The Dunce Chapter 4

There was a fine drizzle as the small party made their along the River Teviot to the site of the Franciscan friary of Roxburgh. Two long, low buildings stood with a small space between them beneath the walls of the town and facing the river across an open green space. Opposite the travellers was a stand of ancient deciduous trees, chestnuts, oaks and yews. In the open space, the Grey Friars had planted medicinal herbs which gave off heady scents in the rain. John Duns could make out Rosemary, Thyme, Sage and Lemon Balm. He rubbed the leaves of a sage plant between his fingers then smelt the soothing aroma. This was the Friary established by donations from his own great-grandfather. The party were to spend the night here.

The party comprised John and his Uncle Elias, Brother Godric, a friar from Dumfries, and two servants of John’s father, Ninian, who had come along to secure a safe journey for the men of God. Elias and Godric were known to the friars of Roxburgh who were also pleased to welcome John as descendent of their main benefactor.

They ate well that night with the Roxburgh Franciscans but did not overindulge. Franciscans were not given to the excesses of some of the other orders. Their gardens were well managed. Beehives provided honey for eating and for the production of mead. Fine cattle and sheep were reared on the rich, grassy glebes. The meal was probably better than usual as the Roxburgh brethren sought to honour Scotland’s senior Franciscan.

After dinner it was time for Compline. John had been involved in communal prayers when he was at school in Haddington. He could recite the Latin perfectly. Now it was different. He was leaving behind his schooling, boyhood and family and starting his physical and vocational journey to a life in the Church. After Compline, John was shown to one of the guest rooms. He was tired after the journey and soon fell sound asleep. After what seemed like only a few minutes another call to prayer sounded through the compound. John’s body desired more sleep but he had made the decision to follow the disciplines of monastic life so he rose and went to the chapel where he joined the rest of the order in prayer.

At daybreak John and his companions left Roxburgh and travelled up Teviotdale to Hawick where they spent their second night on the road. This time they stayed in an inn that paid its feus to the great abbey of Jedburgh. After a plain but nourishing meal and a good night’s sleep the five travellers set off again hoping to make Langholm by nightfall. The sky was bright and the air cool as they set off on the third leg of their journey. There was heavy dew on the grass and the Teviot sparkled in the early autumn sun. John felt good to be alive and understood as he often had done before Brother Francis’s recognition of God in the beauties of nature.

The rolling hills and broad meadows of the Duns and Kelso areas had given way to hill lands often tree-covered. In some places the trees came right down to the track by the river. At the hamlet of Teviothead, the travellers left the river and turned south towards a pass through the hills where they would join the Ewes Water, a stream that flowed to the south and west unlike the east flowing Teviot. This would take them to Langholm where they would spend the final night of their journey before heading to Dumfries with its Friary.

After stopping for prayers and a simple lunch near Linhope, John’s group entered a steep-sided valley where they were forced to stick closely to the stream. They had only travelled a few hundred yards into the valley when suddenly but silently they found themselves surrounded by a group of men brandishing daggers and swords. The two servants drew their own swords but were quietly instructed by Elias to put them away. This was sound advice partially given because Elias wanted no part of a fight but even if he had done the two servants were more used to wielding scythes than swords and would have been no match for these men who clearly knew how to handle their weapons.

A stout man with a grey beard and long hair stepped forward. “What have we here then? Two priests, a lad and a couple of farm hands. What are you doing travelling these dangerous roads?”

“Roads hold no danger for those who trust in the Lord,” Elias answered. “We are travelling from Duns to Dumfries. My nephew here is entering the Franciscan order.”

Greybeard laughed. It was not an unpleasant or mocking laugh but open and confident. “The Lord helps those who help themselves,” he retorted. “Those look like nice big sacks of meal on the horses. They’ll keep many a jolly lad from hunger for a good few weeks.”

“Take the meal sacks and let us be on our way,” Elias replied.

“Now that would be right inhospitable. Taking meal from monks and not offering anything in return. No. You’ll come with us. We need your services as well as your food but we’re not savages. You’ll come to no harm with us.”

“Very well” agreed Elias, “We’re in your hands”.

Greybeard turned and led his men, who went both before and behind the travelling party, up the hill along a path through the trees. There was no need to have any guards to the sides of the travellers. The trees and undergrowth grew so thickly that escape would have been impossible. Anyway, John trusted Greybeard and his uncle also seemed to be relaxed about following the stranger. Godric and the two farm servants appeared to be much more reluctant to travel deeper into the forest.

