Pope Nicholas the Fifth, born Tomasso da Sarzano, was a major improvement on most of his immediate predecessors. A scholar and a bibliophile, he had not filled the Curia with his bastards nor the bishoprics with those of his friends. An ageing, short-sighted, hulking man, with an underhung jaw and long chin, he looked a gentle pedant of farming stock; but he had the name for being strong, shrewd, even cunning, and where necessary, ruthless — indeed no man attained the Chair of St. Peter lacking those qualities.
“If you must go, I regret it also, my son,” he said, in a strangely light and musical voice. “It had been my hope to see much more of you, and my other friends from far Scotland. But, alas! Do I understand that you have received a summons from my son in God, King James, your master?”
Will coughed. “In a manner of speaking — yes, you could say that. Serious problems have arisen in the government of our country, and we must return.” He gestured around him. “We here are all members of His Grace’s Privy Council . . .”
“Ah, yes. So many important lords, far away at one time, could create problems in government, to be sure.” However myopic, the Holy Father’s eyes did not lack keen discernment. “But does not the good Bishop of St. Andrews hold the government in sure hands?”
“The Bishop is no longer Chancellor. The office, we hear, is again in the blood-stained hands of Sir William Crichton, whom Your Holiness will know of — a murderer and despoiler.”
If Will had hoped to obtain Papal condemnation of Crichton, he was disappointed. “Ah, is that so?” Nicholas said smoothly. “A change of hand on the helm of state can often be unsettling. You have our good wishes, my son.”
The Scots had come for more than that. Indeed they had specific requirements still to attain, as some return for the handsome gifts the embassage had brought to the Holy See.
“Yes, I thank you. But, may I remind Your Holiness that there are the two matters outstanding? On which we seek your favour. That of the archbishopric for St. Andrews. And the Bull for a university at Glasgow. We would not wish to leave without these being resolved.”
These two issues, developments which only the Pope had authority to sanction, were indeed the primary reason for the entire elaborate and expensive visit, using the Jubilee as an excuse. It went against the grain for Will Douglas to act the petitioner for the advancement of James Kennedy to the status of archbishop, but such move was desirable in order finally to invalidate the long-held, much trumpeted but utterly groundless claim of the Archbishops of York to metropolitan domination over Scotland, as nearest senior churchmen — a convenient excuse for English invasion. The other plea was in the nature of a counter-balance. A second university in the land would undoubtedly be an advantage, but not solely in the interests of education. John Cameron was dead, and the new Bishop, William Turnbull, a very different sort of priest, was almost equally concerned at the growing dominance on the Scottish ecclesiastical scene, of St. Andrews, especially with a king’s grandson as Primate. If now made an archbishopric, St. Andrews would indeed dominate all. A new university under the Bishop of Glasgow would be a step in balancing spiritual power — and Will Douglas, as the greatest noble of the South-West, was not averse to the idea.
The Pontiff sat back in his throne. “I have given these questions some thought,” he observed genially. “I am prepared to grant my rescript for the founding of a university college at Glasgow, with all accustomed privileges as at my university of Bologna, under the governance of the good Bishop of Glasgow. As to the other matter, my son, I have not yet come to a conclusion.” He turned his head. “Aeneas Silvius, my friend — you have the question of the Scots archbishopric clear in your mind, have you not?”
“Yes, Holiness — in so far as anything is clear in that mistshrouded land!” From the back of the room a man, who had been standing quietly in a corner, limped forward, a dark stooping crow of a man, with a thin, twisted body, a clever face and a mocking sardonic mouth.
Will eyed the speaker curiously. So this was the famous Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini, Bishop of Trieste and Papal aid — indeed some said the mind if not the power behind Nicholas; at any rate, one of the cleverest men in Christendom. An earlier pontiff had sent him as legate to many lands, including Scotland — where unfortunately he had been ship-wrecked off Dunbar and, in his extremity, had vowed his Maker and all saints concerned a barefoot pilgrimage to the nearest saint’s church if his life was spared. In consequence, thereafter, he found himself faced with a six-mile tramp over frozen ground to the church of Whitekirk, near Tantallon. He had never ceased to blame his chronic rheumatism on that distant and deplorable land — and to eschew the making of rash vows.
