The Price of the King's Peace bt-3

by Nigel Tranter

  “A good day to you, my lord Prior. I hope that I see you well?

  And your Priory and town prosperous?”

  The cleric, a stocky, red-faced man, young for so eminent an office, swallowed.

  “Aye, Majesty. Or … no, Majesty,” he stammered.

  “Not… not prosperous. No. Not that. In these hard times.

  We are poor. Much impoverished…”

  Bruce, glancing over the other’s rich clothing and be ringed fingers, smiled.

  “Come, come, Master Whelpington! Surely you mistake? This is one of the richest foundations in the North of England. Unless… unless you are so sore hit by raising and equipping your steward and the men you sent to fight against me at Bannockburn! And paying their ransoms thereafter!”

  The Prior positively gobbled.

  “No, no, Sire-not so! It was not me. It was my Lord Percy. My lord of Northumberland He it was.

  He insisted that we provide a troop of men. Under his banner. He is a hard man…”

  “I know Henry Percy passing well, Sir Prior. But also I know your Priory’s banner and livery! I hold that banner, sir, a Saltire Or on Azure, captured amongst a thousand others. It lies at Stirling still. Perhaps I should have brought it back to you?” He shrugged.

  “But that is not my concern today. I am here on kindlier business. My herald would inform you, last night? I am come to lift the burden from your shoulders. The burden of Henry Percy and his like! You say that he is a hard man. Then, my friend, you may find me kinder! For I have come to resume this Honour and Lordship of Tynedale into the Scots crown. Percy is no longer your lord. I am. The King of Scots.”

  The Prior stared, biting his lip. But he risked no words.

  “How say you, sir? Is not this good news? A king to protect you, not a robber lord who cares nothing for Holy Church!”

  “Ah… yes, Sire.”

  * “Is that all you can say, my Lord Prior?

  “No, Sire. I… I am overwhelmed. It is too much for me. Give me time, Your Majesty …”

  “Aye. But only until tomorrow. Tomorrow you, and all Tynedale, shall swear fealty to me. Not here. At Wark, the ancient seat of this lordship. You will see to it. You understand. You and yours.

  Meanwhile-my lord of Moray, take these keys. I place the town in your charge. See that my lord Prior, the magistrates, and all men of substance, present themselves before my royal presence at Wark by noon tomorrow, to take the oath of fealty. No excuses will be permitted. Bringing their tokens of service and allegiance.

  Detach sufficient men for this duty, nephew. The Prior will give you all aid. I will not enter Hexham today. When I do, I expect to be received fittingly. Bells ringing, streets garlanded, townfolk out and in their best. Is it understood? Very well. Let us return to Wark, Your Grace, my lords and ladies. We rest there hereafter.”

  With no further leave-taking of the unhappy Prior, the King led his great company round and back whence they had just come, northwards. He signed to the instrumentalists.

  “Let us have music …” he called.

  Back at Wark, the Scots settled in for a stay of days. The working-party had been busy erecting streets of tents, field-kitchens, horse-lines and watering-points, a tourney-ground, even a temporary market-place- since the existing one in the village was small and inadequate-on the level meadows to the south of the township. For a few days at least, little Wark was to become a worthy capital of the historic and once illustrious Honour and Liberty of Tynedale -in the interests of political strategy.

  The Tynedale lordship was important from any point of view.

  For one thing, it comprised no fewer than thirty-eight manors, many of them rich ones, and included its own royal forest and numerous special and hereditary privileges. Its significance as a Scottish crown holding within the realm of England was self-evident.

