The Price of the King's Peace bt-3

by Nigel Tranter

  “Aye, Sire-I have considered that. I put it thus:

  “… 113 of their own royal stock, no stranger intervening, have

  reigned, whose nobility and merits, if they were not clear otherwise,

  yet shine out plainly enough from this that the Kings of Kings even our

  Lord Jesus Christ, after his passion and resurrection, called them,

  though situated at the uttermost parts of the earth, almost the first

  to His most holy faith, nor would have them confirmed in this faith by

  any one less than His first Apostle, although in rank second or

  third”

  The Abbot paused.

  “I walk warily herefor, of course, His Holiness occupies the throne of St. Peter …”

  “Very wise, Bernard,” Lamberton nodded, straight-faced.

  “Precedence is most important!”

  “Yes, my lord. So I say:

  “… to wit, Andrew the most meek brother of St. Peter, whom He would

  have always preside over them as their Patron. Moreover the most holy

  fathers, your predecessors, considering these things with anxious mind,

  endowed the said kingdom and people, with many favours and very many

  privileges. So that our nation, under their protection, has hitherto

  continued free and peaceful, until that prince, the mighty King of the English, Edward the father of him. who now is, under the semblance of a friend and ally, in most unfriendly wise harassed our kingdom, then without a head, and unaccustomed to wars and attacks…”

  “I would put in there that we were guiltless of offence towards

  Edward,” the Primate said.

  “That it be clear that the English invasion was wholly one of

  aggression by Edward.”

  “To be sure. So:

  “The injuries, slaughters, and deeds of violence, plunderings, burnings, imprisonments of prelates, firing of monasteries, spoliations and murders of men of religion …”

  Abbot Bernard looked apologetic.

  “You understand, Sire, why I stress that Christ’s Church suffered so greatly? It must be made clear to His Holiness that the English are the enemies of the Church, not its friends.”

  “The point does not escape me, friend. But-I think that we might leave all this of history to yourself. Let us on to the point of today.”

  “I come to that now, Sire. To where Your Grace comes into it. I say:

  “From these evils innumerable, by the help of Him who, after wounding, heals and restores to health, we were freed by our most gallant Prince, King and Lord, our Lord Robert who, to rescue his people and heritage from the hands of their enemies, like another Maccabaeus or Joshua, endured toil and weariness, hunger and danger, with cheerful mind…”

  “I swear we could dispense with that…!”

  “No, Robert,” Elizabeth declared.

  “That must go in. It is no more than the truth. My Maccabaeus! My Joshua!”

  “M’mmm. Proceed then, my friend.”

  “Him also the Divine Providence and, according to our laws and customs which we will maintain even to the death, the succession of right and the due consent and assent of us all, have made our Prince and King; to whom, we, for the defence of our liberty, art bound, and are determined in all things to adhere. But, if he well to desist from what he has begun …”

  The Ghantellor’s voice tailed away, as he swallowed, and looked up apprehensively.

  “Well, man? Go on. What will you do if I desist in my duty? I told you to make it clear that the freedom of the realm is above all things precious. Be not mealy-mouthed in this.”

  “Aye, Sire. But it sounds ill, coming from your most leal servant. I put it so:

  “If he were to desist from what he has begun, wishing to subject us or our kingdom to the King of England or the English, we would immediately endeavour to expel him as our enemy, and the subverter of his own rights and ours. And make another our king who should be able to defend us.”

  Appalled, de Linton looked at his liege lord.

  “Bravo! Well said, my lord Abbot! This is simplest truth. Look not so like a dog expecting a whipping, man! If this letter is to mean anything, it must declare without a doubt that the Scots make their own masters, and that freedom is all.”

  “That is what I say next, Sire:

  “For, so long as a hundred of us remain alive, we never will in any degree be subject to the dominion of the English. Since it is not for glory, riches or honours we fight, but for liberty alone, which no good man loses but with his life.”

  There was a brief silence in that lamp-lit room, as the words burned themselves into their consciousness. Then Bruce actually rose from his seat, and put his hand on de Linton’s shoulder.

