David the Prince - Scotland 03 (26 page)

"I think it is rather that he knows that he cannot defeat me, or even reach me! Is it not so? That would be reasonable, also!"

"Yet you yourself are a reasonable man, Prior Ralph assures us - and cannot desire unnecessary bloodshed."

"I do not know about the Scots, my friend, but we Welsh value our freedom higher than our blood."

"What freedom is lacking from these terms? You have already taken the coronation fealty oath."

"What surety have I that the Norman will keep his word?"

"We have a paper here, listing these heads, with his signature and royal seal. For you also to sign. Two, each the same."

"A Norman signature can be swiftly forgotten."

"Not if it has the signatures of the King of Scots and the Queen's brother as witnesses."

"Ah - yes." Inclining his grey head, Gruffydd accepted that. "May I see the paper?"

Both copies of Henry's document were handed over, Ralph taking them, and David suggesting that the Welshman might wish to consider the thing privately for a little. They would wait by the riverside.

This they did.

"I think that he will sign," David said.

"As well he might! He deserves less generous terms. He is too stiff-necked by half, that Welsh princeling! And you are over-gentle, Davie."

"And you are no negotiator, my royal brother! But then, you never were."

"I do not play with words, as you do. I deal in facts, plain truth, not honeyed half-truths and niceties."

"Yet Holy Writ says that a soft answer may turn away wrath. And wrath is no aid to negotiations, Alex."

Presently Grufiydd came over to them. "I am prepared to sign this," he said, without preamble. "But only if you will add these words. 'We undersigned, pledge our honour, and that of our sister the Queen of England, that these terms will be carried out, and swiftly.' Will you do so?"

"You are presumptuous, sir!"

"I think not, my lord King- only careful. I have good reason not to trust Normans."

"I will write and sign that," David said. "The Que
en would not disagree I think. I
trust Henry."

Alexander shrugged.

So the words were written in, on both copies, by Prior Ralph, the signatures appended, that of Ralph added, as witness, for good measure. The thing was done.

David had brought a flagon of wine, and they pledged good faith with this, neither Gruffydd nor Alexander desirous of lingering. As treaty-making went, it was expeditious, at least.

Such little time had all this taken that the brothers decided that they might as well make the direct journey to Mur-Castell there and then, to acquaint Henry with the satisfactory outcome. Prior Ralph offering to act as guide. By using the side-valley of Glyntrefnant, and then the climbing cattle-road by Cerist, they could reach Mur-Castell before nightfall.

Henry was pleased, as well he might be. It had all worked out as he had hoped and planned. He could now turn his full attention on the Montgomerys.

Asked by Alexander what he intended there, he said that he would move his present army back nearer to Shrewsbury, then summon Robert de Belleme to his presence. With the other armies disposed all around him and between him and his brothers, also the word - which Henry would ensure that he received expeditiously - that peace was made with Gruffydd, Belleme would have no choice. And once he had him before him, face to face and alone, the King was satisfied that he had the situation mastered. So all that was necessary vvas for the allied armies to remain in approximately their present positions for a few days more, until he had taught the Earl of Shrewsbury his lesson — and then all could return home, with his grateful thanks.

Henry turned to David. "To you
I
made a promise of sorts.
I
think that
I
can aspire to deal with Robert of Shrewsbury without your valuable help! You have a few days, therefore, which might profitably be filled in.
I
suggest that Northampton is not too far distant from here for an active young man to reach, and return, in shall we say five days time? By Radnor Forest, Leominster, Worcester and Stratford. To convey my royal regrets to the sorrowing Countess Matilda on the death of her husband. And to ask her, in my name, what arrangements she might wish to make for her future protection and the disposition of her earldoms - as is my duty."

David drew breath, began to speak, and then thought better of it.

"We shall see if you make as agile an envoy with women as you do with men," Henry added. "There are three children whose interests concern me!"

10

I
t made a
longer journey than Henry had suggested, full one hundred and thirty miles, much of it across the very spine of England, not a lofty barrier by Scottish standards but a delaying factor nevertheless. David did not desire any companions with him on this occasion, even his two closest friends; but since it was inconceivable that such as he should travel the land alone, he selected only some half-dozen of his best horsemen as sufficient escort, together with one of Henry's Mercians as guide. By riding hard and long, they covered the distance in two taxing days.

There was a powerful, typically Norman castle at Northampton, but Matilda had indicated that she did not normally live therein but at Earl's Thorpe some way to the north of the town. This proved to be a pleasant, rambling Saxon manor-house set amongst old orchards on the edge of Thorpe Chase. In the pleasance thereof, beside an ornamental pond, almost a lake, over which the swallows swooped, David found the Countess that warm June evening.

She sat by the waterside watching three children at play in the shallows, sailing toy-boats, and with a young waiting-woman stitching needlework
nearby. She was simply and lightl
y dressed, very different from the fine clothing she had worn when last he saw her. But she was no less lovely, heart-catchingly so indeed, as she sat idly there, looking out across the water as though her mind might be far away.

When the rising of the two tall deerhounds caused her to notice his approach, she turned to watch him casually - until suddenly he saw recognition strike her and she started up to her feet, hand to her lips. She took two or three steps towards him, then obviously restrained herself and paused. But a hand came out, nevertheless.

David also had to restrain himself from actually running to her. He came on, almost stiffly.

