by P. L. Snow
There is a long-held tradition in Scottish freemasonry — and the tale is still told to this day — that Bruce himself welcomed the fleeing Templars, remembering the great impression that this Order of chivalry made upon his ancestor David I. Bruce organized their reception into the Freemasons’ Lodge at Kilwinning. Here we see a clear connection between Bruce and the Templars, and the Templar influence in Rosslyn is bound to honour this tradition of support from a king who was responsible for maintaining Scotland’s independence from an oppressor such as Edward of England, who was quick to divide the spoils of the Templars when they were disestablished in England.
The Scots were triumphant at Bannockburn, and an independent Scottish monarchy was re-established thanks in no small measure to the arrival of the Argyll Templars, if we are to credit the Masonic tradition. However, supporter of the Templar cause though he was, it was too late for Bruce to do anything to help to restore the Knights of the Temple to their former power.
The Declaration of Arbroath and the Bruce’s death
In 1316, Bruce’s brother, another Edward, became High King of Ireland, but was killed in battle two years later. Edward II refused to accept Bruce’s right to the Scottish throne, claiming the overlordship of Scotland as his. But in 1320, the Scottish Earls, Barons and ‘community of the realm’ wrote to Pope John XXII declaring that Robert the Bruce was their rightful monarch. This was the famous Declaration of Arbroath. Four years later, the Pope recognized Robert the Bruce as the King of an independent Scotland. The Treaty of Corbeil renewed the Auld Alliance between France and Scotland, which demanded that Scotland would support France if war broke out between France and England. The Scottish victory at Bannockburn was reinforced even more strongly in 1322, at the Battle of Bylands, in which Robert the Bruce and his armies, including those Templars who had settled in Argyll, pursued the retreating English as far as York, and Edward II himself came close to being captured. This yet more ignominious defeat was to weigh heavily against Edward a few years later, when, in 1327 the English deposed him in favour of his son, and the tensions between the countries slackened, except along the borders, where cattle raids and guerrilla attacks continued for many years.
Robert the Bruce died in 1329. At his death he asked that his heart be taken to Jerusalem to be buried there, since he had never been able to undertake the crusade that he had promised to do to expiate his sin of the murder of Comyn. A group of knights took the Bruce’s heart, and set off, but got no further than Spain. Among the escort was a member of the Sinclair family. Here, while fighting in the vanguard of the army of King Alfonso XI of Castile and Leon, they were surrounded at the battle of Tebas de Ardales. It was the bearer of Bruce’s heart, Sir James Douglas, who threw the casket containing the royal organ into the midst of the Moors, with the cry (according to a colourful legend): ‘Brave heart that ever foremost led, forward as thou wast wont! And I shall follow thee, or else shall die!’
The little group of Scots knights was defeated, and only one lived to take the heart back to Scotland. This was Sir William Keith, who, having broken his arm before the battle, could not take part. He retrieved the heart in its silver casket from the field of battle, and brought it back to Scotland.
Robert the Bruce traced his descent from David I, the great champion and pupil of the Templars. Templar knights assisted, according to the legend, at the decisive Battle of Bannockburn, and Bruce, true to the ideals of the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, felt that his heart belonged in Jerusalem. It was buried in fact, in Melrose, in the grounds of the Cistercian Abbey, which lies in a green and pleasant valley in the shadow of the Eildon Hills. The rest of Bruce’s body is buried at the ancient seat of the Scottish kings, Dunfermline. It is, surely, fitting that a chapel built by the Sinclair family should honour the memory of the King who saved Scotland from becoming a province of England, and whose last wish was to have his heart laid beside those Templars who died fighting in the Holy Land.
In the death mask, Bruce’s eyes are open, looking with fierce concentration southwards, towards the lands of his enemies. Meanwhile, his angel offers his heart to the Founder of the Law and the Keeper of the Covenant with God, Moses.
The heart of Robert the Bruce.