  “I thank you, Bernard, for those words,” he said, his voice thick.

  “No man spoke nobler, or truer. Here indeed is the message which we declare. Not only to this Pope, but to all Christendom, to all men everywhere. I thank you. And I thank God that I chose you to write this letter!”

  “Amen,” Lamberton added, simply.

  Quite overcome, the younger man shook his head.

  “Abbot Bernard,” Elizabeth said gently.

  “You make me wish that I was born a Scot, I vow!”

  Bruce cleared his throat.

  “After that, my friend, the rest cannot but suffer descent, decreasement. Read no more. But tell us the sense of what remains.”

  “There is still much, Sire. Perhaps too much. For I am wordy, I

  fear.

  But we have to make our needs and requests clear. I therefore beseech

  His Holiness, who must be no respecter of persons, to admonish and exhort the King of England to desire no more than his own, and to leave us in peace. I say that it derogates from His Holiness himself if any part of the Church suffers eclipse or scandal -as does this part, in Scotland, through English avarice and lust for power. And I urge, Sire, that he, His Holiness, rather stir up the Princes of Christendom to better warfare than attacking their weaker Christian brethren, by leading a great crusade against the heathen, for the succour of the Holy Land-to which, if the English will leave us in peace, we will adhere with our whole strength. And the King of England also be able to aid the better, for not warring with us!”

  “Splendid! Excellent!” Bruce cried.

  “Here is shrewd work, indeed. Is that not sharp steel, William? Your Pope can scarce deny that-since he has declared such crusade to be his aim and ambition. Master Bernard has him there!”

  “It is a notable thrust, yes. I say I served Your Grace well when I recommended this young man to be your secretary. Is this your closing note, Bernard?”

  “Not quite, my lord Bishop. I … I have made very bold in this letter, already. Regarding His Grace. But this was on his own royal command. I make very bold again. If your lordship thinks too bold, I will score it through. But … in the name of this people and nation I have seen fit to rebuke His Holiness. Is this apostasy?”

  “I shall tell you, friend, when I hear it. But, to my mind, Hit

  Holiness could perhaps do with some rebuke! What say you?”

  “I finish by declaring that… where is it? Here it is:

  “that if trusting too much the reports of the English, Your Holiness do not give to-this implicit belief, and abstain from favouring them, to our confusion, then the loss of life, the ruin of souls, and other evils that will follow, will we believe be laid to your charge by the Most High.”

  He looked up.

  “Is it… is it too much?”

  The King slapped the table-top, making the heap of papers jump.

  “By God, it is not! Apostasy, or what you name it, it may be.

  But it is true, and just, and requires to be said. You are a bold

  priest, Bernard de Linton -but praise the saints for it! Let it

  stand.”

  Lamberton nodded.

  “Never before have I heard a cleric, even Abbot of Arbroath, charge the Supreme Pontiff with the
ruin of souls!” he observed.

  “But it is not before time for Pope John, I think. I almost wish that I was signing this declaration after all!”

  “I say that it makes a most, splendid end to a splendid letter,” the Queen added.

  “You are a priest after a de Burgh’s heart!”

  The King pushed the papers away.

  “Better than anything I could have asked for,” he said.

  “But, now-how best to gain the necessary superscriptions and seals? After tomorrow’s Convention, my lord Chancellor, I will have you to read aloud this letter to the assembled company. I will declare that its every word meets with my approval. And you, my lord Primate-will you say likewise?

  Then, I will ask if any present makes objection to any of it. Not this word or that, or we should spend the day at it. But with its sense and purpose. I cannot believe that any will speak contrary. Then I shall ask that all who will put their names to it, affix their seals. It will take time, so many. But your clerks will see to that. No clergy, but all earls, lords, barons and freeholders, in their due order.”

  “All, Sire? Surely not all?” de Linton protested.

