by Jack Whyte
“Forgive me, sir, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about this world we live in now, about duties and responsibilities and loyalties, all the touchstone things that keep us anchored in our daily lives.”
“And you think they’re changing, all those things?”
“I don’t think it. I know it. I believe it—canna deny the truth o’ it. I’ve been thinking about it for months now, since a talk I had with Rob Wishart when I was last in Glasgow. It was he who first brought up the notion of a changing world, of our whole system changing, throughout Christendom—and him a bishop! I thought at first that he was havering. But young Lamberton had just come back from France after living there for near two years, and Wishart brought him in that night to talk to me about the things he had seen and heard over there, the things he’d learned.
“We talked long into that night, about a wheen o’ things. By the time I left to come home a few days later, my head was spinning, and I’ve scarce had a minute’s peace since. Ideas, Grandson. They can drive you mad, defying your belief and everything you had held to be common sense.” He nodded, sombrely, letting the pause stretch. “And so tonight I thought to pass them on to you. You’ve your whole life in front of you, whereas I’m old and nearly done. You should be aware of what’s happening in the world out there beyond our doors, and able to think about it all in times ahead. What’s out there willna stay out there. These new ideas will come here, whether we will it or no’. And no’ just here to Scotland. They’ll spread everywhere.”
“That sounds … terrifying, Gransser.”
The old man barked a laugh. “Aye, I know. And daft as well, eh? I can see it in your face. You’re frettin’ for my wits.” The laughter vanished as quickly as it had erupted. “I swear to you, Robert, I’m no’ mad, nor am I lying. I told you before, the Bruce doesna deal in lies. Yet I can see you’re having difficulty grasping what I’m talking about. Let me help. Young Lamberton gave me an example o’ the way these ideas have the power to change things.”
Lord Robert nibbled his upper lip between his teeth for a few moments, then emptied his cup in one great swallow. “Our Lord and Saviour, Jesus the Christ. An ordinary man—forbye bein’ the Son of God, of course. But an ordinary man none the less, the scriptures tell us. A carpenter, from a wee village in Galilee. But he had an idea the like o’ which no one had ever heard. He believed in mercy, in compassion and forgiveness, talked o’ loving his enemies and turning the other cheek to them that struck him, talked about the all-forgiving mercy o’ a single God to all men, no’ just his own kind, the Jews, who looked down on everybody else and called themselves God’s chosen. And, mark you, this was a time when there was no such thing as mercy or compassion in the world. Rome ruled the world then. Rome was the world and showed no mercy to anyone, anywhere. Roman law was brutal—oppressive and all-powerful, and anybody who dared to defy it was quickly dealt wi’, usually by killing but sometimes wi’ a floggin’ that would leave a man unfit to work and live, or wi’ a lifetime of hard labour in the mines or as a galley slave.
“And then along comes this one man, this carpenter, who talks about forgiving our persecutors and befriendin’ foreigners, about a better life in a perfect world after death in this one. Mad ideas, every one o’ them. Laughable. But he set the example and others began to follow him and to believe in what he was telling them. The Romans killed him eventually—they had to—but his ideas spread and grew sacred to ordinary folk everywhere who found a message o’ hope in what he had preached. And his idea, o’ simple love and hope, changed the whole world. Even the Emperor Constantine became a Christian. And Rome collapsed, rotten from the inside out. But long before it did, Roman soldiers everywhere was swearin’ their oath o’ loyalty to the Empire on the Christian cross, and the Christian Church had brought the eternal light that is hope to common folk everywhere. An idea, Robert, one man’s idea, more powerful than kings or emperors. For once an idea has taken root, nothing, no power on earth, can destroy it or erase it from men’s minds.”
Rob sat quiet for a long time, absorbing what his grandfather had said, and then he stooped and set down his empty cup, having no memory of drinking the contents.
“I think I’m beginning to see why you’re concerned, sir. What was this new idea the bishop and Lamberton revealed to you?”
The patriarch sat up straighter. “It wasna just the one, lad. They had several. A wheen o’ them, but taken thegither they were … ‘frightening’ is the word that’s in my mind, and that’s no’ a common word for me but it’s the right one, for they fit frighteningly thegither and they suggest a future that none o’ us could imagine.”
“Like what, Gransser?”