  Alexander the Third, of blessed memory, had almost come to blows with

  the young King Edward the First over it, in 1277; and, as events turned

  out, it might have been better had he in fact done so, while he and

  Scotland were still strong, and his realm united, and Edward was not

  yet intolerably puffed up with grandeur and successful conquest in

  France, Wales and Ireland. As it was, to keep the peace and promote

  good relations, Alexander had consented, against better judgement, to

  do fealty to Edward for this ancient Scottish crown heritage,

  inherited from an ancestress, Matilda of Northumberland, wife of David the First and grand niece of William the Conqueror. Alexander, needless to say, had drawn the line at going in person and kneeling before Edward to take the feudal oath of homage, and had actually sent Robert Bruce, Lord of Annandale, Bruce’s grandfather, to do it for him one of the few weak and unwise acts of a puissant monarch; though it falls to be remembered that Scotland and England were then on excellent neighbourly terms, with no bad blood between them. Edward Plantagenet changed all that. Consumed by his ever-growing lust for power and domination, he used this proxy act of homage for the Tyndale lordship, and other of Alexander’s English estates, as excuse for the subsequent claim for over lordship over all Scotland.

  When Alexander fell to his untimely death over Kinghom cliff, and his grandchild heiress, the Maid of Norway, died on her way to Scotland to take up her kingdom, Edward declared that he was suzerain of all Scotland, Lord Paramount, since the King of Scots had done homage to him, the King of England. The fact that the homage had been done only for lands in England, and that Alexander had proclaimed that Tynedale was a detached part of Scotland and therefore not a subject for homage anyway, was ignored.

  Edward used one of the greatest armies in Christendom to back up his claim. Tynedale, then, was one of the basic causes of the long and bloody Wars of Independence.

  Bruce now planned to give a different twist to the screw.

  That evening was passed in feasting, music and a torchlight and bonfire festival of dance and song, after the Highland fashion that Bruce had learned to appreciate during his campaigns in the North. Sundry of the local folk were constrained to attend, and treated kindly-to their manifest wonder and suspicion. Tynedale these last twenty years, was more used to being a battleground than a royal playground.

  In the morning, happily, the sun shone. All forenoon, while a programme of horse-and foot-racing, wrestling and manly sporting contests proceeded, people kept arriving from all the castles, manors and villages of the lordship, doubtfully, reluctantly, in obedience to the imperious summons of heralds and messengers. All were courteously received by various officers of state, dined and looked after-but none were presented to the King and Queen, however lofty their status. The royal family kept their distance in a special elevated enclosure of silken awnings and banners which crowned a green mote-hill where once the timber castle of Wark had risen.

  A carefully-calculated few minutes before noon, the Prior of Hexham arrived, in very different state from his yesterday’s appearance.

  He came in full canonicals, under a resplendent cope, at the head of quite a lengthy procession, with singing choristers and men-at-arms, mounted on a white jennet and with a silken canopy of the Priory colours of blue and gold held over his head by four mounted acolytes. Holy Church had apparently decided that some display was in order.

  The Church had dominated Tynedale, of course, since Alexander’s day. On King Edward’s unilateral assumption of suzerainty over Scotland, he had casually handed over this lordship to Anthony Beck, Bishop of Durhamwhom he had promoted to that princely see from being one of his wardrobe clerks. And that bullet headed militant clerk had naturally used Hexham, the ecclesiastical centre, rather than Wark, to control his new domain, ruling Tynedale through the Priors thereof, and with a rod of iron as he did all else. So, for twenty years, successive monkish incumbents had lorded it in the name of their episcopal master, as well as owning great Church lands of their own-and scarcely gained in local popularity in the process.

  At mid
day exactly, a fanfare of trumpets gained silence for the herald King of Arms, who then called on all present to draw near, in orderly fashion, to the mote-hill, into the presence of the most puissant and mighty prince, by God’s grace, Robert, King of Scots.

  Thereafter, himself proceeding halfway up the grassy mound, he declared:

  “Hear me, King of Arms and Grand Seannachie of the realm of Scotland.

