The Forest Laird (21 page)

“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

W
hen 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.

Will Wallace was free to come home to Elderslie. But he did not do so.

I grew accustomed to his absence, although I often thought of him and wondered how he and Ewan were faring in their southern forest sojourn. We discovered in time that he was well, whatever he was doing, because twice that autumn, gifts arrived from him for Lady Margaret, brought by those itinerant traders who travel the length and breadth of the country, mending pots and pans and selling posies and herbal potions wherever they can find a purchaser. Both men had the same story: they had been stopped on a forest path by a stranger who had paid them well to deliver the packages however and whenever they could come to the Paisley district.

And then, as I rode along a woodland path on a bright summer afternoon the following year, I heard my name being called from a clump of brambles, and I almost fell from my old horse in fright. I spun around to see Ewan watching me from the thick foliage at the side of the path. I could not see him clearly, merely the bulk of his shape among the shadows, but I recognized him instantly by the green of his clothing and the mask that obscured his face, and I gasped his name in disbelief as I swung my leg over my beast’s back.

“No! Stay!”

I froze where I was, half on and half off my mount, one foot in the stirrup, the other dangling behind me, and gaping towards where he stood with one hand raised, holding me there.

“Are you alone? Is anyone behind you?”

“No,” I twisted in the stirrup nevertheless to look along the path at my back. “I’m alone. What are you doing in there? Are you hiding?”

There came a swell of movement as the big man pushed away the hanging fronds of bramble with his long staff and stepped towards me, the sound of thorns being ripped from his clothing clearly audible. I watched as he pulled his long cloak free of the last of them and then deftly tucked his mask up into his hood and stepped forward to look up at me, his ruined, beloved face creased into its old, lopsided grin.

“Aye, hiding—from you, until I knew there were no strangers with you. I saw you coming from a mile away, but you had others with you.”

“I did, but they were on their way to visit old Friar Thomas. They turned off the path some time ago.”

“Good. Now you can greet me properly.”

I swung down and embraced him, inhaling the warm, wellremembered scent of him happily before he pushed me away to sweep me up and down with his eyes, taking note of my plain grey monk’s habit.

“You’re not a priest yet?”

“No, not yet, but soon now. My ordination—everybody’s—was postponed after the Maid died, when we came close to war.” Princess Margaret of Norway, the seven-year-old heir to Scotland’s throne, had died in September 1290 of natural but unexplained causes. She had been living still in Orkney, where her father, King Eric II of Norway, had lodged her for safety.

“Where’s Will?” I was looking around as I asked him.

“Not here,” he said. “He couldn’t come. Sent me instead, to tell you he is well. Content with married life and hoping you might visit us in the south. I was on my way to the Abbey, but from where I was it looked as though these other people were with you, or following you. What brings you to Elderslie in the middle of the week?”

“I’m on my way to visit Aunt Margaret. Isabelle is to be married in a few days, so between them they have conscripted me to help with the arrangements for the wedding. Aunt Margaret has been unwell since Uncle Malcolm died.”

Ewan drew himself up as though I had slapped him. “Sir Malcolm’s dead? God rest his soul.” He crossed himself. “When did he die?”

“Six months ago, of dropsy, though he had been unwell for a year before that. But that is why young Isabelle’s marriage has taken so long to arrange. She was supposed to have been wed soon after you left, you may recall, to a young fellow of good family from Paisley, James Morton. I know you’ve met him.”

Ewan nodded. “Aye. His father holds extensive lands out there.”

“He did, but he died, too, last year. Young James is master now.”

Ewan whistled softly. “Master of his own lands! He must be what? Nineteen now? And he has waited two years for the girl?”

“He has, and I admire him for it, but Isabelle refused to wed while her father was sick, so he had little option, if he truly wanted her. Now that Sir Malcolm has been dead for half a year, Aunt Margaret has insisted that they go ahead and wed.” I smiled. “She has three grandchildren, from Anne, but she is hungry for more.”

Ewan’s gaze was distant. “Will’s going to be upset. We had no idea.”

“I know. But no one knew where you were. The messengers we sent turned Selkirk Forest inside out looking for you. Where have you been?”

“Farther south this past year and more, near Jedburgh. Can I come with you to Elderslie?”

I nodded and began to walk with him, leading my horse and quizzing him as we went about what he and Will had been up to for the past two years, but in the mile or so that lay between us and our destination he parried all my questions patiently. He pleaded fatigue—he had been on the road all day and most of the previous night, he said—and asked my leave to put off his tale for a single telling, to my aunt and me together. I could see that he was determined to have his way and so I did not press him, though I doubted Lady Margaret would be capable of joining us in any lengthy session. Since Sir Malcolm’s death she had been retiring earlier, it seemed, with each passing day and rising earlier each morning, hours before dawn, to prepare for the coming day. With Isabelle’s nuptials less than a week away, I knew that all her energies would be tightly focused on women’s things.

As it transpired, I was both right and wrong. The house, when we arrived, was full of young women, all of them busy either sewing or working on long lists of details that had to be attended to, and Aunt Margaret was delighted to see Ewan again after such a long absence. She banished all the young women to another part of the house with their fabrics and their endless lists and chatter, and then she settled down with us in the family room, voracious in her appetite for all the news she could possibly hear of Will and his doings, and about Mirren and the home she had set up for and with him.