Lord Robert looked at him, smiling faintly. “Oh, am I bein’ too slow for you? Ah well, I suppose I can’t expect a young man to sit there bobbin’ his head much longer.” He sniffed. “Let’s start, then, with a few ideas about kings—an old idea about divine right and a new idea about nation-states. You’ve been in England, at Edward’s court, so you know there is no love between him and young Philip of France. The two of them will go to war wi’ each other o’er this Gascony dispute, sooner or later.”
“Probably.” The younger Bruce nodded judiciously. He was well aware, through the teachings of his erudite religious tutors, of King Edward’s troubles with his English barons over the ruinous costs of maintaining and policing his rebellious Duchy of Gascony. Political discord was brewing as the contentious Gascon nobles made repeated appeals to the French King to come to their aid against the intolerable neglect of their absentee English duke.
Lord Robert was watching him with one eyebrow cocked. “Aye, but have you any knowledge of what Philip is attempting to do wi’ France itself?”
“No, sir.” Rob shook his head slowly, knitting his brows slightly. “I know little of him other than that he is the King of France, and that he might be tempted to risk Edward’s wrath and intervene in Gascony for his own ends. I know, too, that he was very young when he was crowned five years ago and is comely enough to be called Le Bel—the Fair.”
“Aye, and he’s a clever young man, for a king. He’s versed in law, I’m told, and surrounds himself with lawyers—has done so ever since before he took the crown. And he’s determined to finish the job his father left undone—the task of making France what he wills it to be. Philip has proven to be a hungry king and he grows ever greedier. Young as he is, he has a dream, you see. An idea. And that idea underlies his quarrels with Edward.” He saw his grandson’s frown. “He’s a Capet, lad, and that means that, like his forebears, he believes he rules France by divine right, wi’ the direct will and blessings of God Himself. That’s a frightening thing, to have such certitude.” He cleared his throat with a deep, harrumphing cough. “Father Lamberton told me all about it in Glasgow, and what he had to say made me sit up and listen. France was aey a tiny kingdom in truth, a wee stretch of land along the river Seine from the coast to Paris, held these two hundred years and more by the family Capet, who trace their ancestry to Charlemagne and have aey believed, as I said, that God Himself has given them the right to rule in His name, and no mere man, be he king or even pope, can dictate to them. That makes them hard to deal wi’, of course.
“Philip is the fourth of his name, and he is using lawyers and the law, manipulating men and words and history, to extend his kingdom. His father started it, but Philip works far harder at it, to bring the great duchies into his domain in much the same way that Edward took Wales and Man to add to England’s realm. Now Anjou, Burgundy and Poitou, Navarre and Champagne and the Languedoc, along wi’ others, are all set to become parts of France, and young Philip has his eye on Edward’s own duchies—no’ just Gascony but Aquitaine too. This man dreams of a single, united French kingdom, all the great duchies under one Crown—his own. He calls his dream a nation-state, a single country ruled by a central government wi’ him as the sole head, ordained by God Himsel’. He covets all the r
iches of what was once Roman Gaul—all the taxes, all the revenues, and all the wealth his, by divine right. And Lamberton says he is likely to achieve it.”
Rob raised his eyebrows. “Then we should wish him well of it. As you say, Gransser, he’s a far-off king, no threat to us.”
“You think so? Then did ye no’ hear what I said about a central government wi’ him the sole head? What about his barons and earls, and the dukes of the great provinces? Gin he has his way, they’ll be reduced to impotence. And rebel though they probably will, there’ll be little they can do about it, because Philip has very cleverly sold his idea to the common folk—the same folk who have been abused by the great ducal families for hundreds of years. The common people’s loyalties are now sworn to the young King himself, Lamberton says. The French folk love him, all o’ them, for what they think he offers them, and they canna see that there’s little about the man himself to love … And you are frowning again because you canna see what I mean.” He stared hard at his grandson, his eyes narrowing with the intensity of his need to convince the younger man.
“Think about it, Robert, and think like a priest, if you can, seeing the whole and no’ just the glitter o’ it. This King in France is in the act of destroying the very system that has supported Christendom since soon after the Romans left. Our system! Clerics and scholars call it the feudal system because it is based entirely on lands distributed and held en feu—in fee, on trust, wi’ every man dependent for his livelihood upon the man closest in rank above him, frae common peasants all the way up to the King himself, and wi’ feudal obligations—rents and taxation—working down through the same chain of duty and responsibilities.