  In the name of His Grace, our liege lord Robert, I do now declare,

  affirm and pronounce that he, the said Lord Robert, hereby resumes and

  takes unto himself, this his Honour, Liberty and Lordship of Tynedale,

  justly and duly by his inheritance, edict and law, to have and to hold

  for all time coming as a royal patrimony and as an integral part of his

  realm of Scotland, as did his ancestors before him, and as is duly

  documented, signed and sealed in the Assize Roll of this the county of

  Northumberland of the year 1279, and other where acknowledging the said

  Lordship of Tynedale to be outside the Kingdom of England within the

  Kingdom of Scotland. Moreover, all grants, charters, detachments and

  privileges in the said Lordship, wrongously and unlawfully given by the

  Kings of England, Archbishops of York, Bishops of Durham, or any other

  whatsoever, of late years, are hereby cancelled, withdrawn, nullified;

  and only those grants, charters and privileges granted by the laid

  gracious Lord Robert, King of Scots, his heirs and successors shall

  stand and hold good for all time coming. In token whereof it is required that all occupiers, holders and tenants of lands, office and privileges in the said Honour, Liberty and Lordship of Tynedale do herewith come forward, in due order, and do homage for the same, as is just, lawful and proper, to the said Robert, as liege lord, taking the oath of fealty on their bended knees, renouncing all other. This in the name of Robert, King of Scots. God save the King!”

  The flourish of trumpets that followed this peroration was drowned in the great shout of acclaim from thousands of Scots throats-if from few English.

  “To present himself first before the King’s Grace,” the speaker went on, when the noise had abated, “I call upon Sir John de Bellingham, Hereditary Forester of the Royal Forest of Tynedale, to make homage.”

  After a little initial shuffling and delay, an elderly man came limping forward from the long file of Englishmen, to climb the mound, flanked by two Scots esquires. He bowed before the King, shook his head as though recognising that protest was pointless and sank down on stiff knees, holding out his hands. He did not once raise his head.

  Bruce extended his own hands, palms together, for the other to take within his.

  “Repeat the oath of fealty,” the King of Arms commanded.

  “In these words. In the sight of God and all these present, I, John de Bellingham, knight, do acknowledge …”

  “In the sight of God and all present,” the older man mumbled, “I, John de Bellingham acknowledge …”

  “Speak up, man! Do acknowledge the noble and mighty Robert, King of Scots, to be my liege lord…”

  “I cannot, Sire!” the Englishman burst out.

  “I cannot take you as my liege lord. King Edward is my liege, and to him I have sworn my fealty.”

  “Silence, sirrah!” the herald barked.

  “Or do you wish to lose your lands and your liberty both?”

  “One moment, my lord King of Arms,” Bruce intervened.

  “Sir John-King Edward of England is indeed your liege lord in matters pertaining to the realm of England. This I do not gainsay.

  But for the lands you hold in Tynedale, pertaining to the realm of

  Scotland, I am your liege. You are at liberty to refuse fealty there

  for also for the office of Royal Forester of Tynedale, with all its

  rights and profits. But, if so, you lose the said lands and office

  forthwith, I promise you. Choose you, my friend.”

  The other moistened his lips and glanced up at last at the King,

  swiftly, briefly. He nodded, unspeaking, submitting.

  “Proceed, King of Arms,” Bruce murmured.

  “Do acknowledge Robert King of Scots, to be my liege lord, for the lands of Bellingham and Henshaw, and for the office of Keeper of the said King’s Forest of Tynedale, with all its pertinents and profits.”

  The knight muttered the required words.

  “Speak plain, man. And say further-in pursuance of which oath, I do swear to uphold the said King Robert with all my strength against all and any who may hereafter hold contrary interests, so help me God!”

  “… so help me God!” the other ended, unhappily.

  “I accept your fair oath of fealty, Sir John, and rely upon your good support hereafter,” the monarch acknowledged gravely.

  “Also I shall require account for your stewardship of my Forest of Tynedale over these years past, and payment of what is mine by right and law. See you to it. You may retire, and hereafter be my guest in the festivities that are to follow. Next, my lord?”

  “I summon Sir Adam de Swinburne, Sheriff of Northumberland,” the

  herald

  A big, florid, bull-like man came striding forward, by no means hanging his head. Handsomely clad in velvets and fur, he gave no impression of submission. He drew himself up before the King, and bowed briefly.

