The Spider and the Stone: A Novel of Scotland's Black Douglas (64 page)

Hobbled by his injuries suffered in prison, Bishop Lamberton
carved a path through his colleagues with his cane and escorted the two heroes
to the dais, where Robert stood waiting. The bishop had another reason to feel
heartened this eve. He had arranged this celebration as a pretext to call the
Privy Council into session, during which he intended to put forth a profound
proposal that he had long nurtured in secret.

Robert met his two favorite officers with a smirk, delighted
that his decision to harness them had worked so splendidly. His nephew was
forever striving to match exploits with James, who in turn was constantly
irritated by Randolph’s acerbic tongue and dashing verve. The two rivals were
so similar in features and temperament that neither could long abide the other
without falling into some argument or a contest of wits. Nothing entertained
Robert more than the steady stream of correspondence from James complaining of
Randolph’s insubordination. Robert longed to be rid of his own administrative
responsibilities and return to the field to arbitrate their disputes while at
the same time needling them on, as he had in the old days. Their return had
even reinvigorated his health; the mysterious lesions had receded, and the
passing of time had even eased his grief over the Ireland disaster and his
brother Edward’s death.

Robert winked mischievously at Lamberton, setting in motion
a prearranged surprise. The bishop retracted the curtain covering the sacristy, and Sweenie, armed with the English archbishop’s staff captured at Myton, came bounding out from stage left onto the dais.

Robert spun James by the
shoulders to face the monk. “I’m told you owe the Wee-Kneed a song.”

The barons roared with laughter as Sweenie tapped his new
episcopal staff against the boards to speed a payment of the debt.

Nodding with a grin of concession, James accepted a mandolin
from an attendant and, strumming a chord, sang:

“On the misty plains of York,
Scotland’s own wee David marched
Across the Bridge of Death
To fight the bishop Arched.
He conjured up Hell’s fires
To fright King Edward’s priest.
And painted his face darkly
To mock an evil beast.
When the white-robed monks turned tail,
The Wee-Kneed fell to fightin’
And the River Swale gobbled up
The Chapter of the Myton.”

Sweenie held a protracted bow, milking the acclamation as
the barons whistled and stomped.

Lamberton waved the little monk off the dais. “Now begone
with you, Wee-kneed, before I defrock you for wallowing in the sin of pride.”

When those of lesser rank had finally cleared the nave, the
bishop commanded the doors be bolted and, bringing the chamber to order, waved
the privy councilors back to their seats. He brought forth from his parchments
folio a document sealed with the Holy See’s waxed imprint. After a hesitation,
he delivered the correspondence to Robert with a chilling announcement: “The
new pope has reaffirmed your excommunication, my lord.”

Robert’s good cheer vanished. He hung his head and retreated
to his chair, slumping in bitter disappointment.

To ease the blow, Lamberton had delayed revealing the ecclesiastical
decision until James returned from Yorkshire. He had hoped that Clement’s death
would bring an impartial successor to St. Peter’s throne, but the craven
cardinals had elected Jacques Diese to become Pope John XXII. The
seventy-year-old former confidante of Clement had been born in Guenne, an
English fiefdom, and this, his latest nuncio, made clear that he intended to
continue the Curia’s pro-English policy in the expectation that Caernervon
would reciprocate by financing a new crusade to Palestine.

Several of the barons traded uneasy glances, most notably
the Seneschal of the Realm, William Soules, and his allies, Robert Mowbray and
David Brechin, all former Comyn supporters who had come grudgingly to Robert’s
cause after Bannockburn.

Lamberton closely monitored their reaction, particularly the
uneasy shifting of Brechin, the young knight who years ago had been discovered
carrying the letter with Red Comyn’s plan to steal the crown. Handsome and
dashing, Brechin only recently had returned from the Holy Land, where he had
gained fame with the appellation, “The Flower of Knighthood.” Over the years,
Robert had made no attempt to hide his jealousy of Brechin’s crusading deeds,
accomplished while he and James had been at home fighting England.

After a troubled contemplation, Robert raised his distraught
eyes and asked the bishop, “Do you see in this nuncio an invitation to
negotiate?”