“Now, with his lawyers fashioning his new nation-state, Philip is tellin’ the folk that every man need be loyal only to himself and to the King, providing he pays his taxes directly to the royal coffers when they come due. He wants to weaken his nobles, by dispossessing them and taking away the livelihood that’s sustained them for hundreds o’ years—the feudal loyalty of their vassals. He wants to make them dependent on the Crown alone for their freedoms and liberties. That means the days o’ the great feudal nobles over there are coming to an end, as sure as there’s down on a goose.”
Rob dipped his head. “And the same thing could happen here, is what you’re saying…” He paused. “Forgive me if I disagree, Grandfather, but I don’t think it could. It might work in France, for Philip, but it won’t work here, if only because we have none of their great, independent duchies.”
“Oh, is that what you think?” Lord Robert’s jaw tightened pugnaciously. “Well, you’ll forgive me for saying so, but you think that because you’re fifty years younger than I am, a bairn wi’ eyes that are no’ yet fully open. No great feudal duchies here, you say? And you the heir to one o’ the greatest? What about Wales, then? Or the Isle of Man? For that matter, what of our Scotland? What about the great English dukedoms and baronies, Kent and Hereford, Essex and Cumberland, Norfolk and Northumberland, whose barons are so rich and puissant that they are a constant goad in Edward’s side?”
“What about them? Edward is no Philip, Grandfather. He is King of England, yes, but not by divine right.”
“Rubbish!” It was the first time the old man had raised his voice that night, and Rob stared at him, as the patriarch fought to restrain his temper. “Look, lad, I asked you to think, but you’re no’ seeing what I’m telling you. I’m no’ talking about the Second Coming o’ Christ. I’m talking about reality—today and in your lifetime. Philip’s task will soon be done. He’s scarce five years older than you but he’s been King for that long and his dream is taking shape, and as long as he can see that, he’ll never let go of it. He’ll hae it done before he dies, you wait and see. A single, united French kingdom, massive and controlled by him alone, his every wish and whim carried out by willing lackeys backed by modern armies. His word will be law everywhere, in every duchy, every province, every town and city of a kingdom ten, twenty, fifty times larger than his ancestors controlled. It is beggaring him right now, from what I have heard—he owes more to the Temple bankers than his entire lands are worth—but once he succeeds, once it’s all his beyond dispute, he’ll be the wealthiest king in all Christendom and no one—nobody—will be able to gainsay him. His new nation-state, wi’ its centralized control an’ unimaginable wealth, will be invincible.”
He fell quiet for a moment, breathing heavily, and then continued. “Now let me ask you this. Do you believe the other kings o’ Christendom are ignorant o’ what he is tryin’ to do? Do you believe they’re no’ watching him like hawks? And do you believe they’re no’ envious o’ what he hopes to achieve? There’s no’ a single one of them, includin’ Edward Plantagenet, who isn’t chafin’ under the reins his barons place on him. No’ one of them who isna close to beggary. So ask yourself, boy. Gin he succeeds and takes control o’ everything, how long will it be, think ye, before other kings try to copy him wi’ their own nation-states? And when they do, where will that lead?”
A long pause, and then Rob whispered, “War. Wars everywhere.”
“Aye, war, and confusion and destruction throughout the length and breadth o’ Christendom. War until Hell willna hold all the dead men. What is it? Ye’re chewin’ at something.”
“Ideas … You said there were a number of ideas that were frightening together, but you’ve only spoken of the one, Philip’s idea for his new France. What are the others?” Rob was talking to the old man as an equal now, speaking as a man with problems on his mind, and if his grandfather noticed it at all he paid it no attention, choosing to respond in kind.
“Aye, there are others. There’s a Scots priest in England, a Franciscan in a place called Oxford, who is highly thought of for his scholarship, even though he, too, is no’ much older than you are. He’d be the same age as Lamberton, I jalouse. His name is John Duns, and he’s a theologian and a philosopher, and a teacher of both. They call him Duns the Scot—Duns Scotus. He went to France, to Paris, last year, to debate wi’ the scholars there, and Lamberton was there at the time and spoke with him often. Often enough, in fact, to have come to think o’ him as havin’ the finest mind he’s ever encountered. And comin’ frae Lamberton, that’s no small praise.
