Chapter Eight
Ian towered above the heads of pilgrims trudging in a line like a slow-moving river down the cobbled pathway to the north entrance of Durham Cathedral.
They came from far and wide to kneel at the shrine of Saint Cuthbert and pray for a cure to whatever affliction had laid claim to their bodies or loved ones.
Just ahead of him, he could see a young man who should have been walking on able, strong legs but, instead, was lying on a stretcher, his limbs rail thin and bowed.
He was but one of so many who suffered and sought relief from their pain.
Moving forward through the crowd, Ian came alongside a woman walking alone, head bowed, her long, straggly, gray hair hiding her face.
As though sensing his gaze, she looked up.
He was struck by the paleness of her blue eyes, which glistened with tears amid her creased and dirty face.
Dipping his head, he saw that her bare feet were wrapped in grimy bandages, dotted red by her blood.
Still, she shuffled ever onward, toward the beacon of hope housed within the hallowed walls that were now so very close.
“I will pray for ye,” he promised, wanting to give her what comfort he may.
She met his gaze. “Bless you,” she croaked through her dried and cracked lips.
“But pray not for me, for I have walked here from Bath on legs that may now be tired but are strong. I have bled and nigh starved over these last weeks, but my suffering has cleansed my soul. I have repented my sins and cast away my worldly belongings. Now, I am ready to lay my heart bare to Saint Cuthbert and pray that he might cure my granddaughter.”
Ian bowed his head to her. “Yer courage and hope are an inspiration to me. I, too, vow to beseech Saint Cuthbert’s mercy on behalf of yer granddaughter.
” Then he withdrew the costrel from his satchel and offered her a drink.
She accepted and took a long swig before she handed it back to him.
Her face brightened, a slight smile curving her lips.
Straightening her back, she stood taller, then she dipped in a low curtsey, and in that moment, Ian glimpsed a fineness in her bearing that only came with instruction.
“Ye’re of noble birth,” Ian observed with surprise.
“I was of noble birth,” she corrected. “I am Lady Thynne no longer. I’ve relinquished my title and wealth. With humility and gratitude, I have suffered.” Her smile widened. “Do you know the Latin word for suffering.”
Unlike his educated brother, Quinn, Ian’s understanding of Latin began and ended with the Mass. He shook his head in answer.
“Patientia.”
Ian puzzled over why she had shared this, but then it dawned on him. “Patience,” he blurted.
Her eyes glinted brightly. “Patience will allow even the weakest of God’s creatures to weather any storm. Life demands suffering, and by that, I mean to say, life demands patience.” She smiled. “Just keep breathing and carry on; God will take care of the rest.”
He looked down with amazement at the diminutive, shabbily dressed woman carrying herself like a queen. “True nobility is something earned,” he said, then dropped to one knee. “It would be my honor to carry ye the rest of the way to Saint Cuthbert’s tomb.”
Tears filled her eyes. “You see,” she said, her voice breaking. “One only needs to be patient and prayers will be answered. Now, who am I to include in my prayers for the remainder of my days?”
Standing, he swept her into his arms. “Ian MacVie, and may I know the pleasure of yer name?”
“Susanna.”
His heart as light as the tiny woman in his arms, he walked the rest of the pathway and carried her through the threshold of the cathedral. Stepping into the aisle, he continued on between two wide columns, one carved with a lattice pattern and the other a spiral, into the vast and crowded Nave.
“Are you ready, Susanna? Yer journey is nearly at an end.”
She smiled, deep crinkles forming around her eyes. “In truth, it has only just begun. Please set me down here, Ian.”
“Are ye certain?”
She took a deep breath. “Don’t you see? I’m still breathing.”
“And so, ye must carry on,” he said knowingly as he gently put her down.
Dipping once more into an elegant curtsy, Susanna bade him farewell.
He watched her shuffle away, swallowed by the great sea of pilgrims moving towards Saint Cuthbert’s tomb.
After she disappeared from view, he turned in a circle, taking in the majesty of the cathedral.
Vast columns lined the nave on either side, each carved with a different pattern and painted in myriad colors.
His gaze followed the colors to the high, arched ceilings, and then along the opposite wall where he spied the confessionals.
Eager to see his old friend, he crossed the busy nave and ducked into one of the booths.
Kneeling, he made the sign of the cross and said, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one month since my last confession.”
The small curtain on the priest’s side of the confessional slid to the side. “What sins have you to confess?”
