The Captive Heart (46 page)

“I apologize, Your Grace, if I have embarrassed you in any way by bringing this matter to your attention,” Brother George said.

“None of it shall be made public,” the archbishop responded. “Whatever he has done shall remain done. We cannot know how many people this affects.”

“But I would beg Your Grace to settle the matter of Sir Udolf Watteson, the Laird of Dunglais, and his wife, the lady Alix,” Brother George reminded the prelate. “That is why I came to York in the first place.”

“Come to the cathedral in the morning to see me,” the archbishop said. “You have rid me of a bad priest. In this case I will correct the fraud, for you have told me of it.” Then, as they had finally reached the cathedral, he bid Brother George and Father Henry a good evening. The two cousins returned to St. Cuthbert’s.

When the morning came Father Henry and Brother George said the Mass for the parishioners of St. Cuthbert’s, broke their fast, and then walked to the archbishop’s house on the cathedral grounds. They were admitted by Sister Mary Agnes, who whispered to them as she escorted them into her master’s privy chamber, “See me before you leave.”

The archbishop greeted the two priests, holding out an elegant hand so they might kiss his ring of office. Then he invited them to sit opposite him on the two chairs that faced the long oak table he used to write. There were two sealed parchments tied with black ribbon upon the table. The two priests waited for the archbishop to speak.

“Late last night,” he began, “I had two of the most trusted members of my secretariat draw up these papers. They are identical. They nullify any dispensation received earlier from this bishopric by Sir Udolf Watteson in the matter of Alix Givet. This document explains the clerk writing the parchment was young, inexperienced, and misunderstood the instructions given to him. That he sent the fraudulent dispensation off to Wulfborn Hall without the proper seals. Alix Givet, being as a daughter to Sir Udolf Watteson, would not be allowed to enter into an incestuous union with him. That upon having this matter brought to our attention by the bishop of St. Andrew’s we have sought to correct the misunderstanding. Sir Udolf Watteson is advised to seek another wife. He is forbidden by God’s law, and the king’s law, to take Alix Givet from her lawful husband and attempt to force her into an illegal union. Will this satisfy your master, Brother George?” the archbishop asked.

The Franciscan nodded, and then he said, “Two parchments?”

“Actually three,” came the reply, “but the third has already been placed among the official documents. This one is for you. See that it is delivered to the Laird of Dunglais and his wife. Then tell James Kennedy he will owe me a favor eventually for this favor I have done for him.” He handed a rolled parchment to Brother George. “And this last one will be delivered by one of my messengers into Sir Udolf Watteson’s own hand. It is hoped this will end the matter once and for all.”

Brother George arose. “I am most grateful to Your Grace for all he has done,” the priest said. “I will leave for Scotland on the morrow.” He kissed the hand extended to him once more, and with Father Henry left the archbishop’s privy chamber.

Sister Mary Agnes was waiting for them. “You should know Father Walter is dead,” she whispered to them. “They tortured him to gain any information he had, but he was naught but a greedy little man, so they garroted him to put him out of his misery.”

“Thank you,” Brother George said softly. “God bless you, Sister.”

“Go with God, Good Brother,” she responded as she ushered them through the front door of the archbishop’s dwelling, closing the door firmly behind them.

“Did you notice,” Father Henry said, “how neatly he solved the matter without ever accepting blame for it?”

Brother George laughed. “Such is the way of the world, Henry. You are carefully insulated in your little church with its merchants and artisans and goodwives. I live in a world of pride and power, as does your archbishop. I am rarely, if ever, surprised.”

 
The next morning the bishop of St. Andrew’s emissary rode out of York heading north to Scotland. And on a separate road the archbishop’s messenger directed his horse towards Wulfborn Hall, which he reached several days later. On his master’s instructions he sought out Father Peter first.

“My master, the archbishop, asked that you be with me when I deliver this parchment,” the messenger said.

Ah, bad news
, Father Peter thought to himself. “I will gladly accompany you,” he told the messenger, and directed their footsteps to the house and the great hall.

