David the Prince - Scotland 03 (2 page)

Edgar shook his fair head. "I think not, Eustace. It would not serve. If William, later, docs «of think better of it, I should look the greater fool, sitting there. William has done this of a purpose, I swear! He will not change his mind. No - we must go on."

Men murmured, but they rode forward again.

The King was silent, preoccupied, for a while, and David and his companions fell back amongst the less important of the company, unsure of their position. But presently Edgar summoned his brother to his side.

"Tell me of William, Davie," he said. "Does he do this to scorn me? Why ask me to come? What ails the man?"

"I do not know. I see him but little. He is a strange man - an evil man, men say ..."

"What is the talk at his palace? About me?"

The other hesitated. "I have been at Winchester Castle only since yesterday. Brought from Romsey especially. With Matilda and Mary. For this Crown-wearing ceremony. I do not speak with many of the King's people. But . . . folk speak scornfully of all Scots, I fear."

"Including myself?"

"Ye-e-es."

"Then why am I summoned here? He sent
requiring
me to come. And, God pity me, I dared not refuse."

"Why, Edgar? I am glad to see you, so happy that you come. But
...
I had rather have seen you in Scotland! Come to you, not you to come here. Why must it be?"

"Do you not understand, Davie? You are all but a prisoner here. But, so am I, in one way! William seated me on our father's throne, three years ago - just as he had seated our half-brother Duncan on it three years before that. He can
unseat
me, as easily. So long as Scotland is so divided as it is. I sit anything but secure, lad - and Rufus knows it all too well. And uses the threat of it against me."

"But what could he do? Against you? If he sent up another army to invade Scotland, then surely the Scots would unite to throw them back? All would rally to your aid, then. They would have to, or be conquered. And that the Scots will never allow."

"You think so? Davie - you are old enough to understand, surely? Why think you I have not brought you, and our sisters, back to Scotland? Not for lack of love. I know well that you all would be free of our Aunt Christina at Romsey. I do not, because I cannot. William insists that you remain. Hostages. As I said, all but prisoners. And why? So that, at need, he could
use
you. Against me. He chooses to consider Scotland a vassal kingdom. It is not - but he would have it so. His father sought the same. And Canute before him. All would bring Scotland beneath England's heel."

"How could he use
me?
I am not important — and would never be used against you, Edgar."

"I fear that you would have scant choice, Davie. He would declare me deposed, if I refused to do his will, calling himself Lord Paramount - as he did with our Uncle Donald. Nominate
you
in my place, and march north with you, at the head of a great army, calling on all Scots to support you and unseat me. He threatened as much when last I saw him, two years ago. That is why Alex would not come south with me.
He
does not wish to be so used. So William keeps you, to be used if need be. And he can rely on the Scots to be sufficiently divided to play his game, North against South, Highland against Lowland, Celtic Church against Roman. The house of MacBeth, in Moray and Ross, would leap at the chance to bring down our father's line and replace it with their own. They attempted it against Duncan, and when they failed in war, had him assassinated. Half Scotland, all the North, would support them. William knows it. I walk in that shadow, lad."

There was silence between the brothers for a space, David tight-lipped.

"So William will not let you leave England, Davie," the elder went on. "And he summons me south to carry his Sword of State at his Crown-wearing, knowing that I dare not refuse to come. But this, of neither coming himself to greet a fellow-monarch, or sending a deputy, is bad, bad - an open affront. I fear that there may be worse in store."

"Perhaps he is but careless, heedless, Edgar? Means no special ill. He loves hunting above all else - save perhaps young men!"

The King glanced sidelong. "You . . .? He has never looked that way? Towards you?"

"No, the saints be praised! I see but little of him. He never looks at me, never visits Romsey Abbey although it is but ten miles. Besides, he has a sufficiency of young men to pleasure him, eager and willing enough!"

"M'mm." Edgar changed the subject. "How goes it with you, then? At Romsey Abbey. Is Aunt Christina as harsh and sour as ever? I hated it there."

"Sour, yes. Is it not strange that our mother should have had so different a sister? So stern. Holy, yes - but unloving. It is worse for Matilda and Mary. Matilda hates her. She treats them just as she does her other nuns and serving-sisters. She can do little with me, now. When I was a child it was different. But now I am largely in our tutor, Brother John's hands. With my friends. We are scarce ever in the women's part
..."

"I am sorry for it all," the King of Scots sighed. "What a broil it all is! We can only hope for better days, Davie - hope."

"Hope - and pray," the youth said simply. "I pray a lot."

The King did not comment on that. Not all the Margaretsons were as pious as their sainted mother had been. But then, their father had been no saint.

Presently the cavalcade came down the long hill to reach the walls of Winchester, on its slope above the Itchen, capital city of England and favourite seat of the monarchy, presided over by the twin magnificences of the largest castle and greatest cathedral in the land, whose thrusting towers had drawn all eyes for miles back. Those of the visitors who had not been here before were duly impressed, some even over-awed by the size and grandeur of it all, the extent of the walled town, the jostling spires and turrets and gables and the riot of fluttering flags and banners which flew everywhere in honour of tomorrow's occasion. When they had to join a long queue of folk, however, noble and poor, priests and beggars and chapmen, to get in at the heavily-defended gatehouse, the admiration wore off somewhat. The leaders of the party were too preoccupied with their possible reception to be impressed.