19. The Rose Cross: A Fantasy of Rosslyn
Grailed Cross in the north-east of Rosslyn chapel, the only one with a rose at the centre.
The road from Edinburgh to Fairmilehead was dark and cold. Two men rode, keeping close together, up the hill. Behind them the city lay. Looking back, the younger man could discern the shape of the castle. Lights burned in one or two of the few houses that lay between the city and the Pentland Hills.
‘How much further?’ asked the younger man.
‘We meet your guide at Fairmilehead,’ said the other.
‘And you? Will you not come with us?’
‘I will not. Ye’ll hae company enough.’
At the crown of the hill, a man rode out from the cover of the trees and greeted the older man.
‘Hail Brother.’
‘Of the roses and of the gold.’
‘And of the cross.’
They spoke together the next line of their greeting.
‘And blessed be God who gave us this sign.’
The young man watched as the two others leaned forward and showed each other scrolls hung with seals, though anything written on them was unreadable in the darkness.
‘This is the young brother?’ asked the newcomer.
‘Aye. I gie him intae your hands, brother.’ He turned to the younger man.
‘Dismount,’ he ordered curtly.
‘Are we arrived? I thought — I mean, I had it in my mind that it was a longer journey we were taking.’
He dismounted as he spoke. The man who had accompanied him from the city dismounted too, but the newcomer remained mounted. His horse was a big black courser. The young man’s guide led him to the mounted man.
‘Up ye get,’ he said, ‘I’ll gie ye a hand.’
He helped the young man to climb on to the big horse’s back behind the rider, who turned towards him, holding something like a small sack.
‘Here. Put this on.’
The young man hesitated, but took the sack, and pulled it over his head.
The rider began to move off, but the guide was calling through the cold air.
‘I’ll take your horse tae Wilson’s stable. Ye’ll can get him again there.’
The young man waved, but was quick to put his arms round the rider again as they moved southwards over the rough roads.
The six miles that they rode seemed much longer to the young man deprived as he was of sight. At first he was afraid that the bag would be suffocating, but it let in sufficient air for him to breathe easily enough. Partly in preparation for what was to come, and partly from a kind of respect for the rider, he spoke not at all. The other said nothing on the journey either. The young man rehearsed in his mind the rituals that had led him to this strange ride through the darkness.
His name was Michael Edrom. He had been taken to a house in the bustling High Street of Edinburgh, near the top of the Castle Hill. The man who led him was an apothecary who had been recommended to him by a friend who belonged to the same brotherhood of which Michael was a member. But now Michael sought a deeper knowledge of the mysteries. He had managed to convince the warden of his lodge that he was worthy to be considered for a higher initiation.
‘Aye, I kent your faither well,’ the warden had said, ‘he wis a guid sowel. A man o’ craft, mind ye; no yin o’ thae speculative chiels. Gin ye follow his example, ye’ll no go faur wrang. I’ll scrieve a letter tae the mannie that’ll can help ye tae yer next step on the journey.’
He paused over his desk where paper, ink and quill pen sat ready.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Michael. ‘I’ll do all I can not to disappoint you, I promise.’
‘Hut tut tut,’ the warden said. ‘Na na, laddie. I can see ye’re tae be trus
tit.’
Could he really, Michael wondered; and if so; how? Somehow he felt that the old man was not just showing good manners, but judgment of his character, and he felt a waif wisp of pride, which he managed to dispel before it could establish itself.
The smell of smoke in the street caught at his lungs at times, making him cough. People poured in and out of the high houses, into and out of the deep, narrow closes. Shouts and cried were all about him. The gutters ran with foul-smelling night waste. A troop of soldiers from the castle, with partisans or pikes over their shoulders, tramped down the cobbled street, pushing and elbowing the busy citizens from their path.
‘In here,’ said his companion suddenly. A sign hung over the street door, showing a pelican, pecking at its breast to feed its young. He was led up a winding stair to a room where three men sat at a table where lay lantern, lit, pen, ink and paper and two red cords. Nothing was said by way of introduction.