The path climbed for about a mile zig zagging up the hill then it followed the brow of the hill for a further two miles rising and falling with the shape of the land until it turned north again descending steeply into a sheltered valley. At the foot of the slope was a wide clearing surrounded by wattle and daub dwellings next to penned goats, sheep and horses. In the middle of the clearing was a large fire where food was being prepared.

Men were working at various tasks, cleaning weapons, feeding animals and tending the cooking food, but they stopped what they were doing as the party entered the clearing. Out of one of the huts appeared a tall, slender man, clean-shaven with a terrible scar down one side of his face. He held out his hand to Elias.

“Welcome, Brother. I’m sorry to have interrupted your journey but as you see, we have no resident priest to hear our penance and administer to us. I hope you will do us the honour of spending the night with us and putting us once again in favour with the good Lord.”

“You are outlaws?” enquired Elias.

“Yes but nevertheless men of honest and pious hearts who served our Lord in lands far from here.”

“You were in the crusades?” Elias further asked.

“Twice we served with the saintly Louis IX of France in the East, the first time over thirty years ago now. Giles was with me then. The others are all younger. They served with us on Louis’s final crusade. We were with him when he died in Tunis. They say our quest was a failure but a least we secured trading rights and the right for monks to live in the holy lands. It’s hard to believe 10 years have passed since then. This is my reminder.” The man touched the scar on his face. “I was getting too old and slow and the scimitar is a sharp and heavy weapon. I was lucky I only lost my good looks and not my life.”

“What was Louis like? I have heard much of him but have never met anyone who knew him”

“As I said he was truly a saintly man. Once he took us into the chapel he built to house the crown of thorns and a segment of the true cross. It’s a building most close to heaven. One can almost feel the angels standing beside one. To hear the sacred chants there is to hear the sounds of paradise. The ceiling is so high that the cadences ring sound and true. The glass in the windows is exquisitely coloured and when the sun shines through beautiful lights are cast all around. Louis spent a fortune on La Sainte-Chapelle but even more on securing the holy relics.”

John marvelled to hear a man who’d served in the crusades; who’d been with Louis of France when he died; and who’d entered the sanctuary of the crown of thorns. What was the link between that man and the outlaw who stood before him?

The man interrupted John’s thoughts. “But enough of me, I’m forgetting my duties as a host. Cedric, bring water for our guests to wash with and ale for them to drink.” He turned to Elias. “When you are refreshed I would like you to lead us in the sacrament of penance. It is almost a full year since we made our confessions”

“That I can deny no man. Not even an outlaw,” Elias replied.

“Good. Then after we’ve made our peace with God, we’ll eat”.

Elias assisted by Godric prepared and administered the sacrament of penance to the group of outlaws. Each man publicly confessed his sins both mortal and venial. Elias pronounced the words of absolution.

Deus, Pater misericordiarum,
qui per mortem et resurrectionem Fílii sui
mundum sibi reconciliavit
et Spiritum Sanctum effudit
in remissionem peccatorum,

per ministerium Ecclesiae
indulgentiam
tibi tribuat
et pacem...

Et ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis
in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.

John was surprised by the obvious devotion of these men who were beyond the pale. Any freeman could kill an outlaw without any risk of being brought before the law because outlaws, as their name suggested, were beyond the protection of the law. It was now late afternoon and rough tables and chairs were brought out and set round the fire. The travellers were given prominent positions next to the outlaw leader and Greybeard or rather Giles as John now knew him to be named.

As they were eating John could hold his curiosity no longer. “Sir, you are clearly well-bred and have served kings on earth and the king of heaven. How do you find yourself in such circumstances, living outdoors as an outlaw?”

“John, mind your manners,” rebuked his uncle.

The outlaw leader held up his hand. “No, the lad is right to ask. I would have done the same at his age. All is black and white to the young. I will answer truthfully. You deserve nothing else.”

