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 usthe 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. Mmm. 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 Popes 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 Popes 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.
No. It must be greater than that. Councils are of picked men.
Our enemies would say that such men are creatures of Your Grace.
To be of value, this must stand for all your realm. Not just Your
Graces friends. A Convention? Would not that serve? Not a
parliament, but a Convention of the Estates. A meeting. Call such forthwith, Sire. And if we do not have sufficient attending, we can have others to sign elsewhere. In their homes, if need be.
Aye, a Convention. You have it. And for another matter also. I need something of the sort. Too many lords and chiefs are coming to blows over who has what lands in this realm. During the years of war, many have won or taken themselves lands. Many of one faction or the other. Those who held them formerly dispute. There is much bad blood. Even here, this morning in Glen Dochart, Sir Alexander Menzies and the MacGregor, both my friends, all but had their swords drawn. Over a mere parcel of land in Glen Falloch. A Convention called to settle such matters. An assize of lands, before judges. All holders of disputed land to show by what title they hold them. Then, when they are assembled-this letter.
They will come-for lands! There is nothing like a little soil and rock to bring men out of their chimney-corners! See that this matter is made known, my lord Chancellor.
Gladly, Sire. It is well thought on. It is excellent reason for
calling a Convention. So we shall have no lack of signatories.
Draw up some such letter for all to sign, then, my friend. Word it so that the Pope learns how well-established and ancient is our kingdom, how long our line of kings. How ever we have been independent.
And how freedom is our very life. That above all. For if freedom fall, all falls. Say that no power on earth shall make us subservient to the English-and the powers of heaven would not try! Say that if I, the King, were to countenance any such subservience, the realm would drive me from its throne. To my proper deserts. Tell the Pope that, Bernard. Write it down. And then bring it all to me, that I may approve it. And to Lamberton also.
His is a wise head.
With all my heart, Sire. And this Convention? Where shall it be held? And when?
So soon as may be. So soon as messengers can carry the word.
We must not delay-or the country will be in a turmoil. Unless your priests will reject the Popes anathema, and dispense Mass as before. Will they?
Abbot Bernard looked unhappy.
Not … not on their own authority, Sire. That would be apostasy
indeed. Not to be countenanced But … it is not for me to decide. I
am but an abbot. This is for the Primate.
The excommunicated Primate! Yes, it is Lambertons business.
I must see him quickly. But the need for haste, in the matter of the Convention, is the more evident. Seven days? Ten? Can it be done?
It must, Sire. And where?
Not at Dunfermline. Nor yet at St. Andrews. I do not wish to meet this nuncio. Yourself avoid him-since he claims to speak with the Popes voice. I have promised to attend young Scrymgeours marriage, at Dundee, on St. Ambroses Day. That is eight days from now. Make it there, at Dundee.
My abbey of Arbroath, Sire, is nearby. Accept the hospitality of my house for this meeting. It is larger than any in Dundee.
Ah, yes, my princely abbot! So it is. Next to Dunfermline, the
greatest abbey in the land. So be it. Call the Convention for
Arbroath, the day following St. Ambroses Day, the day after the wedding … The King paused, blinking.
Dear God! he said, Can there be any such wedding? Lamberton was to officiate. But if he is excommunicate? If you all are excommunicate? Must we stop marrying now? And burying? As well as Mass?
Abbot Bernard wagged his head, lost in consternation.
William Lamberton was made of sterner stuff, ecclesiastic ally than Bernard de Linton. Or perhaps it was but that he had more experience of churchmens politics. At any rate, he celebrated young Scrymgeours nuptials as planned, before a great and splendid if somewhat uneasy congregation. But he did more. After the bride and groom had passed out of the Church of St. Mary, Nethergate, for the banquet to be held in the Greyfriars Monastery, the Primate, with the royal permission, asked the congregation to remain a little longer. And there, from his throne, in full canonicals, he read out a curious announcement, his harsh voice resonant with great authority.