ACT ONE — SCENE ONE

Glasgow 1614. An ante-room in the provost’s house at four o’clock on a bitterly cold October afternoon. The room is small, furnished only by a table, a chair and a short bench. On the table (which is on the left side of the room) is a decanter, two goblets and a jug of water. Opposite the table is a small fireplace in which a freshly-lit fire is blazing. The bench is between the fire and the table, lying along the wall beneath the window. The window is open and the howling of an angry mob can be heard outside.

WILL: (off) Come on, man! Get aff yer knees! Get a move on!

ANDREW: (off) Dinna talk tae him, Wullie! For Christ’s sake, dinnae jist talk tae him! If he winna move, gie him yer fuckin buits!

(ANDREW, OGILVIE and WILL enter from the right. The soldiers are contrasting types — ANDREW is a grizzled veteran, WILL a raw recruit. Both are plainly frightened but disguise their fear in different ways — WILL takes it out on OGILVIE and ANDREW takes it out on WILL. OGILVIE is a fair- complexioned man in his middle thirties. He has had a bad mauling from the mob — his face is a mass of scratches, his shirt is torn and open at the waist and a swordless scabbard is twisted round his back. He grips his cloak rather desperately in his right hand. He takes two steps into the room and falls, exhausted, flat on his face.

   ANDREW goes to the window and pulls it shut, blocking off the noise of the mob which is, in any case, beginning to die away)

WILL: Aw Jesus Christ! (kicks OGILVIE in the kidneys and spits on him) Ye papish bastard! Damn ye …

(OGILVIE groans and tries to rise, but cannot manage it. WILL kicks him again and ANDREW, hurrying across the room, shoulders WILL out of the way)

ANDREW: Jesus Christ, laddie, ye’ve nae fuckin idea have ye?

(Stepping across OGILVIE’S body, he turns him over and tries to lift him but cannot manage it. He grunts, straightens, and turns on WILL in a fury)

ANDREW: That’s right, Wullie, that’s right! That’s whit ye draw yer fuckin wages for — staunin there like a spare prick at a hooer’s weddin! For Christ’s sake, laddie, catch a grup at the ither end afore I catch a grup ο you!

(WILL comes forward and together they lift OGILVIE on to the bench. He half-sits, half-lies there, shivering in a semi-conscious condition. They stand back and look at him for a moment, wiping their brows and spitting and generally assuming the attitude of men admiring a finished job. ANDREW turns and picks up OGILVIE’S cloak — which he dropped when he fell — and throws it over OGILVIE’S body. ANDREW then turns to the table and pours himself a stiff drink)

WILL: Hi, hi, ye cannae dae that!

ANDREW: Cannae dae whut?

WILL: That’s the Airchbishop’s drink …

ANDREW: (smouldering) The Airchbishop — can get stuffed! (Takes off the drink) Bluidy man, he can take a runnin fuck at hissel! And I’ll tell him that when I see him anaa, you see if I dinna! Jesus Bluidy Christ, he’s aff his fuckin heid! (Pours another drink and takes it immediately) Twa men — twa men. A hauf-airsed wee laddie and a buggered auld man, no even twa real men tae tak a prisoner through thon rammy! Wullie, the man’s a heid-case!

WILL: Aye, it was a haurd ane, richt enough! The mood thae folk were in — tae tell ye the truth, Andro, I didnae think we were gaun tae make it! Naw! Christ, I dinnae mind tellin ye, Andrew, I was a wee bit feart gettin …

ANDREW: Aw, ye were, were ye? Well, thanks for tellin me pal! Thanks a lot! Because wance or twice oot there, I was getting the distinct impression that you were aa set tae shoot the craw and leave me on my jaxy!

WILL: Aw, come off it, Andro! I wadnae dae that!

ANDREW: Too right ye wadnae! Too fuckin right ye wadnae! (Turns his attention to OGILVIE) Look at him! (Laughs) That’s him! That’s the lad! That’s the lad that sterted aa the trouble! (Laughs again) Christ, if this wasna sae serious, ye could piss yersel laughin at it! Whit that mob werenae gaun tae dae tae that puir bugger lyin there! And whit for? Whit for, eh?

WILL: (with some embarrassment) Hi, Andro, screw the nut eh?

ANDREW: Eh?

WILL: Ye ken fine!