“I am an Englishman. My name is Robert Laurel, or rather it is now. I was baptised Robert L’Oriel and come from a knightly Norman family. When I was serving with King Louis in Tunis, my father died and a wealthy neighbour saw his chance to take over our family estates by marrying my mother. He was certain that I’d been killed in the crusade. He wasn’t far wrong.” Laurel again ran his hand down his cheek, feeling the scar. “When I recovered from my wound, Giles, the men and I sold our services as mercenaries in Italy on our way home. We were five years in returning to England. When I returned to our estates my mother’s new husband was not well pleased. He put it about that I had lain with my sister which was a sick lie. However, once the gossip started it could not be laid to rest. I had a choice. I could wait for the travelling assizes when as a knight I could opt for trial by battle with my step-father. This would have caused my mother a great deal of pain since she could either lose a husband or a son. I could opt for trial by water but since my reputation was so besmirched by the lies of my stepfather and his allies, I could have been outlawed even were the result favourable. Clearly an unfavourable result would have resulted in my death by hanging. I therefore opted for the relative freedom of becoming an outlaw and my companions joined me. We came to Scotland but this is no refuge now from English justice. We live as best we can robbing rich travellers but trying to be honourable as befits a knight and his followers.”

“Yours is truly a sad tale sir” said Elias.

“It is but I am grateful to have once again received absolution through your services. I thank you for that kindly Friar. In the morning we shall see that you are safely put on your way to Dumfries. As for now let’s have some music. Giles, bring out your harp.”

Giles went to one of the huts and returned with a small harp. He plucked it and clear pure notes rang out across the clearing. Then he started to sing:

Worldes blis ne last no throwe; it went and wit awey anon.
The langer that ich hit iknowe, the lass ich finde tharon:
For al it is imeind with care, mid sorwen and mid evel fare,
And ate laste povre and bare, it lat man, wan it ginth agon.
Al the blis this heer and thare bilucth at ende weep and mon.
And so it went on for a further four verses, describing the transitory nature of earthly joy, the foolishness of over-reliance on the gifts of this life and the need to rely on the price paid by Christ to redeem mankind. The haunting melody and the melancholy nature of the words appealed to John although he did not quite see life in such a bleak and uncompromising manner.

After Giles had finished his song there was silence for a moment or two as each man contemplated his situation then two of the outlaws took up bagpipes and one turned the handle of his hurdy gurdy in a cheerful dance tune. The spirit was lifted immediately and most of the other outlaws got up and had a merry dance round the fire. John looked up and saw the stars shining brightly. What a blessing he thought to be here at this time with these men who’d been through so much, who’d lost so much yet managed to live a live of openness and piety.

The next day was once again clear and dewy when Elias, Godric, John and the servants left the outlaw camp and headed on there way to Dumfries. John was sorry to say goodbye to men he’d only known for less than a day but who’d taught him a great deal about justice, truth, and the gap between God’s law and men’s legal systems. The outlaws had tried to return the bags of meal to Elias but Elias insisted that they kept them. In the end a compromise was reached in which each group got a bag.

The next day the travellers reached the Friary in Dumfries and John started his noviciate preparatory to entering the Franciscan order. Several weeks after arriving at the Friary, John and another young novice went in to Dumfries to collect some rents from tenants in friary properties. They walked along chatting about a passage in Peter Lombard’s Sentences. As they approached the bridge John’s companion stopped mid-sentence. John looked up and was almost sick. There on a pole with a terrible grimace was the head of Giles. From the other side of the road the scarred face of Robert Laurel looked down. Despite his scar Robert looked at peace. All along the bridge on poles were the heads of men with whom John had enjoyed a pleasant evening earlier in the month. The words of the final verse of Giles’s song came back to John.

Shal no good been unforsolde ne no quedhed ne wurth unbout;
Wane thu liste, man, under molde, thu shal haven as thu hast wroute.
Bithinc wel forthi ich thee reede, and clanse thee if ech misdeede,
That he thee help and tine neede that so dreere hath thee about,and to heven-blis leede that ever last and faileth nout.

‘No good shall go unrequited’. The outlaws were dead but surely they would be led to ‘heaven’s joy that endures forever and does not fail’. So prayed John.