  “I am prepared to offer a limited form of homage for my Tynedale lands, Sir King,” he jerked.

  “As to yourself, as lord of these manors.”

  “On your knees, fellow!” the King of Arms rasped.

  Bruce waited until the other was approximately and awkwardly down on one thick knee.

  “It is not for you to offer anything, Sir Adam!” he said.

  “I command. Command fullest fealty and allegiance. If you choose not to yield it-why, I understand you have still large lands outside Tynedale. You may repair to them! And leave Tynedale to others.”

  “Sire-you would put a noose round my neck, in this! I am King

  Edward’s sheriff of this county.”

  “Not I, my friend. I do not put a noose round any man’s neck.

  You do, of yourself. Yours is the choice.”

  Swinburne cleared his throat.

  “Then … I must accept. Under protest, Sire.”

  ”No. I do not accept. I accept nothing under protest. You make the

  full oath freely, or none at all. Nor do I debate further with such as you, sir!”

  Wordless, the other held out his open hands for the King’s.

  “Proceed, my lord King of Arms.”

  The next to be called up was one Sir William de Ros of Yolton, for the manor of Haltwhistle. A diffident and nervous youngish man, he made no fuss nor protest about the oath-taking, however much he stammered over the words. When he had hurried off, the herald asked whether he would now call the churchman.

  “Not the Prior, no. Not yet. Master Whelpington, I think, will be

  none the worse of a little more waiting!”

  Undoubtedly the Prior of Hexham would have expected to be the first to be summoned to the royal presence, however reluctant he might be to make any vows of fealty. The Church’s holdings in the lordship were greater than any other, and its senior representative a power to be reckoned with.

  A succession of smaller men were called out and made their obeisance and allegiance without demur, as a gabbled formality, only anxious to be back into a safe anonymity. Prior Whelpington fretted under his splendid awning.

  At length the King of Arms pronounced his name and style.

  Frowning, he came forward, still under the canopy, although the

  acolytes were now, of course, on foot. The King raised a single

  eyebrow towards the herald, who promptly flicked a dismissive hand, and two of his minions stepped out in the Prior’s path and peremptorily ordered the acolytes back. Less assuredly the cleric came on, alone.

  �
�So, my lord Prior,” Bruce greeted him, “do you find the sun trying?”

  “The sun …?”

  “Your canopy. I hope that you may subsist without it, at least while you take your vows of fealty.”

  “Your Majesty-I pray to be excused. Any taking of vows. It is not right and proper. That I should kneel before you. I am the representative of Holy Church, here in Tynedale. My allegiance is not to an earthly king…”

  “It is not as representative of Holy Church that I summoned you here, Master Whelpington. It is as holder of large lands in this my lordship.”

  “But the lands are held by Holy Church, not of myself:”

  “To be sure. But if Holy Church elects to hold large lands and

  temporalities, collect rents, extort dues and service, and so to act

  the temporal lord, then Holy Church must pay the price. You are the

  full oath freely, or none at all. Nor do I debate further with such as you, sir!”

  Wordless, the other held out his open hands for the King’s.

  “Proceed, my lord King of Anns.”

  The next to be called up was one Sir William de Ros of Yolton, for the manor of Haltwhistle. A diffident and nervous youngish man, he made no fuss nor protest about the oath-taking, however much he stammered over the words. When he had hurried off, the herald asked whether he would now call the churchman.

  “Not the Prior, no. Not yet. Master Whelpington, I think, will be

  none the worse of a little more waiting!”

  Undoubtedly the Prior of Hexham would have expected to be the first to be summoned to the royal presence, however reluctant he might be to make any vows of fealty. The Church’s holdings in the lordship were greater than any other, and its senior representative a power to be reckoned with.

  A succession of smaller men were called out and made their obeisance and allegiance without demur, as a gabbled formality, only anxious to be back into a safe anonymity. Prior Whelpington fretted under his splendid awning.