But here, at least, they were expected, for as they neared the portcullis arch a captain of the guard and two soldiers, roughly pushing aside the people before them in the queue, came forward to demand if they were the Ecossais party? On this being admitted, he proffered no greeting or any mark of respect, but shortly told them to follow his two men, who would lead them to their quarters. He then turned on his heel to leave them -when Sir Eustace de Morville could contain his proud Norman temper no longer.

"Sirrah!" he rapped out. "What respect is this to pay to my lord King of Scots? And his lords."

The captain turned at this peremptory tone, in his own language, and perceiving the style of the speaker submitted a grudging salute — but to this recognisable authority that he was prepared to accept, not to the fair-haired figure under the boar-banner, who wore the simple, slender golden circlet around his brows.

"Respects, sir? I but obey orders from Monsieur Flambard."

In through the thronged and narrow twisting streets of the city they followed the two soldiers, in little more than single-file now, even though their guides sought to open a way for them ungently with the staffs of their halberds. The place was crowded to a degree, with folk of all sorts and conditions, notably many armed men wearing the colours and badges of lords and knights arrived for the festivities.

They had proceeded only a short distance when David, behind his brother, turned to look back unhappily at his two friends. They were heading
downhill,
away from the high ground towards the West Gate where towered the royal castle-palace. Yet the two guides obviously knew exactly where they were going, clearing the way in no uncertain fashion still. They were, in fact, heading down towards the poorest quarter of the town.

Sir Eustace voiced his own recognition of this fact. "This is not the way to the castle, fools!" he called. "Where are you taking us?"

The older soldier looked back. "The Hospice of St. John, sir. Orders." "Whose orders, by God?" "Monsieur Flambard's, sir."

David considered his brother's stiff back in some agitation. St. John's was a hospice for the poor, founded by St. Birinus,
the Roman who had converted the Saxon King Cynegils in the seventh century, set down in Winchester's most wretched area, half-a-mile from palace and cathedral. The city was crowded, to be sure, but the castle itself was vast. Even he and his friends and sisters were installed there, however modest their quarters. And there were other hospices and friaries in the t
own less lowly than this poor
house. He said nothing, however.

They came to the place - which indeed was none so ill a building, quite large and well-constructed. But the air of poverty was all about it; the smell of poverty also. And there was a notable lack of stabling for over fifty horses. The crowds thronging outside seemed to consist only of the aged, the disabled, the blind, beggars and the like. They were received by an elderly friar, who looked defeated and apologetic.

Angus burst out into profanity, and others took up the resentful complaint. But the King made no comment. Dismounting, he stalked inside behind the friar. It was quite the poorest accommodation they had experienced in all their long journey from Scotland.

David's two friends, embarrassed, decided to remove themselves back to the" palace, but he elected to remain with his brother meantime.

* * *

At least there was a sufficiency of food, plain fare as it was, with light ale to wash it down. After they had cleansed themselves, changed from their travelling clothes, and eaten, Edgar announced that he was now going up to the palace. He certainly was not going to wait humbly down here in this kennel until such time as he was summoned to appear before Rufus, like some wretched suppliant. Some argued that this could lay him open to further embarrassment, but most agreed that it was better to grasp the nettle thus.

So, with only some half-dozen of his senior supporters, and David, he mounted, to ride uphill again, in the early evening.

In the event they had no least trouble in passing through the castle gatehouse-pend and entering the palace precincts. The place was astir with nobles and knights and clerics and men-at-arms, coming and going, few sparing more than a glance at the newcomers, these less handsomely dressed than many there. Grooms took their horses readily enough, but otherwise they were ignored. David led the way to the Great Hall.

This proved to be an enormous, pillared cavern of a place, quite unlike the hall of any castle, rath or hallhouse in Scotland, fully two hundred feet long by half that in width, the walls hung with tapestries and arras. Down the two sides, quite near the walling, servitors were setting long tables for
a banquet, leaving a wide space
open in the centre. At the head of the great apartment was a raised dais with another table, crosswise, already set with gold and silver vessels. In a minstrel's gallery above the bottom end, musicians were tuning up their instruments.

Edgar pointed, wordl
ess, to the dai
s, and led the way, to climb on to it - watched askance by the servitors but not interfered with.

"I shall await William here," he declared, sitting on a bench.

"I think that he cannot be back from the hunt, yet," David said. "I have seen none of his friends."

His brother nodded. He beckoned one of the servants. "Fetch us wine, fellow."

The man looked doubtful. "The Deputy Chief Butler dispenses the wine, sir. Later."

"Aroint you, fool - wine!" Sir Eustace barked. "Are you telling the King of Scots to
wait?"

"Eh . . . no. lord! Yes, lord!" Bowing, the man hurried off.

There was some considerable delay before the wine appeared, nevertheless. And when it did, the servants were accompanied by two or three others, richly garbed, the foremost of whom was a fleshy but smooth man of early middle years, round-faced, balding, smiling, with shrewd small busy eyes.

"Flambard!" David groaned into his brother's ear. "Now the King's chiefest minister and right-hand. A man hateful."

"Ah - here is a surprise," the newcomer said, his voice high and light, but pleasingly modulated. "Do I see the Lord Edgar of Scotland? You take us unawares, my lord."

"Do I? It might almost have seemed so - only the keeper of your poors' asylum here was ready for us, at least! Under instructions from one Flambard, it seems."

"That is my humble self, my lord. I hope that you found all to your comfort at St. John's? The town is plaguey full, I fear, folk roosting in every corner. But you will have all St. John's Hospice to yourselves, I promise you. The . . . inmates have been removed."