The Dunce Chapter 3

Johnny walked along the road to Berwickshire High School in eager anticipation. At this morning’s school assembly the Rector was going to announce the results of the essay competition; the competition that Johnny had spent almost the whole of his summer holidays preparing for. He remembered clearly the announcement that the Rector had made during the last week of the summer term, Riever’s Week when the town was decked with brightly coloured flags and troops of horse-mounted followers rode with the Riever and his lass to prominent sites within the town. There was the crowning of the Winsome Maid, a primary 7 girl, and sports down at the park. On the Thursday night there was a torchlight procession when Johnny put on an old pyjama jacket over his clothes and wore an old bunnet of his dad’s to prevent the dripping wax from his own and other people’s torches from spoiling his decent clothes or singeing his hair. Isabel Aitken had been walking with her friends just in front of Johnny in the procession and had turned and given him a smile that affected him like the flame affected the candle wax. He’d grinned back, hoping that in the torchlight, she wouldn’t see the redness spreading across his face. Afterwards he’d lain in bed kicking himself for his failure to capitalise on the moment but it was gone. Anyway on the next day, Friday, the last day at school before the summer holidays, the Rector had made the announcement.

“Boys and girls, as many of you will be aware John Duns Scotus, the famous theologian and philosopher was born in Duns. In September there will be a series of events to commemorate his birth 700 years ago. Due to the kindness of an anonymous benefactor I am able to announce an essay competition with a first prize of 30 shillings, a second prize of £1, and a third prize of 10 shillings. The topic of the competition is John Duns Scotus. Essays have to be submitted in August on the first day of the new term and the winners will be announced on Monday 12 September. All the best to those who decide to have a go.”

Johnny recalled the day years ago when he’d been in primary school. “Dunn the Dunce” had been the taunt. He recalled the derivation of the insult and how he’d been intrigued by the eponymous Duns Scotus. Here was an opportunity to find out more about the mysterious mediaeval philosopher and possibly to win himself 30 bob into the bargain. He was already spending the money in his mind. There was that braw cream, brown and green Tattersall check shirt in the Co-op window that he’d had his eyes on for weeks. Then again he would like to order the LP of the D’Oyly Carte production of Iolanthe. However attractive the money was, even more attractive was the opportunity to research the life of a man he felt intimately tied to his own life and experience, a Duns Dinger like himself and someone for whom thinking was a way of life. He decided that he was going to have a go.

As Johnny walked along towards the Biscuit Factory, the affectionate name that the pupils had for the new Berwickshire High School, he looked to the south towards Grueldykes, the farm that had been in the hands of the family of Duns Scotus. On this mid-September morning, the dew glistened on the bales of straw. The barley was nearly all combined and bagged up in the sheds or else off to McCreath’s, the grain merchants. The green foggage was already growing up through the white stubble. In one of the fields that had been combined early, a blue Fordson Major tractor was drawing a plough, cutting and turning the earth, followed by a flock of gulls that swooped and fought over every worm exposed by the glistening, steel shares. This was usually a time of nostalgia for Johnny as summer gave way to autumn. Behind him were the balmy summer days of bathing in the Whiteadder, walking along the country roads around Duns where the tar bubbled and the bubbles popped as they were trodden on, and playing cricket in the park with a tennis ball and a cheap bat and mixed teams in terms of gender and age, just everyone joining in together. But this day was different. He wasn’t thinking of the summer past but of the future announcement.

His mind turned back again to other summer activities. He thought of hours spent in the town library reading and making notes on everything they had on John Duns Scotus. He thought of the walk up Bridgend to the Catholic church and the long chat with the priest about what it might have been like to be a Catholic in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries rather than to be a Presbyterian in the middle of the twentieth century. He thought of his holiday with his cousins in Leith and his daily walk up Leith Walk and Leith Street, then round past the General Post Office onto the North Bridge and then right onto the High Street to St Giles Cathedral, and left onto George IV Bridge and into the National Library of Scotland. On the first day he had presented the librarian with the letter from Duns library that identified him as a bona fide scholar with an interest in John Duns Scotus. He had read as much as he could of what Scotland’s library held on Duns Scotus. He even struggled with some of Duns Scotus’s Latin but it was away beyond what he had learned in two years of secondary school Latin. After carefully reading, sifting, and re-reading his notes, he had crafted the first draft of his 2500 word essay. He read this draft to both his Mum and his Dad and they made helpful suggestions where they felt his English was clumsy or unclear. He took on board the suggestions of his parents and produced a final draft in his best handwriting. This was submitted on the first day of the new term.

