"I think I feel that he is my king also - much more than my brother Edgar."
"Yes. Perhaps that is his intention."
"Eh . . . ?" He looked at her questioningly. "Why that? He is my sister's husband."
"To be sure." She did not answer him directly. "Do you never long for your
own land, David? I think that I
would."
"Yes. I often do. Sorely. But there seems to be no place for me there. I have four brothers remaining, older than myself. Edgar is. . . strange. He does not mislike me - but he does not wish me back in Scotland."
"No? And this other? Alexander, the bridegroom. How is it with him? He is your brother's heir, is he not? Although why, I have never understood, with two others older?"
"They are both churchmen, and so debarred. Although Ethelred, the oldest, is scarcely in truth a clerk by our, by your notions. He belongs to the Old Columban Church, which is very different from ours of Rome. He is married, with sons, and is Earl of Moray as well as an abbot. It
might
be possible for him to be king - I do not know. Not that he desires it, I think. But
..."
David glanced along the table towards Alexander, who sat with his new wife between Henry and Maud.
"But not if Prince Alexander has aught to do with it?" she finished for him. "A man of determination that, I would say?"
"Yes. I think — I do not know, but I have the notion that that is why Edgar does not wish me to return. I think he fears that I might side with Alex. Alex holds that Edgar does not govern Scotland well. Neglects the North. Has given away the Hebrides and the Highland West to Norway. He, Edgar, fears, I think, that Alex might unseat him from his throne
..."
He paused, to ask himself why he was talking thus to this woman, saying things which he had never actually voiced before, even to his two close friends - whom he could see sitting half-way down the hall.
"I see. And
would
you support Alexander?"
"Not against Edgar, no. I would if he was king, lawfully. But
- I
fear that he also would neglect part of the kingdom, the other part, the South. He has no interest in Lothian and Strathclyde, concerned only with the
old
Scotland, Alba, north of the Scottish Sea. The kingdom is divided, you see into old and new. Edgar prefers the new, Alex the old. Scotland requires heedful ruling, to cherish and advance them both."
It was the young woman's turn to eye him searchingly. "Cherish and advance! I like that," she said. "Do you wish that you had been born earlier? Older than these two. So that you could set your own hand to it, to cherish and advance?"
"I? No, no, I have no such thoughts. But
...
I would like to help. To play some small part. Instead of only playing the courtier here . . ."
"I understand that, very well." The Countess gently, unobtrusively, pushed her husband away a little, who had slumped against her shoulder, eyes closed. "I know what it is to see a heritage wasted and divided. Simon, here, has little interest in . . . cherishing! Lands or other. He is a soldier, now past soldiering - no happy state. He takes little concern for Northampton, his own earldom. But Huntingdon which is mine he ignores utterly - save for its revenues! I do what I can, but a woman, and a mother of three, cannot govern a great earldom of over nine-score manors." She spoke almost as though her husband was not present.
"You have children?
Three
children . . . ?" He sounded incredulous.
"Why, yes. I was married little more than a child. You sound surprised?"
"I . . . you do not seem . . ." He shook his head. "It is all wrong," he said, helplessly.
"Not all
wrong, friend. I love my children. I have much to be thankful for. We none of us have all as we would wish it."
"No."
"You, now? If you do not go back to Scotland, what do you intend? To remain with Henry and your sister? Always?"
"Lord, no! There must be something that I can do, some place for me to fill. Perhaps, like my older brothers, I should have become a churchman!"
She smiled. "I think that is not for you, David."
"No. No - I am much interested in religion and Holy Church. Or . . . think that I am. But, but not turn monk or priest. Like Henry, I love books and learning, but I am not of the stuff of priests."
"That would be a waste, assuredly."
"You think so?" That was almost eager. "Why?"
"As a woman I am prejudiced, perhaps. I cannot see that our good God made excellent young men to shut themselves up in monasteries and church-cells. Or young women either. Is that shameful of me? Heretical? Immodest? To speak so to you. If so, excuse it in that we are kin of a sort - or so I think."
"No, no-n
ot that. Do not say it. I mean – I
bel
ieve
as
do y
ou. But - are we indeed kin?"
"Far distant. My father's father, Siward the Stout, Earl of Northumbria and of Huntingdon, had a cousin, Sybil, who married your King Duncan the First. Your own grandfather."
"M'mm. I fear not! Duncan was indeed my grandfather. But his wife,
your
grandfather's cousin, was not the mother of my father. King Malcolm was born out-of-wedlock, his mother but a tanner's daughter. I cannot claim to be your kin, then . . ."
Further conversation was restricted by a succession of toasts and speeches relative to the happy occasion. That her husband was not able to honour any of them did not appear to embarrass the Countess as much as it did David - although the Earl was not the only one so affected by the King's wine and mead. Alexander made brief but surprisingly witty reply to Henry's good wishes. Thereafter the entertainers took over.
When, suitably early, the King gave general permission for all who wished to leave the hall before himself to do so - with the required knowing glance at the happy couple — the Countess Matilda quite soon took the opportunity to sign to waiting servitors to convey her snoring lord to his chamber. Curtsying to the King and Queen, she indicated her own retirement. David was immediately on his feet to escort her - and, Henry's nod forthcoming, he led her out by the dais-door in the wake of her spouse.