Ian did not recognize the voice.
“Forgive me, Father,” he murmured.
“What sins, my child?” the priest insisted, but Ian had already made the sign of the cross and stepped back into the aisle, then darted along to the next booth.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned it has been one month since my last confession.”
“What sins have you to confess?”
Ian smiled. “My sins are many, Bishop, but then ye already knew that.”
The bishop’s face appeared in the small opening, his eyes crinkling in a smile. “Ian MacVie, you’re a wonderful sight for these old eyes.”
“How are ye, dear friend?” Ian whispered.
“I’m no longer locked away in the Tower of London; I find, suddenly, I have precious little to complain about.”
Ian scowled. “When they first arrested ye after the Bruce’s coronation, Ramsay and I pledged to ride to London and break ye out, but the Abbot forbade us, arguing we would only get ye and ourselves killed for our effort. He assured us that yer Orders would save ye.”
“And so they did. I was, after all, found guilty of treason, but even King Edward fears God enough not to hang a bishop. Had I been a monk, priest, or even an abbot, I do not doubt I would have been drawn and quartered. But enough of that. I’m free now.”
“But ye’re not,” Ian hissed, fury building within him. “Ye’ve been forbidden to leave the city.”
The bishop waved his hand, dismissing Ian’s concern.
“Calm yourself. Neither of us will benefit if you release that temper of yours here. I do not object to being imprisoned within a city with such a fine cathedral, and I assure you that I am treated with every honor due my station. I did, after all, swear fealty to England, and so I am under King Edward’s protection now. ”
Ian remembered when word had reached him that Bishop Lamberton had kneeled before the English king.
“I won’t lie—when I first heard ye’d sworn fealty to that bastard, I nearly lost all hope.
” Ian cocked a brow at him, lacing his voice with mock disapproval.
“But I didn’t realize that bishops could lie. ”
A smile curved the old man’s lips. “Trust me,” he began, “I went to confession with a very contrite heart.”
“Are ye certain ye’re being treated properly?”
“Do not fash yerself,” he said, good-humoredly mimicking Ian’s accent.
“There is little by way of restraint to hinder my involvement with Scotland’s fight for freedom, and that is all that truly matters.
Now, enough of that. I’m certain you came here with another purpose in mind than fussing over an old man. ”
Ian nodded. “The abbot seeks yer advice. Our king remains in hiding, as I’m sure ye know. He needs an army, but Scotland’s coffers remain bare. The good abbot doesn’t have yer knack for persuading our nobles to open their purses.”
“Say no more,” the bishop interjected. “Tell the abbot that I will reach out to those nobles still loyal to Scotland and eke from their coffers all that I may.” A hint of mischief glinted in the old man’s eyes as he continued.
“Now, tell me about the cause’s secret rebels. What are my agents up to these days?”
“Spies are in place from Cape Wrath to Dover, but we must do more to rekindle the spirit of rebellion.”
“And I know how best to begin,” the bishop said, a conspiratorial tone to his voice.
Intrigued, Ian leaned closer. “What do ye have in mind?”
The old man smiled. “’Tis time to call on the Saints.”
Once upon a time, Ian and his four brothers, with the help of the good bishop, formed a gang of secret Scottish rebels. Bishop Lamberton gave the MacVie brothers masks and called them each by a different saints name to conceal their true identities.
“But those days are over. My brothers are all wanted men. Ye risk exposing the identity of other agents by involving known outlaws.”
“Jack, Quinn, Rory, and Alec have sacrificed enough for Scotland.” A slow smile spread across the bishop’s face. “’Tis time to canonize new saints.”
Ian’s lips curved in a sideways smile. “Ramsay would make one hell of a Saint. Forgive my blasphemy.”
Bishop Lamberton made the sign of the cross. “Say two Hail Mary’s when you go. Now, who else do you have in mind?”
“David, Nick, and Paul, with me that brings our number to five.”
The bishop nodded. “Word will soon spread of the Saints return and everyone will know Scotland’s fight continues.”
Ian stood. A thrill shot through him at the prospect of reforming the gang of honorable thieves. “We’ll replenish Scotland’s coffers one English noble at a time.”
“Your king is counting on it. Scotland is counting on it,” the bishop declared. “Go now, my friend, and may the Lord God keep you and watch over you.”
Ian dipped his head and started to turn away.
“Ian.”
“Aye, Bishop.”
“Don’t forget to say two Hail Mary’s.”