David the Prince - Scotland 03

David the Prince

Nigel Tranter

CORONET BOOKS Hodder and Stoughton
Copyright© 1980 by Nigel Tranter
All rights reserved.
First published in Great Britain 1980 by Hodder and Stoughton Limited
Coronet edition 1982
ISBN: 978-1444757705

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening

Printed and bound in Great Britain for Hodder and Stoughton Paperbacks, a division of Hodder and Stoughton Ltd., Mill Road, Dunton Green, Sevenoaks, Kent (Editorial Office: 47 Bedford Square, London, WC1 3QP) by Cox & Wyman Ltd., Reading

David, Prince of Cumbria, who ruled as King David I of Scotland from 1124-1153. Son of Malcolm III (House of Canmore) and Margaret Atheling (“The Saint”)

Madach dropped to his knees before him - they all did. '
My lord David - greetings!' he said. The lord Alexander died at Stirling three days back. In the presence of myself and others, after long ailing. God rest his soul. He named you heir. You are by God's grace, undoubted King of Scots. I claim proudly to be first to render fealty to my liege lord.' And he held out his two hands, to enclose David's in age-old gesture of homage.

PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS

In Order of Appearance

David mac Malcolm
: Sixth son of Malcolm the Third and Queen Margaret the Saint.

Hugo de Morville
: Younger son of a Norman baron and a Saxon mother.

Hervey de Warenne
: Youngest son of Norman Earl of Surrey and of Gundred, an illegitimate daughter of William the Conqueror.

Edgar, King of Scots
: Fourth son of Malcolm Canmore and Margaret.

Cospatrick, Earl of Dunbar
: The second so-called Great Scots noble.

Ranulf Flambard
: Lord Chief Justice of England, a cleric.

William the Second (Rufus
): King of England. Second surviving son of William the Conqueror.

Prince Henry Beauclerc
: Third son of the Conqueror. Later Henry the First.

Princess Matilda
 (or 
Maud
): Eldest daughter of Malcolm and Margaret, and sister of David. Later Good Queen Maud.

Princess Mary
: Younger daughter of Malcolm and Margaret.

Simon de St. Liz, Earl of Northampton
: Great Norman noble.

Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury.

Robert, Duke of Normandy
: Eldest son of the Conqueror.

Sybilla
: Illegitimate daughter of Henry the First. Later Queen to Alexander the First of Scots.

Ethelred mac Malcolm, Earl of Moray, Abbot of Dunkeld
: Third son of Malcolm and Margaret.

Alexander mac Malcolm, Earl of Gowrie
: Fifth son of Malcolm and Margaret later Alexander the First.

Madach, Earl of Atholl
: Great Scots noble related to the royal house.

Matilda, Countess of Huntingdon
: Wife of Simon de St. Liz. Countess in her own right. Great heiress.

Earl Hakon Claw of Orkney
: So-called Governor of Galloway.

Fergus mac Sween, Lord of Galloway
: Great Scots noble.

Ralph, Prior of Pennant-Bachy
: Tironensian cleric. Later first Abbot of Selkirk.

Gruffydd ap Cynan
: Prince of Gwynedd. 
John, Bishop of Glasgow
: David's former tutor.

Eadmer
: A Saxon monk of Canterbury, later Bishop of St. Andrews.

Robert de Brus
: First Norman Lord of Annandale.

Malcolm MacEth
: Son of Ethelred. Later Earl of Moray.

Randolph de Meschin
: Norman Governor of Cumbria.

Cardinal John of Crema
: Papal legate.

Thurstan, Archbishop of York.

Stephen of Blois, Count of Boulogne
: Nephew of Henry, later King of England.

Robert, Earl of Gloucester
: Illegitimate son of Henry the First.

Maud the Empress
: Daughter of Henry the First.

Alwin
: A Saxon cleric, David's later chaplain.

Henry mac David, Prince of Srathclyde
: Son of David the First.

St. Malachy O'Moore
: Bishop of Armagh.

Lord William of Allerdale
: Son of the briefly-reigning Duncan the Second.

Malcolm mac Henry
: Elder son of Prince Henry. Later Malcolm the Fourth (The Maiden).

The three youths
splashed across the stream in a great splatter of spray and shouts of
laughter— laughter from the two in front, at least, as the one slightly behind got soaked from their commotion, on the smaller, shorter-legged mount. Clambering up the willowed bank beyond, Hervey shouted back.

"A race! Race you to the ridge. We may see them from there. Race you, I say!" And without waiting for agreement from the other two, he dug in his heels and spurred his fine Barbary black up the long grassy slope.

"A plague on you!" Hugo de Morville called after him. "Wait! Start level, at least . . ." But when the other drove on without pause, he kicked his beast into a canter, beating with his clenched fist on the grey's rump, spattering clods of the damp brook-side earth in the face of the third youth. "Come on, David!" he yelled.

That individual, the youngest by a full year, at fifteen, said nothing but bent doggedly over his stocky skewbald's shaggy neck, urging it on with a convulsive gripping and stroking action of his fingers, and hissing slightly in the silky ear. It was not a very notable horse, in looks or breeding, with only a modicum of the prized Arab blood in it, but he was fond of it, and it was his all.

