Highlands, where it was an undying influence. After all, it had
flourished for 700 years, and as late as 1272 it had retained an
establishment at St. Brides, Abernethy, the old capital. Therefore, this restoration was not wholly an anachronism, however much the Romish clerics felt bound to frown on it. Glendochart could not now be a Culdee establishment in fact, of course, since no such persuasion existed any more, even in Ireland. But Bruce had done the best he could, setting the Abbey up as part of the Augustinian Order, the nearest in attitude and sympathies to the Celtic ideas of worship. Moreover he was placing it under the general supervision of Abbot Maurice of Inchaffray, now Bishop of Aberdeen nominally, but not confirmed by the Pope, a fighting cleric of similar spirit-who indeed had been the young Dewars mentor at Bannockburn, fighting and praying as lustily.
So, in the same green glen of Straufillan, under the towering and still snow-capped giants of Ben More and Stobinian, where fourteen years before the fugitives had worshipped in the cabin-like chapel, and then gone out to their defeat at Dalrigh at the hands of MacDougall, the King and Queen now with a great company, splendid but almost wholly secular, watched Abbot Maurice consecrate the new chapel and bless the new and simply-pleasing whitewashed conventual buildings; supported by the five Dewan, however out of place and uneasy they seemed. All was done in the open ain for three good reasons; the new place of worship would not hold one-tenth of the company; the Celtic Church had always been very partial to the open air, caring little for buildings; and this would tend to prevent any embarrassment to such clerics as were present and who might lack Maurice of Inchaffrays rugged independence of spirit. Most, of course, had diplomatically been engaged otherwise this March day. Even Bishop David of Moray, who had been one of those present fourteen years before -although even then he had refused to enter the chapel-found it reasonable to absent himself.
The fact was that this was wholly Bruces affair, and he was glad enough to excuse the Romish clergy. In essence, it was hut a way of saying thank-you to the strange creature who had blessed him when no other would or could-perhaps saving his reason at the same time-and who later had equally saved his life by getting him across Loch Lomond when trapped by his foes. He owed a lot to the Dewar of the Coigreach and his Saint Fillan. The fact that the saints Gaelic name was Faolain an Lobhar, Fillan the Leper, was very much to the point-though some doubted if this was the same Fillan.
So a highly unorthodox consecration service was followed by an outdoor celebration of the Eucharist, dispensing both elements to all who would partake, in the old Celtic fashion, using fistula to suck up the wine. Thereafter a banquet was spread there beside the rushing peat-brown river beneath the mountains. The people of Strathfillan, Glen Dochart, Glen Falloch and other surrounding valleys, were there to watch and participate, along with the more splendid folk of the Court and nobility. Even Patrick Mac Nab himself was there, from the rump of his lands up on Tayside, forgiven but by no means restored; for he was still Hereditary Abbot of Glendochart, to the Highlanders. And there was the MacGregor, too, Chief of the Children of the Mist, who had surprised all by re-appearing from Ireland, after being presumed dead at Dundalk, lame now but very much alive, and more fiercely proud than ever.
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 Bruces 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 Graces 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.
Mmmm. 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 Gods 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 saints 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 mans 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.