Sir Udolf Watteson lay sprawled in a high-backed chair by the hearth, which burned low. A large goblet hung from his hand. There were no servants in sight, and the hall was rank with the smell of urine and rotting food. He did not move as the priest and the messenger entered the hall, and as they drew nearer they could hear the sound of snoring coming from the chair.

“He has not been well,” the priest excused his master.

“Wake him so I may deliver the parchment,” the archbishop’s messenger said. He had stayed the night before at a nearby monastery and as the sun had not even reached the midheavens yet he intended returning back to York this very day. Looking about the hall, he could tell its hospitality would be scant. He wanted to be on his way as quickly as he could be. He gazed at the sleeping man. It was obvious that he was drunk.

“My lord. My lord!” The priest gently shook Sir Udolf. “Please awaken, I pray you. There is a messenger here for you from York.”

Sir Udolf struggled to open his eyes, to gather his thoughts. Only one word had penetrated his foggy brain.
York
. “Give me some wine,” he husked, and the priest hurried to fill the silver goblet that was held out to him. Sir Udolf gulped down half the cup. His eyes began to open. He drank the rest of the liquid and tossed the cup aside. It hit the stone floor with a clatter. Then, rising, he pissed into the hearth, thoroughly extinguishing what little fire was left. Then, turning about, he said to the messenger in a rough voice, “Who are you, and what do you want?”

“Message from His Grace, the archbishop of York,” the messenger said, shoving the rolled parchment into Sir Udolf’s hand. Then he moved to leave the hall.

“Wait! Are you not to remain to carry back a reply?” Sir Udolf asked.

“I was told there would be no reply, my lord,” the messenger said. He could hardly wait to get out of this place.

“Go on! Get out, then!” Sir Udolf said in not particularly hospitable tones. He unrolled the parchment and began to read it. As he read his face began to flush and then grow scarlet with his outrage and his anger. Finally he flung the document towards the dead hearth, shouting, “I will not be cheated! I will not!”

“What is it, my lord?” But Father Peter suspected he already knew.

“Read it yourself!” Sir Udolf said grimly, gesturing toward the fireplace where the crumpled document now lay. “I will not be cheated of what is mine! Does that fool in York think he can cheat me?”

Father Peter picked up the parchment and, smoothing it out, read it. He had been a fool, of course, to allow his master to keep giving that priest in York—what was his name? Walter? Aye! Father Walter—monies. While he had not sensed it immediately, he had sensed later on that the priest was dishonest. And now that he recalled it, there were no seals but one on the alleged dispensation. “You have been the victim of a fraud, my lord,” he said quietly to Sir Udolf. “I am sorry, my lord. But now you have been given His Grace’s official ruling in the matter and must abide by it.”

“I must abide by it? Why must I abide by it?”
Sir Udolf demanded. “Alix Givet is mine, and I will have her no matter what this archbishop says!”

“My lord,” Father Peter pleaded, “Do not, I beg you, persist in this folly.”

“There is but one woman for me, and that is Alix Givet,” Sir Udolf declared.

“My lord! The church forbids any union with Alix Givet. They have declared it incestuous! You must understand that.
You must!
Will you damn your immortal soul to everlasting hellfire, my lord? You cannot have this woman!”

Sir Udolf grabbed Father Peter by the neck of his robe, glaring down into his face. His eyes almost bulged from their sockets. “
Cannot?
Do you dare to tell me what I can and cannot do, Priest? I will do as I please!” And he flung the frail man from him. As Father Peter fell backwards, his head hit the iron ball of an andiron in the great fireplace. His neck snapped audibly as he crumpled into the now-cold ashes of the hearth, which were quickly stained with the priest’s blood. He was quite dead, and Sir Udolf knew it just looking at him. “Old fool!” he muttered. Then, picking up his goblet, he went to the sideboard and refilled it. “I must go to Scotland and fetch Alix,” he said aloud. He drank down the contents of the goblet. “Aye, I must go to Scotland today. I will change my garments and then be on my way. My horse!” he shouted. “I want my horse saddled immediately!” Then he hurried upstairs to find fresh clothing. Where were the servants? Lazy good-for-naughts! Alix would see they behaved when she returned home. She would see they did their duty.