ANDREW: Aw I dae, dae I? Well, I’m sorry, son, but I’m no shair that I dae. I’m no shair that I ken whit this boy’s done — whit ony man could hae possibly done — tae turn the fowk ο this toun intae a gang ο fuckin animals. Because that’s whit…

WILL: Aw come aff it, Andro, come aff it! Ye ken fine whit that oot there was aa aboot! That bugger there’s a Pope’s man!

ANDREW: A Pope’s man? A Pope’s man! The Pope, is it? Bugger the Pope! I didnae bring the Pope through thon rammy. I didnae risk my life for the Pope. And gin I did, son, and gin I did, they’d hae as little reason for it as they had wi this ane!

WILL: Aw, for Christ’s sake, Andro! Whit’s the matter we ye? Here, ye’re no gonnae stert feelin sorry for him, are ye? He’s a dangerous Jesuit priest! He’s been saying the Mass aa owre the place!

ANDREW: The Mass? Dae ye tell me that? (Whistles through his teeth) Ha, that maun be a gey wanchancy thing tae dae, eh? Dangerous man, that. Aye, oh aye! Masses, eh? Jesus Christ. Dearie me. They’ll shairly hing him for that.

WILL: (ignoring ANDREW’S sarcasm) Serve him right anaa! B’Christ, hingin’s owre guid for the like ο that! See if it was me, I’d burn him. I’d pit the bastard on that fire here and nou! Papes, they’re bastards! Bastards! I’d pit every fuckin pape in Scotland on that fire gin I had my wey; every fuckin pape in Scotland …

(WILL advances towards ANDREW as he speaks, aimlessly wandering about the room. ANDREW seizes him by the lapels of the tunic and pulls him to his face)

ANDREW: Ye little … (He is so full of anger that he can say no more. He pushes WILL away from him with a gesture of contempt) I’m sorry tae disappoint ye, son. He’ll no hing. No for sayin Masses.

WILL: (bewildered by ANDREW’S assault, has all but lost interest) Naw? Will he no? (Suddenly realises the import of what ANDREW has said) Whit for no?

ANDREW: Because it’s the law! This is his first offence — he’ll maybe no even get the jile. Likely he’ll get off wi a fine.

WILL: A fine! Christ, dae you mean tae tell me …

ANDREW: Aye. We brocht that man (Points to OGILVIE who has now recovered sufficiently to be able to sit up and take an interest in the conversation) through aa that — and aa he’ll get is a fine.

WILL: A fine! It’s no right, Andro, it’s no right! (Pauses and thinks before he says any more) Listen, Andro, if his kind got back, if the papes got the pooer …

ANDREW: Wullie, Wullie, Wullie! (Gentler) Wullie! Hou often dae I hae tae tell ye, son? Gin ye’re gonnae be a sodger, gin ye’re gonnae be ony kind ο sodger — for Christ’s sake, son, dinnae tak onythin tae dae wi politics!

WILL: Politics? Whae’s talkin aboot politics? This is religion!

ANDREW: Politics, religion, whit’s the fuckin difference in this day and age? (Suddenly weary, he passes his hand across his eyes and looks about him) Whaur the hell has Spottiswoode got tae? Gode, I swear that man’ll be the daith ο me yet? He’ll drive me tae the grave, b’Christ he will. See you that’s talkin aboot Pope’s men and religion? Well jist you keep an eye on the guid Airchbishop, that’s aa! God, I whiles think he’s hauf-roads tae bein a Pope’s man himsel — and if we ever get anither Catholic King, I’ll gie ye three guesses whae’ll be the Airchbishop ο Glesca! See if you want tae keep yer job …

WILL: Shote!

(Slow heavy footsteps are heard outside on the stair. ANDREW throws the dregs of his goblet on the floor and tries to dry the goblet on the tail of his tunic while WILL tries to straighten OGILVIE on the bench and bring him round by slapping his cheeks. OGILVIE, who is fully conscious by this time, pushes WILL away. SPOTTISWOODE enters. He is a biggish, heavy- set man in his middle age. He wears a long black cloak and a tight-fitting skull cap. Apart from the merest hint of a smile his face is quite expressionless. Both soldiers go to him and kiss his hand. SPOTTISWOODE never takes his eyes off OGILVIE from the moment he sees him. OGILVIE rises to his feet as soon as SPOTTISWOODE enters)

SPOTTISWOODE: (a statement rather than a question) This is the man.