“I do not, Sire. The document is addressed
to your council only. The new pope has refused to recognize you as our rightful
king.”

Robert dropped his chin to his chest again. These past
sixteen years spent under the edict of excommunication had weighed heavily on
both him and the kingdom. Most of the priests in the abbeys and kirks still
refused to say Mass or dispense the sacraments to his subjects. The commoners
understood neither the nuances of the theological debate nor the power
struggles between the Holy See and the royal courts, only that they were being
condemned to Hell because he was their king. After a heavy sigh, he
ordered the bishop, “You must sail to Avignon at once and renew our petition in
person. You were clever enough to goad me into taking this crown. I expect you
to apply those skills of persuasion to sway the Holy Father to our cause.”

Lamberton hesitated, waiting for the murmurs across the nave
to dissipate. Then, he took his bold gamble. “I would propose another course.”

“A new monastery, perhaps?” Robert suggested hopefully.
“Dedicated to the Holy Father’s patron saint?”

Lamberton answered so softly that the barons were required
to crane their necks to hear him. “The Curia’s decision to reaffirm your
excommunication, Majesty, was instigated by the Dominican inquisitors. We have
repeatedly offered sops and obsequies to the papacy, only to be spat upon. I
pray you send a declaration instead. An ultimatum signed by all nobles warning
that we shall no longer suffer the Church to dictate our fate.”

Robert erupted to his feet. “I’ll not allow your bickering
with the Black Friars to threaten the my kingdom! I cannot rule without holy
sanction!”

Lamberton maintained a serene demeanor, hoping to hold
Robert’s temper in check. With head still lowered, the cleric said, “This new
pope abuses his authority for crass political advantage. No nation should be
required to relinquish its rightful sovereignty under the threat of God’s
retribution.”

Robert reddened. “I forbid you to speak heresy in my
presence.”

“Do you believe the war we wage is just?” Lamberton asked him.

“Of course.”

“Then either you are the heretic, or the pope is.”

The chamber stirred uneasily at hearing that self-evident
truth spoken so directly. Yet Lamberton did not flinch at the shocked reaction.
He had warned Robert during the earliest days of the war that they would not
prevail against England until they first won this standoff with the papacy.
This two-year truce proposed by Caernervon offered a rare, and perhaps last,
opportunity to capitalize on Robert’s victories in the field. The Dominicans in
Avignon were testing Scotland, and if they perceived Robert weak and
indecisive, they would continue to advise the pope to withhold recognition of
his legitimacy and wait for Caernervon to renew the war, when they would come
north with the English army and bring Scotland to heel under their spiritual
reign of terror, just as they had done to the Occitan nobles in southern
France.

With these myriad diplomatic undercurrents in mind, the
bishop now debated the wisdom of pressing his controversial proposal,
particularly in light of Robert’s fragile confidence. But he felt such a
declaration was so critical to Scotland’s survival that he decided to take the
risk. “What I would next divulge,” he told Robert, “must be for your ears only,
and those of your most trusted advisors.”

Robert held an incredulous glare on his old confessor. After
mulling the strange request for a private audience, he curtly dismissed the
assembly and, in a pique, marched from the nave while beckoning James, Randolph, and
Lamberton to follow him to his private quarters.

Inside his chambers, Robert found the leaders of the refugee
Knights Templar—including Jeanne de Rouen, William Sinclair, and Peter
d’Aumont—waiting for him.

Jeanne stole a questioning glance at James, having not
spoken to him in months. After Marjorie’s death, she had remained with Robert’s
infant grandson at Renfrew rather than return to Lintalee, and now James’s cold
manner confirmed that he was still rankled by what he perceived as her
abandonment.

Robert was livid at the Templars for taking the risk of
being seen in his court. “Did I not order you to remain in the Isles?”

“You did, my lord,” d’Aumont conceded, but offering no
explanation for the disobedience.

Robert’s mood was not
improved by the Auvergene Templar’s reticence to be more forthcoming. “You came
to my aid at Bannockburn. For that, I granted you sanctuary. But I cannot have
you openly traveling the country. The Church will never remove the edict of
excommunication—”

“I ordered them here,” Lamberton revealed.

