The Price of the King's Peace bt-3

by Nigel Tranter

  “A letter? Is he going to heed a letter, at this pass? A piece of

  paper? You know how we treated his letters!”

  “This would be more than a letter, Sire. A statement of a people.

  A declaration. The signed declaration of a nation. His Holiness could scarce ignore such. Not if it was signed and sealed by hundreds, great and small. You said that he had acted in ignorance. That the Pope was ignorant of the true facts of our independence as an ancient realm. Let us inform him, then. Let us dispel his ignorance, declare the truth of our history and our polity. That we have never been subject to the English, or any other in Christendom.

  That we love freedom above all things, and will submit to none. Though we would be friends with all.”

  Bruce eyed the younger man, in his eagerness, keenly.

  “Think you he would read it? Heed it? Where silver-voiced envoys, and silver in treasure have failed?”

  “I believe that he might. Pope Boniface heeded the letter of the English barons against us, in 1301. This would be better, greater, the voice of a people. If the names of a whole realm subscribe it.

  Never before has there been such a letter, I think. From so many.

  His Holiness could not but heed it.”

  Bruce shrugged.

  “I am less sanguine, I fear. But it is worth the attempt. It can do no harm. And I can think of nothing else we may do. But… how shall we get men to subscribe it? This will be difficult. If we could hold a parliament… But there is no time for that. Since a parliament requires forty days of warning. We cannot wait. Yet a Privy Council would not serve, I think.”

  “No. It must be greater than that. Councils are of picked men.

  Our enemies would say that such men are creatures of Your Grace.

  To be of value, this must stand for all your realm. Not just Your

  Grace’s friends. A Convention? Would not that serve? Not a

  parliament, but a Convention of the Estates. A meeting. Call such forthwith, Sire. And if we do not have sufficient attending, we can have others to sign elsewhere. In their homes, if need be.”

  “Aye, a Convention. You have it. And for another matter also. I need something of the sort. Too many lords and chiefs are coming to blows over who has what lands in this realm. During the years of war, many have won or taken themselves lands. Many of one faction or the other. Those who held them formerly dispute. There is much bad blood. Even here, this morning in Glen Dochart, Sir Alexander Menzies and the MacGregor, both my friends, all but had their swords drawn. Over a mere parcel of land in Glen Falloch. A Convention called to settle such matters. An assize of lands, before judges. All holders of disputed land to show by what title they hold them. Then, when they are assembled-this letter.

  They will come-for lands! There is nothing like a little soil and rock to bring men out of their chimney-corners! See that this matter is made known, my lord Chancellor.”

  “Gladly, Sire. It is well thought on. It is excellent reason for

  calling a Convention. So we shall have no lack of signatories.”

  “Draw up some such letter for all to sign, then, my friend. Word it so that the Pope learns how well-established and ancient is our kingdom, how long our line of kings. How ever we have been independent.

  And how freedom is our very life. That above all. For if freedom fall, all falls. Say that no power on earth shall make us subservient to the English-and the powers of heaven would not try! Say that if I, the King, were to countenance any such subservience, the realm would drive me from its throne. To my proper deserts. Tell the Pope that, Bernard. Write it down. And then bring it all to me, that I may approve it. And to Lamberton also.

  His is a wise head.”

  “With all my heart, Sire. And this Convention? Where shall it be held? And when?”

  “So soon as may be. So soon as messengers can carry the word.

  We must not delay-or the country will be in a turmoil. Unless your priests will reject the Pope’s anathema, and dispense Mass as before. Will they?”

  Abbot Bernard looked unhappy.

  “Not … not on their own authority, Sire. That would be apostasy

  indeed. Not to be countenanced But … it is not for me to decide. I

  am but an abbot. This is for the Primate.”

  “The excommunicated Primate! Yes, it is Lamberton’s business.

  I must see him quickly. But the need for haste, in the matter of the Convention, is the more evident. Seven days? Ten? Can it be done?”

  “It must, Sire. And where?”