“And the situation is, Aeneas? . . .”
“That here is an issue of great complexity, Holiness. St. Andrews, although much the richest see in Scotland, is not the oldest. Its first bishop was consecrated in the year 908; while St. Ninian was consecrated in 397, founding the see of Galloway, at Candida Casa. St. Kentigern founded Glasgow in 543; and the sainted Columba founded the see of The Isles, at Iona, later the same century. So three others claim seniority to St. Andrews.”
‘Ah,” said the Pope.
The Scots were not a little surprised to hear this Italian talking so knowledgeably about their land, apparently with authority. None were in any position to controvert what he said.
“Moreover, despite its riches,” Piccolomini went on, “St. Andrews has failed to support the Holy See in duty and treasure, so well as others, failing to pay its annates in full. To raise it above all other twelve sees, therefore, in stature, might well give rise to much question and division within Holy Church.”
“You discern the difficulties, my son?’ Nicholas said benignly.
Will discerned the message, at least. Until further money was forthcoming, Scotland could do without its archbishopric.
“St. Andrews, being the Primate’s see, must spend much of its wealth for the use and benefit of the whole Church in Scotland, sir.” That was Jamie Douglas speaking up boldly from the rear — Jamie, who should have been a priest.
“If that is so, Holiness, and an undue proportion of the cost falls upon St. Andrews, then surely this is a matter of poor administration?” the wily Bishop commented. “Moreover, there is the question of why this archbishopric is so greatly desired at this juncture? The title of archbishop is not a sacerdotal order. Only an administrative office. The Church in Scotland therefore lacks nothing in ecclesiastical fullness in having no archbishop. Is this request, therefore, for the advancement of God’s work and purpose, or merely for political advantage? Or indeed, for the advancement in stature of James Kennedy? . . .”
“Come come, Aeneas we may be sure that the good Bishop’s motives are of the highest, concerned only with the better shepherding of his flock. Is that not so, my friends?” The Papal eyes twinkled.
Amongst his hearers, none felt able to stress the true reason for their request — especially as the Archbishops of Canterbury and York were both along there in the Grand Salon, heading the English delegation to the Jubilee, and undoubtedly in close touch with the Pontiff.
Nicholas nodded. “So you will perceive some of the difficulties which beset my decision. You must give me longer to come to a conclusion, my son.”
“Or mair siller!” Hughie muttered, sotto voce, in good Scots.
Will inclined his dark head. “I will tell His Grace and the Bishop. They will be much disappointed.” He glanced around him. “Have we Your Holiness’s permission to retire?”
“But yes. Indeed.” The Pope raised two fingers. “Go in peace. And may God’s light illuminate you all, His care enfold you, His strength sustain you, His love keep you. In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, I confidently commit you and yours to the Almighty. Goodnight to you.” And he held out the other hand, for each of them to kiss the Papal ring.
Will caught Piccolomini’s amused eye as he turned away. He was frowning blackly, well aware how far out of his depth he was
here, a simple man and no diplomat. He should have let James Kennedy come himself, to do his own work, not left him at home to undo his!
If the gallant and splendid Scots company, consisting of the three Douglas earls, and over a score of lords and knights, escorted by eighty men-at-arms, which rode in a headlong flourish across Europe north-westwards, was not quite so assured and confident as it seemed, then its principals’ turmoil of mind was well matched by the state of much of the territory through which it hurried in such princely style; for despite all the apparent amity and accord seen at Rome’s Papal Jubilee, Christendom was in fact in a sorry state of internecine strife and savagery that Year of Our Lord 1450. King fought with king, prince with prince, elector with elector, and the Emperor with all and sundry. Even the Papal States themselves were largely at each other’s throats, and bishops were as fond of the sword as were dukes. In comparison, Scotland’s own upheavals certainly seemed the less dire, even though this by no means slowed down the progress of the home-going embassage. What did slow it down was the frequent and inevitable detours and deviations to avoid areas of open warfare and devastation. By Tuscany, Florence, Bolognia, the plain of Lombardy and Milan, the story was the same. The Alpine passes and the high Bernese Oberland offered a temporary respite from hostilities, even though problems of travel and altitude took their place. But once they started descending again into Lorraine, they were back to the vivid evidences of power politics and man’s inhumanity to man. All France not only showed the scars of English Henry the Fifth’s wars of conquest, but in the vacuum left by his death and the English withdrawal, every local princeling and count now struggled for territory, for advantage.
