”
“I see your point,” Kyle said. “I will do as you ask, under one condition. Neyll’s sister must be kept out of it. I don’t care what happens to Neyll or his lover, but I don’t want Colina to pay for her brother’s sins.”
“Whatever action, if any, is taken against the sodomites,” the bishop said, “ye have my word that Colina will be excluded from it.”
“In that event, I agree to make a formal statement,” Kyle said.
The bishop got up from the table to pull the bell cord on the wall beside the prie-dieu.
The young monk who earlier ushered Kyle into the chamber appeared at the door. He listened to the bishop’s instructions, after which he withdrew, only to reappear a moment later armed with a quill pen, an inkwell, a stick of red sealing wax, and a sheet of vellum. He joined them at the table, and with the quill pen inked and ready, he waited for the dictation to begin.
Kyle collaborated with the bishop on the proper wording of his declaration of fact, and when it was composed to his satisfaction, he read over the document before he signed it.
The bishop inscribed his name and title under Kyle’s signature. He dribbled hot wax onto the bottom of the vellum sheet and pressed his signet ring into the red blob. “My seal should belay any doubt as to the truth of yer statement.”
Kyle got up from the table and took his leave of the bishop, who accompanied him to the front door. As he stepped out into the sunshine, he felt a cold metal disc being pressed into his palm.
“In case ye have a change of heart,” the bishop said. He retreated behind the door and closed it softly.
Kyle stood alone on the top step, peering down at the bronze medallion in his hand. Although he was tempted to toss it away, he tucked it into the pouch at his side. There would be time enough on the long journey to Ayr to ponder Bishop Wishart’s words and to reaffirm his disapproval of his father’s duplicity.
He walked over to where he’d left the gelding grazing on a patch of grass within the precinct walls. The sunlight was bright and glaring after the semidarkness inside. White puffs of cloud drifted slowly across the blue sky. He rode from the cathedral grounds in search of the main road that would take him south. On the way, he came across a busy market square beside the full flow of the River Clyde. He dismounted there and led the gelding through the maze of multicolored stalls and booths. Glasgow’s marketplace was larger than that of Ayr, and so was the crowd on that warm Sunday afternoon.
He paused at a stall with a display of weaponry of various kinds and sizes. He chose an axe smaller than his own and hefted it in his hand to feel its balance. The merchant in attendance hovered at his elbow, anxious to point out other, more expensive pieces.
“This is the one I want,” Kyle said. “How much?”
After the usual haggling, they settled on a price.
Kyle paid the man and secured the axe in his saddle roll. He moved on down the row until he came to a clothier with bolts of fabric and a selection of silky ribbons. He purchased two lengths of ribbon, one green and one gold, and he had the vendor wrap them in a bit of cloth to keep them clean. He slipped the tiny parcel into his coin purse and moved on.
The smell of roasted mutton drew him over to the food sellers. He bought a meat pie to eat while he wandered around the marketplace. There was much to see, and he spent the entire afternoon taking in the sights and sounds.
As the shadows lengthened, vendors began shutting down their stalls and packing up their goods. Since it was too late in the day to head out on the road, he sought shelter for the night at an inn overlooking the River Clyde.
He paid extra to have a room to himself. By the light of the single candle allotted to him, he carved three letters with his dirk into the handle of the small axe. Satisfied with his efforts, he snuffed the candle and sprawled out on a pallet stuffed with pine straw. After a good night’s sleep, he would start out early on Monday morning.
****
It was late on Tuesday afternoon by the time he reached the stretch of road that took him past Ogilvy’s homestead. He turned the gelding’s head into the tree-lined lane and followed it around to the old man’s cottage.
; He rode into the open yard just as Ogilvy and his grandson, Hob, were coming up from the creek. Each of them carried a pail of water to dump into the trough just inside the sheep pen.
“Grandpa, look!” Hob cried, pointing. “It’s Master Kyle.”
The boy’s shouts caused the woolly creatures to scurry to the far side of the enclosure.
Ogilvy rested his wooden pail on the rim of the trough, while Kyle rode around the pen to meet him.
He climbed stiffly down from the saddle and ruffled Hob’s hair by way of greeting, pleased that the boy was wearing the wool mantle he’d given to him. “How goes it?” he said to the old man.
“Tolerable,” Ogilvy said. He held up his pail for the gelding to drink from it. “Ye look a mite weary.”
“I’ve been on the road for close to two weeks,” Kyle said.
“Pleasure?” Ogilvy said, more from curiosity than the need to pry.
“Business.”
“Care for a bite to eat?”
“Nay, thanks,” Kyle said. “I could use something to wash the dust from my throat, though.”
“Fetch the jug,” Ogilvy said to Hob, who hastened to do as he was bidden.
Kyle’s gaze took in the fresh coat of whitewash on the cottage and the new thatch on the roof. “I see you’ve been busy.”
“I have,” Ogilvy said with a gap-toothed grin. “Nearly finished, too.” He set the empty pail on the ground, after which he stroked the gelding’s reddish-brown nose.
Kyle reached up to loosen the ties on his saddle roll. He was extricating the small axe he’d purchased in Glasgow, when Hob returned with a brown pottery jug and a couple of mugs. “This is for you,” he said, handing the weapon to the boy in exchange for the jug and the mugs.
The old man relieved Kyle of the jug and poured ale into the mugs, one of which he took for himself.
“Your axe looks just like mine,” Kyle said, indicating the formidable battle axe hanging from the leather loop on his saddle.
A smile as wide and bright as a summer day lit Hob’s face. He turned the axe over in his hands and saw the grooves carved into the shaft. He rubbed his thumb over them, unsure of what they meant.
