In the meantime the tom-toms of incitement were being beaten frantically in all parts of France. New charges were constantly being added to the shocking catalogue. It was now said that the Templars had confessed to worshiping an idol covered with animal skin and with carbuncles for eyes, and of burning the bodies of diseased members and mixing their ashes into a powder to be given to new members.
The Pope now took an active part in the conspiracy. In 1308 he issued a bull demanding the arrest of all Templars. This had the expected effect. Action was taken in England, as will be explained later, in the Spanish countries, and in Cyprus. Some of the knights defended themselves in their strong castles of Monzon and Castellat, but both were finally reduced. In October of 1311 a Grand Council was summoned by the Pope at Vienne, where Philip took his seat at the right hand of the Pope. The latter came out into the open in a sermon which condemned the order officially. In a second bull, Ad providam, published in May 1312, the properties of the order, except in a limited number of countries where the prosecution had been light, were assigned to the Knights of St. John. This decision was the first reverse Philip had experienced; he wanted all the property himself. However, there were methods of circumventing the papal order which he pursued later.
3
The final act of the great tragedy had the old and feeble Grand Master as main character. Up to this point Jacques de Molay had played an inglorious part because of his inability to withstand torture. He had confessed to some of the indictment and had later reiterated his avowals at public hearings.
Philip, shaken by the decision to transfer the property to the Knights of St. John, decided on a dramatic step. As the Grand Master had never failed to shrink into weakness when threatened with the fires of recantation, it was believed that he would do so again. Accordingly he was summoned from his cell to appear on a scaffold in front of Notre Dame. With him were Gaufrid de Charney, the master of Normandy, Hugh de Peralt, the vicar-general, and Guy, the son of the dauphin of Auvergne. There was a large gathering to witness the final humiliation of the heads of the order.
The four knights, loaded with chains, were brought to the scaffold by the provost of Paris. The Bishop of Alba read their confessions aloud and the papal legate called upon the prisoners to confirm their depositions. Hugh de Peralt and one other, Gaufrid de Charney, assented. But when the name of Jacques de Molay was called, the Grand Master, whose hair had turned white in prison and whose face was thin and pallid, stepped to the front of the platform and raised his chained arms to heaven.
“I do confess my guilt,” he cried, “which consists in having, to my shame and dishonor, suffered myself, through the pain of torture and the fear of death, to give utterance to falsehoods, imputing scandalous sins and iniquities to an illustrious order which hath nobly served the cause of Christianity. I disdain to seek a wretched and disgraceful existence by engrafting another lie upon the original falsehood.” He was interrupted by the provost and his officers, and the platform was hurriedly cleared.
Philip moved then with fierce determination and dispatch. He did not consult the officials of the Church or the Inquisitor. The next day the Grand Master and his younger companion were taken to what was called “the little island” in the Seine which lay between the king’s gardens and the convent of St. Augustine. Here they were bound to stakes over small fires of charcoal and slowly burned to death.
The horrified spectators heard the voice of the Grand Master cry out from the flames: “We die innocent. The decree which condemns us is an unjust decree, but in heaven there is an august tribunal to which the weak never appeal in vain. To that tribunal I summon the Roman pontiff within forty days.”
The witnesses shuddered when the tortured voice continued: “Oh, Philip, I pardon thee in vain, for thy life is condemned. At the tribunal of God, within a year, I await thee.”
All that is left to tell is that Clement V, that weak and ambitious man, died of dysentery early the next year and that Philip the Fair expired a few months after.
The summary execution of the Grand Master and his companion did not provoke the officials of the Church to any protest. The only action came from the Augustinians, who objected to the trespass on their land!
4
For a short while, and to his honor, Edward II forbade the infliction of torture upon Templars in his dominions. He really believed in their piety and the decency of their morals, but, being a weak character, he was speedily overcome by the influence of the Pope, who wrote him in June 1310 upbraiding him for not submitting the Templars “to the discipline of the rack.”
Influenced by admonitions of the Pope and solicitations of the clergy, Edward on August 26 sent orders to the constable of the Tower, John de Cromwell, to deliver all Templars in his custody, at the request of the inquisitors, to the sheriffs of London, so that the inquisitors might proceed more conveniently and effectually. On the same day Edward directed the sheriffs who received the prisoners from the Tower to place them in care of jailers, appointed by the inquisitors, who would confine them in prisons in various parts of London at such places as they and the bishops considered most expedient. They were to do with “the bodies of the Templars whatever should seem fitting in accordance with ecclesiastical law.”
On September 21, 1310, the ecclesiastical council in London met and had further inquisitions and depositions taken against the Templars. These were read aloud, and immediately disputes arose touching on various alterations observable in them. Now began further questioning of the Templars to try to extract the “truth,” and if “by straitenings and confinement they would confess nothing further, then the torture was to be applied.” But it was provided that the examination by torture should be conducted without the “perpetual mutilation or disabling of any limb, and without a violent effusion of blood.”
The inquisitors and bishops of London and Chichester were to notify the Bishop of Canterbury of the results of the torture, that he might again convene the assembly for purposes of passing sentence, either of absolution or condemnation.