Now Johnny was standing with the rest of his class in the hall. The Rector mounted the stage. Johnny felt the butterflies in his stomach and his mouth went dry. He could barely mouth the words of the hymn, All Creatures of Our God and King but he did think it an appropriate choice for the occasion, a hymn by St Francis in a week when a great Franciscan would be commemorated. Then after the hymn was a scripture reading. It passed right over Johnny. The Rector approached the podium.

“Boys and girls,” he started, “You will recall that when we met here in July, I issued challenge and announced prizes for the three best essays on that famous son of Duns, John Duns Scotus. I would like to thank all those who rose to the challenge and who spent at least some of their valued summer holiday doing the research and writing to meet this challenge. I can announce that we have three worthy winners and as is usual practice on occasions such as this I will announce them in reverse order. In third place is an exceptionally fine effort by Isabel Aitken.”

A great cheer went up with a vigorous round of applause. “Not just a pretty face then” thought Johnny, then immediately cursed himself for having such a patronising thought. He watched Isabel go up and collect her envelope from the Rector.

“In second place, with a piece of exceptionally mature scholarship, Johnny Dunn.”

“Go on. Up you go.” Ally Grant, who was standing next to Johnny nudged him.

Johnny felt a lump in his throat. Second place. All that work for second place. He could hardly believe it. He moved along the row and walked up the aisle and onto the stage, all the time battling to keep a smile on his face. He approached the Rector and mechanically held out one hand to receive the envelope with the pound note in it and at the same time shook the Rector’s hand. He could hear the cheers and the clapping but they were the applause for the runner-up, the also-ran, the person who could not quite make the grade. He shuffled to the back of the stage to take his place beside Isabel. “Well done, Johnny” she smiled and shook his hand. “Congratulations to you too” he replied. The Rector held up one hand to still the cheering and clapping.

“And now for the winner of the John Duns Scotus Essay Competition, for an absolutely sterling effort - Alexander Thompson.” A great cheer went up and the fourth years boys made a thunderous sound stamping on the floor. Johnny felt that he had been punched in the stomach. Eck Tamson had been one of the lads who had hit and jeered Johnny on that afternoon at Primary School when he’d first heard of John Duns Scotus. He was a year older than Johnny. Now he had won what Johnny desired most. He realised that Isabel was speaking to him.

“Sorry” he apologised, “Ma mind was somewhere else.”

“Ah was just sayin’ that the judges must have found something that the rest o us missed in Eck.”

It was true that Eck had never been considered to be one of the most academically gifted pupils at the high school. He was already 15 and was probably going to leave school at Christmas time without taking his O-grades. His father was an agricultural dealer who was quite well off and it was likely that Eck would be absorbed into the family business.

After receiving his prize, Eck joined Isabel and Johnny. At the end of the Assembly as they climbed down the steps to rejoin their classes, Eck whispered to Johnny, “Dunn the Dunce”. It was all Johnny could do to first of all refrain from walloping Thomson and secondly to keep composed and not show his great hurt.

There was compensation. As they were walking back to their places in the hall Isabel said to Johnny,

“Let’s celebrate. See you in Forte’s efter school the night.”

That day was one of the slowest in Johnny’s school career. He now knew what the term bittersweet meant. In one day he’d had the bitterness of missing out on the prize he’d desired so much but there was also the sweet promise of time with Isabel after school.

When the final bell rang Johnny rushed out to the main gates and caught up with Isabel. Together they walked into the town and found a free table in Forte’s café. The air was rich with the smell of fresh coffee and the raspberry sauce that was poured over ice cream sundaes. Johnny ordered two coffees and took them over to the table. Johnny had known Isabel since Primary School but had only really noticed her during the summer holidays. They drank their coffee and chatted and laughed together until Isabel said “Well I’d better be getting’ hame for ma tea.” Johnny walked with her to the corner of The Square where she lived.” He could hardly kiss her at teatime in the Square but she took his hand and squeezed it and said “Thanks. That was lovely. See you the morn.” Johnny had never quite felt the way he did before. The whole of Duns seemed to take on a new magical quality. The buildings looked brighter. He felt a warmth towards everyone, even Eck Tamson.

When Johnny got home, the tea was already on the table and his Mum and Dad were just sitting down to scrambled egg on toast.

“You’re late, “said Mum, “How did you get on in the essay competition?”

“Only second” replied Johnny.

