A few days at Forteviot by the Earn and they were ready for the journey south. David debated with Ethelred whether he should call again upon Edgar on the way — and was guiltily relieved when his elder brother said that he could see no point in it, at present. Edgar would not thank him, desiring only to be left alone; and there was nothing that he could do to help him, anyway. That David should feel the same way himself did not greatly assuage his conscience.
They started on the long road to Winchester, down the centre of Lowland Scotland, to cross the stripling Forth at Stirling, not going within a score of miles of Edinburgh, making for Clyde and Annan and Esk.
5
Another wedding and
a very different one, exactly a year later, with much pomp and ceremony. Henry almost seemed as though he must make up for his daughter's illegitimate birth by giving her a wedding as splendid as his own six years earlier. Again Anselm the Archbishop officiated, in Winchester Minster, and all the greatest of the land were invited. It was largely a show, to be sure, to demonstrate Henry's policy towards Scotland, his belief that there were better ways of influencing events than by drawing sword. He professed to be disappointed that the King of Scots had not come south with his brother, as invited; but probably was just as well pleased, for by all accounts Edgar would have been apt to put a damper on the proceedings, even though in somewhat better state, apparently, than he had been.
Alexander himself, strangely enough, seemed to take it all a deal less seriously than did Henry, making little or no attempt to create an impression, bringing no large train with him, wearing no splendid clothing, treating the entire affair it seemed rather cynically as something of a necessary evil which fell to be got through as expeditiously and with as little fuss as possible. Amongst all the richly-dressed Normans, the bridegroom looked like something of a poor relation. Even David was better turned-out than his brother. This could be only deliberate, for Alexander's earldom of Gowrie was far from poverty-stricken.
He even cut fine his appearance on the scene, arriving only the day before that fixed for the ceremony, to Henry's considerable offence. Alexander's first meeting with his bride, that evening, was on a par with the rest, low-key to a degree. Sybilla, resembling her sire, stocky, short-legged and plain of feature, was dressed most handsomely to display her prominent bosom, undoubtedly the aspect of which she was proudest, her rather sallow cheeks and wide mouth reddened, her small eyes sharp, lively. On her father's arm, she stared, to take in her husband-to-be's lithe manly figure, long, reddish-fair hair, keen glance and slightly twisted
half-smile, and sank down in a
full curtsy before him, leaning forward so that he gained the benefit of her breasts, head demurely dipped but eyes upwards, bold, searching.
"Lady!" he said, and that was all, stepping forward to raise her up and to kiss her stubby-fingered, capable hand.
"My lord Alexander," she acknowledged, her French voice husky for one so young. She dropped her father's arm and turned to take the younger man's. They moved off together, as though they had known each other all their lives, David and the Queen as surprised as was Henry.
The King fingered his clean-shaven chin thoughtfully, before leading the way, with his wife, into the hall for the banquet. "Those two, I think, would bed together this night
before
the wedding!" he observed. None thought to controvert that nor to comment that neither would be apt to prove inexperienced in the business.
Next day, at noon, David, who was to act groomsman, waited with Alexander at the chancel-steps of the great minster of St. Swithin, quite close to where he had stood those seven years before at Rufus's Crown-wearing, The two brothers were isolated, today, although the cathedral was packed, target for all eyes. Not that Alexander showed any awareness of it, any nervousness or concern, as he stared about him at the architecture, the painted glass, the plenishings and decorations, dressed more or less as he had been the night before. David was considerably the more affected.
A flourish of trumpets heralded the Queen's entry, from the chapter-house doorway, with her ladies-in-waiting, the Dean coming to lead her over to one of the throne
-
like chairs on the right of the chancel, nearer the high altar. Maud gave her brothers a warm smile in the by-going. The sweet chanting of a large choir ushered in the celebrants' procession, Giffard, Bishop of Winchester, leading the way, gorgeously vested. After the minster's clergy Anselm himself brought up the rear, looking frail and old. He was only recently returned to Canterbury after a second exile of nearly three years, for he had withstood Henry over the question of the investiture of bishops, and returned to Normandy. His officiating today was the measure of his fondness for Queen Maud. He took up his place, with the others, before the altar.
A louder and longer fanfare turned all eyes, as the King entered, his daughter on his arm. Sybilla's person was more covered-up today; but she made up for this in the vivid colours of her apparel and the glitter of her jewellery. None would say that the Conqueror's grand-daughter would not hold all eyes at her wedding.
One pair of eyes, however, Sybilla did not hold - David mac Malcolm's. His gaze switched to and was held fast by the young woman who walked alone behind the pages who upheld the bride's train. This was quite the loveliest woman he had ever set eyes upon, a tall and willowy creature, dark-eyed, raven-haired, with fine sculptured features, carrying herself with an unselfconscious pride and grace, to make the stocky, strutting Sybilla seem like a cart-horse compared with a pure-bred Barb. She was no precocious child, this one, but a woman in her earliest twenties, splendidly built, serene of manner. David almost forget to bow as the King nodded graciously to the two brothers waiting there, and turned to lead his daughter up the steps towards the altar. Alexander and he fell in immediately behind this vision of loveliness as they moved forward in turn.
