The Price of the King's Peace bt-3

by Nigel Tranter

  “I have missed you both.

  As has His Grace. Did all go well?”

  “Your heroes have been distinguishing themselves by slaying priests.

  Not one, or two, but a host, it seems. A shameful massacre.

  God knows what they were at!”

  “We spared all we could,” Douglas protested.

  “They died like flies in a frost. There was no stopping them.”

  Bruce shook his head over his friends.

  “How many? How many died?”

  Douglas glanced over at Moray.

  “Four thousand,” he admitted.

  “Dear Christ-God!”

  “Not all priests and the like,” the other hastened to assert.

  “The mayor and burgesses of York were there likewise. And their trainbands.”

  “Fit foes for Douglas and Moray!”

  “There were more than 20,000 of them, Sire. What could we do…?”

  “We restrained our men as best we could,” Moray put in.

  “But the confusion caused by the panic of so many was worse than anything I have ever seen.”

  “Did many great ones fall? Bishops, abbots and the like?”

  “Some were wounded. Many roughly handled. But I do not think that many died,” Douglas said.

  “They were the nimblest at escaping, first back across the bridge. We captured the Bishop of Ely -but he ransomed himself quickly and most generously, having a high opinion of his own worth!”

  “Aye. You may smile, Jamie. But we are in bad enough odour with the Holy See, as it is. How think you the Pope will look on this? How will it be recounted to him? Not as panic and folly, but as a terrible and sacrilegious slaughter by the godless and rebellious Scots. The cry will ascend to heaven itself! For a year and more I have been at pains to fend off the Vatican’s assaults and anathemas.

  Yet to preserve a face of respect and worship of Christ’s Vicar. And now …!”

  “His Holiness may perhaps be placated,” Elizabeth put in, “by a display of the King of Scots’ generosity and liberality towards Holy Church. Not Holy Church in Scotland or in England, but in Rome! Laying up treasure in heaven is, I am sure, his prime concern.

  But treasure on earth has its value also! You gained great spoil from

  this clerical host, you say, Sir James? Why not send part of it to His

  Holiness? As token of your humble faith and loyal worship? “Moray

  swallowed, the King stroked his chin, and Douglas burst into

  laughter.

  “By the Mass,” he cried, “Your Grace has the rights of it! Here’s a ploy! A selection of crosses, croziers and reliquaries-even Saint Etheldreda’s thigh-bone! What more apt? Better than handing all over to Master Lamberton!”

  “I do not like it,” Moray objected.

  “It smacks of blasphemy, of irreverence…”

  “Tush, man-leave such to the priests,” Bruce told him.

  “It is their business, smelling out the like. It might serve-it might well serve. At least to give us time. Bless you, my dear! We will reinforce our envoys at Rome with a train-load of treasure-on-earth from Yorkshire. But I think not Ely’s bone. To be of value, that must be named-and might prove a bone of contention indeed, an embarrassment. Even to His Holiness. But-come, my heart. You should be seated. You are not wholly yourself yet. You must preserve your strength …”

  The two younger men hastened to apologise, to offer arms, to all but carry the Queen indoors between them.

  “I am sorry, Sire. About the child,” Douglas said, over his

  shoulder.

  “It was a sore blow. A prince at last-and then …”

  “God’s will be done,” Moray said.

  It was Elizabeth who answered, not Bruce.

  “We shall test God’s will again,” she declared.

  “Let us pray, with greater success.”

  There was a pause. Then Bruce rather abruptly changed the subject.

  “Lancaster did not intercept you, on your road home?” he asked.

  “Not Lancaster, no. King Edward himself sought to do so-but we eluded him by striking westwards. Across the hills,” Moray answered.

  “Saddled as we were with booty and prisoners, we were in no state to meet him. Besides, we had Your Grace’s command.”

  “I

  am glad that you remembered it. Even belatedly!”

  Hurriedly Douglas spoke up.

  “Lancaster was not there, Sire.

  Prisoners told us that he had quarrelled with King Edward. When the news of our raiding southwards, and our defeat of the Archbishop’s host, reached Berwick, there was trouble in the King’s camp. Lancaster had words with him. Probably he would have had him march south with him. Or continue the siege alone.

