take over the talking for this next part of our journey, so tell me about France and the university at Paris. I have never been in France but I’ve heard great things about Paris and its university.”
“Ah! Well,” he said, “if you’ve never been to France, that makes Paris difficult to describe, for there’s nothing here in Scotland, or in Ireland for that matter, that comes close to matching it.”
We conversed on that subject for some time, and I gently twitted Father Martin for his rhapsodic devotion to the beautiful city, to which, apparently, there was not another town in the entire world that could withstand comparison.
“I have a friend who was there for years,” I told him, “and he, too, speaks of it much as you do.”
“Oh? What’s his name? I may know him.”
“I have no do doubt you do. He’s a canon of Glasgow Cathedral.”
“Canon Lamberton! You are a friend of Canon Lamberton? Then you are fortunate indeed.” His tone, verging on reverential, left me in no doubt of his sincerity. “What an admirable man he is. You’ll be surprised to know I owe my current post to him. I methim there, in Paris, several years ago. We came to know each other slightly, and for some reason he decided I might do well in Scotland. Not too long afterwards, he wrote to me saying he had prevailed upon his bishop to offer me a clerical position on the chapter staff in Glasgow.”
“Aha! And what, precisely, is your function on the staff there, apart from representing the adherents of St. Dominic?”
He treated me to the full glory of his engaging smile. “Well, Father James, to tell the truth, I’ve had no time for staff duty, for I’ve been filling in for you while you have been away. I arrived in Glasgow while you were in the south with your cousin, and when you were unable to return, the bishop set me to completing the assignments you had been working on before you left.”
“I see,” I said. “So you have replaced me …”
“Heaven forfend! No, Father.” He had the grace to look horrified. “No, no, don’t say that. Bishop Wishart has been champing at the bit like a warhorse, waiting for you to climb back into your saddle. He believes that you and I together might make a worthwhile team, if you could bring yourself to work with me, but I swear by all I believe in that the thought of my replacing you has never crossed his mind—or mine. He thinks too highly of your skills and talents.”
I confess his oath of truthfulness set my mind at ease, and I was now more curious about this young priest. Whatever his gifts might be, they must have been prodigious to earn the sponsorship he had won from William Lamberton in Paris. “So,” I asked him, “have you met my cousin?”
“I have, several times now. A fine, big man he is.”
“Is he with the bishop now?”
“No. He was, for a while, but about a week ago he took off back to his forest den.”
“That does not surprise me. Will always was a forester at heart. When did you first meet him?”
“About a month ago, when he returned from Perth.”
Once again the Irish priest confounded me, for the town of Perthlay far to the north of Glasgow, in the waist of Scotland, close to the Abbey of Scone, which had housed the Stone of Destiny, the sacred stone upon which the Kings of Scotland had been crowned since time immemorial, until Edward had seized it and had it removed to England.
“Perth?” I repeated inanely, as though I had never heard the name before. “What was Will doing up there?”
That earned me another of Martin’s flashing grins. “Why, Father Jamie, you must be the only man in Scotland who would ask that question, for I swear everyone else knows the answer. You know the fellow Ormsby, William Ormsby?”
“That odious man of Edward’s, the fellow he appointed justiciar of Scotland last year, after dethroning King John. I have seldom met a man I disliked so heartily.”
“That’s the very man, instantly and eternally
“Ah! Well,” he said, “if you’ve never been to France, that makes Paris difficult to describe, for there’s nothing here in Scotland, or in Ireland for that matter, that comes close to matching it.”
We conversed on that subject for some time, and I gently twitted Father Martin for his rhapsodic devotion to the beautiful city, to which, apparently, there was not another town in the entire world that could withstand comparison.
“I have a friend who was there for years,” I told him, “and he, too, speaks of it much as you do.”
“Oh? What’s his name? I may know him.”
“I have no do doubt you do. He’s a canon of Glasgow Cathedral.”
“Canon Lamberton! You are a friend of Canon Lamberton? Then you are fortunate indeed.” His tone, verging on reverential, left me in no doubt of his sincerity. “What an admirable man he is. You’ll be surprised to know I owe my current post to him. I methim there, in Paris, several years ago. We came to know each other slightly, and for some reason he decided I might do well in Scotland. Not too long afterwards, he wrote to me saying he had prevailed upon his bishop to offer me a clerical position on the chapter staff in Glasgow.”
“Aha! And what, precisely, is your function on the staff there, apart from representing the adherents of St. Dominic?”
He treated me to the full glory of his engaging smile. “Well, Father James, to tell the truth, I’ve had no time for staff duty, for I’ve been filling in for you while you have been away. I arrived in Glasgow while you were in the south with your cousin, and when you were unable to return, the bishop set me to completing the assignments you had been working on before you left.”
“I see,” I said. “So you have replaced me …”
“Heaven forfend! No, Father.” He had the grace to look horrified. “No, no, don’t say that. Bishop Wishart has been champing at the bit like a warhorse, waiting for you to climb back into your saddle. He believes that you and I together might make a worthwhile team, if you could bring yourself to work with me, but I swear by all I believe in that the thought of my replacing you has never crossed his mind—or mine. He thinks too highly of your skills and talents.”
I confess his oath of truthfulness set my mind at ease, and I was now more curious about this young priest. Whatever his gifts might be, they must have been prodigious to earn the sponsorship he had won from William Lamberton in Paris. “So,” I asked him, “have you met my cousin?”
“I have, several times now. A fine, big man he is.”
“Is he with the bishop now?”
“No. He was, for a while, but about a week ago he took off back to his forest den.”
“That does not surprise me. Will always was a forester at heart. When did you first meet him?”
“About a month ago, when he returned from Perth.”
Once again the Irish priest confounded me, for the town of Perthlay far to the north of Glasgow, in the waist of Scotland, close to the Abbey of Scone, which had housed the Stone of Destiny, the sacred stone upon which the Kings of Scotland had been crowned since time immemorial, until Edward had seized it and had it removed to England.
“Perth?” I repeated inanely, as though I had never heard the name before. “What was Will doing up there?”
That earned me another of Martin’s flashing grins. “Why, Father Jamie, you must be the only man in Scotland who would ask that question, for I swear everyone else knows the answer. You know the fellow Ormsby, William Ormsby?”
“That odious man of Edward’s, the fellow he appointed justiciar of Scotland last year, after dethroning King John. I have seldom met a man I disliked so heartily.”
“That’s the very man, instantly and eternally
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