"You should not leave because of me," she told him. "The night is still young."
"It is my pleasure," he assured. "This day you have given me much pleasure. I would not forego one moment of it."
"You are kind, David. I shall treasure today also."
They walked in silence for a while, across the courtyards where oxen roasted over glowing fires, for the palace-guard and the guests' servants and men-at-arms, then along the vaulted corridors of the wings beyond. At the door of the Northampton' chamber, they met the servitors coming out, who had carried the Earl Simon to his couch.
David grimaced, in the light of the flaring torches. "I mislike this," he exclaimed. "To leave you so. For you to have to, to go in there. It is a sin, a shame!"
"It is not so ill," she told him, quietly. "Simon will not trouble me. Not tonight. Anyway, he is long past that. He will sleep. He is not an evil man. Only disappointed - disappointed in his life. He takes ill out of being crippled — as must any man."
"And you suffer!"
"Not beyond the bearing. If I do, perhaps I deserve to. I am not blameless. Do not fret for me, David. I shall do well enough. And tomorrow I return to my children.
"Tomorrow? So soon? Where? That, that I may think of you there."
"To Thorpe. Earl's Thorpe, north of Northampton. A fair enough place. If ever you are near there, come to see me. You will be welcome, very welcome."
"It would be . . . unnecessary torture!"
She eyed him directly in the flickering light. "Perhaps you are right. For both of us. We are not of the easy sort, you and I, are we? I will close this door tonight . . . hardly!"
He could not speak.
"But close it I must, David.
Now - go you back to the hall “
"No- not there. I shall not go back. It would be but an empty folly, lacking you."
"Ah, but I think that
you
should
go. Wiser- for my sake. That tongues should not wag - as tongues can."
"Oh. Yes - I had not thought of that. Very well, I shall go. For a little."
"Then . . . goodnight, David of Scotland. And, and a weak woman's thanks."
"Weak - you! It is I who am weak."
"I think that you a
re stronger than you know. And I
am weaker than you think!" She opened the door, the snoring suddenly louder, hesitated, turned back, leaned over swiftly to brush his cheek with her lips, then slipped within and quietly closed the door behind her.
He stood for moments there, staring at the solid oak planking, fists clenched, before sighing and turning slowly away.
David knew, from that moment, that so far as women were concerned, his fate was sealed, whatever substitutes might fall to be contrived.
6
The news was
delayed more than normally. For one thing it was mid-winter and no time for making four hundred mile journeys. For another Henry and his Court were wintering at Westminster, in London on the Thames, something of an innovation, and the young Earl Cospatrick of Dunbar, acting as courier and envoy, when wearily he eventually reached Winchester, had to turn and ride eighty miles eastwards. And even that was not the end, for when he arrived at Westminster, in early February the year after the wedding, it was to discover that Henry and his close associates were, in fact, presently at his private demesne of Woodstock, near Oxford, almost seventy miles further up Thames, where the King was in process of building up a menagerie of animals, the study of which interested him greatly. So the travel-worn Earl had to journey on westwards again, with his tidings.
Even at Woodstock he was balked of his quarry, for it transpired that Henry had taken his queen to see how work was progressing on the new abbey he was building at Reading, on her instigation. However, the royal party was expected back with the dusk, and Cospatrick was more than content to await them.
When, refreshed and rested somewhat, he was at last ushered into the King's presence, it was in the intimacy of a comparatively small family chamber, bright with colourful needlework hangings and tapestries, some by the Queen's own hand, and a blazing log-fire, before which David mac Malcolm played on the deerskin rugs with his nephews and niece—for, as well, as Maud's pair, they were having a visit from her sister Mary and her husband, Eustace, Count of Boulogne, with her three-year-old son. The four proud parents sat, sipping mulled wine and relaxing after their long ride in the chill wind. It made a pleasing domestic scene.
Cospatrick was accepted informally, almost as one of the family, for he was a cousin of the Scots present and also distantly connected to the Norman royal house. But, easy-going and personable young man as he was, he appeared ill at ease this evening. Perceiving it, Henry asked if he wished speech with him alone?
"What I have to say concerns more than yourself, Sire," he answered. "But
...
it is scarcely for saying in front of bairns."
"Ah." At that rather ominous note, the King said that they would have the children taken out meantime; and Mary, a gentle and modest creature, declared that she would take them.
Cospatrick shook his head. "You should also hear this, cousin," he said.
The Count Eustace, who was fat
and lazy but amiable, said that he
could scarcely be involved, and led the children away, to their much protesting.
"It is Edgar, I think?"David asked. "You bear tidings of Edgar?"
"Yes. I am sorry. The King died on the third day of Epiphany. At Dundee, in Angus. Died of a sickness. He had been a sick man, as you know, for long. Although seeming something bettered. I am sorry."
They were silent, the brother, two sisters and brother-in-law of the dead monarch. What was there to say? They were not unprepared for the news, any of them, even though they had been more hopeful these last months, with the word that Edgar was behaving more normally. But he had long been, as it were, largely resigned from the business of living and reigning. The end could not really shock.
"He had not gone north of the Scotwater for long," Cospatrick went on. "It is strange that he should have died, when he did go. He has been buried at Holy Trinity Minster, at Dunfermline, beside his mother and Edward."