  Whatever the cause, he marched off to the southwest, to his own territories, taking near half the force with him. But he gave us no trouble.”

  “Aye. There is a lesson there, for any monarch!” Bruce nodded grimly.

  “Too great and powerful a noble. Of the king’s own blood.

  On such, a realm may founder. You note it, Earl of Moray and Lord of Nithsdale?”

  His nephew looked shocked.

  “Me, Uncle? You do not suggest? I am your loyalist servant…”

  Bruce laid a hand on the other’s arm.

  “I know it, Thomas. I but cozen you. Nevertheless, you heard de Soulis, at that last Council.

  There are other strings to the Scots lute than Bruce, he said. It be hoves us not to forget…”

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was to be doubted whether the old Dewar of the Coigreach fully understood the honour that was being done him. Certainly he did not appreciate it. But then, he was a very ancient man, now, and had always been difficult; though far from senile, he was distinctly set in his strange ways, and found anything new deplorable. His next junior, the Dewar of the Main, probably had not the wits fully to grasp the significance of the occasion; but at least he approved of his fine new clothes, and the handsome croft of land he had been granted further down the glen. He was cheerful now, if a little drunk, and indeed adopting a definitely superior if not patronising attitude to the other three Dewars of Saint Fillan, custodians of the Mazer, the Bell and the somewhat mysterious Fearg -which, being wholly encased in silver was of unstated composition but the greater worth. These three had done nothing to aid Bruce in his hour of need, preferring to follow their chief, Patrick Mac Nab of that ilk, Hereditary Abbot of Glendochart, who was a kinsman of MacDougall of Lorn, and so pro-Comyn and anti-Bruce. The King had forfeited Mac Nab after Bannockburn, and given his barony to Sir Alexander Menzies of Weem, a loyal supporter. However, the three junior Dewars, hereditary custodians of the other relics of St.

  Fillan, were in a different case. Humble enough men of the hills,

  however significant their office in the old Celtic polity, it was

  unthinkable that the Abbey of Glendochart should be reconstituted

  without their presence-or, at least, the presence of their relics,

  from which of course they were by no means to be parted. So there they

  were, hanging about in a wary and somewhat suspicious group, scarcely

  prepared to believe that they all had been forgiven and indeed granted

  crofts likewise, for the maintenance of their office out of the former

  Mac Nab lands-for they were now dignified as prebendaries or canons of the restored Abbey.

  For that was what was being done this blowy spring day of sun and shower of the year 1320; reconstituting the ancient Culdee Abbey of Glendochart. It had taken nearly six years to see this fulfilment of Bruce’s vow, taken before Bannockburn, that if he had the victory that vital day, he would renew this renowned shrine of the Celtic Church. Building such a place, comparatively modest an ecclesiastical establishment as it was, in such a remote Highland glen, had been slow and difficult, especially with so much else on the King’s mind. At Bannockburn, the Dewar of the Main had carried his relic, the saint’s arm-bone in its silver reliquary, e
ver close to Bruce and so in the thickest of the battle. The King, excommunicated by Rome but blessed in despite by the strange representatives of the former Celtic Church, was now showing his gratitude.

  Although the Culdee Church was long gone as an entity -Queen Margaret

  had seen to that, in her burning zeal for Rome -the memory of it and

  its practices and attitudes was by no means lost, especially in the

  Highlands, where it was an undying influence. After all, it had

  flourished for 700 years, and as late as 1272 it had retained an

  establishment at St. Brides, Abernethy, the old capital. Therefore, this restoration was not wholly an anachronism, however much the Romish clerics felt bound to frown on it. Glendochart could not now be a Culdee establishment in fact, of course, since no such persuasion existed any more, even in Ireland. But Bruce had done the best he could, setting the Abbey up as part of the Augustinian Order, the nearest in attitude and sympathies to the Celtic ideas of worship. Moreover he was placing it under the general supervision of Abbot Maurice of Inchaffray, now Bishop of Aberdeen nominally, but not confirmed by the Pope, a fighting cleric of similar spirit-who indeed had been the young Dewar’s mentor at Bannockburn, fighting and praying as lustily.

