Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

“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.

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 it 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 here to do feudal homage to me, as feudal lord and superior, for lands and privileges which the Church hold of me in feudal tenure. It is simple.”

“But, Sire-the Church is different. It is not as these others. It is

Christ’s own Body. His divine substitute, here on earth.”

“I do not recollect hearing that Christ was a holder of great lands and privileges when He was on earth, sir!”

“The Church is in the world, and so must act as in the world. It

cannot be otherwise …”

“Precisely, Sir Priest! Therefore, in your wordly capacity as Steward of the Church’s wordly gear, tenancies and lands, you will do homage for those that stem from my lordship, like every other worldly tenant. Unless, to be sure, you prefer to relinquish them.

That course is open to you, and no oath-taking necessary.”

The Prior twisted the glistening rings on his fingers. Then he jutted his plump chin, and stared at a point somewhere above the King’s head.

“I cannot swear fealty to you, Sire,” he said in a strained voice.

“It is impossible. You are … man excommunicate!”

Bruce said nothing for long moments. When he spoke, his voice was level.

“You say that? You are bold, at least! Then, if you cannot render what is due to a man excommunicate, neither can you accept from him such lands, titles and tenancies. I must needs withdraw them therefore, for your sake and mine. And bestow them elsewhere. Others will be glad to have them. My lord King of Arms-how many manors of mine does the Priory of Hexham hold in fee? Not Church lands, but manors of which I am the superior?”

“Nine, Your Grace. Nine entire manors, besides rights of pasture, turf-cutting, millage, water and the like, over much other land.”

“Aye. Then we shall find new vassals for all such, on the resignation of the Prior of Hexham. Let it be so proclaimed.”

“No, Sire-no!” Whelpington cried.

“I do not resign them. I cannot!”

“If you are not prepared to make fealty for them, you must.”

Bruce was suddenly stern, patience exhausted.

“But enough of this, sirrah. It is not my habit to debate with

vassals! You have my royal permission to retire.”

“Majesty-of a mercy! Not that. I will do homage. Whatever you say.”

He plumped down on his knees.

“My lord Bishop-and the Archbishop-they would be wrath.

Exceedingly.

If the lands were lost. I would be dismissed. Let me take the oath.

Very well, my lord Prior. I will overlook your ill-spoken words.

On this occasion. But not again. Say on.”

Not waiting for the herald’s prompting, the cleric launched into the fealty formula, clutching the King’s hand between sweating palms.

The entire distasteful business over, Bruce rose, wiping his hands.

He turned to his wife and daughter who had sat throughout just behind his chair.

“So much for the delights and majesty of kingship!”

he said wryly.

“A huckster, I have something to sell, and must needs drive a hard bargain! Men are scarce at their noblest when chattering. I hope that you have been entertained, if not elevated?”

“Better this than swordery and bloodshed. Or burning,” Elizabeth commented.

“Think you this will bring Edward of Carnarvon to the conference table?”

“If it does not, nothing will!” He shrugged.

“But that is the worst of it done with, God be praised! Now for better things-the tourney, games, feasting. Be gracious to these English now, my dear-but not too gracious! They must learn who is master here.

And tomorrow we will enter Hexham …”

Chapter Five

Turnberry, in spring, was a fair place, all shouting larks and wheeling

seabirds, great skies, spreading sandy ma chars blue seas, white waves

and magnificent vistas across the Firth to the soaring, jagged

mountains of Arran. The castle itself, above the shore, was less

daunting than many, a wide-courtyarded place of mellow stone with walls

which, because of its low protective cliffs on three sides, did not

require such lofty and prison-like masonry as was usual. It was

Bruce’s birthplace, chief seat of his mother’s Carrick earldom, and his memories of it still tended to glow with the light and lustre of boyhood’s carefree days-even though there were now apt to be occasional shadows from the grim night of massacre, eight years before, when he had returned here from his Hebridean exile, to make his first bloody assault on an English-held fortress of his mainland realm.

But, this breezy, bright morning of billowy white cloud galleons and the scent of clover, seaweed and raw red earth, the man’s thoughts were concerned with the future, not the past, as he picked his way alone down over the rocks, sand-slides and crevices of the shore. It was good to be alone for a little; yet he frowned as he went. Elizabeth said that he frowned too much, these days … He was seeking his daughter Marjory. Elizabeth said that she came down here, to the shore, a lot, to sit, also alone. With any other young woman of her years, status and looks, such withdrawals could be looked upon as far from unnatural-and the parallel absence of one or more young men could be looked for also. Not so with Marjory Bruce. If one thing was sure, it was that his only child would be alone, despite the plenitude of escorts who would have jumped at the opportunity to accompany her.