Here the Scots learned that the situation had changed even since their outward journey. With the English quarrelling at home as to whether the house of York or Lancaster were to control the imbecile Henry the Sixth, their armies and morale were weakened in France. The news was, now, that they had been driven right out of Guyenne, held by England for three centuries, and even the last toe-hold of Bordeaux fallen. Little as they loved the Auld Enemy, and their sympathies rather with their traditional allies of France, the Scots were much concerned that at least the Pas de Calais was still securely held by the English; for it was here, at Calais, that Hugh Brock’s stout ship waited to carry them back to Leith.
By ravaged Hainault they came down to the flat coastal plain, and were relieved to find the English still in uneasy possession. The party held English safe-conducts for this journey, bargained for as part of Hotspur Percy’s ransom. Indeed, on the way south, they had actually sailed up the Thames to pay a courtesy call at the English Court, for negotiations were afoot for a new truce between the two countries — after last year’s defeats in Scotland, dynastic troubles at home, and this new upsurge of war in France, the English wanted peace on their northern borders. While in England, Will had had a secret meeting with Richard, Duke of York; for his information was that the Yorkists were likely to gain the upper hand eventually in the struggle to control fatuous King Henry — and it happened that King James adhered to the other side, his late unhappy mother, Queen Joanna Beaufort, having been a Lancastrian, indeed sister of their leader, the Duke of Somerset.
Now, at Calais, the English had significant news, encouraging for Douglas even if it was of doubtful joy to the tellers. Somerset and the Queen’s party had been overthrown, in England, and York now controlled the King and the destinies of the realm. Will Douglas, in this at least, had outmanoeuvred his monarch.
How much such backing of the right horse might mean was dramatically demonstrated in a remarkably short time thereafter. The north-sailing Scots vessel had passed the North Foreland and was tacking into a stiff north-easterly breeze when a small, fast English vessel put out from the Thames estuary, to quickly overhaul them. To the Scots’ surprise. as it drew near, it ran up not the St. George’s Cross but the Royal Standard of England, quartering the Lilies of France.
Soon a voice hailed them, in the name of the high and mighty Prince Henry, King of England and France, to know if this was the ship of the illustrious Earl William of Douglas. If so, His Majesty’s Garter King of Arms made salutation, and conveyed the greetings of His Royal Highness the Duke of York, with the urgent invitation of His Highness to visit him forthwith at the Palace of Westminster, to their mutual advantage.
Will was not a subject for flattery, but such treatment, amounting almost to the greeting for a reigning sovereign, was surely significant as well as intriguing. And the phrase ‘mutual advantage’ must mean something. Moreover, to refuse such a summons, in English waters, would be a serious snub. He ordered Hugh Brock to turn back.
The delay caused by the journey up-river to London, and the two days spent thereafter at the English Court, almost certainly was worth while if for nothing more than the information gained. Nevertheless, none of the Scots — except perhaps for the Lord Hamilton — found the visit a cause for joy, and quickly all were concerned to cut it as short as possible.