  “Not at Dunfermline. Nor yet at St. Andrews. I do not wish to meet this nuncio. Yourself avoid him-since he claims to speak with the Pope’s voice. I have promised to attend young Scrymgeour’s marriage, at Dundee, on St. Ambrose’s Day. That is eight days from now. Make it there, at Dundee.”

  “My abbey of Arbroath, Sire, is nearby. Accept the hospitality of my house for this meeting. It is larger than any in Dundee.”

  “Ah, yes, my princely abbot! So it is. Next to Dunfermline, the

  greatest abbey in the land. So be it. Call the Convention for

  Arbroath, the day following St. Ambrose’s Day, the day after the wedding …” The King paused, blinking.

  “Dear God!” he said, “Can there be any such wedding? Lamberton was to officiate. But if he is excommunicate? If you all are excommunicate? Must we stop marrying now? And burying? As well as Mass?”

  Abbot Bernard wagged his head, lost in consternation.

  William Lamberton was made of sterner stuff, ecclesiastic ally than Bernard de Linton. Or perhaps it was but that he had more experience of churchmen’s politics. At any rate, he celebrated young Scrymgeour’s nuptials as planned, before a great and splendid if somewhat uneasy congregation. But he did more. After the bride and groom had passed out of the Church of St. Mary, Nethergate, for the banquet to be held in the Greyfriars Monastery, the Primate, with the royal permission, asked the congregation to remain a little longer. And there, from his throne, in full canonicals, he read out a curious announcement, his harsh voice resonant with great authority.

  The pronunciamento of the Papal Nuncio from the Cathedral of St. Andrews no doubt had been heard by all, he said. He himself had listened to it sadly. But as senior bishop and Primate of this realm, it was his simple duty to advise his flock on the situation. He had consulted with other bishops, and now made declaration that, while he, and the whole Scottish Church, was in most filial obedience to the Holy See in all things, there was, at this present time, some dispute as to the position and validity of its present incumbent.

  His Eminence the former Monsignor Jacques d’Elise, hitherto Archbishop of Avignon, and these past three years styled Pope John the Twenty-second.

  After a sort of corporate gasp, not a sound was heard from that huge company, every eye fixed in an apprehensive fascination on the bent wreck of a man up there beside the High Altar.

  The dispute was on two grounds, Lamberton proceeded. One, that being forced by French might to dwell in Avignon, not in Rome, the said John was indeed under the pressure and influence of the King of France, who at this time was in alliance with the King of England. And so unable properly to exercise due rule and justice within Holy Church. And two, that he had himself been declared heretic by certain authorities for maintaining the doctrine that the blessed do not in fact enjoy the vision of God until their resurrection, contrary to the teachings of the fathers. Until these doubts and disputes were resolved therefore, he personally, William, Primate of Scotland, could not accept any sentences of excommunication, or other assaults upon his spiritual authority, not specifically promulgated by the College of Cardinals in full consistory court-which he learned from the Papal Nuncio aforementioned had not been done.

  The long sigh of breath exhaled was like a wind over a heather

  hillside, as the company perceived relief, remission, at least a

  temporary lifting of the dark shadow which had come to loom over their lives.

  It was inconceivabl
e, in the circumstances, that church government and

  worship of God should be allowed to break down, Lamberton rasped, at

  his sternest. In consequence he required all bishops, priests and

  deacons, all abbots, priors, friars and monks, all who owed obedience

  to himself in this Province of Holy Church in Scotland, to continue

  steadfast in their said offices, to perform their full duties, and to

  ignore all utterances and commands from other ecclesiastical

  authorities than himself. On his head, heart and conscience, rested the full responsibility. And so, let all go forth, in God’s peace, from that place.

  They all went forth indeed, but hardly in God’s peace.