An hour later Sir Udolf Watteson rode forth from Wulfborn Hall and headed north for Scotland. He knew Alix would be at Dunglais. She was a prisoner, of course. Had she been free she would have returned home to him at Wulfborn. He thought of how beautiful she was with her honey-colored curls. He thought how his foolish son had mistreated her.
I will not mistreat her
, Sir Udolf thought to himself.
I will love her, and she will give me another heir.
He rode on determinedly.

 
At Dunglais a different scene had played out. The bishop’s Franciscan, Brother George, had come directly from York with the good news he knew the Laird of Dunglais and his wife were waiting for and would welcome. The drawbridge leading into the keep was up as he approached it in late afternoon. “Brother George from the bishop of St. Andrew’s with a message for the laird,” he called up to the watch. Then he sat upon his horse and waited. After a few minutes the drawbridge was lowered, and the iron portcullis raised up to allow him through. He heard both means of entry being replaced as he rode into the courtyard. A boy hurried to take his horse away, and a man was suddenly at his side, bowing respectfully.

“I am Iver, the laird’s steward,” the man said. “If you will come with me, Brother George, I’ll bring you to the great hall. The laird has been anxiously awaiting your arrival for some weeks now.” As Iver spoke, he hurried along into the house, leading Brother George into the hall.

The scene that greeted the priest brought back memories of his own childhood. The hall was not large, but it had two fireplaces now burning. Four arched windows were set high in the stone walls. The furniture was well polished. The stone floors clean. On a cushioned settle by one of the fireplaces sat a young woman who he saw was with child. She was sewing. On the floor at her feet sat two children. A lovely little girl with long dark hair and a little dark-haired boy who looked perhaps two. They were playing with a puppy. The man who had been seated next to the woman now rose and came forward, his hand outstretched.

“I am Malcolm Scott, the Laird of Dunglais,” he said.

“Brother George of the bishop of St. Andrew’s secretariat,” the cleric replied.

“Welcome to Dunglais,” the laird said.

“I have just come from York, and I believe I bring good news, my lord,” Brother George said with a smile.

The laird brought him to the hearth where his family sat, introducing him to Alix and the children. He offered him a comfortable high-backed chair in which to sit. “First some wine,” he said, as a servant stepped forward to offer Brother George a goblet. “Hospitality should not be neglected even when the news is of great importance.”

The Franciscan took the goblet, swallowed down some wine, and then set the goblet down upon the floor next to his chair. Reaching into his robes, he withdrew the rolled parchment with its red wax seal and black ribbon binding. “With the compliments of His Grace, the archbishop of York, my lord. And the compliments of my lord, His Grace the bishop of St. Andrew’s,” he said, handing the document to the laird. “If you cannot read I will read it for you,” Brother George offered.

“I can read, and so can my wife and daughter,” the laird replied, “but I thank you.” He slowly unrolled the parchment, and his eyes began to scan the words written thereon. When he had finished he handed it to Alix. There were tears in his eyes.

She took the document from him and read it. Then she began to weep.

“Mam!” The little girl sprang up from the floor and put her arms around Alix.

“It’s all right, Fiona,” Alix said. “Sometimes grown-ups cry when they are happy. And I am very happy by the news Brother George has brought us. Remember the wicked man who had me taken away and whose men frightened you so?”

Fiona, her blue eyes wide, nodded. “Aye, I remember.”

“Well, he can no longer harm us. God has forbidden him from it, my daughter. We are now safe and may ride out again once I have birthed this new bairn who currently resides in my belly,” Alix told Fiona. “We must thank Brother George for riding all this way to bring us this happy news.”

Fiona turned and smiled at the priest. “Thank you,” she said.

“You are most welcome, young mistress,” he told her. They were a beautiful family, he thought. And he was glad for his part in lifting this burden from them.

“You will remain the night,” the laird said. “I’ve some fine venison, and rather good whiskey we make here. You’ve ridden a long ways, and have more miles ahead of you, I know. When you reach St. Andrew’s, tell James Kennedy I am in his debt, even though he already knows it. Ahh, Father Donald. Here is Brother George, who has ridden from York with good news. We have been freed of the lord of Wulfborn at last. Father Donald is our priest, Brother George. He once served your bishop.”