David the Prince - Scotland 03 (49 page)

That long night, in a strange state between waking and sleeping, David asked himself again and again whether it was all a judgment on him for failing properly to keep the Feast of the Holy Cross? If so, was it not strange that it had been the Holy Cross itself which had saved him? Was it a sign? It was a miracle, certainly. Could it have been his blessed mother who had stepped in, to save him, with her Black Rood? Saved him for greater efforts in God's cause?

Whatever it was, one thing he vowed - that he would build and endow a great abbey there, where he had fallen and risen, in gratitude, an abbey beneath King Arthur's Chair, dedicated to the Holy Rood . . .

Tomorrow he w
ould give the necessary orders.

24

T
he three-hundred-and-fifty-mile
journey back to Scotland had never seemed so long, so irritating, so frustrating - but then, David was in an irritated and frustrated state of mind that early summer of 1130. He was irritated that he shou
ld have to be back in England a
t all, so soon after the support-swearing business; and at the methods Henry Beauclerc had used to get him there. And frustrated that Matilda, who should have accompanied him, had fallen unwell just when they were about to set out from Rook's Burgh, and had persuaded him to go on without her. The whole thing had been a farce, merely a device on Henry's part to emphasise his superior position and claims. He, Henry, had had one of David's Huntingdon vassals arrested on a charge of treason, in that he had failed to send his due number of knights and armed men to the latest Normandy adventure - as had many another English lord and baron - and then insisted that the offender in this instance must be tried by his own earl, David, but in his, Henry's presence, the most transparent means of forcing the Scots king to come hastening south by a given date. Yet to have refused to go would once again have made Matilda's inheritance liable to forfeiture — and never were its vast revenues more urgently needed for the great and ambitious programme of governmental and church reform David had initiated, as well as for work on the new abbeys and border castles. The trial had in fact been little more than a formality, and the penalty the same substantial fine that Henry was imposing on others of his barons guilty of the same offence. There was no good reason why David should have had to preside over this charade, when Sheriff Gilbert could have done the thing equally well as his deputy. But Henry's fondness for showing his power grew with age. David told himself that this Huntingdon weakness must somehow be remedied.

The only redeeming feature of the entire episode was the word received while he was at Woodstock that Bishop Flambard of Durham had taken a heart attack and died — so Scotland had one less inveterate enemy.

But then had also come the other news - revolt in Scotland. So now he was bursting the hearts of a succession of horses, to cover those three hundred and fifty miles in the minimum possible time, a worried man indeed.

Details of the revolt had necessarily been in outline only. It was his nephew Angus MacEth, Earl of Moray, Lulach's daughter's son, he of whom Alexander had warned. He had risen in arms, and with a great force of Moraymen, estimated at ten thousand at least, was marching south by the east coast route; whilst his brother Malcolm, evidently finding his loyalty to his uncle less binding than to his brother, had gathered a smaller force from his patrimony of the Stormounth, and was marching to join Angus. Edward the Constable - son of old Sir Eustace now dead, and cousin of Hugo — with Hervey the Knight Marishcal, were mustering all loyal forces. But the King's presence was desperately required.

David, with Hugo and only four others, had left most of his train behind in this headlong dash for home, in the interests of speed, in no state to wait for laggards. He aimed to reach the border in four days, if it was humanly and equinely possible.

It proved to be not quite possible; but they crossed Tweed at Berwick bridge before noon on the fifth day, exhausted men on dying horses. At Berwick there was fresh news. The Constable had marched north to meet the rebels with about eight thousand men, as many as he could raise at short notice, less than Angus's numbers but including much Norman armoured cavalry - which the northerners totally lacked. When last heard of the Moray host had crossed Dee and were advancing into the Mearns by the Cairn o' Mounth pass. There was no further word of Malcolm MacEth, but it was now reported that another Malcolm, Alexander's bastard son, the Earl of Ross, had joined Angus with a contingent. All his lieutenants urged King David's appearance at the earliest possible moment.

David was only twenty-five miles from Rook's Burgh, and Matilda with his family. He had intended to call there, if only briefly, concerned for his wife's health. But the urgency of the news and appeals persuaded him. He sent Hugo westwards along the Tweed's valley with news of his return to Scotland, the situation and his loving greetings, and himself pressed on, up through the Merse by Dunbar for North Berwick, where the Earl of Fife's ferry would take him across the Scottish Sea to Fife, sparing him the enormous detour round the Scotwater and the Forth estuary, by Stirling.