Robert’s jaw fell open. “I see your thinking, Bishop. You
intend to coax the Church by surrounding me with hunted heretics and felons.”

Undeterred by the biting sarcasm, Lamberton nodded to
d’Aumont.

The Templar retrieved a bible from a small altar and extended
it to Robert. “I must ask you to swear that what I tell you will never leave
this room.”

Robert bristled. “This is how I am repaid for saving your
necks? Questioning the looseness of my tongue?”

D’Aumont did not waver from his insistence on the condition.
“What the bishop now asks of me requires the breach of my own vows of secrecy.”

Intrigued, Robert reluctantly gave the oath, as did James
and Randolph.

Having gained their compliance, D’Aumont stared at the
bible, debating how best to preface his revelation. “This war you wage with
England was foreordained many years ago.”

“Well then,” Robert quipped nastily. “We are wasting our
time worrying about its outcome. That was certainly worth an oath.”

D’Aumont did not rise to take the bait. “When our Order held
Jerusalem, our brothers there found certain scrolls near the Temple Mount. They
also captured inhabitants of the city who kept apart from the Moslems.” He
looked directly at Robert to drive home the significance of his next
revelation. “Native Arabs who did not worship Allah.”

“Jews?” Robert inquired, perplexed.

The Templar shook his head. “These prisoners claimed to be
descendants of Our Lord’s first followers. Yet they denied the authority of
Rome. The sect was neither Roman Christian nor infidel. They called themselves
Nasoreans.”

James reminded the Templars, “Our Lord was called a
Nasorean.”

When d’Aumont did not deny the significance of that
observation, which seemed more than coincidence, Robert moved to put a stop to
all of the coyness. “What does any of this have to do with me?”

D’Aumont walked nearer to the crackling fire, to avoid being
heard by possible lurkers beyond the door. Finally, he revealed in a subdued
voice, “We had the scrolls translated and were told they contained several passages
identical to those in Holy Scripture. But there were other teachings and
verses.”

“And?” pressed Robert.

D’Aumont’s eyes shifted off. “Verses … not in the Gospels.”

Robert and James leaned closer, trying to comprehend that
discovery.

“These Nasoreans proved to our satisfaction that the saints
were not the true authors of the New Testament.”

“How could that possibly be?” Robert demanded.

“The holy Gospels were copied from earlier accounts,”
d’Aumont said. “More
complete
accounts.”

James asked d’Aumont, “Are you saying that certain passages were left out of Scriptures on purpose?” When the Templar did not deny it, James kept pressing him. “But why?”

D’Aumont wiped a bed of sweat from his brow, clearly
uncomfortable with this line of James’s inquiry. “After Our Lord’s death, there
arose a dispute between two factions of His disciples. One schemed to destroy
the evidence proving that Christ never intended to allow one man spiritual
dominion over another.”

James took a step closer. “Which faction prevailed?”

“The followers of St. Paul. Those disciples who remained
loyal to Our Lord’s brother, James the Just, were cast aside as unbelievers.”
The Templar glared at James to drive home his point. “These banished followers
of James were the same Nasoreans who authored the first written accounts of
Christ’s teachings.”

James and Robert turned looks of disbelief upon
Lamberton, who nodded a sheepish admission that he had not previously divulged
all that he knew of Scotland’s history.

“The Culdees were descendants of these Nasoreans,” the
bishop confessed. “The successors of St. Paul ordered all writings of this
brother of Christ be destroyed. But a few survivors of the purge escaped
Jerusalem and brought their copies here to Britain.”

“During our defense of the Holy City,” d’Aumont added, “my
Templar brothers discovered a second set of copies hidden by these Nasoreans.”

Lamberton waited for James
and Robert to wrap their understanding around the implication of these
connections. The Dominicans in the Holy See had cleverly manipulated the French
king to suppress the Templars. In truth, both the Temple and the Culdees had
been persecuted for a more sinister reason: They possessed evidence of the
papacy’s machinations to subvert the teachings of Christ.

D’Aumont was reluctant to finish his report, but their
insistent glares drove him to the task. “Christ taught that each of us is
responsible for our own soul. Salvation can be attained only by searching for
truth, not by blind belief.”