  So, in the same green glen of Straufillan, under the towering and still snow-capped giants of Ben More and Stobinian, where fourteen years before the fugitives had worshipped in the cabin-like chapel, and then gone out to their defeat at Dalrigh at the hands of MacDougall, the King and Queen now with a great company, splendid but almost wholly secular, watched Abbot Maurice consecrate the new chapel and bless the new and simply-pleasing whitewashed conventual buildings; supported by the five Dewan, however out of place and uneasy they seemed. All was done in the open ain for three good reasons; the new place of worship would not hold one-tenth of the company; the Celtic Church had always been very partial to the open air, caring little for buildings; and this would tend to prevent any embarrassment to such clerics as were present and who might lack Maurice of Inchaffray’s rugged independence of spirit. Most, of course, had diplomatically been engaged otherwise this March day. Even Bishop David of Moray, who had been one of those present fourteen years before -although even then he had refused to enter the chapel-found it reasonable to absent himself.

  The fact was that this was wholly Bruce’s affair, and he was glad enough to excuse the Romish clergy. In essence, it was hut a way of saying thank-you to the strange creature who had blessed him when no other would or could-perhaps saving his reason at the same time-and who later had equally saved his life by getting him across Loch Lomond when trapped by his foes. He owed a lot to the Dewar of the Coigreach and his Saint Fillan. The fact that the saint’s Gaelic name was Faolain an Lobhar, Fillan the Leper, was very much to the point-though some doubted if this was the same Fillan.

  So a highly unorthodox consecration service was followed by an outdoor celebration of the Eucharist, dispensing both elements to all who would partake, in the old Celtic fashion, using fistula to suck up the wine. Thereafter a banquet was spread there beside the rushing peat-brown river beneath the mountains. The people of Strathfillan, Glen Dochart, Glen Falloch and other surrounding valleys, were there to watch and participate, along with the more splendid folk of the Court and nobility. Even Patrick Mac Nab himself was there, from the rump of his lands up on Tayside, forgiven but by no means restored; for he was still Hereditary Abbot of Glendochart, to the Highlanders. And there was the MacGregor, too, Chief of the Children of the Mist, who had surprised all by re-appearing from Ireland, after being presumed dead at Dundalk, lame now but very much alive, and more fiercely proud than ever.

  It was on this scene of al fresco feasting, after the ceremonies, that another abbot appeared, Bernard of Arbroath, Chancellor of the realm. De Linton was fattening up nicely with the years and responsibility, as was entirely suitable for so important a prelate;

  but the eager brown eyes were still those of the young vicar who had acted Bruce’s chaplain and secretary on many a rough and bloody campaign.

  “You have timed your arrival nicely, I’ faith,” the king greeted him smiling.

  ”All the sacrileges and barbarous rites are now safely past Yet you

  are not too late to partake of the provender! Holy Church may now unbend!”

  The Abbot coughed.

  “I fear not, Sire,” he said, low-voiced.

  “Holy Church is scarcely unbending yet! From further afield than Abroath. Or St. Andrews. That is why I am here now. May I have Your Grace’s private ear?”

  Head as hake the King took him aside.

  “A nuncio has arrived at Dunfermline, Sire. Unannounced.

  From Rome. Or, at least, from Avignon. From His Holiness,

  personally.

  He landed at Dysart, and the first we knew, he was chapping at your palace door, in Dunfermline. No Cardinal this, but a papal secretary. Bearing no letter addressed, or mis-addressed, to any. Carrying instead an open paper, a pronunciamento signed and sealed by Pope John, declaring that he is there to speak with the voice of the Supreme Pontiff.”

  “M’mmm. So Pope John learns cunning! We have taught him this, at least!”

  “We have taught him only the need for cunning, Sire. Nothing else. For the nuncio is directed to pronounce, from the Cathedral of St. Andrews, the excommunication not only of your royal person, but of all and sundry who support you, clergy as well as lay.

  Not only so, but my lords Bishop of St. Andrews, Dunkeld, Aberdeen and Moray, are especially cited as excommunicate. It is, therefore, the entire realm which he is to declare excommunicate.