It was no race, of course - Hervey de Warenne saw to that, with both a major start and the best mount. But then, he liked to win, was used to it and good at it; after all, he was the son of the famous Earl William de Warenne of Surrey, one of the richest and most powerful Norman nobles in all England; and more important still, his mother had been the Lady Gundred, daughter - albeit illegitimate - of the late and mighty King William the Conqueror, which made him the nephew of the present Red King, William Rufus. So the winning was, as it were, in the blood. He covered the half-mile slope to the rolling Hampshire ridge, with a good seventy yards to spare, and reined up his steaming black on the summit, turning in the saddle to grin back at the others, not scornful but well content.

Hugo came up, his grey snorting through flaring nostrils. "You are an oaf, Hervey!" he exclaimed. "Always were. A race
is no race unless there is a fair start." But he spoke without rancour, an open-faced, easy-going lad of sixteen years, strongly-built, with curling fair hair unusual in a Norman- but then his mother had been daughter of a Saxon ealdorman. He scarcely glanced at his companion however, but stared out over the suddenly wide vista of the rolling Hampshire downland, eastwards by north, which flanked the shallow fertile vale of the Itchen, Tichbourne below, Cheriton Great Wood away on the right. "I do not see them," he added.

"No. They are late. Plaguey slow. Probably lost!" the other said. And added, grinning again, as the third rider came up. "After all, they are only Scots!"

"My uncle will be with them," Hugh reminded.
"He
knows this country sufficiently well."

The youngest boy, David, seemingly unconcerned at being last, as so often, was already scanning the farther scene with a steady, methodical, quartering gaze. He pointed.

"There they are," he said. "Beyond that village. On the hillside with the open woodland. Two miles - more, three." He spoke Norman-French also, but with a carefulness which indicated that it was not his native tongue, and with a slightly sing-song accent which could much amuse his friends.

The others peered through narrowed eyes, in the early afternoon September sunshine. After a few moments they both saw the distant movement which at that range, was really what was to be seen rather than the men and horses of a large cavalcade.

"You have the eyes of a tiercel!" Hugo declared.

"Say a kite!" Hervey amended. He was the oldest by months, nearly seventeen, as well as the most eminent, and was apt to be at pains to show it. But not too unkindly, to be sure, or the trio would not have remained friends. If young David was something of a butt he was still a good fellow, however limited by his circumstances, birth and curious upbringing. "A kite — eh, David?"

That one shrugged, not rising to the bait. He was a slender, slightly-built youth, dark of hair and eyes, large, fine eyes, pale of complexion, almost delicate of feature, but with a strong jawline which redeemed the sensitive mouth from any hint of weakness.

"It is not better eyes that you need, Hervey," he said mildly. "Only the wits to tell you what your eyes see. There is a difference, I think."

"Ha!" Hugo de Morville exclaimed, laughing, and punched his grey's arching neck, urging it into movement again.

They set off down the long eastern slope, towards the Itchen's cress-flanked windings, at an easy canter now. Even so, inevitably David fell a little behind. But he was used to that.

The two parties, large and small, drew together in wet splashy meadow-land, between the Aires ford and Cheriton village, where the Tichbourne joined Itchen, mallards rocketing up from the reeds and water-cress-beds on every hand. The company coming from the north-east was fully fifty strong, richly-dressed men in front, with an escort of armoured fighting-men, all travel-stained and dusty, under a great banner which bore the device of a hunched-backed boar. Suddenly the three youths seemed very callow and unimpressive, however fine two of their mounts.

As they approached, it was Hervey and Hugo who held back a little, and the younger lad who rode ahead.

In the forefront of the large cavalcade, a fair-haired young man rode directly under the boar-banner, flanked by somewhat older men just a head behind. He was paying no real attention to the trio before him when, abruptly, at about fifty yards, he leaned forward in his saddle, staring. Then his rather sombre features lightened and he raised a pointing hand.

"Davie!" he exclaimed, and not in Norman-French. "Davie - yourself it is! By all that's holy - you, here!"

The other smiled, waving, and spurred forward. "Edgar -my lord King! Oh, it is good to see you," he cried. "It has been so long - two whole years. Edgar - at last!"

They reined up alongside each other, leaning over to grasp each other's forearms in warm greeting, both still on the young side for anything so emotional-seeming as an embrace -although Edgar mac Malcolm was nine years older than his youngest brother. Thus close, side by side, the family resemblance was evident in the all-but-delicate lines of their faces, the shape of head and carriage of person, although one was fair and quite tall and the other dark and slight.

"Two years, lad, yes — I am sorry," the elder said. "It has not been possible. I would have sent for you — but
...
all has been difficult. In Scotland. Still is - or, God knows, I would not have come! But - how you have grown, Davie! You were but a halfling when last I saw you. Now you are almost a man!"

Kind as it was of his brother to say so, David wished that he had not done so. He would be left in no doubt that it was not true, by his two companions, later. That thought reminded him, however, of the necessary courtesies.