“Anyway, this Duns was raised hereabouts, on the Borders, and he’s fierce proud o’ bein’ what he is, a Scot. But he’s a deep thinker, too, and some o’ the things he’s thinkin’ nowadays would earn him no gratitude from Edward o’ England—or from me, were I king, come to think of it. John Duns has some strong views on freedoms, Lamberton tells me—freedom o’ will and freedom o’ conscience and the freedom o’ a people to choose their own rulers—the freedom and responsibility, in fact, of the community of Scotland to appoint their own kings and to get rid o’ them and replace them afterwards if they winna do what the community requires o’ them. Lamberton heard the man say so last year in Paris, before the court at Norham even started its deliberations. Well, it wouldna please England’s King to hear that voiced, even though to this point he’s done nothin’ but what we asked o’ him, we bein’ Rab Wishart’s community o’ Scotland.
“That doesna sound like much, I ken, but it’s the kind o’ thought that could stir folk up if it got about, an’ it surely will. Men o’ free will, in a free society, bein’ free to choose their own leaders? Rubbish, you’ll say, and so you should, considering who you are. But it’s another o’ these new ideas.”
Rob shook his head. “Aye, mayhap it is, but where would these supposedly free men come from? No man today—here in Scotland at least, or even in England—is free of duty or obligation to someone, be it knight, lord, or baron. That’s the way of the world.”
Lord Robert smiled. “Is that a fact? Tell me, when were you last in a big town or city?”
“Any one?”
“Aye, any one. When was it?”
Rob shrugged. “London, I suppose,” he said as he rose to add fuel to the dying brazier. “If you don’t count our last journ
ey to Perth. We werena there long enough to see anything—in and out the same day. I was in London with Da two years ago, though. We passed by Berwick on the way home that time, but we didn’t stop there and I haven’t been anywhere else since then, except for Norham, and that’s no’ much of a place, beyond the castle.” He thrust a third log onto the two he had already placed and straightened up, dusting his hands against each other. “Why do you ask?”
“Because they’re all filled wi’ free men, Robert, every town and city in the land. And in France and England and everywhere else in Christendom. We call them burgesses, the citizens o’ the burghs. In England they’re called burghers and the French ca’ them bourgeois, but they’re a’ the same. They’re merchants, living in towns and working for themselves, and the richest o’ them, here in Scotland, anyway, are making themselves heard as part of the realm’s community.”
“I know that.” Rob was frowning as he prepared to lower himself into his chair. “But I don’t see—” He stopped and grasped the arms of the chair, his eyes suddenly gone wide, and then he subsided gently into his seat.
The old man smiled again, more widely this time, and dipped his chin. “You see it now, though, eh? They’ve slipped the leash. Vassals to no man, they’re free to do whatever they want. I’ve seen it happening in my own lifetime, getting more and more noticeable frae year to year. We havena had a war here for nigh on eighty year—the tulzie at Largs wi’ the Norwegians wasna a real battle, and there wasna really a war. Since then we’ve been at peace, throughout King Alec’s reign, and when peace lasts for years like that, commerce grows strong.
“So now the burgesses are startin’ to speak up as a group, and powerfu’ folk are listenin’. They’re forming merchants’ guilds and trade associations everywhere—in the Low Countries, in Norway, Sweden, Germany—everywhere. The Dutchmen have formed a league, they call it the Hansa League because that’s the name for a guild there, an’ they’ve seen to it that they can trade freely wi’ one another throughout their entire region at favourable rates. Our own wool merchants do the same here. Merchants are everywhere today, Robert, and they’re growing stronger every year, growin’ rich an’ paying tribute or fealty to very few. They all owe fealty to the Crown, right enough, but that’s as far as it goes. They live in the burghs, mainly for their own safety and the safety o’ their warehouses, and they support themselves by what they do. They even lend money to noblemen like us, and that’s how they steer clear o’ trouble. They pay taxes, right enough, but to whom? I’ll tell you: to the burghs themselves, for their upkeep and governance. And until now no one has challenged them, because they canna be challenged under the system we have. None o’ the magnates can lay claim to the burghs. And every nobleman in the land relies on the burgesses to keep him supplied wi’ goods. Do you see what I’m telling you? Another idea—free burgesses—and one that’s already too well settled to be stopped.”