David the Prince - Scotland 03 (30 page)

It was a relief when the bells stopped and into the quivering hush a fanfare of trumpets signalled the approach of the bride-although it was for her royal escort rather than herself that the flourish was sounded, undoubtedly. Three processions entered the church simultaneously. The King with Matilda on his arm moved in from the west door up the centre of the nave, the standing congregation moving aside to give them passage. The Queen and her ladies, with members of the royal family and Matilda's children, came in by the south transept, to proceed to their places at the choir stalls. And the officiating clergy, Bishop Maurice of London and Bishop Roger of Salisbury, with their supporters, from the north transept, turning into the chancel and up to the high altar. All thereafter turned to watch the progress of the bride and her monarch up the length of the church, with a choir of singing boys chanting behind them - all except David and his brother, that is, who gazed straight ahead of them, at the chancel-steps.

At last Matilda was at her groom's side and he could l
ook at her. She was quite breath
takingly beautiful, tall and slender, a mature and assured women of poise and character, her dark hair in two long plaits hanging before her to below her waist, pearl-seeded head-veil held in place by a gemmed circlet, gowned to perfection in cloth-of-silver, furred at neck and wide sleeves with sable, this also sewn with pearls which gleamed warmly as she moved — Scots pearls, these, from the River Tay, sent south by David as Aw gift, purchased from Alexander who was reputed to have the finest collection of pearls in all Christendom. Beside her Henry, now nearing fifty, short-legged and growing paunchy, despite - or perhaps partly because of— his over-richness of dress in cloth-of-gold and embroidery, looked fussy and ostentatious. She reached out to take David's hand.

The singing over, the bridal party moved up towards the altar where the bishops aw
aited them, and the service com
menced.

It is undoubtedly no unusual state of affairs for the bridegroom, even one fairly religiously-inclined, to go through the nuptial ceremony with scarcely any awareness of what is done and said; as well that the marriage is none the less valid. David knew the service well enough and went through the required motions without any obvious faults and hesitations; nevertheless, it was as though it was all happening to somebody else, and he was only remotely involved. He was, at one stage, dimly aware of Henry, having done his part in handing over the bride, retiring to his seat beside the Queen; and of Ethelred handing over the ring for him to place on Matilda's finger. But otherwise the significance of what was happening largely failed to penetrate. All that he was intensely aware of was that Matilda was there by his side, just the two of them standing close, in the sight of God, the rest mattering little — and that she looked radiantly happy. Perhaps that was enough.

It was when he found himself kneeling to receive the Elements of the nuptial mass that it dawned upon him that they were now one, man and wife, joined together for all time, and that none could put them asunder - and he all but choked at the surge of emotion this blinding recognition generated within him. He turned to Matilda and found her to be considering him intently, almost anxiously. Her lips moved soundlessly. He nodded, and her eyes lightened.

The final benediction given, the trumpets blared again, this time a prolonged, triumphant paean. The King and Queen moved out first, by the south transept. Waiting until they were gone, the bridal couple, arm-in-arm, proceeded down the length of the building to the west door, through the smiling but critical throng, and out into the cold February afternoon, where further crowds awaited them. Matilda's chief steward and a servant came up, with a fur cloak for her, and with leather bags filled with coins, and from these the happy pair threw token handfuls of silver to the gathering, leaving most of the contents however to be handed out in more judicious and dignified fashion as they progressed through the narrow streets. A horse-litter was waiting for her, but Matilda dismissed it, despite the weather, saying that they had walked together from the first wedding that they had attended, almost seven years ago, and they would walk again — even though Northampton's cobbled causeways were scarcely so well-cleaned for the occasion as had been royal Winchester's. Henry and Maud, who had come round to join them, drew the line at this; but the children were there, eager, excited, and David asserted his husbandly authority for the first time by insisting that they should accompany them. So, with young Simon, Earl of Northampton, proudly leading the way, small Matilda clutching her mother's left hand — difficult, in that the Countess had to use it also to hitch up her long silver skirts above the cobbles' filth -and Waltheof holding David's right, they moved on towards the castle, through the packed streets and alleys, the steward and his men clearing the way as well as distributing the largesse. Popular proceeding as this was naturally, there could be no doubt as to the Countess being well-loved, in herself, by the townsfolk. That this was not lost on Matilda was revealed when David asked if she was not cold, and she asked in return who could be cold when wrapped, not only in his love and in her children's but in that of her people?