On October 6 the king sent fresh instructions to the constable of the Tower and to the sheriffs. Apparently the Templars were shuttled back and forth to various prisons at the will of the inquisitors. At this time it is recorded that many of the jailers actually showed reluctance in carrying out orders and were often merciful and considerate of the unhappy Templars.
Orders were also sent to the constable of the Castle of Lincoln, the mayor and the bailiffs of the city, where many Templars were being held. On December 12, 1310, by command of the king, they were taken to London and placed in solitary confinement in different prisons and even in private houses, where soon came orders to load them down with fetters and chains.
In some way the Templars had heard reports of the fate of their brothers in France and that they were promised freedom if they swore to untruths. They refused the offer. They continued to declare that everything that had been done in their chapters in respect of absolution, reception of brethren, and other matters, was honorable and honest and might well and lawfully be done. After such affirmations the Templars were sent back to their dungeons loaded with more chains. During April 1311 seventy-two witnesses against the Templars were examined in the chapter house of the Holy Trinity in London. Nearly all were monks—Carmelites, Augustinians, Dominicans, and Minorites. The evidence was entirely hearsay.
The final outcome of all this examining and torturing, this shuffling of prisoners from one dungeon to another, was that the order was dissolved and all property of the order was confiscated. There were no executions, no rising of flames about the writhing bodies of innocent men. The knights were permitted to drift into civil life.
In view of the nature of the evidence, this seems drastic and unwarranted; but, knowing what had happened to their brothers in France, the English Templars counted themselves fortunate.
CHAPTER V
Bannockburn
1
A first visit to Stirling Castle is an
experience never to be forgotten. The deep interest aroused is not supplied by the castle itself. It is large and old, but it is not the stark gaunt structure which stood so high on the edge of the precipice of rock in the days of Wallace and Bruce. Some of the original foundations may still be there.
It is the view from the battlements which fills the eye and causes the imagination of the visitor to soar. A glance to the south, across the battlefield of Bannockburn, provides a picture of the Lowlands. To the east is flat country traversed by the Forth, which winds and curls and winds again on its way to empty itself into the Firth. Then the eye turns to the north, where the range of the Ochils extends above the river and recalls memories of the crafty battle that Wallace fought there. North and west of the Ochils are the mighty Grampians, from which the initiate can identify the peaks of Ben Lomond, Ben Nevis, and Ben A’an standing up in aloof grandeur against the sky. There is a wildness, a sense of mystery and of violence in the mountains of the north, like a key to Scottish history. Lying between north and south, Stirling is the door to the Highlands and the scene of many of the most dramatic episodes in Scottish history.
No castle in Scotland, certainly, has been more frequently and more insistently besieged. When Robert the Bruce moved his force down to the Torwood, his ragged and often shoeless men singing their favorite marching song, Hey, Tuttie Taitie, Stirling had been continuously beleaguered for more than ten years. Sometimes the garrison was Scottish and it was the English who vainly strove to force their way up the one steep and winding approach. Sometimes the stronghold was held by the English, while the Scots blocked the roads and tried by devious means to gain an entrance.
There is a reason why the indolent English king was compelled in 1314 to assemble the strongest army of the day and advance to fight the Scots at Bannockburn, which lies three miles south of the castle. Robert the Bruce and his valiant lieutenants, his sole remaining brother Edward, his friend the Black Douglas, Sir Robert Keith the marshal, and the hard-fighting Randolph, Earl of Moray, had all been so insistently at work that only three castles of any strength remained in the hands of the English: Edinburgh, Stirling, and Roxborough. In 1313 the Black Douglas took Roxburgh and Randolph captured Edinburgh by a daring climb up the steep rock. That left Stirling; and it fell to the lot of Edward Bruce, the most daring and ingenious of them all, to lay siege to the granite towers on the precipitous hill.
BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN 1314
The constable of Stirling was an English nobleman named Mowbray. After a long period of feints and attacks, the two leaders got together and made a compact. Mowbray agreed to lay down his arms and surrender if he were not relieved by the English king before midsummer of 1314.
Robert the Bruce was not pleased with his reckless brother when he heard of the agreement. He thought the situation over and gave his head a dubious shake.
“That was unwisly doyn, perfay,” he is reported to have said, the curious turn of phrase being the work of one of the bards who have handed down accounts of the incident.
The king went on to say that now there must be a truce around Stirling while Edward of England had a year in which to gather a mighty army for the relief of the castle.
But his brother was convinced of the wisdom of what he had done. Was there any possibility of carrying the great stone pile during the time allowed in the truce? He doubted it, having already striven desperately and unsuccessfully to crack this hardest of nuts. If the English king did not march north to the relief, then the castle fell into their hands without another blow being struck. If, on the other hand, Edward did come, they had a double opportunity: to defeat the English army and have Stirling turned over to them. And, he added, must they not fight the son of the dread old king sooner or later? Why not now?