‘You are Michael Edrom?’ asked the oldest of the three, seated in the middle. Michael recognized the letter that the warden of his lodge had sent in his hands.
‘I am,’ he replied.
‘And do you, Michael firmly intend to become a pupil of true wisdom?’
‘I do.’
‘Leave your sword here. Your hands will be bound with this cord, and this shall be put around your neck. Not here, but at the place of initiation.’
Michael was told more of what to expect, though he guessed that there were yet some surprises awaiting him.
That had been in the summer. Now it was early spring, and they were arriving at their journey’s end. The young man could still see nothing, but had an impression of closeness to a building. The rider led him carefully to a doorway, where he stopped, and put a cord with a slip-knot over the young man’s head, and tightened it, though not too tightly, at his throat. Michael’s hands were tied. Then, the rider knocked at the door nine times. The door opened, and the doorkeeper asked: ‘Who is there?’
‘An earthly body holding the spiritual man imprisoned in ignorance.’
‘What is to be done to him?’
‘Kill his body and purify his spirit.’
‘Then bring him to the place of justice.’
Michael was led into the building. He could sense candles burning in a large, cold space, and human figures around him. A light pressure on his shoulder forced him to kneel. Someone stood at his right, while the man who had brought him stood at his left. He heard his guide draw his sword from its sheath. The man on his right now spoke.
‘Child of man, I conjure you by the endless circle which comprises all creatures and the highest wisdom, to tell me for what purpose you have come here?’
Michael knew the answer to this, but the solemnity of the situation and the atmosphere in that cold and echoing place filled him with awe.
‘To acquire wisdom, art and virtue.’
‘Then live,’ said the person at his right; the words resonating through the place. Michael gained a sense of a large space, like a church. The voice at his right continued.
‘But your spirit must again rule over your body; you have found grace, arise and be free.’
Michael felt the bonds at his wrists untied, and the cord at his throat unloosened and removed. Then, the sack was taken from his head. Michael raised his eyebrows in surprise. He stood in a building of rose-coloured and honey-yellow stone, with columns to right and left, and a high ceiling, decorated with stars, lilies, daisies and roses, was discernible in the light of thirty-three candles. The capitals of the columns were covered with carvings, and each window had carvings right and left, and round the frames. Ahead of him was a curtain, roughly torn down the middle. There were several men in the room, all in black, with black sashes over their shoulders. The man at his right was the elderly man who had interviewed him at the House of the Pelican. He held a white wand, while the guide still held his drawn sword. The two men, standing in the midst of the circle of black-clad men now formed a cross of the wand and the sword, and Michael stepped into the circle. He laid three fingers of his right hand on the point where the sword and wand crossed. He recognized his own sword in the hands of his guide.
‘Now listen,’ said the old man. ‘Do you solemnly swear to have no secrets from the brotherhood?’
‘I do,’ Michael answered.
‘And do you solemnly swear to lead a life of virtue, rendering evil unto no man?’
‘I do.’
‘Do you see this stone?’
The hierophant stepped back, and those at the eastern end of the chapel stepped back to allow Michael to see a cubic stone; water dripped from one side of it, while the other seemed to be covered in blood. The letter ‘J’ was carved deeply into it.
‘I do see it.’
‘What does it signify?’
‘The Word that was put to death.’
‘The Word that is lost is what you seek. It cannot be given to you. Confusion reigns among us; the veil of the temple is rent; darkness covers the earth. The tools are broken. Yet need you not despair, as we shall find out the new law, that thereby we may recover the lost word. You must travel for thirty-three years.’
One of the black-clad men left the circle. This was the Junior Warden of the Lodge and led Michael round the chapel thirty-three times. On the last circuit, he stopped at the window where a woman was carved, holding a cross, behind a warrior on horseback.