There was no privacy for them at the castle, where the royal party and most of the guests had arrived before them, and there was nothing for it but to submit to the prolonged wedding-feast and the still more prolonged entertainment and dancing thereafter.

But as the short winter's day drew to an early dusk, David decided that enough was sufficient. He went to Henry and told him that they had eight miles to ride to Earl's Barton, eastwards, and it was almost dark already, and beginning to rain. He begged leave for his wife and himself to retire, and if possible discreetly.

The King, after the usual comments and innuendoes, with his wife's helpful touch and nod, gave the required permission. Thankfully David returned to Matilda, who said that she must say farewell to the children, now in a private chamber of the castle, with the woman Editha. So they slipped out of the hall, and David accompanied her to the children's room, where there was a touching scene of parting. The boys were not greatly upset, but the little girl was much distressed and clung to her mother, sobbing. They were going back to Normandy with their Aunt Alicia, Countess of Leicester, for a month or two, then on to Matilda's own uncle, the Count Stephen d'Aumale, her mother Judith's brother and nephew of the Conqueror. This promised adventure for the boys, but their sister saw it otherwise. The farewell left the adults feeling guilty, the mother at the desertion, David at being the cause of it.

Without returning to the hall and company, the pair reached the courtyard by a side-door, collected their horses from the stables, and wrapping themselves in heavy travelling-cloaks, took the road eastwards, in the rain, alone together at last. It took some time for the feeling of guilt to wear off.

* * *

Earl's Barton was the principal manor of the Honour of Huntingdon - as was Earl's Thorpe for Northampton - although not the
caput
or seat of the earldom, which was at Huntingdon Castle itself, in the small town of the name, sited on the River Ouse. Earl's Barton was placed just over the shire's border, on the Nene near Wellingborough, a fine place apparently - as it certainly should be if it was the choicest of no fewer than one hundred and ninety manors in the Honour of Huntingdon, scattered over eleven counties, although mainly in Huntingdonshire itself, all since last night David's personal property. He could by no means take it all in, as Matilda told him the scope of it as they rode into the wet fenland wind. He had realised that the earldom was rich; but one-hundred-and-ninety manors was almost incomprehensible as a conception. The vast majority of them, to be sure, were in the hands of the earldom's vassals, who paid for them to their lord in money, grain, wool, hides and knight's service, the last so important to the entire feudal system which the Normans had perfected. The Honour, she revealed, could total no fewer than two-hundred-and-twenty-five knight's fees. These were not knights in the sense that he had just been made a knight, of course, but only in that each so-called knight's fee required the vassal to provide a knightly leader, trained in war, mounted and fully armoured, along with two sergeants and a troop of armed men or archers, varying from ten to fifty, ready for war, for up to forty days' service in any given year. Some great manors were worth a dozen knights' fees, others only half of one, depending on size, richness of the land and of population, although most fees ran to eight hundred acres or one plough-gate. This general system was well known to David, naturally - it was the extent of the Honour of Huntingdon which so surprised him. In theory, therefore, his personal armed strength could reach seven or eight thousand men, Northampton's slightly more. Of these, since all was held of the Crown, Henry could call upon him at any time to field two-thirds for war at home, and up to one-third for foreign war. Hence the significance of fealty and the control of earldoms.

As for Earl's Barton itself, although David had never been there, he was assured that it was a fair and pleasant place amongst the Nene meadows, with its own Barton Chase and the two-miles-long lake of Ashby Water nearby, this one of the finest wildfowl haunts in the county, with other hunting and hawking facilities not far off. Huntingdonshire was notably rich in forest, hurst and brake as well as fen, indeed one of the sheriffdoms entirely subject to the Norman forest laws. Matilda had always preferred this manor to that of Earl's Thorpe, but her husband had favoured the latter.