ANDREW: Aye, m’lord. (Clears his throat) We had a bit of a job bringing him owre, m’lord. The mob were — eh — unco coorse. We very near didnae manage …

(SPOTTISWOODE has been gazing thoughtfully at OGILVIE and listening to ANDREW with the slightest of attention. He now turns to ANDREW with a nod)

SPOTTISWOODE: No doubt it went sair with ye. (Looks at ANDREW expectantly)

ANDREW: (sighs and takes a small pouch and papers from the inside of his tunic) We fund this at his ludgins, m’lord.

SPOTTISWOODE: (taking the pouch and papers with a cursory glance) Guid. (Thoughtfully, with a dismissive shake of his head) Attend me.

(ANDREW and WILL begin to leave. As they reach the door, SPOTTISWOODE suddenly, without turning, calls after ANDREW)

SPOTTISWOODE: Andro!

ANDREW: M’lord?

SPOTTISWOODE: Gif ye think it is necessary to bawl at the top of your voice anent sic matters as the richts and wrangs of the orders I see fit to give ye — will ye please make an effort to moderate your language? It is — nocht seemly for the Airchbishop’s man to be heard effing and blinding aa owre the Toun House of the Provost of Glasgow. (He turns his head to look sternly over his shoulder at ANDREW)

ANDREW: (without expression) M’lord.

(SPOTTISWOODE waves the soldiers away. When they have gone, he suddenly smiles warmly and shakes his head. He returns his attention to OGILVIE going to the table, taking off his cloak and draping it over the chair. As he is taking off his cap, he speaks to OGILVIE)

SPOTTISWOODE: Captain Roderick Watson, is it no?

OGILVIE: (somewhat shakily) I think — perhaps it would be better to dispense with that name. It is a completely false one and to continue the pretence further would serve little purpose. My name is …

SPOTTISWOODE: Ogilvie. John Ogilvie. (Drops his cap on the table)

OGILVIE: (biting his lip) That is perfectly correct. You have the advantage of me, sir.

SPOTTISWOODE: (amused) Just so, Master Ogilvie. Just so. (Rubbing his hands together) Nou. Would ye take a dram? Ye look in sair need of it?

OGILVIE: That is very kind of you. I would be most grateful. (SPOTTISWOODE picks up the goblet that Andrew has used, examines it for a moment, purses his lips and looks sceptically towards the door. He tosses the goblet in his hand, lays it aside and pours OGILVIE’S drink into a fresh goblet)

SPOTTISWOODE: Water?

OGILVIE: Please.

(SPOTTISWOODE pours some water into the drink and hands it to OGILVIE)

OGILVIE: Thank you.

SPOTTISWOODE: And you are of noble bluid, I understand?

OGILVIE: I am — and all my people before me.

SPOTTISWOODE: (conversationally) Sir Walter Ogilvie of Drum?

OGILVIE: My father.

(SPOTTISWOODE smiles and, sitting down, turns his attention to the papers. He begins to read, then looks up solicitously)

SPOTTISWOODE: Sit ye doun, Master Ogilvie, sit ye doun. There is no need for you to stand.

OGILVIE: Thank you — but I prefer it.

SPOTTISWOODE: (with a slight shrug) As ye please.

(SPOTTISWOODE reads one paper, lays it aside with a sharp sniff of breath and frowns up at OGILVIE. He picks up the second paper and asks his next question casually as he spreads it out)

SPOTTISWOODE: And you have been saying Masses in the City of Glasgow?

OGILVIE: (mildly) If to do so is a crime, then it will be necessary to prove it — with witnesses.

(SPOTTISWOODE leans back in his chair and regards OGILVIE with a kind of stern speculation before he speaks)

SPOTTISWOODE: To say the Mass in His Majesty’s Dominions — ye maun be maist siccarly assured — is a crime. (Leans forward and re-commences his study of the paper) And I have any amount of witnesses.

(SPOTTISWOODE spends little time with the second paper, laying it carefully on top of the first. He picks up the pouch and empties the contents on to the table. There are a number of bones and a small hank of grey hair)

SPOTTISWOODE: Oh aye. Relics. (Picks up the hank of hair rather gingerly between his thumb and forefinger and glances enquiringly at OGILVIE)

OGILVIE: (crosses himself) A lock from the head of the blessed St Ignatius.

