David the Prince - Scotland 03 (37 page)

"No, no. You did well. For Dunkeld, this of Bishop John was excellent. But St. Andrews is different. Whoever sits there has to be King's Bishop.
Ard Episcop
.
First of bishops. To outdo the Abbot of Iona, of the Columbans. This is necessary if we are to have the Roman Church supreme, as our mother desired. I have taken the Primacy away from Ethelred. The new Bishop of St. Andrews must be Primate, and speak with the voice of full spiritual authority. You must see this? It will not serve that he should be consecrated by a bishop junior to himself. Your John would seem to all to have the greater authority. The realm needs a Primate appointed by myself but sent and consecrated by the highest authority in Holy Church. I sent to Pope Paschal, but he has done nothing. So, since it must not be York, it has to be Canterbury."

"And the Archbishop does not agree?"

"He neither agrees nor disagrees, only puts off. I have a notion that Henry may be behind it."

"Henry? Why Henry?"

"Henry has not named himself Lord Paramount of Scotland, as did his father and brother. But he would wish to be so, I swear! He has sought to
influence
Scotland, without drawing sword, as no other English king has done, wedding our sister, marrying his daughter to me, making much of you and giving you his niece and Huntingdon. And this of Cumbria. I say that if he could see Scotland as under
the
spiritual
rule of England, he would be much pleasured."

They were walking to the horses, the women being left
to trail along behind, ignored.

"If this is so, why should he hold back Canterbury from finding your Primate?"

"Because it is not Canterbury which does, or could, claim any hegemony over Scotland, but York, Davie. If Canterbury will not give me what I want, I may be forced to turn to York. Since there is no other. Do you not see it? Henry is a fox! He prefers to work through others, by hidden ways."

David did not de
ny that, at least. "What could I
do, in this?" he asked.

"Go there, and use your famed wits, what else? You are a friend to Henry - much more so than am I, his good-son. Convince him that I will never accept a bishop from York. Tell him that if Canterbury will not aid, me, I must needs go to the Pope. He will not know that the Holy See has already failed me. Say that you will go seek the help of this Bernard of Tiron, or Clairvaux. We raised up this abbey to his Order, so he should be grateful. Play on this - for Bernard is much admired by Pope Paschal, they say. It may serve. But look also for a suitable monk for me to have as Primate. Strong - but not too strong, see you! One who will lead, but not seek to lead
me
!
Not as Turgot. There is one I have heard of, at Canterbury. A Saxon, named Eadmer. It had better not be a Norman. This Eadmer was friend and chaplain to the late Anselm. Might have been archbishop himself thereafter, it is said, but the Normans preferred one of their own kind, this Ralph. Eadmer writes a book on the life of Anselm, I am told. A scholar. Seek him out, Davie. Having been passed over for Ralph, he may well be discontented. Might well wish to be a bishop and Primate. And Ralph glad to be rid of him."

"A lot to build on such small foundation!" David said.

"You will go?"

"If you wish it, command it, I must. Is it not so?"

"I would sooner that you went in goodwill, man. This is important to the realm . . ."

As they rode back to Invergowrie, Hugo and Hervey squiring the young women, David felt entitled to raise a related subject, likewise to the weal of the realm of Scotland. "Did you stop payment of the Coldingham Priory rents to Flambard of Durham?" he asked his brother.

"That man is a scoundrel! Behind Thurstan's claims and obduracy."

"No doubt. But we made a b
argain with him. I did, in your
name. And you have broken it. To my cost. I lost many months'

work on my castle of Rook's B
urgh. I have had much trouble”

"I heard of that. But what reason have you to believe that was behind the raid?"

"One of the prisoners said as much. One of Flam bard's stewards. What did
you
think the reason for it?"

"The good God knows. But if Henry did not order it, I swear that he knew of it! That castle of yours, Davie, is too near to Northumbria for English liking."

"Henry never told me not to build it. Nor to stop building it."

"Would he? That is not Henry's way. I would guard it well hereafter!"

"Never fear. Cospatrick aids me in keeping a strong guard there always. It is necessary, to protect our march. It will soon be finished, already strong enough to withstand ordinary attack, lacking siege-machines."

"When you go see Henry, put it to him!"

"I shall go, Alex — if you will promise to allow the Coldingham payments again. I love Flambard no better than you do, but a bargain is a bargain. It was the price of our father's body being able to lie beside our mother's. Should they not sleep in peace?"

Alexander shrugged. "Very well. But I do not believe that it will save your castle from assault . .."

At first light in. the morning, without benefit of royal farewells, they left for the South.

* * *

Matilda had had her baby before they got back to Caer-luel. It was a girl, whom she was already calling Claricia. All apparently had gone well, and although she admitted that giving birth was never an easy or enjoyable experience, the mother made light of it all. They would have more children yet.

Listening to David's bedside account of his meeting with Alexander, Matilda declared that it all fell out very conveniently. He had to go to London anyway, whatever Henry wanted him for, and could now go also as his brother's spokesman, always a help where there might be dealing and chaffering involved. This of a Primate for Scotland deserved support. And if Henry and the Archbishop proved obdurate let him indeed cross over to France, to Tiron. Or was it not now Clairvaux, where Bernard ruled? He had always wished to meet the great Bernard had he not? And the Abbot Ralph was ever talking of the need for monks from Tiron, trained men to add to his dozen, now that Shiel Kirk was a full abbey, not just a priory. Indeed, she thought that David should go over to France anyway, whatever the result of his meetings in London. It was an opportunity such as did not often occur. For herself, she would be much taken up with baby care for a month or two, of little use to him.

