Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

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.