Here, then, must be the other Matilda, Countess of Northampton and Huntingdon, wife of the lame Simon de St. Liz, Earl of Northampton, child and heiress of the late Earl of Waltheof and the Countess Judith, the Conqueror's niece, also dead, chosen today to attend on Sybilla as the only semi-royal female of the Normandy line available in England. Hers was a strange story. Her father Waltheof, or Waldeve, half-Dane, half-Saxon, son of Siward the Strong, usurping Earl of North-umbria, was like many a son of mighty men, something of a weakling. The Conqueror had married Judith, the hard and shameless daughter of his brother Lambert, Count of Lens, to Waltheof, taken Northumbria from him to put in stronger hands, and given the Mercian earldoms of Northampton and Huntingdon instead, where weakness was less of a danger to the realm. But Waltheof had plotted against William, been betrayed by his wife, and executed, saying the Lord's Prayer. This dark beauty was the offspring. The Conqueror had desired his widowed niece to marry his old campaigning friend Simon de St. Liz, then; but she had scornfully refused, because he was crippled by an old wound. So in fury William had taken the child Matilda as ward and married her to St. Liz instead, barely into her teens, he old enough to have been her grandfather; and taken the earldom of Northampton from Judith also, for St. Liz, leaving her only Huntingdon. When Judith died, Matilda heired that great heritage. Now she attended Henry's pert bastard, one of the most nobly-born heiresses in England.
It is to be feared that David paid little attention to the wedding service which followed, thinking of all this, especially when Alexander left his side to move forward to his bride, Henry moved away to his throne and he
found himself standing beside the Countess for the remainder of the ceremony. Her slight smile to him as they took up their positions behind the principals, threw him into a strange turmoil of emotion.
Alexander and Sybilla duly pronounced man and wife, the bridal party moved down through the packed nave, behind the chanting choristers, to the great west doorway of the minster, David and the Countess still side-by-side. Out in the sunlight before the cheering crowds, a horse-litter was brought forward to convey the bride to the palace, Alexander walking alongside, still behind the pacing choir. No provision appeared to have been made for the Countess, although another litter was waiting for the Queen.
"I think that we must needs walk," she commented to him, but pleasantly, unconcerned, "The singing is a joy, is it not? You will be David of Scotland?"
"Yes. I
...
I will go find you a litter, lady . . ."
"No need, my lord. I am very well afoot. It is not far. Come." She had a musical voice which had the effect of making him lose his own.
She hitched up her skirts and took his arm companionably.
"Your husband?" he got out. "My lord of Northampton -will he not be seeking you?"
"I think it unlikely, my lord. Any urgent seeking will be for wine, I should suspect!"
"Oh. I. .
.,
ah. . . am sorry. And - do not call me lord. For I am none. I have no single acre of land to my name, lady."
"Then lady me not either, David. I am Matilda- as was your royal sister. I am thankful for this, at least, that Simon has not changed me to Maud!"
"Yes," he said.
They walked on together through the crowded streets behind the bridal pair and singers, with their armed escort. Winchester had never seemed so fair to David.
It was not far up the hill to the palace and, arm-in-arm, their walk was over all too soon, for the man at least. He could have walked on by the hour with this companion. He saw Henry, still on horseback, who had ridden back by a different route, eyeing them with something like amusement as they entered the palace courtyard - and flushed at his knowing grin. But the Countess did not flush, nor indeed drop his arm, even gave it something of a squeeze as they passed the King.
"Sire," she called, "walking, they tell me, is good for the shape. I would commend it to you, cousin!" And her glance sank to his round belly.
"Ha!" he said. "Walking, heh? So long as one watches where one treads. Eh, David?"
That young man's tongue was failing him today, like his wits perhaps. He shook his head as they passed on.
He conducted the lady right to her chamber-door, so reluctant was he to part from her. There she thanked him for his escort, with easy friendliness, saying that it had done her good, not so much the walking as being squired so ably and kindly.
He went off to his room thereafter, in another quarter of the palace, in an odd mixture of delight and despair. He was not totally inexperienced with women - that was scarcely possible for one reared in the ambience of the Norman Court - and had had calf-love moonings, as well as sampling the charms of sundry, kind ladies. But never had he been attracted like this to any woman, never felt that here was the object and focus of his life and needs, the sum-total of all joy. The guilt behind that recognition was almost as strong an emotion, shame for himself and, even more sinful, a sort of hatred for Simon de St. Liz. That this abrupt awakening of admiration and need, of caring and, yes, desire, should be for another man's wife, was almost as shattering as the revelation itself.
Yet, when presently he repaired to the hall for the wedding-feast, uncertain where to seat himself, it was with a great surge of unalloyed satisfaction that he heard the Deputy Chief Butler inform him that, on the King's express commands, he was to sit at the dais-table next to the Earl and Countess of Northampton. He was surprised, but knew a warm access of affection for Henry, whatever his reasons. The dais was still unoccupied, so he stood back awaiting the usual trumpeting to usher in the royal couple, this time with the bridal pair and the principal guests. He had eyes only for the Countess Matilda, as they came in - but he knew a pang as he perceived that she was now holding her husband's arm, and unnecessarily tightly he considered, until he perceived also that the Earl Simon was already blear-eyed, and staggering with more than his twisted leg, and that the young woman was in fact all but holding him up. His emotion changed immediately to hot resentment that she should be put in so humiliating a position. Not, of course, he assured himself, that she could ever be humiliated by anything, so serene was she. David's perceptions and emotions were unusually highly developed that day.
When, the others seated, and with a faint smile from Henry, he went to sit down at the vacant seat at the Countess's left, her husband at her right, she greeted him with an approving nod.
"This is clever of you, Prince David," she said.
"Not I, Countess - but the King. He contrived it." He leaned over to incline his head at the Earl, who was already fumbling with the wine-flagon before him and saw him not.
"Henry did this?" she asked. "That is . . . interesting. He sees more, perhaps, than we think."
"I am much in his debt, at any rate."
"Why then, so am I," she agreed. "But I would like to see inside our thoughtful monarch's round head? Oh - I am sorry, David.
My
monarch, not yours."