Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

How think you he will look on one of his own subjects who contests his royal decision? In favour of a stranger’s?”

“These … these are Princes of the Church. The spokesmen of Holy See.

They will be very wroth …”

“More wroth than The Bruce, angry?”

The other swallowed.

“I dare not counter them. They could un priest me. Their patience is ended.”

“Is it so? I wonder? For the man Witham, whose house this was, tells us that King Edward much consoles Their Eminences in their waiting at Durham, in many ways! In especial, he has conferred pensions upon them. Pensions for their lives. Why, think you?”

The Prior shook his head, wordless.

“Go then, Master Newton-and bring back your letters properly inscribed. His Grace will then read them. He does not reject the letters of His Holiness. Only requires that in so important a matter there should be no mistake.” Seton shrugged.

“If he wrote a letter and sent it to the Bishop John, calling himself Pontiff, at Rome? How then? Would the Pope receive it?”

“I know not. It is not for me to say. But… something other is.”

He drew himself up, as with a physical bracing.

“Other than these letters to deliver, I have a second duty. A message to proclaim. To all. A verbal message, Sir Alexander. I have delayed too long in proclaiming it. If King Robert will not hear it, his subjects shall.”

He turned. Quite a crowd of citizenry and soldiers had collected, as at any development around the King’s house. The Prior raised his hand.

“Hear me, good people-in the name of His Holiness the Blessed John, Pontiff and Vicar of Christ. His Holiness blesses you all. He desires and decrees that a truce of two years’ duration is now in force.

Between the peoples of Scotland and England, their rulers and councils. In this evil warfare which has shed so much blood, and denied the fair face of Christendom. His Holiness decrees that none soever, be he named Robert Bruce or other, shall raise hand or sword against the English, from now on, for the space of two years. Nor any at his behest or command …”

Newton had been raising his voice as he went on, to counter the murmuring of the crowd. But he got no further than this. The murmur rose to a great and angry shout. The mob surged forward, gesticulating furiously.

With difficulty Seton extricated the alarmed Prior from the outraged crowd, pulled him inside the house and slammed the door.

Then he hustled him through the building, past the kitchen premises, and so to its backdoor courtyard, and there ejected him into a lane.

“Off with you Sir Prior, before worse befall you,” he said.

“Happily, I did not rightly hear your message-which may well have been treasonable, I do very much fear! Thank you your saints that I did not. To Durham with you-and come back better instructed.

Quickly-before they find you! See-you have dropped your Bull…!”

Master Adam’s troubles were far from over, even though he did manage to

escape amongst the warren-like burned-out streets of Berwick. Only a

few days later, as King Robert rode south westwards a little way with

Douglas and Moray, on the start of their punitive raid into England,

news was brought him that the unfortunate Prior had fallen into the Hands of more broken men, some way to the south, in the region of Belford, presumably Northumbrians.

Heathenish scoundrels, anyway. He had been most roughly used, his servants beaten, and all he had possessed taken from him, even his very clothing, so that he was left to continue his journey to Durham on foot, barefoot, and completely naked-a latter-day martyr, no less.

Gravely the King listened to these shameful tidings, and desisted from making anxious enquiries about the safety of the Prior’s precious documents.

Bruce parted from his friends on the banks of the Till near Etal, to turn back for the ford at Coldstream and his return to Dunfermline.

“Go where you will-but take no greater risks than you must,” he told

“This is no invasion, see you, but only a demonstration.

Take heed-for I need you both. More than you know.

And do not be gone too long.”

“How far shall we press, Sire? How far south?” Moray asked.

“I care not-so long as you press south of Durham! I would like to see my lords Cardinal make for London. In a hurry! But not you see you! No probing for London, this time. Yorkshire will serve very well. If you seemed to move in eastwards somewhat, once past Durham, so much the better.”

Douglas smiled.

“Your Grace does not wish a captive Prince of Holy Church?”

“God forbid…!”

Chapter Sixteen

St. Andrews had known many stirring occasions in the past, not least Bruce’s first real parliament nine years before, after he had completed his conquest of the Highland area, the Rosses and the MacDougalls. But this outdid all. Indeed it was probably Scotland’s greatest spectacle and celebration ever, to date, both church and state combining to make it so, each with good reason.

William Lamberton was as anxious as his monarch that faraway Rome should hear of this glittering event, be aware of the splendid edifice erected to God’s glory and Holy Church’s pride, in the ecclesiastical metropolis of Scotland, and to perceive that this far northern kingdom was no rude, impoverished wilderness, inhabited by semi-barbarians, but one of the most ancient, vigorous and cultured nations of Christendom and a strong buttress of Christ’s Church. He had even invited the Pope’s two representatives, from London, to be present for the occasion-after carefully ascertaining that they had already departed for France, on their way back to Rome, in high dudgeon, following upon their undignified scuttle south from Durham.

Bruce, while equally concerned over this aspect of the business, had further reasons of his own for making the most of events. He, the warrior-king, was at pains now to build up an image of a monarch of peace and prosperity, the father of his people, not just their shield and sword, the patron of things beautiful and enduring -above all, the founder of a dynasty. And his dynasty, obviously, was going to need every support and buttress it could possibly claim. This was his constant preoccupation, these days.

Therefore, as well as out of gratitude and love for his friend, he had

given Lamberton every available aid and encouragement in the lengthy,

at times seemingly hopeless, task of completing the mighty and

magnificent cathedral of St. Andrews; and now flung himself

wholeheartedly into helping to make the opening and consecrating thereof an occasion which men would speak of for centuries.

To this end all Scotland had come to the grey city in the East Neuk of life, at the tip of the promontory between Forth and Tay-or all therein who were of any note, or conceived themselves so to be, apart from the vast numbers who were not. The royal summons had been clear and emphatic. The King had even had Lamberton hold up the celebrations until Douglas and Moray could get back from their successful and extended demonstration sweep of Northern England-and they had had to return from as far away as Skipton in Craven, and Scarborough. Now they were back, triumphant, with no losses to speak of and legendary exploits for their men to boast-as well as vast trains of booty, which had much delayed them, innumerable illustrious and valuable hostages for ransom, and indeed a magnificent collection of church plate, gold and silver vessels, fonts, crucifixes, chalices, lamps, candlesticks and the like, jewelled vestments, and other treasure, as votive offerings for the newly-completed cathedral. Lamberton received this largesse, the cream of apparently no less than eighty minsters, churches, abbeys and monasteries, in Yorkshire and Durham, somewhat doubtfully-and wondered what sort of letters were speeding from Archbishop William Melton of York to the Vatican.