  That night, after the feasting at Dundee, Bruce, Elizabeth and the

  Primate sat together alone in the abbot’s study of the vast Abbey of

  Arbroath, over a well-doing fire of logs, grateful for the warmth after

  the long ride in the face of a chill wind off the North Sea. They

  waited while Abbot Bernard went to fetch the papers of his draft of the

  projected letter to the Pope. It was their first opportunity for

  private talk that day. “How dear did that announcement in St. Mary’s

  cost you this day, old friend?” the King asked.

  “It was as brave a deed as any I have known. Braver than any done on a field of battle. To take upon yourself, your own shoulders, the entire burden of this rejection of the Pope’s commands and anathema. To accept the responsibility for a whole nation’s disobedience to the Holy See, to the head of the Church you represent This was truly great, truly noble William. I know of no other who would have dared it.”

  “Noble is scarce the word I would use, Robert my liege,” Lamberton said, shaking his grey head.

  “What I did was expedient, lacking in scruple, cynical, maybe. But not noble.”

  “Yet you perhaps jeopardised your own soul to do it. For the nation.

  That is, if you believe what you profess.”

  “Aye-and there’s the rub! Do I, William Lamberton, believe what I profess? Sometimes, I confess to you, my friends, I do wonder! I fear that I have become but a wavering leader of this flock.”

  “Wavering? After today? I would I had more such waverers!”

  “Wavering in what I believe, and should teach others, Robert Which is no state for a bishop to be in. The older I grow, I find, the less of accepted doctrine I truly respect. Save for the faith of Christ crucified. And the all-embracing love of God.”

  “Is that not enough?” Elizabeth asked quietly.

  “For you, perhaps. For most. But-for me? For the Primate?

  The foremost representative of the One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church, in this land? The fount of doctrine, the source of dogma? I would not have our nuncio, or indeed any priest anywhere, to hear me say it!”

  “Perhaps you do not altogether accept the doctrine of a papal

  infallibility!” Bruce observed gravely.

  “Even if the said Pope is truly Pope.”

  The other looked into the fire, as gravely.

  “Would my liege lord have me to burn as an heretic? To deny so essential, so vital, a doctrine!”

  “Deny nothing, then. But… I think you do not indeed consider that you have placed your immortal soul in jeopardy, by this day’s work?”

  “My soul, I fear, has been in jeopardy all my days! For my many sins. But such faith as I cling to assures me that Christ’s sacrifice and God’s infinity mercy are sufficient to save it, nevertheless.”

  Lamberton raised his head.

  “But, see you-this of the Pope’s position.

  I but prevaricated, quibbled, there at Dundee. God forgive me. This

  Pope is truly Pope-of that there is no real doubt. His residence at

  Avignon is by his own choice, not by force majeure. Even though the

  Curia does not like it. And he is said now to be much less hot on his

  doctrine of resurrected bliss. Moreover, such would not invalidate his

  appointment, whatever Philip de Valois may say. No-I but used

  subterfuge, used these things to gain time, to soothe anxieties, to

  enable the rule and charge of the Church in this land to continue. To

  have accepted the papal ban would have meant the breakdown, not only of

  the Church, but of all Christ’s work, in Scotland. Therefore I did

  what I did. But there is no substance in my doubts as to His

  Holiness’s authority -as many of the clergy at least must know. And the College of Cardinals will endorse Pope John’s anathema-nothing is more sure. Unless we can change their minds. And his. We have but gained a breathing space.”

  “A costly breathing space for you, William-which we must use to good advantage. This of the letter-de Linton’s letter. The declaration, from all the realm. You think well of it?”

  “Well, indeed-very well. So be it that it says the right things.

  And is signed by the right people.”

  “The right people? Not all the people? That is, the people who have any rule and authority in the realm?”

  “That as a principle, yes. But in fact we must be careful. To give His Holiness no excuse to ignore it. By including signatures which he must reject.”

  “Must reject?”

  “Must, yes. He may have no relations with an excommunicate.

  Therefore excommunicate’s signature on such letter could be held to invalidate it, I fear. He has, in a fashion, excommunicated the entire nation. But that is different, a mere form. Those who have been excommunicated by name-these should not sign. Your royal self. Myself. The Bishops of Moray and Dunkeld and Aberdeen.