  Without question or delay. In the name of the Vicar of Christ and God’s Viceregent.”

  “The bishops! The whole realm! Surely not?”

  “The whole realm, Sire.”

  “But, ‘fore God-this is impossible! The clergy, too? They are part of the realm, yes. But can it be so? It means you, man! You support me. It means every priest. And Lamberton. By the Rude, he cannot excommunicate Lamberton! The Primate. This cannot be.”

  “The nuncio is specific. There is no mistake. The Scottish realm is excommunicate, in its entirety, since it supports Your Grace.

  Already is, since the anathema was pronounced at Rome before the nuncio left. He is but to acquaint us. Not only so, but His Holiness has commanded the Archbishop of York, and the Bishops of London and Carlisle, to repeat the excommunication on every Sabbath and saint’s day throughout the year. Against every man, woman and child, clergy and laity, of this people. Until, as he says, we submit and put ourselves under the proper rule and governance of King Edward of England, as Lord Paramount of Scotland.”

  The King stared at Chancellor, for once at a loss.

  “The folly of it!”

  he cried.

  “The wicked, purblind folly! Here is heresy, surely?

  To pronounce such sentence. Even for the Pope. He cannot do it.”

  “He has done it Sire. And who may declare that the Holy Father himself commits heresy? Not you. Nor I. Nor any man.

  Since the Pope it is who rules what is heresy and what is not.”

  “But to excommunicate, to cut off the sacraments from a whole nation.

  Including its bishops and priests. For the sins of one man.

  Or what he claims are sins, in his ignorance. Ignorance-that is what it is. Are we to be at the mercy of one man’s blind ignorance?

  The eternal souls of a whole nation endangered because this Frenchman in Avignon does not know the truth? Believes English lies. Are we, man? Are we?”

  De Linton spread his hands helplessly.

  “The Pope, ignorant or other, is still the Pope, the voice of Christ on earth …”

  “You say that? This is blasphemy, man! Would you make Christ-God a liar also? Make him speak lies, trumpet forth the falsehoods of men? Watch your words, I charge you!” the King cried, his voice shaking.

  Robert Bruce, in anger, was a terrifying sight. De Linton actually backed away.
All around, eyes watched the pair anxiously, not knowing the trouble but concerned.

  The King took fierce grip of himself, turning to pace a few steps away and back.

  “What says Lamberton to this?” he demanded thickly, at last.

  The other could barely find words.

  “I … I do not know, Sire. I sent word to him. As I came here, to tell Your Grace. The nuncio-the nuncio himself was for St. Andrews. When he discovered you absent. I know not what my lord Bishop will say…”

  “William Lamberton will not take kindly to being excommunicate!

  Dear God-have you considered what this means, my lord Abbot? It means that neither he, nor you, nor any priest who supports me-and that should be every priest in this land-may give or receive the sacraments! Does it not? If you are excommunicate yourselves, you are, indeed, no longer priests. You are no longer Abbot of Arbroath. Lamberton no longer Bishop of St. Andrews, or Primate of Scotland.

  Save us—the thing is beyond all in madness!”

  “Such thoughts have not escaped me, Sire. I have had ample time to

  think of them, riding here from Dunfermline.” De Linton was

  recovering. “M’mm. No doubt. Forgive me, my friend, if I spoke you

  too harshly. But-what are we to do?”

  “We can only do the one thing, Sire. Labour to change the Pope’s mind.

  So that he withdraws this anathema.”

  “At least, you do not suggest obeying him! Submitting, as humbled rebels, to the English.”

  The other drew himself up.

  “Did you think that I would, my lord King? I, or any?”

  “No, Bernard-I did not. But changing the Pope’s mind will be a sore task, I fear. And long. He is set against us. Our envoys to Avignon have not moved him. Nor our treasure, sent in October.

  Although he has not sent it back! What else can we do?”

  “I was thinking, as I rode here. Of more than the consequences, Sire.

  We could send him a letter. Not your Grace-for that he would reject. But the whole community of the realm of Scotland. A letter from the nation. Signed by all who have any authority in this kingdom …”