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."