2
Robert Bruce had been right. The English king considered the situation at Stirling Castle a national challenge. The stronghold must not be allowed to fall. The test of strength which had been pending since the death of Edward I could no longer be postponed. It was decided that the strength of England must be mustered for an attack in force.
Edward, who had become more dynastic-minded since the birth of his son, sent the Earl of Pembroke to take charge of the defense of the northern counties until such time as the royal army moved up to the attack. A writ was dispatched to no fewer than ninety-three barons to meet the king at Newcastle with all their men-at-arms and feudal retainers. At the same time he commanded Edward de Burgh, the Earl of Ulster, to cross the water with an Irish force numbering four thousand, including archers, the Gascons to come out in force, and a supply fleet under the command of John of Argyll to operate along the east coast.
The first summons was not successful and Edward sent out a second and more urgent demand. This time he was more specific, asking twenty-one thousand foot soldiers from the northern counties and Wales. Believing now that his preparations would prove adequate, the king traveled to Berwick to take command. Here he suffered a very great disappointment. Four of the powerful earls did not put in an appearance—Cousin Lancaster, Warenne, Warwick, and Arundel—although they sent troops. Edward found it necessary, therefore, to issue a third writ, in which he said, “You are to exasperate, and hurry up, and compel your men to come.”
The upshot was the assembling, finally, of an imposing army. Never before had such a well-equipped force of such size marched to the north to try conclusions with the Scots. The chronicles of the day, which tend to exaggerate everything, fixed the English strength at one hundred thousand, but more recent calculations reduce this figure to something between twenty and forty thousand. Twenty-five thousand is probably close to the actual figure, and this would include the cavalry and the archers from Ireland and Wales. A larger force could not have operated on the narrow front beyond the Burn of Bannock, where Robert the Bruce waited with his army. This much may be set down as true, however: the army was splendidly equipped and caused a wave of awe and fear to spread through the Lowlands as it progressed northward. The train of carts following the army was twenty miles long!
The earliest reports estimated the Scottish army at thirty thousand, but this is absurdly high. Modern calculators have reduced the figure to something in the neighborhood of seven thousand, including a body of five hundred horse. The horse troops were light compared with the English cavalry, which consisted of knights armed to the teeth on huge Flemish chargers and numbered two thousand. One fact is clear: that the disparity was great, and that Scotland’s only hope lay in the spirit of her sons and the skill of her king in selecting where he would stand and fight.
There was a moment when even the stout heart of the Scottish king almost failed him. It was early on the morning of Sunday, June 23, 1314. The Scot pipers and drums had roused the army early and mass had been celebrated. A light ration of bread and water was issued, for it was the vigil of St. John. Two of the Scottish leaders, the Black Douglas and Sir Robert Keith, who was the marshal of Scotland and had charge of the scanty cavalry, had ridden out before dawn to catch a first glimpse of the English. These two stout campaigners gazed with awe when the mist rose and the early sun shone on the burnished arms of the invaders. It was their lot to see first the approach of “proud Edward’s power, chains and slavery.” The cavalry was in the van; and two thousand mounted men with polished shields and helmets, with pennons flying and trumpets sounding, can look as formidable as the army which someday will ride to Armageddon. Behind the horsemen came files of foot soldiers stretching back as far as the eye could see, marching steadily with swaying of shields.
The Black Douglas looked black indeed when he returned with Keith to tell what they had seen. Robert the Bruce was seated on a pony, because it was more sure-footed on such rough and marshy ground, and he was wearing a gold crown over his helmet, to identify him to his men. It would identify him also to the enemy and so can be classed as jactance, an open flouting of the foe, as though he said, I am Robert the Bruce, crowned at Scone, and if I fall the flag of Scotland wil
l fall; and make what ye may of it, bold knights of the Sassenach!
He listened to their story of the overwhelming might of Edward while he studied the thin ranks of his own men and their nondescript weapons. After sober reflection he advised them to say little, to let it be accepted that the English, while numerous, were disorganized, a plausible story after the rapid march of the invaders by the inland route through Lauderdale.
When a general has a defensive action on his hands he knows moments of serious doubt while watching the enemy advance. Has he overlooked any possibilities? Has he forgotten anything? Are his troop dispositions sound? The Bruce remained where he was for some time, gazing about him with anxious eyes. He studied the ground sloping away in front of him, up which the English must fight their way. It was narrow, with the junction of the Burn of Bannock at the Forth on his left and the heavily wooded Gillies Hill and Coxet Hill on his right; much too narrow for the operations of a large army. The only stretch of open ground was the Carse, which lay between the river and the burn, and even this was studded with stunted trees and underbrush and the yellow of the sod was interspersed like shot silk with the green of the swampy mosses. In front of his permanent line, which faced the Carse, he had dug a row of pits and filled them with pointed stakes and iron rods known as calthrops. His position, in fact, was stronger than the one Wallace had chosen at Falkirk. But what of the archers who had won at Falkirk for the English? Douglas and Keith had said nothing of them, having seen only the chivalry of the Sassenach in their steel harness and the foot soldiers with shields and spears. Had the English forgotten the lesson of Falkirk?
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