He was halfway across Fife thereafter, heading for the Tay estuary and another ferry opposite Dundee, with only two companions now, Walter de Lindsay and Simon de Frizell, when they encountered more couriers. These were not in fact looking for the King but for the Countess of Fife at Kennoway, for whom they had heavy ti
dings. Her husband Earl Constan
tine, was dead. He amongst many. There had been a great battle, at Stracathro in the Mearns. The rebels were defeated, with great slaughter - but at grim cost to the royal forces. The Earl Cospatrick of Dunbar was also slain, with many Norman knights.

David, almost dropping with fatigue, demanded details, with lips which would scarcely form words.

The battle had been the day before, it seemed, near the ford of Inchbare, and had continued almost all day, so hardly fought was it. Undoubtedly it was the Norman cavalry which the Constable had to thank for final victory. When the rebels had eventually fled the field, they had left over four thousand dead behind, including their leader, Angus, Earl of Moray. His brother Malcolm MacEth, and Malcolm Earl of Ross, had escaped apparently. On the loyalist side the deaths were greatly less, perhaps one thousand — but included many illustrious besides the Earls of Fife and Dunbar.

Leaving the couriers to carry their sad story to the widowed Countess, David proceeded on his way northwards, although in less haste now, heavy at heart at the loss of so many of his subjects, even those in rebellion, and including his own brother's son. Particularly, of course, his good friend Cospatrick, a sore blow. The relief of victory was too dearly bought. He ought at least to have been there when his friends were dying for him, in hazard himself
...

Two days later David held a council at Brechin, only a few miles from the battlefield, to thank all concerned in the victory and to deal with the results. At this, he learned for the first time that Fergus of Galloway had been involved, and fighting on the wrong side - a shock indeed. He was amongst those who had made good their escape. There were loud demands for his apprehension and punishment, even his execution as a traitor, along with the other surviving leaders of the revolt, including Malcolm MacEth and the Earl of Ross. But David countered this attitude. He pointed out that he had a kingdom to rule and the realm's wounds to heal, not to exacerbate. Mercy and forgiveness, as well as being incumbent upon a Christian monarch, were likely to achieve more for all concerned than revenge and harshness. He would certainly forfeit the earldom and mortuath of Moray, meantime, from Ethelred's descendants - although as one of the ancient lesser kingdoms of Scotland, he could not suppress it altogether. But Angus had been very much the ambitious one, the trouble-maker, and his defeat was so shattering that there would be little danger of another Moray rising for long. Young Malcolm MacEth had been a good subject until this lapse. Let him be warned, but go free - so long as he kept away from Moray. As for the Earl of Ross, he was a weakling and something of a fool. Let him roost in his far northern fastnesses; anyway, they had no means of extracting him therefrom. He too was unlikely to risk troubling them again. And Fergus of Galloway was Henry of England's son-in-law, and had just had his illegitimate daughter married to King Olaf Morsel of Man. He was a grave disappointment and something of a danger, no doubt - but he might well be more of a danger if drastically punished. He must be dealt with, shown the error of his ways; but not so direly as to upset his royal in-laws.

Not all present fully appreciated this attitude.

They were discussing the reported death of King Sigurd Half Deacon of Norway, and how this might affect the West Highland coastal regions, with the Hebrides presently under Norse rule - for Sigurd had proved a reasonably good neighbour, so much better than the late and unlamented Eystein, and his son Magnus was an unknown quantity - when there was an interruption. Hugo de Morville came hurrying into the hall or the rath where the council was being held, weary and travel-worn. He made straight for David's chair.

"Sire," he said tensely, "the Queen! She is sorely ill. Her strength failing. She asks for you. If it is possible for you to come

The King was on his feet before that was finished, his chair knocked over with a clatter. "God's mercy!" he exclaimed. "Matilda!" He grasped Hugo's arm fiercely. "How ill, man? What is wrong with her? She was sick, yes - but it was only some woman's ailment, she said."

"It
is a wasti
ng sickness, Sire. And a grievous pain . . ."

He had to all but run after his friend, who was striding for the door calling for horses as he went, the entire council on its feet, staring.