It was the Duke of York’s tidings to Will, imparted gleefully, that upset them. The Duke, who knew all about the changed Scots situation, and King James’s attack on Douglas, had, it seemed, a secret arrangement with John, 10th Lord of the Isles and Earl of Ross. Indeed, not to put too fine a point on it, that chief of Clan Donald, who looked on himself as an independent prince and no vassal of the King of Scots, was in receipt of an English pension as a potential trouble-maker for Scotland. Now, esteeming this an excellent opportunity to fish in troubled water, York had urged him to make a diversion. Nothing loth, for he was allied to the Livingstones by marriage, and had old scores to settle with the house of Stewart, John of the Isles and Ross had struck fiercely and without warning, from his island fastnesses, at the northern mainland. He had taken Inverness, with its fortress, and the castles of Urquhart, commanding the Great Glen, and Ruthven controlling Badenoch. All the north was potentially his. And he had a bond of association with the Earl of Crawford, and the Tiger had struck thereafter in the north-east. It now but required Douglas and his friends to rise in the South and West, and King James would quickly learn his folly and mistakes. England would lend her aid in the South and East. Crichton and Kennedy would fall, and James would be forced to seek better counsellors. Douglas could rule Scotland, either behind the throne or on it.
To say that Will was dumbfounded by all is to put it mildly. It is to be feared that he grievously disappointed the ingenious and ambitious Richard Plantagenet by his refusal to take over the rule in Scotland on any such terms — or indeed, to consider taking over the rule at all. Vehemently he pointed out to the Englishman that he was not interested in gaining personal control. He wished to bring Crichton down, but not at the cost of open rebellion against his king — treason. He would reason with James, bring pressure on him if need be — but he would not revolt. The Red Heart that Douglas bore on their arms was Bruce’s heart, the King’s heart. Douglas did not turn traitor.
York did not hide his mortification and chagrin, almost his disgust, and though they parted on outwardly civil terms, the Scots’ departure from the Palace of Westminster was a deal less flattering than had been their welcome.
But, as they continued their interrupted voyage, however much some of his brothers and friends found satisfaction at least in the northern rising and its embarrassment for Crichton, Will himself discovered no cause for contentment. It was Earl Beardie’s involvement that worried him. Crawford had a bond with John of the Isles, it seemed. But, unfortunately, he, Douglas, had a bond with Crawford — had had since the time of the Percy invasion. The suspicious might link the two bonds, the suspicious would link them. Ross — Crawford — Douglas. An encircling of the realm. Damn Beardie Alex Lindsay!
Arriving unheralded at Leith, the travellers learned that the King was in residence at the Abbey of Holyrood. They made their way there in a body. When citizens in the streets and wynds heard that it was Douglas back from foreign parts, they flocked out to wave and shout and cheer
— a heartening sign. It seemed that these, at least, reckoned Scotland safer with Douglas home; changed days from his first visit to Edinburgh.
At the grey abbey beneath Arthur’s Seat, however, the reception was different. Armed guards in the Crichton colours of blue and white challenged the party, demanding their business, halberds pointed.
‘Fools!’ Will snapped. ‘Have you no eyes, no wits? I am Douglas!’
Though blinking a little at the fierceness of that, the spokesman held his ground. ‘My lord’s orders, The Chancellor’s. None enter here lacking his express permission. I will inform him. . .”
“By God, you will not!” Wrathfully Will reached out hands to grasp the shafts of the two barring halberds, and jerked them aside strongly. “Douglas has been too long out of Scotland, I see! Out of my way, fools! My business is with the King’s Grace, not with your master.”
The guards hesitated, as well they might, and were lost. The throng of nobles thrust their way in, and were through. It was a long time since the Black Douglas had had to wait at any man’s
King James, however, kept them waiting for their audience. Will would have preferred a private and informal meeting with the monarch, in view of what would have to be said; but this was the return of an official embassage, and all its members should deliver their report together. In answer to their request for audience, James, although in the building apparently, remained out of sight and sent no message for almost two hours. None failed to grasp the implications.
At length, they were summoned to the presence, ominously, by a creature of Crichton’s. He led them, to their surprise, to the refectory, the same large hall indeed where the royal wedding feast had been held, to beat slowly, ceremoniously, on the closed doors before entrance — to the snorting of those he escorted.
Black Douglas (Coronet Books) Page 35