SPOTTISWOODE: (nods without comment, lays the hair down and leans back in his chair with interlocking fingers) I am given to understand that ye have been furth of Scotland this long while — twenty-two year, to be exact, the maist of your days?

OGILVIE: You appear to be remarkably well informed.

SPOTTISWOODE: Master Ogilvie, what garred ye return?

OGILVIE: My vocation.

SPOTTISWOODE: Which is?

OGILVIE: To save souls. (Proudly) To unteach heresy.

SPOTTISWOODE: Indeed? Sic a michty vocation would be of necessity — require a michty authority. But where is yours, Master Ogilvie? Since ye did not get it from the King or from any of his bishops …

OGILVIE: The King is a layman — as are all his so-called bishops. None of them are competent to place authority, spiritual authority that is, on any man.

SPOTTISWOODE: (slightly mocking) The King is a layman?

OGILVIE: He has not had his first tonsure — and he is certainly not a priest!

SPOTTISWOODE: And you are?

(OGILVIE gives a little start, hesitates, then laughs)

OGILVIE: Since you are so certain that I have been saying Masses, you must be positive that I am a priest!

SPOTTISWOODE: (acknowledging the point with a faint smile and nod) Aye. But let us return to my original question. From where do you derive your authority?

(OGILVIE pauses, looks seriously at SPOTTISWOODE, finishes his drink, and lays the goblet carefully on the table. Taking a deep breath, he delivers his next speech as if he were giving a lecture)

OGILVIE: Christ’s sheep were committed to the charge of Peter. Any man who would feed them must first seek his authority from the Apostolic See. Preserved there — through an unbroken line of succession — is the authority and power given in the first instance to the Prince of the Apostles. ‘Thou art Peter and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it!’ (Pauses and lets the passion of the quotation subside)

    Thus was Simon, son of John, made the strong rock of the Church that he might be Cephas and be called Peter. By the simple method of working back through all the Pontiffs, I can trace my authority to him — and through him to the Lord Jesus Christ.

(There is a short silence between them)

SPOTTISWOODE: (with a sigh) Aye. The Petrine Claim.

OGILVIE: The Truth.

SPOTTISWOODE: (sternly) That, Master Ogilvie, is treason!

OGILVIE: (equally sternly) that Master Spottiswoode, is faith!

SPOTTISWOODE: (snapping) And ye would sign a declaration to the sic effect?

OGILVIE: (hotly) In my own blood if need be!

SPOTTISWOODE: I hardly think so. Father Ogilvie. I hardly think so. I hardly think that that will be necessary. Plain ink, no doubt will do just as well! (Pushes his chair back savagely and walks a few steps away from OGILVIE before swinging round to address him again)

    It is the law of the land — the law of this realm — that the King — His Sovereign and Maist Gracious Majesty King James the Saxt — demands and is entitled to the allegiance and lealty of his subjects — of aa his subjects — in aa matters touching their lives. Aa matters — temporal and spiritual. That is the law. Did ye ken that?

OGILVIE: The law of the land is the law of man. The laws of God are not to be changed so readily.

SPOTTISWOODE: Maybe no. The fact remains that ye deny allegiance to the King in this matter and in aa religious matters?

OGILVIE: I do.

SPOTTISWOODE: And would render up sic allegiance to the Pope?

OGILVIE: I would.

SPOTTISWOODE: And if the Pope took it into his head to depose a king on the grounds of heresy, ye would uphold and support the Pope’s richts in the matter?

OGILVIE: (guardedly) I do not know whether the Holy Father has, or would claim such a right. It is true that many learned doctors of the Church have asserted that this is the case …

SPOTTISWOODE: Never mind the doctors of the Kirk, Faither. I’m speiring at you!

OGILVIE: It is not an article of faith. If and when it becomes so, I will die for it — and gladly. Until then, I do not need to pass an opinion to anyone — and certainly not to you. You have no right …

SPOTTISWOODE: Aye, Aye, I ken. I’m a layman. No had my first tonsure. I’ve no bloody rights ava! (Pauses, looks seriously at OGILVIE) I must warn ye, Faither Ogilvie, that sooner or later, ye will be forced to answer that question. Your very life micht weill depend on the answer ye give. So. Aince mair. Gif the Pope took it into his head to depose a king on the grounds of heresy, would ye uphold and support the Pope’s richts in the matter?