As they pounded southwards thereafter, lashing their mounts into even greater efforts than on the northern journey. David cursed himself, cursed Henry Beauclerc, cursed Angus MacEth, cursed cruel fate and his own decisions, which had kept him from Matilda's side in her sore need. He prayed as well as cursing - but somehow it was the cursing which tended to prevail; for despite his friends' assertions, almost accusations, he was but a sorry saint, and a poor son of his sainted mother, more of his father in him than he liked to contemplate. Even using the ferries again, they had about one hundred and twenty miles to ride to Rook's Burgh, so there was no lack of either form of mental activity for comparison.

That night, at Kincraig Point on the Fife shore, impatiently awaiting the arrival of the ferry-boat crew, David did not so much as close his eyes, although his friends managed to snatch an hour or so of sleep. Hugo, needless to say, had been all but asleep in his saddle, for long.

They reached the March Mount in late afternoon. Stiff as he was, David flung himself up the stairs to their bedchamber, glaring at the long faces of the servants, even brushing aside young Henry and Erna who tried to cling to him. But in the room itself he was pulled up sharp, his panted breath catching in his throat.

He scarcely recognised his wife, so pale and gaunt and shrunken was she, only her fine eyes the same, if not larger, and dark-rimmed. He had been gone only three weeks, but she had changed almost unbelievably from a slender but well-built, shapely woman to a mere frail shadow of herself, wan, brittle-seeming. But her great eyes were at least open for him, even lightened at sight of him.

"David! Thank God, thank God!" she whispered, and managed to raise a thin white hand, although it dropped back on the bedclothes in the same motion.

"My heart, my love, my most dear!" he exclaimed, and came to the bedside, to sink on his knees and gather her into his arms. Their children stood at the door, in wide-eyed distress and uncertainty.

He could scarcely keep himself from crying out at the scanty, fragile feel of her, so frighteningly different from what he knew so well and loved so dearly. He tried to speak, but his voice broke.

"Dear David
...
I knew . . . that you would come
...
in time! I waited . . . waited . . ." "No!" he choked. "No!"

"Yes. I could not go. . . without you
...
to hold me, David. I was. . . afraid. But. . . not now. Not
...
in your arms." Clearly she had great difficulty in speaking.

"Hush, lass — hush!" he said, stroking her hair, kissing her damp brow. "Do not talk now. Later. Just let me hold you. . ."

"I must. There is
...
so little time. . . left. Here. Time in. . . plenty. . . where I go! I waited
...
for you here. I shall. . . wait for you again
..
. there."

"Oh, my dear heart . . . !"

"So much to say. Yet . . . cannot. You . . . understand, David?"

"Surely, surely, lass. Do not fret. Are you in pain?"

"Not much, now. That
...
is past. If it comes again
...
I can bear it . . . with you holding me. I needed you . . . you see."

"And I failed you, God forgive me! I did not come."

"No. You are . . . the King. You had to
...
do your duty. And you came
...
in time. David - hear me. Huntingdon. It is become
...
a millstone. It served us well. We did much with it. But now
...
it costs you dear. Let it go, David."

"But
...
it is our children's heritage."

"Then give it to. . . Simon. It has become a trap. For you. . . for Scotland. Do not hold it . . . for my sake."

He shook his head.

She was silent for a long time thereafter, her eyes closed, her breathing quick, shallow. He thought that perhaps she slept. Then she was gripping his arm again, if feebly.

"David - you are still there? God
...
be praised! I thought
...
I thought. . . It will be. . . soon now. Soon. David. . . never

change. Be true. To yourself. Ever. Kings so often . . . change.

Henry. Do not let power . . . change you. Dear David."

"No. No. But hush, lass. Care n
othing for that now. Rest you”

"Time enough
...
to rest . . . hereafter. The children . . ." She stopped suddenly, stiffened in his arms, her breathing catching in a choking groan of pain. It did not seem to resume. Frantically he clutched her, afraid that she was gone, until he realised that her heart still beat, and he all but wept in relief.

But if not gone. Matilda seemed far away now and there was no more of the difficult talking. Presently he gently disengaged, smoothed her damp hair and arranged the bedclothes. He moved quietly over to the young people. He talked to them, low-voiced, incoherently sought to comfort them, he who had no comfort in him. But he did not leave that room. He would not leave it again while still she had need of him.

When darkness fell, he sent their children to their beds, and went to lie beside his wife in the lamplight, arms around her. He did not mean to sleep, but he was desperately tired. Matilda had not spoken again, eyes closed.

He must have dropped off almost immediately.