All of which seemed to make good sense.

The journey to London, over three hundred miles, was accomplished in unseasonably poor weather conditions, with the inevitable consequence of delay from floods, impassable fords and the like, as well as discomfort, so that it took nine days to reach Thames. Only Hervey de Warenne accompanied David, with a small escort, Hugo's wife Beatrix requiring his attendance.

At the great Tower of London, started by the Conqueror, enlarged by Rufus and not yet completed, which Henry was now using as his base, they found the bird had flown once more, the King having gone to his country palace of Woodstock near Oxford. However, the Queen, it seemed, was still in London, at her lodgings in the Abbey of Westminster. Thither they repaired.

David was much upset at sight of his sister. Maud was only in her mid-thirties, younger indeed than Matilda; but she looked almost an old woman, pale, haggard, stooping. Clearly she was ill, but she was dispirited too, although glad to see her brother, pathetically so.

"What is wrong, lass?" he demanded. She felt brittle in his embrace. "You are not well? Have you been sick? You are thin

"Sick a little, yes, Davie. Sick a little in body - but more at heart, I think. But - you? You thrive? And Matilda? And the boy . . .?"

"Yes, yes - thanks be to God. And now there is a girl, also. But . . . you said sick at heart? What do you mean? Sick at heart?"

"I should not have said that, Davie. I am selfish. Ungrateful. I have had so much. That perhaps is what is wrong. I mourn for what was, when I should thank God for it."

"We all do that, Sister. But what is it that you have lost? You mean your health?"

"Not that, no - although that is a trial. No - it is Henry's love that I have lost. He did love me - you know that he did."

"To be sure he much loved you, my dear - and still does, I vow. Why should he not? You, the best of wives . . . ?"

"No, Davie, he does not. That is past, gone. Why, think you, I am here? Living in this abbey. As good as a nun!"

"You mean . . . you mean that Henry no longer lives with you? You, the Queen?"

"No. Not for months. A year and more. He wants none of me, now - and I live here to escape the clamour of his infidelities."

"Dear Lord - I knew none of this. See you, men . . . men are often that way. Too often. But still love their wives. Alex - I have recently seen Alex. He has many women. But they mean nothing to him . . ."

"Alex never loved Sybilla."

"No. But others I know . . ."

"Henry has changed, Davie. Not only in this, I fear. I have watched it happening for some time. He is not the man that he was. He has grown cold, cruel, deceitful, harsh. Not only with me. Others will tell you. I have watched it and grieved. As he ages, he grows more like his father. And Rufus. He who was so different."

"I am sorry, lass, sorry, Perhaps it will pass . . . ?"

She shook her head. "Worst of all, he keeps our son William from me. He holds him, ever. William is but fourteen years. Matilda our daughter he does not care for. Her I may see, now and again. Surely he could let me see William? After all, Henry has thirteen illegitimate children they tell me . . ."

It was David's turn to shake his head. "What is the other?" he asked, to change the subject. "Your sickness of the body?"

The Queen did not seem much interested in that. "Some mere woman's ailment. Of which the physicians can make naught. But this I can bear. It is Henry . . ." She sighed. "Oh, forgive me, Davie - I am wickedly selfish. To weary you so. I am become a sorry creature, bewailing my lot. Our mother would not have behaved so! I am weak. It is being alone so much — I am not used to being alone. But —speak no more of my troubles. You - you will have come to see Henry?"

"Yes. He summoned me. For what I know not."

"He is gone to Woodstock. With his latest woman, the Norman Adelicia. And William. I fear that you will gain little joy there. I am told that he blames you, in certain matters. In especial over Huntingdon."

"Huntingdon? How that? What of Huntingdon?"

"I do not know for sure. But I think that it is neglect of the earldom."

"Save us - how can it be that? And how can I do otherwise than live there little? How can the Viceroy of Cumbria and Strathclyde also be present at Huntingdon? We have stewards there, a-many."

"I know it, Davie - I
know. It is unreasonable. But it may be only a stick to beat you. And through you, myself."

"Why should he wish to beat me? Or you either? I have served him well."

She spread her hands.

Next day they rode the sixty miles up Thames and Cherwell to Woodstock. Here, at least, they had no difficulty in locating the King. Henry had established a great menagerie, where he kept large numbers, hundreds, of birds and animals, which he gathered from lands near and far, from the Muscovy snows to the burning sands of Nubia, a costly pastime which the Crusaders had much facilitated. David found him with William the Atheling and the Lady Adelicia of Louvain, superintending the erection of a long line of new cages built of willow saplings, to supplement the hundreds already there, and filled.

Any stiffness in their greetings tended to be on David's part, with Henry affable, even jocular. Prince William was a good-looking, slender youth, fair-haired and long-limbed, seeming more Saxon than Norman or Celt, with the watchful eye of one who saw life as uncertain. The Lady Adelicia, although only a couple of years older, had the assured confidence which came from possessing a richly burgeoning body, early ripened, such as men desired, and a precocious recognition of her own subsequent power. She was the daughter of Godfrey, Count of Louvain and a distant cousin of Henry's.

"So, my good brother-in-law - you have not slain many horses in hastening to my call!" the King charged, although genially. "I looked to see you days past."

"My wife was giving birth to a daughter, Sire. Would you have had me to leave her side, when your messenger gave no reason for your summons?"

"Ha - a daughter! Daughters can be both joy and problem, you will discover. Matilda survived, I take it? And how is my godson and namesake?"

"Well, Sire — all are well. Which is more than I can say of the Queen, my sister. To my sorrow."