"These are my friends, my lord," he said. "This is Hervey de
W
arenne, a son to the Earl of Surrey. And this is Hugo de Morville, f
rom the Honour of Huntingdon."

The two other youths made jerky bows from their saddles.

"We greet Your Highness," Hervey said.

"Your servant to command, Sire," Hugo mumbled.

The King of Scots inclined his head. "Friends of Davie's are friends of mine," he said. "The Earl of Surrey I know - a great lord. Is he behind, somewhere? And de Morville is an honoured name in my kingdom." He turned. "Sir Eustace
-
is this young man some kin of yours?"

A middle-aged, heavy-made man just behind, Eustace de Morville, newly-made Great Constable of Scotland, nodded. "My brother's youngest son, Highness. If this is the Prince David - I could say that he is not in the best of company!"

Into the laughter, Edgar spoke. "My brother, friends -David of Scotland. Come to greet us. We wondered when someone would!"

As salutations were murmured amongst the men behind the King, David bowing right and left, scanned the ranks of the riders. They were a mixed lot, in appearance as in dress and age, some, like the Constable, with the cropped heads and shaven chins of Normans, some with the almost shaggy flaxen to fair hair and beards of the Saxons, some with the darkly Celtic looks and thin down-turning moustaches of the Scots. The face for which the youth looked was not there.

"Where is Alex?" he asked.

A frown flickered on his brother's brow for a moment. "Alex is . . . Alex . . ." he returned shortly. And then, as though recognising that this might sound unsuitable in front of all these others, he went on, "He asked to be excused the journey. And it was as well that one of us should remain in Scotland. Lest men of ill-will should think to take advantage of my absence. Alexander at least will keep his sword drawn, willingly enough!"

David could not hide his disappointment. He had a strong family-feeling and liked his next brother even though he was the most vehement and aggressive of the Margaretsons, some five years older than himself as he was.

An older man spoke, behind the King, whom David recognised as Gillibridc, Earl or M
ormaor of Angus, one of the
literally lesser kings of the Celtic realm, as distinct from the
Ard Righ
or High King of Scots.

"Are you sent ahead of King William, David mac Malcolm? You
boys
.
he demanded.

David moistened his
lips.
"No, my lord," he admitted. "We come
...
of ourselves."

"Kind!" the Earl gave back, with something not far from a snort. "But where then is the King? We cannot be more than five or six miles from Winchester. We had thought to see him before this."

The boy answered nothing.

"Well, Davie?" Edgar prompted. "We have looked for a welcoming embassage from W
illiam all this day. Since Farn
ham, where we slept. To bring us to the King himself. We are near to our journey's end. Yet here come only my own brother and two young friends. You are come from Winchester, I take it? Where is William?"

David swallowed. "My lord - King William is not here. He is . . . hunting."

"Hunting!" That came out in an explosion of breath -although it was scarcely to be heard in the sudden volley of exclamation from behind.
"Hunting
,
you say?"

"Yes. I, I am sorry . . ."

"Did he not know that I was coming? Today? My messenger . . . ? He must have done — since
you
knew to come."

"He knew, yes, Edgar. But . . . went hunting."

His brother spoke through clenched teeth. "And he
se
nt
you
to meet me?"

"No, my lord King. He sent none. We, we came of ourselves."

"You mean . . . God in His Heaven, you mean that William Rufus knew that I was approaching his city, and at his own request, and sent none to greet me, the King of Scots?"

Unhappily David nodded,

"This is . . . insufferable!" Edgar turned to look at the men behind him. None, Scot, Norman or Saxon actually met his eye, although all looked shocked, unbelieving, angry.

"Turn back, man!" Gillibride of Angus shouted, hotly. "He is an oaf! He did this once before, mind — to your father. At Gloucester. I was there. The same year Malcolm died, six years back. He summoned Malcolm — and then when he came, refused to see him. The man is a churl. Son of a bastard, the Bastard of Normandy, who knows not how to behave!"

Some of the Normans present looked distinctly uncomfortable at that, but none raised voice.

"Aye, turn back, Highness," young Cospatrick, Earl of Dunbar and March urged, second-cousin to Edgar and David. "This is an insult."

Edgar chewed at his lower lip. His was not a strong face, more rugged than David's but lacking that firmness of jawline.

"I can scarce do that," he muttered. "We are three hundred miles and more from Scotland. And, and . . ." He scarcely required to finish that. All there knew the position well enough, Angus included. Without the army William Rufus had lent him three years ago, to march on Scotland, Edgar would still have been an exile, like David, and not wearing the Scottish crown today. He would never have unseated his uncle, Donald Ban, on the throne without English help. And, with much of Celtic Scotland still eyeing him askance, Edgar might need that English aid again, at any time. To turn back now might mean that he would never get it.

"We could halt here, and wait," Sir Eustace the Constable suggested. For a Norman that was a stout gesture, indicative of how closely he at least had thrown in his lot with the Scots king, in three years. "There is a small monastery a little way to the west, beyond Kilmeston. But two miles or so. I know it well. We could wait there, Highness. Until King William thinks better of it."