“Only! Only!” exclaimed his Mum. “Second oot of a’ the folk in that school and you’re only just into third year. That’s a great achievement.”

“Whae won?” asked Dad.

“Eck Tamson” replied Johnny.

“What Dealer Tamson’s son?” queried Dad.

“Aye Dad, Whae else?”

“Well there’s a turn up. Ah never had him doon as a scholar.”

The next day both Isabel and Johnny received invitations from Provost Lennie to attend the celebrations to commemorate the birth of John Duns Scotus on the following Saturday. The day afternoon started with a service attended by senior figures in the Catholic, Presbyterian and Scottish Episcopal churches as well as the provost and other town notables. Johnny sat with Isabel in the congregation and they both saw Eck Tamson sitting up with the notables beaming down at them. After the service, the whole party went in procession up Castle Street to the lodge at the gates of Duns Castle. There on a grassy knoll to the right of the gates stood a new cairn marking the birthplace of the philosopher which was unveiled. Again Eck stood with the important guests and had his photograph taken with them. After the rest of the party moved down towards the Public Park, Johnny and Isabel went over to read the words on the cairn.

John Duns Scotus
The Subtle Doctor
And a member of the Franciscan Order
Was born on this site in 1266
Wherever his distinguished name is uttered
He sheds lustre on Duns and Scotland
The town and land which bore him

Erected by the Franciscan Order
On the seventh century of his birth
September 1966

When Johnny and Isabel looked up, they were alone. Everyone had moved off to see the unveiling of a statue by the sculptor Frank Tritschler in the park.

“It makes you feel quite insignificant yet also important,” said Johnny.

“Are you going tae be a philosopher an a’?” laughed Isabel. “Come on let’s catch up wi’ the others or we’ll miss the unveilin’ o’ the statue.”

Johnny thought another chance missed but took Isabel’s hand and they careered down the hill to catch up with the rest of the party.

On the following Tuesday The Berwickshire News reported Saturday’s events. Several of the photos showed beaming Eck amongst the many dignitaries. Included inside the paper was a full transcript of his essay. After his father had finished with the paper, Johnny took it and without much interest started to read The Life and Thought of John Duns Scotus by Alexander Thompson. As he read, it seemed to be familiar. Suddenly he exclaimed, “No it can’t be!” He went upstairs and brought down a volume that he’d bought in a second hand bookshop in Edinburgh for sixpence. There it was. Paragraph after paragraph had been copied from Medieval Thought by Gordon Leff. In fairness to Eck Tamson he had corrected one error in Leff’s work. Leff had obviously been taken in by the Brockie Forgeries and had listed Scotus’s birthplace as Littledean in Roxburgh. Tamson had changed this to Duns in his essay which otherwise followed Leff word for word.

The next day Johnny told Isabel what he had discovered.

“Ye’ll need tae tell the heidie,” said Isabel.

“No ah cannae dae that. It’ll jist look like sour grapes. Ony way a’m no a clype. A’ll speak wi’ Eck himsel’”

Johnny went and sought out Tamson. When he found him he produced his copy of Leff’s book and said, “A ken what ye’ve done Eck. You’re a cheat.”

Tamson went very white then red with anger. “Aye and what are ye goin’ tae dae aboot it, Dunce?”

“No a thing Tamson, but A’ ken and you ken and that’s what matters tae me.”

A month later during assembly the Rector stood up and in his gravest tones announced,

“I’ve got some rather sad news to report. We have a cheat in our midst.”

Johnny saw Eck Tamson turn and look at him with anger in his eyes. The Rector carried on,

“Yesterday I was contacted by Penguin Books. They had seen a copy of Alexander Thompson’s essay in The Berwickshire News and recognised it as coming from a book they published. They intended to sue for breach of copyright but when they were told that the author was a schoolboy they dropped their action but insisted on an apology to be printed in the next issue of the paper. I am going to ask Thompson to return the prize which will be awarded now to Johnny Dunn, the winner of the John Duns Scotus Essay Prize.”

A huge cheer went up in the hall and while it was going on, Eck Tamson slinked out, almost unnoticed. The Rector held up his hand again to bid silence.

“I have a further announcement to make. His Holiness Pope Paul has invited Provost Lennie and the Town Clerk to Rome for an audience in December. Provost Lennie will be accepting the invitation but has told me that he is asking His Holiness if Johnny Dunn can accompany the party to Rome since Johnny missed out his rightful place during the Duns Scotus celebrations.”