Wordless they eyed each other for long moments.

"David!" she got out, at last. "It is you - truly you? I do not dream . . . ?"

"No dream," he said, deep-voiced. "Unless I too dream. How beautiful you are!"

"It is beyond belief. I was thinking of you. Just now. Wondering. Wondering where you might be. What you were doing. Whether, whether . . . and here you are, before me. Almost, almost a miracle!"

"The miracle is that you should think of me, at all."

"I do. I ..." She stopped, glancing around, as though recollecting that they were not alone.

He took that outstretched hand and raised it to his lips. "It has been long, long," he said.

"Yes. Too long. But . . ."

The three children had come up out of the water, to eye them interestedly. Their mother turned to beckon them closer.

"Come," she said. "Come and greet the Prince David of Scotland, brother to the Queen. Your kinsman, at some removes. This is Simon. And this is Waltheof. And here is Matilda, the baby, five years only. Waltheof is eight, Simon ten."

"Are you truly a prince?" the eldest asked, a sturdy, solemn-faced boy.

"In that my father was King of Scots, yes, Simon. But I am usually called Earl of Cumbria, these days."

"Is Cumbria yours, then? It is not in Scotland."

"No. Cumbria is not mine. I do not own it. I only govern it for King Henry. So I am earl only in that I am the King's viceroy there."

"I shall be Earl of Northampton when I am older. And I shall
own
it. And much else."

"Hush, Sim — that is no way to speak," his mother reproved. "What you own or do not own is not the important matter. It is what you
do
that matters - what you do with your life."

"I shall do lots of things. I shall kill Infidels and Moors and Saracens. I shall kill deer too, many deer ..."

"There speaks a young man much in need of a father's hand!" the Countess said. "Waltheof is less . . . vainglorious."

David stooped. "And what
will
you
do, Waltheof?"

"I shall breed pigeons," the younger boy announced. "The kind with the big tails that stick up."

"Ah - there is a noble ambition! More useful than killing, perhaps, Simon." David picked up the little girl, to sit in the crook of his arm. "And this one? I need not ask. She will grow up to be a beautiful lady like her mother, and rejoice all who set eyes on her!"

The Countess smiled. "I cannot tell my daughter to believe you, my lord. What shall I say?" She turned to the other young woman. "Editha
- I leave these small problems of mine with you. I must see to the Earl David's refreshment and welcome. It is almost their bedtime . . ."

As they walked back to the house, she asked, "How come you? Where from? For how long? I can scarce accept that you are really here!"

"In a sense, my dear, I come from Henry. On the Welsh Marches, where I have been aiding him in some measure. He
suggested
that I should come - although, God knows, every mile that I rode south from Caer-luel the thought was never out of my mind that I was drawing nearer to you, how to contrive to see you ever my last thought at night and my first in the morning. Then
he
proposed it! I had to hold myself in from embracing him! He said, to bring you his regrets over the death of your husband, as monarch and kinsman. And to discover what protection you required."

"Protection? Do I require protection?"

"That is what he said. I think that he meant protection from adventurers, men who would seek to gain your trust and person for their own ends, your earldoms and lands and wealth . . ."

"And he sent you!"

"Yes. But . . . not in that way! Nothing of that. He knows that I greatly esteem you. And I am the Queen's brother, so that I could decently carry his message to his grand-niece - if that is what you are ..."

"I care not why Henry sent you — only that you are come!" she exclaimed and took his arm.

He pressed it to him, not unmindful of that other time when she had done the same, when first they had met at Alexander's wedding procession. His heart was too full for words.

But at the door of the house, he paused. "Matilda," he said, "I have not spoken of the Earl Simon's death, myself. Of your husband. Said that I am sorry. I should have said it first of all

"But did not - because you are an honest man! You are not sorry, are you, David? Any more than, in truth, am I! Let us be honest with each other, always. I cannot grieve for Simon. I never loved him, nor he me. I was the provider of his wealth and earldom, the mother of his children — that is all. He was an old, soured and crippled man, who
wanted
to die. That is why he went on the Crusade, not, I think, out of conviction. He was a soldier who could no longer soldier. Many Normans are like Simon. I cannot grieve for him. Now he is free of his troubles. And, and so am I! Free!"

He took her hand and all but ran into the house with her. There they came into each other's arms without hesitation or delay. But, after only a few moments, almost breathless, Matilda stirred in his embrace, and freeing a hand, pointed wordless to a doorway. Along the passage to this she led him, and within, into a small sewing-room as it proved to be. She shut the door behind them.

"Oh, David —my dear, my love, heart of my heart!" she said.

He dispensed with words altogether.

When at length, the first urgency of their emotions not over but under control, they found their voices again, still holding each other fast, she peered up into his eyes.

"David, David - what must you think of me?" she exclaimed, breathlessly. "Not only an unnatural widow who does not mourn her children's father, but, but a shameless woman who throws herself at the head of a younger man . . . !"

"I say that you are the best and truest, as well as the fairest and most lovely woman in all this, or any land! That I rejoice, rejoice..." He shook his head. "What can I say? No words, no words. I have longed, dreamed, p
rayed for this, for your regard - I
scarce dared to hope for your love. And for your freedom, so that I might express
my
love for you. And now - this! I can say nothing of it, nothing. Dumb as an ox, as any brute-beast. . . !"