  These, I fear, he could reject as offensive, in the present

  circumstance.

  And therefore claim that he could not read or accept the letter.”

  “I had never thought to sign it,” Bruce said.

  “Since it is from my subjects, not myself. But you? If you and the other senior bishops do not sign, it could be claimed that there was division amongst the clergy. That the most important might not be in favour of what was written.”

  “True. I think, therefore, that no clergy should sign. Let it be a letter from the temporality of Scotland. It might have the more force.

  Seem less of a disobedience to the Church’s supreme Pontiff. See you

  the clergy have already sent a manifesto to the Vatican,on the subject of Your Grace’s right to the crown. From Dundee.

  In 1309. Asserting Scots independence. This new declaration would come better from the laity. It could be couched in stronger terms than would be seemly for the clergy to use towards their Pontiff.”

  “That is true …”

  Abbot Bernard came back with a great sheaf of paper.

  “I fear that there is overmuch writing here, Your Graces,” he apologised “A great plethora of words. But there is so much to be said. So many matters to cover. I have written and scored and written again. Many times. I cannot make it shorter, with all said. Your Grace, and my lord Bishop, may do better than my poor efforts…”

  He spread his papers out on the table, and lit a second lamp.

  “Here is the start:

  “To the most Holy Father in Christ our Lord, the Lord John, by Divine Providence, of the Holy Roman and Catholic Church Supreme Pontiff, his humble and devoted sons and servants, the earls, bishops, barons, abbots, priors, priests, freeholders and whole community of the Kingdom of Scotland, send all manner of filial reverence with devout kisses of your blessed feet…”

  “Not servants, my friends-not servants,” Bruce intervened.

  “Sons, perhaps. Sons in God. But I will not have my good Scots subjects servants to any. Not even to myself! And is it necessary to kiss the man’s feet? If the Lord Christ Himself was content to wash others’ feet, I do not see why we should kiss the Pope’s.”

  “In letters to the Pontiff it is the customary style,” Lamberton


  said.

  “No doubt it is fulsome, unsuitable. But this he expects. And it

  costs us little-since the signatories will never have to do it!”

  And, as the King shrugged acceptance, “But this of bishops and priests, my good Bernard. His Grace and I have come to decision that this letter should not seem to come from the clergy at all. Only the temporality. To avoid sundry pitfalls. It will lose nothing thereby, and be the less rebellious towards His Holiness. And after your devoted sons, I would leave space for the names of the signatories.

  Rather than have all signed and sealed at the end only. It must needs be a long letter, as you say. Therefore, to ensure that His Holiness reads it, he should know from the start the quality of the signatories.”

  “As you will, my lord …”

  The Queen spoke.

  “But, my friends-do you forget? If it is not the priests and clergy who sign, then most of the barons and lairds will not be able to sign, at all! Since they cannot write. Only make marks and append their seals.”

  Bruce smiled.

  “Trust a woman to see the thing clearly!” he commended.

  “It is true. In the main it will not be signatures we send.

  But names, written by clerks. With their seals. The more reason, then, to have the names at the start. But, proceed, my lord Chancellor.”

  “Yes.

  I then recite something of the history of our race, as recounted by the books and chronicles of ancient writers. How our nation came out of Scythia and through the Mediterranean Sea, by Spain, to Ireland. And thence 1,200 years after the outgoing of the people of Israel, acquired for themselves the land of the Picts and Britons in Dalriada, naming it Scotland, from their onetime princess.

  And how, from then, we have had 113 kings …”

  “Save us-have we indeed? So many?”

  De Linton coughed.

  “So the chroniclers and seannachies have it, Sire. And who am I to disprove it? Since it is our concern to convince His Holiness of the ancient establishment and continuing independence of our realm. Do you wish this altered?”

  “No, no. By no means. The more the better. Save that most of them must have been heathens!”