‘Found any good heresies?’ interrupted the dancing bear; the abbot saw the flicker of irritation that crossed the elder Bruce’s face at it.
‘None of any note,’ he answered and heard Brother Jacobus grunt and shift. He almost smiled at it; at least this usurper king and I share that in common – irritating minions. None was more rasping than Brother Jacobus, one of those dogs the Holy See found useful to let off the leash now and then, but whose constant whine and bark on their singleminded nosing was annoying.
The abbot knew that Brother Jacobus was clerk to Geoffrey D’Ablis, the Inquisitor in Carcassonne, and would return there in the spring. He also knew the man’s real name was Jean de Beaune, because he had reverted to it on the treatises he had begun to write detailing the proper way to carry out inquisitions; it seemed this sin of pride had been ignored in general admiration for this rising star.
‘Brother Jacobus thinks differently,’ the abbot replied smoothly, without looking at the Hound of God. ‘We have scoured the Poor Knights of the Order in … what is it called? Balan … something.’
‘Balantrodoch,’ growled the dancing bear. The abbot smiled.
‘Yes. Outlandish name.’
‘You found no heresies, you say,’ Bruce offered, steering the conversation back to the path.
‘Indeed. A few writings of no account …’
‘Heathen heresy,’ Brother Jacobus interrupted and Bruce saw the abbot close his eyes briefly, as if that triggered some damping of his temper. The abbot, opening them again, saw Bruce’s benign curiosity and shrugged.
‘Brother Jacobus believes that a treatise concerning how the earth revolves around the sun is a dangerous wickedness, so that all who own such should be burned. But there – I have voiced it aloud and now put all our souls in mortal peril. Brother Jacobus’ pyre will need to be large.’
His scathing clamped the Hound of God’s lips in a tight line. Bruce knew this Jacobus well enough, for he had been hag-haunting the Kingdom for a decade at least, flitting between York, Berwick and Edinburgh in pursuit of God knew what.
Before that, he had been told, the Hound of God had been in the entourage of Cressingham at Stirling Brig and had come there fresh from scourging Carcassone’s Cathars. Bruce had learned all this from Kirkpatrick and his missing physicker – he wondered where the latter now was and what he was revealing. And to whom …
‘I thought the earth was the centre of things,’ said Edward Bruce, frowning and the abbot indulged him with another smile, his withered cheeks knobbed as winter apples.
‘Just so. This … heresy, as the good brother would have it … is a heathen affair, as he says. Moorish, though it was Saracen before that and, in fact, Persian before that. They were all Godless worshippers of fire then and the Sun, being the largest of fires, was a deity to them; thus they placed it at the centre of things.’
He laced his fingers.
‘In fact, it is no heresy. If I state that a galloping horse does not move forward, but rather the ground goes backwards – is that heresy? Or simple stupidity?’
‘If enough believe it …’ Brother Jacobus muttered and the abbot ignored him.
‘So the Poor Knights of the Order are innocent of the charges against them?’ Bruce asked.
‘What charges are these?’ countered the abbot. ‘No charges have been made. The Order is guilty of arrogance, idleness, outlandish secrets and excessive wealth. What I have are copious sworn statements by come-lately initiates who allege that they refused to spit on the Cross, or kiss an idol of Baphomet. So far, I have seen no evidence of either.’
‘Yet heresy exists,’ Bruce declared grimly and waved a hand. ‘Ask any of these nobiles and they will tell you of the sin of the Order.’
The abbot frowned, not understanding.
‘Most of them had kin, or were themselves with Wallace at Callendar Woods,’ Bruce explained stonily. ‘Where the Order rode in the retinue of King Edward and slaughtered our people. Christians, Abbot Alberto, descending like wolves on Christians. Is that not a heresy worthy of the Holy Father’s sanction?’
Now the abbot understood and nodded slowly, like a man falling asleep.
‘Not heresy. More of that arrogance I mentioned and certainly a sin – that and the other sins they have fallen into are reason enough for them to merge with the Order of St John. Perhaps then these warriors can turn their sights back to God and the relief of his Holy Places.’
‘The Order of St John wishes nothing to do with them,’ Bruce replied. ‘Wisely.’
The abbot tutted.