OGILVIE: (with some hesitation) I assume you are asking me whether or not I would condone regicide. I fail to see why you cannot ask me the question straight out. I am opposed to regicide, Master Spottiswoode, I am opposed to murder — the murder of a king or the murder of a beggar. As a Christian and as a Catholic, that is the only answer I give you.

SPOTTISWOODE: And gin I asked ye as a Jesuit, what answer would ye gie me then?

OGILVIE: What do you mean by that, sir?

SPOTTISWOODE: Let us get doun to specifics, Faither Ogilvie. There are others in your order who have less scruple when it comes to murder.

OGILVIE: I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about.

SPOTTISWOODE: Oh, have you not? Perhaps I am being less than plain. Does not the name of Garnett mean anything to you? Faither Henry Garnett and the Gunpowder Plot?

OGILVIE: That is a monstrous slander! Father Garnett was a good and holy man!

SPOTTISWOODE: (snorting) Holy man! Garnett was a traitor, a willing accomplice to the attempted murder of his king!

OGILVIE: That is a lie! Father Garnett was executed by the English for refusing to betray a penitent — and he was not obliged to do that for anything in the world.

SPOTTISWOODE: Ha! Was he no? Let me tell ye, Faither Ogilvie, that if any man was to confess sic a crime to me, I’d no lose much time in turning him in.

OGILVIE: Nobody should confess to you.

SPOTTISWOODE: Maybe no! But the fact remains that there was a Jesuit priest involved in the Gunpowder Plot. I ken that and so do you …

OGILVIE: I know no such thing!

SPOTTISWOODE: (scornfully) Ach, he was up to his oxters in it! What’s more, barely a year of his Majesty’s reign has gone by without some plot or intrigue or some scheme or other of a traitorous and seditious nature being uncovered. And on every single occasion there’s been a Jesuit at the foot of it! And nou here you come owre from France with your English manners and your assumed name and (snatches up the papers in his fist) this neiveful of sedition in your kist. At this very minute …

OGILVIE: This is preposterous! What are you charging me with? If you’re looking for traitors, why don’t you try Robert Bruce? I’m told he lives near here and you have plenty of evidence …

SPOTTISWOODE: (ignoring the question) At this very minute there are twenty-seven …

OGILVIE: Are you afraid to answer me then? Why don’t you arrest a presbyterian traitor? Why don’t you …

SPOTTISWOODE: (shouting him down) Jesuit priests working against the well-being …

OGILVIE: What about the Seventeenth of September riots? Why don’t you drag Robert Bruce in here?

SPOTTISWOODE: … and security of this nation.

OGILVIE: (shouting almost into SPOTTISWOODE’S face) What about Robert Bruce? Answer me, you imposter, answer me you God-damned king-worshiping Heretic!

(SPOTTISWOODE knocks OGILVIE down with a full-blooded punch to the jaw. He stands over him, panting with rage)

SPOTTISWOODE: At this very minute, there are twenty-seven Jesuit priests working against the guid-keeping and security of this nation of Scotland — and I am Airchbishop of Glasgow and hae no need to answer to any one of them! (Turns to the door) Andro! Andro!

(ANDREW and WILL enter at the double)

SPOTTISWOODE: Take this man out of my sight!

ANDREW: Aye, aye, m’lord! Whaur tae?

SPOTTISWOODE: (angrily) The Castle, ye fool! Where ither? Get me lowse of him!

(OGILVIE rises slowly to his feet as the soldiers advance. He stares at SPOTTISWOODE who has turned his back on him)

OGILVIE: Who made you my executioner? (Spits on the floor at SPOTTISWOODE’S feet) And who made you Archbishop? Better butcher than bishop!

SPOTTISWOODE: (without turning) Get him away!

(The soldiers lead OGILVIE out)

SPOTTISWOODE goes to the table and pours himself a drink. He gathers the papers together carefully, re-dons his cap and picks up his cloak. Finishing his drink, he sighs and stares into space for a few moments)

SPOTTISWOODE: Robert Bruce — oh damn Robert Bruce!

(Hurls the empty goblet into a corner of the room)

God damn him!

(SPOTTISWOODE stamps out)