That evening, reaching the place in the windy dark, it might have been anywhere to David. But blazing log fires and warm rooms held their own welcome, and discreet servants were attentive without being intrusive. The couple had eaten more than sufficient at the castle banquet, and although an excellent repast awaited them here, they contented themselves with sipping mulled wine before the hall fire.

They eyed each other questioningly, almost warily, as a silence grew, save for the crackle of the fire and the whine of the wind outside. Matilda suddenly reached out a hand to him.

"David — we said that we would always be honest with each other, did we not? Let us be honest now. We have both longed for this day, this night, for years. Longed for each other, our bodies as well as our hearts and souls. Are we children, to dissemble now?"

"God bless you!" he exclaimed, and throwing an arm about her, moved for the stairway.

In the large bedchamber above, in the warmly genial light of another aromatic birch-log fire, they held each other close. Then urgently David began to undress her, less than expertly perhaps, so that, laughing, she had to assist him. He was no untutored innocent as far as women were concerned, but his engagements hitherto had been apt to be of the earthy sort, with uncomplicated country girls and co-operative females of only intermittent virtue, not with high-born ladies, richly clad, who might well have different priorities and preferences as well as much more difficult garb. So Matilda's frank co-operation now was a comfort and a relief- and he swiftly recognised that there was no lack of basic enthusiasm here either, no coy pretences. Indeed, naked presently, when she drew away a little from eager hands, it was not in any shrinking fashion but to stand there before him, turning a little this way and that in the firelight, most clearly offering display of herself — yet peering at his face, it seemed almost anxiously.

She was in fact, superb, her person as proudly rich and fulfilling as her facial features were beautiful, mature yes but firm, generously rounded, essentially, challengingly woman, lissom still, long-legged, deep-breasted, dark of aureola and groin, gleaming white elsewhere, belly swelling to match her hips.

He swallowed, all but groaned, and shook his head.

"Say it!" she got out "Tell me - tell me, I say! Am I. . . still desirable? I am no longer young. With three children borne. No man has seen me thus, for many years. Indeed never, just so. For, for . . ." She faltered. "I have sought to keep myself as, as once I was. For this day. But . . ." Her voice tailed away.

"My dear, my dear," he cried. "You do not know what you say! You are lovely, utterly desirable, an incomparable delight beyond all telling. You, you wring the heart of me with your beauty. And more than the heart, by God . . .!"

"In truth, David? You do not kindly cozen? This
firelight
is kindly . . ."

"Lord, woman - look at me! Do I seem to cozen? Does my body not speak full truth, even if my tongue were to lie! A plague - aid me off with these wretched clothes . . ."

Nothing loth she came to help him - yet by her nearness delayed the business by distracting his hands to her delectable self. So they wrestled and laughed and panted, until at length he was rid of his clinging, restraining garments — and the proof of his assertions was amply evident to still any last doubts she might have entertained.

Picking her up bodily, he ran with her to the great canopied bed, time for talk undoubtedly over.

There were over twelve hours until day would dawn.

Part Two

13

After two weeks
of unalloyed bliss, days spent in splendid idleness, or hawking or visiting parts and personages in the great Honour of Huntingdon, with long nights of delight, the Earl and Countess set out for the North. David, although now to be styled Earl of Huntingdon, was still governor of Cumbria, and in a more vague and unofficial way ruler of Strathclyde also. So he had no lack of responsibilities, and was a little anxious as to what might have transpired in his absence -although winter was the time when incidents were least likely, with all campaigning and sea-raiding difficult. Matilda had made it clear that she expected to accompany him, although he assured her that travelling conditions would be less trying later; but she insisted that she had married him to be with him, not to be some stay-at-home guardian of his new southern possessions. She would not have sent her children to Normandy otherwise. Besides, she had been constrained and trammelled hereabouts for too long as it was. She was commencing a new life and was eager to make a start.