It was only after listening to her questions for some time that I began to see that the information she was seeking had absolutely nothing to do with what I wanted to hear. Aunt Margaret was solely concerned with her beloved nephew and his new wife and the life they shared together, the details of their house and its furnishings, the likelihood of their having children, how Mirren spent her time while Will was away. I tried several times to intervene, seeking answers of my own, but Ewan turned my queries aside with ease and virtually ignored me, focusing all his attention solicitously upon my aunt while I sat silent. Not a word was said about the reasons for Will’s departure two years earlier.

Eventually, though it was still daylight outside, her ladyship announced that she would soon retire to bed, but had no doubt that Ewan and I would have much we wanted to talk about without the constraints of an old woman’s presence. We stood and bowed to her, and she went bustling off.

Fergus the steward fed us royally but simply on fresh-baked bread and the broiled, succulent meat of a months-old calf that had been fattened up for the wedding feast but had broken a leg two days earlier. The meat, though fresh and tender, was bland, but Fergus had prepared a mixture of berries and fruits into a sauce that transformed its plainness into something fitting for the palate of a god, and we devoured everything he placed in front of us, washing it down with the household’s wonderful ale. Throughout the meal we talked of generalities, mutually consenting to discuss nothing of importance until the board had been cleared, Fergus had retired, and we were once more alone.

2

E
wan got up eventually from the table and threw two fresh logs on the big fire, then poured us both more ale and settled himself in Sir Malcolm’s large, padded armchair by the fire. I moved to join him, sitting in my aunt’s smaller chair. He was at ease, and it was clear he had decided it was time for me to know what he knew. I can hear his voice today in my mind as clearly as I did then.

“Right, lad. You’ve been very patient, and I thank you for it. What I have to tell you now is for your ears alone. So where do you want me to start?”

“Where do you think? Right at the outset, from the last time I saw you two, riding away on your trip south, two years ago.”

“We didn’t go south. Not that day.” My surprise must have been obvious on my face. “That’s right, you didn’t know, did you? Will didn’t tell you, and I couldn’t.”

“What d’you mean, you couldn’t?”

“I couldn’t tell you because I didn’t know any more than you did. I thought we were heading southeast, too, until we reached the road and Will turned west. That’s when he told me he had changed his mind. He’d decided to take the blood price.”

“The blood price?” “Aye. It’s an ancient judgment, a penalty levied in return for blood shed or attempted.”

“I know what a blood price
is
, Ewan. I want to know about
this
blood price. What’s that about?”

“Ah, well. The one he was owed. Or decided he was owed.”

“By Graham, you mean.”

“Aye.”

“How did he come to that, in God’s name?”

He twisted his mouth into a wry expression that was not quite a grin. “He didn’t. It came to
him
, that morning, while he was looking at the bales of wool used to buy Masses for old Graham’s passing. Will looked at those two bales and saw a ransom paid to God to redeem the soul of an old thief who should have been beyond redemption. He saw that they had come out of the son’s riches, though through someone else’s impulse, and that they would never be missed among the wealth young Graham inherited. And that set him thinking about justice and retribution and, of course, blood prices.” His voice became more reflective. “It had become clear to him, while he was standing there with you and Father Peter—and I could not fault his reasoning—that Graham’s scheming had threatened his life. Not merely his livelihood but his life itself. Had the plot succeeded, Will would have hanged and Graham would have owed an unsuspected blood price to Sir Malcolm. But it had failed, through sheerest chance, and although Will had avoided the hangman, he and I were headed into exile while Graham was walking free.” He hesitated. “Where is Graham now? And did they ever find the other fellow, the Englishman?”

“The verderer, Tidwell.” I shook my head. “No, never. We believe he was murdered by Graham. But Graham’s dead, too.”

“He is? Since when?”

“Since the autumn of that year. Bruce had him hanged, for plotting murder and sedition. Uncle Malcolm sent word to you, but you were nowhere to be found.”

“Aye, so you mentioned. Damnation. We’ve been skulking around for two years, not knowing that.” He shook his head. “Ah well, even had we known, it would ha’e made but little difference. Will had his duties to see to, on several fronts. Still, it makes me feel better just to know he’s dead. He was a nasty whoreson, that one, despite all his mild airs and seeming gentle ways. A murderous animal.”

“So you knew nothing?”

“How could we? We didn’t know anything after we left.”

“Come, Ewan, that’s a weak excuse. We didn’t know where you had gone, but you knew where to find us. You could have sent home for word, failing all else. It’s been two years.”

“We couldn’t contact you. Will didna dare. We didna know the threat had been removed. We knew only that Graham’s treachery had left Will in danger of his life, under threat from assassins. And hand in glove wi’ that went the threat of danger to his family from the same people. It was a risk Will didna want to take.”

“All right. So instead of going east to Selkirk you went south to Jedburgh. Are you at the Abbey?”

“No. Close by, though, on Wishart’s lands.”

“The Bishop’s?”

He nodded.

“And how did you come to be there?”