SCENE TWO

The following January. A corridor in the Palace of the Archbishop of Glasgow. ANDREW is on his own, happed up for a journey and carrying a shield and spear. He looks distinctly cheesed off as WILL similarly attired, enters briskly.

WILL: Nae sign ο them yet?

ANDREW: No chance!

WILL: Sandy’s got aathing organised at the gate and Wattie and the ither lads are staunin by with the horses.

ANDREW: (nodding) Guid.

WILL: Here, though. Gin we dinnae get a move on, we’ll hae a job winnin awa. There’s a fair crowd buildin up ootby.

ANDREW: Ach, the Airchbishop’s no bothert! No him! No wi us ridin aside him tae tak aa the stanes and glaur they’ll be chuckin at him. Och! I’m fair wrocht tae daith wi aa this ditterin aboot!

WILL: Whit are they jawin aboot, onywey? They’ve been in there for mair nor an ’oor!

ANDREW: Christ knows! Ogilvie’ll be argyin the toss again, I shouldnae wonder.

WILL: (laughing) Weill, I hope the Airchbishop disnae lose the heid and thump him this time! Oh he’s a funny ane that Ogilvie!

ANDREW: Funny’s no the ward. Bluidy bampot if ye ask me.

WILL: Christ, no hauf! Tellt me aince — when I brocht him in his meat like — tellt me aince that he didnae mind the jile! Nae kiddin, Aye! Said he was servin his destiny, fulfillin his destiny — I cannae mind right what he said but it was somethin aboot his destiny. And he’s aye crackin bawrs and laughin, ken? Aye that cheery. Damn shair I wadnae find muckle tae be cheery aboot gin I was in he’s place! Christ, ye ken whit it’s like in there, Andro?

ANDREW: Aye, Oh aye.

WILL: He’s no been oot of that place for geynear three month. It’s cauld and it’s damp and it’s pitch-black and fair crawlin wi rats. And there’s this muckle iron beam at the fit ο the bed. Ogilvie’s chyned til it by the ankles and it’s a gey short chyn! He gets naethin but parritch tae eat and water tae drink. If he’s aff his heid bi now, it’s nae wonder!

ANDREW: He was aff his fuckin heid afore he gaed in there if ye want my opinion.

WILL: Aye. Maybe he was anaa! (A thought strikes him)

    Here but! I didnae tell ye aboot this mornin. (Laughs at the recollection)

    I gaed in there aboot — och, echt o’clock it wad be — brocht him in his parritch and some clean claes and that. (Laughs again)

    He’s lyin there, aa clairty and bleary-eyed among the rats and the shite (Laughs) and his feet’re stuck hauf-roads up tae the ceilin wi this bluidy chyn! I gets in there and I says tae him I says ‘Hello there, Faither! Hou’re ye daein the day?’ And ye ken whit? He’s lyin there (Laughs and shakes his head) and he says tae me, he says ‘Oh, Will’ he sayd — aa englified ken? — ‘Oh Will!’ he says ‘It’s past joking when the heid’s aff!’

(They both laugh)

ANDREW: Christ, that’ll dae!

WILL: Past joking when the heid’s aff! Oh Jesus — Andro, I geynear creased mysel! It was the way he said it, ken? Aa English and that (mimics) ‘Past joking when the heid’s aff,’ Aw Christ!

ANDREW: (serious again) I wonder — maybe his heid’ll really be aff efter they’ve done wi him in Embro.

WILL: Here, when we get hame — tae Embro like — what’s the chances of a couple ο days aff? I’d like tae get up the road — see my Maw.

(ANDREW grins broadly and chuckles to himself)

WILL: What’s the joke? Whit are ye laughin at?

ANDREW: Naethin. Naethin. It’s jist — eh, want tae see yer Maw, eh?

WILL: Aye! I’ve no seen her for a while and — weill, I mean tae say, she’s no gettin ony younger. Whit’s the maitter wi that?

ANDREW: Naethin. Naethin at aa! (Wipes the smile from his face) Aw, never mind, Wullie. Never mind, son. It’s jist my sense ο humour. I daursay we’ll get some time away when we’re in Embro — tae stert wi onywey. Later on, Fin no saw shair.

WILL: Later on? Are we gonnae be in Reekie for a while then?

ANDREW: A few weeks, I reckon. Depends.

WILL: Depends on whit?

ANDREW: Depends on hou muckle trouble they get frae Ogilvie. Ach Ogilvie! Buggers like him gie me the boke, so they dae!

WILL: The Papes?

ANDREW: Naw! The nobility — nobility like thon! Rich men wi bees in their bonnets! Ach, they scunner me! I tell ye this, Wull — I’ve seen Ogilvie’s like afore nou! He can caa hissel a Jesuit, a pape or whitever ye like — at the hinner end, he aye minds that he’s Sir Wattie Ogilvie’s son. And nae matter whit he’s suffered here in Glesca, he kens up here (Taps his temple) that the men that’ll be sittin in judgment on him in Embro are his ain kind — gentlemen like himsel! sae he argies the toss, stands up tae the Airchbishop — aw he’s the brave, brave boy richt enought! Crackin jokes and aa the rest ο it! But aa the time, Wullie, he kens that he can say the ward and walk oot ο here free as air! And he thinks that efter he’s been in Embro and aa the talkin’s done, that’s jist exactly whit he’s gonnae dae! But that’s jist where he’s mistaken, son. When we get tae Embro …

SPOTTISWOODE: (off) Andro! Andro!

ANDREW: At last! Christ, dinnae tell me … Come on, Wullie!

WILL: (taking ANDREW’S arm) Andro, whit were ye gonnae say? Whit’ll happen when we get tae Embro?

(ANDREW looks at WILL and grins)

ANDREW: Och, ye’ll mebbe get tae see yer Maw! Come on, son. We’re aff!

(Both exit)