  “You would not wish certain names on this letter, I think? Those of traitors. Men who have worked against you …”

  “There you are wrong, my friend. This is a letter from the realm of Scotland. The whole realm. Therefore all of any degree must subscribe to it, friends or un friends If it is headed, as it should be, by Duncan Mac Duff Earl of life, premier earl and noble of this land, whom all know is no supporter of mine, so much the more effective a letter it is. Is it not so?”

  “Indeed it is,” the Bishop agreed.

  “I have no doubt but that His Holiness at Avignon knows well enough who are Your Grace’s un friends Yet, I think, the said un friends will not refuse their names tomorrow! That would be next to proclaiming their continuing treason and treachery. Moreover, not only will this test their new-found loyalty, but it will serve as a chain to bind them to Your Grace hereafter. Their seals and superscriptions on this great document. Do you not see it?”

  “Ah, yes. Yes-you old fox! This I had not thought on. But it is so. Only-this letter will go to Avignon. To the Pope. So I will not hold those seals and superscriptions.”

  “Then there must be two copies. Sire. One to be sent, and one to hold in your Chancery. Both subscribed and sealed. Bernard-you must needs have your clerks work on it. Two copies. All night, if need be. For tomorrow’s meeting. Busy pens, indeed-but it must be.”

  De Linton nodded.

  ”Myself, I shall check each word, my lord. “The Queen smiled.

  “Poor Abbot Bernard!” she said.

  “I fear that he will get but little sleep this night.”

  “The Chancellor has spent harder nights than this will be, in my

  service,” Bruce said.

  “Till tomorrow, then, my good friends.”

  Strangely, it was not the subscribing and sealing of the famous Declaration of Arbroath which went partly agley that next day, the 6th of April, but the superficially unimportant preliminary. Bruce had conceived rightly that a summons to show title to all lands held, would be an excellent, almost foolproof means of ensuring a full attendance at his meeting, since landholding was the vital concern of all; but he had not foreseen the reaction to its inquisition and assize on land-titles. In the great refectory of Arbroath Abbey, when de Linton, as Chancellor, made formal announcement in the King’s name that all who held land of the Crown in this realm of Scotland should now show by what right and title they held it, for the good will and better administration of the kingdom, he was answered by a great shout, and the shrill scream of steel. All over the hall swords were whipped out and held high, while their owners cried aloud that it was by these, their swords, that they held their lands-good and sufficient title.

  Bruce half-rose in his throne, set-faced. Behind him his great

  officers of state clapped hands to their own sword-hilts, glaring,

  astonished. Appalled, Abbot Bernard turned to look at the King.

  Although the sword-barers were fairly numerous, and scattered about the hall, they did not in fact represent more than a quarter of those present, it could be seen after a moment’s scanning. Some indeed were quick to sheathe their weapons again, when they perceived the frowns of the majority. Those who persisted with the naked steel and shouting were mainly younger men, hot-heads. But not all. There were some notable and more mature figures amongst them.

  Sinking back in his chair, though his brows were black, Bruce gestured to de Linton to hold his peace, and then turned, to nod to Sir Gilbert Hay, at his other side.

  That man, Lord High Constable of Scotland, was nothing loth.

  His hands had been itching on his hilt. With a sweep he now drew his own great brand, and held it out straight before him, menacingly.

  “Hear you!” he cried.

  “I, Gilbert, Great Constable of this realm, alone may carry a naked sword in the presence of our liege lord the King. All others who do so can be held guilty of lise majestie, even treason! Put back your steel, every man. In the name of the King!” For so modest and normally quiet a warrior, Gibbie Hay’s voice sounded almost like thunder.

  None disobeyed. But one spoke back-Sir William de Soulis, Lord of Liddesdale, recently appointed Governor of Berwick in place of the Steward. This had been one of Bruce’s innumerable attempts to create unity and harmony in his realm-for de Soulis held that he should be Warden of the Marches, instead of Douglas, since Liddesdale formed part of the Borderline while Douglasdale did not; moreover, as Hereditary Butler and distantly of the blood royal, he was senior in rank as in age.

  “His Grace the King has no reason to fear these swords, my lord Constable!” he called.