Johnny caught Isabel’s eye and saw she was smiling. He winked at her and she blew him a kiss.

The Dunce Chapter 2

It was late summer in the year of our Lord 1280. John Duns swung his scythe and felled another swathe of the yellow oats. The late afternoon sun was still hot. Dust from the grain stuck to John’s sweaty forehead. His straight brown hair was cut at shoulder length with a short fringe that was sticking just above the grain dust. His arms were tanned from spending the summer working on the family farms. He had cut and carted hay on his grandfather’s farm, Grueldykes, just over a mile south of his parent’s house on the slopes above Dunse. He then went and did the same for his Uncle Cuthbert down in Roxburgh. Now at the end of August he was back at Grueldykes harvesting the oats. He swung again then paused. To the south he could see the Cheviot Hills shimmering in the haze. Between him and the hills was the rich Tweed valley and some of the best agricultural land in Scotland.

The ownership of the land was divided between lay landowners and the religious orders that had established priories, friaries and abbeys in the area. Fifty years previously his own great-grandfather had given land to some of the first Franciscans to arrive in Scotland to help them to establish a holy house in Roxburgh. He had just left the Friary in Haddington, thirty miles to the North West, where he had received his early education. Three years ago, when he was twelve and living in the Friary, Uncle Cuthbert had donated land to the Haddington monks so that they could extend their gardens. Recently another uncle, Elias, had negotiated a degree of freedom for the Scottish Franciscans from their English brethren. Elias was head of the Dumfries Franciscan house and of the Scottish Franciscans.

John took one more swing and then bent to gather the cut corn. As he gathered the stalks into a bundle, he drew off a handful and neatly twisted them into a temporary rope, which he used to tie the bundle into a sheaf. He picked up two other sheaves that he had tied earlier and stood the three in a little stook. There they would stand for a day or two until they were carted into the threshing floor in the farm yard, where the sheaves would be untied and the stalks beaten to separate the grains from the straw. The grains would then be milled to produce oatmeal and the straw used for bedding both people and animals over the winter.

Aidan, one of John’s, grandfather’s farm labourers, worked alongside him. As John turned from setting up the stook, Aidan cut another swathe of oats. A family of field mice scattered as the stalks fell.

“Vermin” cried the farm worker and raised his boot to stamp on the scurrying mice.

“Stop!” ordered John and pushed the man back. “They’re all God’s creatures. Let them live.”

“Sorry, Maister John. I was nae thinkin’. I forgot ye followed Brother Francis.”

“No Aidan. I should be apologising to you. I shouldn’t have laid a finger on you or shouted at you. Brother Francis did indeed teach that we should love the beasts of the fields and the birds of the air. But he also taught the importance of living at peace with our fellows. I have no right to shout at you or to push you. Please forgive me.”

“Och dinnae bother about it young master. I’ve had far worse treatment than you’ve ever ge’en me. Look here’s young mistress Hilda wi’ some refreshment.”

John’s cousin had walked from the fermtoun with a bucket of water freshly drawn from the well. It still had the chill of its subterranean reservoir. In it were a couple of handfuls of oatmeal. Hilda set the bucket down and stirred up the liquid with a ladle that she had brought with her. Each of the men took the ladle in turn and drank the cloudy water.

“Will you walk me back, John. I’ve hardly spoken to you all summer.”

“I should really carry on here. There’s a good two hour’s work I could still put in.”

“O come on. You could be back in twenty minutes and I’m sure the men will work just as hard without your example.”

“How could I refuse such a pretty maiden’s request? Here give me the bucket and ladle.”

Hilda was eighteen months older than John. The top of her head reached his shoulder. As they walked across the stubble, she linked her arm into his.

“Tell me about school,” she said when they were out of earshot of the men. “What did you learn?”

“We learned Latin and Greek. We studied the holy scriptures. We prayed and we worked in the gardens with the monks.”

“I wish I could read. Will you teach me?” asked the young woman.

“I fear I won’t have time. I’m due to leave for Dumfries soon. Uncle Elias is letting me enter as novice.”

“I don’t want you to go. Will you kiss me?”

“What are you saying?”

“Kiss me, please.”