‘This is the place of Faith,’ said the warden, and pointed to the column opposite the window. ‘The most holy Margaret showed in her life and in her actions faith of the most exalted kind, and died in the hope of everlasting reward.’
He led him a short distance across the chapel to a window where a demon held the hem of the garments of a young woman and her child, who turned away from the demon towards an angel, carrying a long-stemmed cross.
‘Here is the place of Hope,’ said the Warden. ‘The hope that we may all, with God’s grace, escape the torments of hell, and gain the Life Everlasting.’
The journey continued to the central column, behind which the torn curtain hung.
‘This is the place of Love, which we also call Holy Charity,’ said the Warden, ‘and remember these three, for they must always be your guides.’
The warden now led Michael to the centre, where he was made to kneel with his right knee on a Bible.
‘Now repeat after me,’ said the hierophant, and his voice became charged with a new gravity. ‘I promise never to reveal the secrets of this Lodge, on penalty of being for ever deprived of the True Word; that a river of blood and water shall issue constantly from my body, and under the penalty of suffering anguish of soul, of being steeped in vinegar and gall, of having on my head the most piercing thorns, and of dying upon the cross, so help me the Grand Architect of the Universe.’
Michael repeated the words that the hierophant spoke, hearing his voice echo in that solemn place. Then he was made to rise, and the whole company left the main body of the chapel, and went down into the lower chapel. This room was plain, with nothing of the decoration of the main chapel above. A broad canvas was hung from the eastern wall, painted with a cross surrounded by a glory. At the centre of the cross was a rose. Below the cross were three squares placed at each corner of a triangle, each containing a circle, and in each circle a triangle of equal sides. Crowning the uppermost square was a seven-pointed star, and at the foot of the painting, looking up were an eagle and a pelican, left and right. Below them was painted the tomb with the stone rolled away from the entrance. Thirty-three candles lit the lower chapel. A cubic stone, like the one in the upper chapel, lay on the floor at the centre, beneath the painting.
Michael faced the painting while the black-clad men all spoke the seventeenth chapter of the Gospel of John. Each man had it by heart. They spoke it so that the whole building seemed to tremble at the sound. Michael again felt awestricken, far more so than before.
‘Do you know this stone?’ asked the hierophant, pointing to the stone cube.
‘It is the stone that the builders refused.’
All was going forward as had been described to him, but prepared as he was, his soul felt shivered to its foundations. The worst trial was yet to come.
The High Priestly Prayer, the chapter of John’s Gospel having been spoken, the Junior Warden now made his way to a door in the north wall, and opened it. Fear flooded through Michael, though he fought against the feeling. His guide stepped forward from the circle of men, and led him through the door, and sharp left, through a lower door, where all was darkness. Michael went through this shadowy threshold. He became aware of three men lighting seven chandeliers of dimly burning lights that threw a yellow, shuddering light into the chamber. The light gradually revealed a series of stone tables. Suits of armour were laid upon these tables. Michael realized that each suit of armour contained the remains of the man who had worn it. This was the place of the dead. Two men came up behind him, and draped a shroud of black cloth, covered in ashes, over him. Again, he was blind in this dark mausoleum. He felt himself being led round the chamber, and then down a steep slope in the utter darkness. It smelled of earth. Down, down they went into the cold, dank earth. Sometimes his foot slipped, but strong hands kept him upright. Dread began to fill his soul. He tried to counter it by remembering what he had been told in preparation, but the solemnity of the mood and the sense of being on the brink of something momentous made his palm sweat and his heart beat hard and fast.
At last, after what must have been some hundreds of yards, the path downwards came to an end, and the cloth was removed. Michael’s heart leaped in his breast as he saw before him three devils, and only slowly did he manage to convince himself that these were men in costume. Here was a room all in shadows, which he had to walk round three times in complete silence. All the while, he tried to remember the three days that Christ spent in hell. Solemn reverence and earthly fear fought for possession of his mind as he made the circuit. Finally, he stood before a black curtain, and the Junior Warden was beside him again.