  “All have been drawn in his service times a many. Which is more than can be said of some -of those present!

  But they are good, just and sufficient title to the lands which we hold, nevertheless, gained by the sword and held by the sword. As, indeed, is His Grace’s kingdom!”

  There was a breath-held silence at such bold words, until Hay

  answered.

  “That is as may be, Sir William. But you know well, as do all here, that it is not lawful, indeed is a notable offence, to draw sword in the presence of the monarch, unless commanded to do so.

  Only the Constable may do so, for His Grace’s protection. Must I protect His Grace from you sir?”

  “That will not be necessary, Sir Gilbert. As, equally, all well know,” the other returned coolly.

  “Sir William is right, nevertheless, Sire,” another voice spoke up-and a significant one. For this was Sir David de Brechin, the King’s own nephew, like Moray, by another half-sister, a daughter of the Countess of Carrick and the Lord of Kilconquhar. He was a highly popular individual, winsomely handsome, champion at games and tourneys, and sometimes styled the Flower of Chivalry.

  “By sword we took lands from the King’s enemies, while fighting in his cause. Should other title, mere papers, be required of us?”

  “Aye, Sire,” still another cried, “and why is our title to such lands being now questioned? From those who have shed their blood for you!” That was Sir Gilbert Malherbe of Dunipace, who, indeed, had shed no blood of his own.

  “Is it to take these lands back from us, to give to highly-placed traitors who now surround Your Grace’s throne?” Brechin shouted.

  Uproar shook the abbey refectory.

  Bruce, who preferred as far as possible to leave the conduct of such

  meetings to the officers concerned, and not to interfere, nevertheless raised his hand towards the Chancellor.

  “Since you have addressed me, Nephew, with my lord Chancellor’s acceptance I shall answer you,” he said calmly-however inwardly he raged.

  “This assize into title is necessary, for the common weal of this my kingdom. The holding of much land is in dispute, claimed by more than one liege or vassal, fought over, to the disturbance of my peace. Marches between lands and estates are often u
ndefined. Tenants know not to whom to pay their rents.

  Some are paying twice over, threatened by these same swords you shamefully brandished! My subjects, whom I, the King, am sworn to protect. As I shall. Loyal barons of mine are at each other’s throats over handfuls of acres of ground, brave fighters acting like hucksters! To the troubling and weakening of this realm, and the harassing of my judges. This must not continue. The purpose of this Convention is not to take land from any. That will be for parliament to decide, if it is necessary. It is but to establish who can show best right and title to what. I will not have my lieges snarling over my land like curs over a bone!” He paused, gazing round him sternly.

  “Nor will I hear talk of traitors in my royal presence-for past trespasses which I, in parliament, have forgiven and wiped clean. Understand it-or bear my most sore displeasure.”

  There was a long silence. Even though the King had not raised his voice, and spoken almost conversationally, none there failed to recognise the steely grip on the royal temper, and what it could mean should that grip weaken. As Robert Bruce grew older, his anger was demonstrated less and less; but it was sensed the more alarmingly beneath his self-imposed restraint. And was the more terrifying. These were brave men, fighters who had spoken; but they would have been foolhardy so indeed had they pressed their case further, there and then.

  “So be it,” Bruce nodded, sitting back.

  “Sir Gilbert-overlook the drawn swords this once, if you please. Let all proceed in order.

  My lord Chancellor-continue.”

  Moistening his lips, Abbot Bernard went on to outline the procedure whereby every landholder would present himself, in due order, before the earl and sheriff of whatever earldom and county his lands were situate, with his proofs; and all who might dispute such claims should likewise so present themselves. All in different chambers of the abbey. Clerks would take due and proper note of all. Where dispute still prevailed, and the claimants could not accept the earl’s or sheriffs ruling, appeal could be made to judges appointed by the crown. And in final instance, if such was necessary, to the King himself. Such decisions and judgements to be laid before a parliament to be called for later in the year, at Scone, where was the Moot-hill of the Scots realm, traditional scene of landed exchange, tenure and grant age This by order of the King’s Grace.