They were standing in a V shape formed by two tall hedges at the edge of the farm orchard. Hilda was standing close to John and looking up into his face. He looked down, dropped the bucket and took her in his arms. They kissed. He felt a rush of excitement as she pushed herself against him. He rubbed against her and pushed his head into her hair. It smelt of the sun and the corn and the open air. His hands were all over her and her’s all over him. Suddenly he shuddered and felt a damp, warm patch between his legs.

“O Lord what have I done?” he cried and pushed her away from him.

“You’ve just done what’s natural for men and women to do,” Hilda consoled.

“But the natural man is an enemy of God.” He responded.

“Didn’t God create nature? How could something natural and pleasurable be wrong?”

“Because it’s a betrayal.”

“Who have we betrayed? Neither of us is betrothed.”

“We have betrayed my future calling and your future husband.”

“My future husband!” Hilda retorted. “My future husband will be a rare man indeed if he comes to me without having known a woman. Why should it be different for me?”

“You know it is different for you. I worry for you. You may not read but you can think and that is dangerous. You’ll get into trouble with God and the Church.”

“God and the Church surely have greater concerns than two young people who have an embrace on a summer evening in Scotland. Every year another Christian city falls to the Mohammedans. The holy city itself, where Christ was crucified, has been gone these forty years.”

“God cares for every creature no matter how great or how small. He sees their every action. He judges their every deed.”

“We are also taught that God is a God of love. He will recognise love and intention. He will recognise no malice or sin or filthiness in our actions this night.”

“Then why do I feel so dirty and worthless.”

At that Hilda picked up the ladle and cracked John on the head with it.

“There. Now you also hurt as I do from your ridiculous whinging. You think only of yourself and your guilt; not of my feelings”.

She retrieved her bucket and made for the farmhouse. John watched her go and doubted her would ever see her again.

He returned to the field and worked reaping the corn until it was too dark to continue. He then ran the mile uphill to his parent’s house but could not escape the guilt. When he reached the courtyard of the townhouse where he lived, there were two pack horses tied up under the shelter. His heart fell. Could it be? Surely not? He called to a groom.

“To whom do the horses belong?”

“Ah young master, they’re frae the friary at Dumfries. Your uncle’s visiting.”

It was John’s worst nightmare. On the very evening when he had committed the worst sin of his life, his uncle arrived, presumably to take him back to start his preparation to be a Franciscan monk and a priest. John sneaked into the house but was seen.

“Ah John. Come and join us. Look who’s here. Your Uncle Elias from Dumfries with one of his brethren.” Ninian Duns held his arm out towards his son and directed him towards the guests.

“I see you have been labouring in the fields of harvest. I believe you wish to engage in the Lord’s greater harvest.”

“Forgive me please, Uncle. I fear I am unworthy to follow such a path.”

“My dear son which of us considers himself worthy? We all labour under the burden of sin. I perceive that you are tired. Let us speak again in the morning.”

“Yes, uncle. Let us.”

John knew the burden of guilt that night. He slept little. He feared that not only had he destroyed any chance of becoming a Franciscan but possibly any chance of redemption. It was a hot night and John felt close to the fires of hell. He dreaded his interview with the superior Franciscan of Scotland in the morning. It did not help at all that this man was his father’s brother.

He rose early and knelt in sincere prayer crying out inwardly for forgiveness from God. He felt a little better but still considered his soul to be in jeopardy. As he rose from his prayers his uncle was at his side.

“Come walk with me, my son. Tell me what troubles you.”

John looked into the eyes of this kindly man and trusted him. He told him of the events of the previous evening without incriminating Hilda by revealing with whom he had engaged in the activity that troubled him. He told Elias of his fears that he was now ineligible for the Franciscan order and for the priesthood.

“My dear boy, if the Order and the priesthood were only open to those who are perfect, our holy houses would be empty. Brother Francis himself indulged in some debauchery as a young man. Your sin is significant but minor compared with the acts of many. You have not yet undertaken your vow of chastity. All is not lost. You have recognised your error. That is the first step. Christ died to take upon himself the sins of us all. To retain the sin to yourself is to deny Christ’s power. Let it go. Let the Saviour save you. Come kneel with me.”

The two kneeled together on the slopes of Dunse Law; the old priest and the young man, and the latter wondered what it was to let Christ take your guilt away. As the elder’s prayer ended the younger thought he knew.