Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

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 …”

“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.”