David the Prince - Scotland 03 (62 page)

Ada came into the bedchamber, still fully clothed although it was well after midnight. Hollow-eyed, quietly, she came to stand beside her kneeling father-in-law, a hand to his bent shoulder.

"Sire - go sleep," she urged, gently. "I shall watch again now. You must rest. There is
...
no change?"

"None. Save that the breathing weakens the more, I think. Weakens, lass. I fear that, that
..."

"Yes," she said. She had given up hope long since, accepting what must be. "Go, my lord. I shall wake you if. . . there is need."

"No - I shall stay. It will not be long, God ordains. I could not sleep. The last hours of, of. . ." She nodded, wordless. "The children? They sleep?"

"Yes. Malcolm took long. But the others - they were tired. Why do you still pray, Sire? I cannot. Not any more
..."

She sat on a chair beside the bed, but the King remained kneeling. He might not be praying but at least he was in the posture of prayer. Save for the puff and rustle of the sinking log-fire there was practically no sound in that tower-room of the March Mount Castle. Certainly the Earl Henry's breathing made little disturbance, however much the watchers' ears were listening for it.

"Malachy O'Moore said 'This time he will not die -
this
time!' " David spoke into the silence, some time later. "I remember that. Always have remembered it, behind my mind. Although I put it from me. That was many years ago. And now, now Malachy is dead . . ."

She did not comment.

"Henry was never strong of body . . ."

David did not sleep, but sank away into a sort of suspended consciousness such as the elderly may achieve for the harbouring of their strength. The Countess Ada's hand on his shoulder again, some unknown time later, roused him.

"It is over, my lord," she said quietly. "He has. . . moved on. My Henry
...
is gone."

"Gone
...
?" He uttered a strangled sound, between groan and gulp. All the loss in the world was in that single word.

"He but . . . stopped breathing."

David flung himself on his son's poor shrunken body, and wept.

The woman stood silent, like a statue.

At length the King stood up. "He is gone
...
to join his mother. Blest in that, at least. And I am left . . . alone."

"You have your daughters, Sire. And your grandchildren. Even . . . myself."

"He was my son, woman, my only son. Taken! And you — you do not so much as weep!"

"I shall weep later, I think. I wish . . . that I could weep . . . now!"

He peered at her in the gloom, and then stepped over to take her in his arms. "Forgive me, my dear - forgive an old done man in his selfish grief. Your loss is great — the greater, indeed, in that you have to live with it for long. And I, pray God, not very long. Forgive me. Henry could not have had a better wife. He will be waiting for you, one day, to tell you so."

She turned from his grip and hurried out of the bedchamber, leaving her husband to his father.

In the morning they would have to tell the children.

In the morning, in fact it was David who was strong and Ada who was weak, stricken; David who lined
up the three boys and three littl
e girls and told them that their father had been called to God — who was a much greater king than he was - to undertake a very long journey in His service. They called the departure on such journey death; but this was a foolish, unsuitable word for what was in truth a splendid new start, a great adventure, sad only for those left behind, in that they would not see him until one day they too would start their journeying.

Great-eyed they listened, until the youngest girl began to cry. That was little Ada.

David gathered
her to him. "Not for tears, littl
e one," he said. "Your father has not stopped loving you because he is sent on this journey. He will love you the more, indeed. People can go on loving each other from far, far away. You do not stop loving them just because you do not see them — do you? But he is going to need you much more than before — to help your mother. And to help me, too. For we both need much help, now. Your mother to manage all here, as it should be. Without him. And me to manage my kingdom." He pointed. "And this young man, Malcolm mac Henry, especially is going to have to help me much. For he has to take his father's place, you see. Scotland must always have a king; and when I start
my
journeyings, like your father, Malcolm will be King of Scots. Until then there will be much to do. Will you all help?"

The chorus of affirmation ranged from the strong to the tremulous.

"Now, here is what we shall do — some of us, at least. Malcolm and William and I shall go journeying too, together. Not such long journey as your father's, but all round Scotland. And we shall talk to people and let them see who is to be king after me, and who is to be Earl of Northumbria too. To make them glad that your father left fine sons to continue his work, and fine daughters too, to help them - for there is no queen, you see. Will you do that? Come riding round Scotland with me?"

There was no doubt about the answer to that, from the boys at least, Malcolm nearly eleven, William nine and David six. The girls, younger, were still doubtful, Margaret, Matilda and Ada.

* * *

So, without any great delay after they had interred Henry's body in Kelsaugh Abbey across the river, they set out from Rook's Burgh. Scotland was stunned at the death of the popular heir to the throne, with no other adult heir in sight, save for Malcolm MacEth, a convicted rebel and William of Allerdale, who had never shown any interest in the succession. Moreover David, at sixty-eight, was increasingly conscious of the pressures of time and the uncertainty of human life. Delay was inadvisable, however little he felt like jaunting round his kingdom.

The thing was carefully planned nevertheless, a royal progress such as Scotland had never before seen. The two young princes were the heart of it, of course; but the supporting cast was important too, to be seen by all as the power and dignity and experience of the realm upholding and surrounding these young children, continuity assured. All the great of the land were summoned, only sickness and extreme age accepted as excuse, the mormaors and earls, the great officers of state — including Hugo, now Great Constable, his cousin having died — the justiciars and sheriffs, the lords and chiefs great and lesser, the bishops and abbots of both Churches, the chief magistrates of the new burghs. It made a vast company, with all its attendants, posing major problems of commissariat, supply and shelter. But it was July and tents and pavilions could be used. Whole herds of cattle were driven along behind, to be slaughtered as required, and a corps of foragers was always out to purchase food and drink. There was no great hurry, and a holiday atmosphere prevailed in the genial summer weather. The boys especially enjoyed themselves; and the King endeavoured not to let his sorrowing heart put any damper on the proceedings.

David had, as ever, a practical and immediate, as well as a visionary purpose, and used this tour to check on the progress of his parish developments, their judicial corollaries of shires and sheriffdoms, the burgh structures and the work on the new abbeys and priories throughout the land. Apart from those completed, or at least already functioning in some degree, he had other abbeys founded and abuilding at Newbotle in Lothian, Kilwinning in Cunninghame, Dundrennan in Galloway, St. Andrews in Fife, Restenneth in Angus, Kinloss and Urquhart in Moray and Fearn in Ross. All these were, to be sure, to the glory of God; but they were also necessary training colleges for the supply of priests for the parish system. It was not all religiosity and abstract piety but sound and careful planning. If no king had ever founded so many abbeys, neither had any ever tried, in one reign, to convert a backwards-looking, tribal and patriarchal kingdom into an up-to-date, systematically-administered state where law ruled rather than might. If twenty-eight years was scarcely sufficient time for this, at least the foundations should be laid for those who came after. David would have liked to take his colourful cavalcade right up into Moray and Ross. But such distances were scarcely practicable; moreover it would have demanded a vastly larger escort, almost an army, for the Moraymen in particular still favoured the alternative line of the royal house, even though they no longer had an earl to lead them. It would have been a pity to spoil all with possible fighting and bloodshed.

So, starting from Edinburgh, they progressed through Lothian and Calatria to Fife and Fothrif and Gowrie, to Angus and the Mearns, across Stormounth to Atholl, down through Lennox and across Strathkelvin to the Clyde - where at Glasgow the new cathedral was almost finished, although Bishop John had not lived to see it - and on down through Renfrew of the Steward, Cunninghame and Kyle and Carrick to Galloway - where Fergus, only a little mellowed in his old age, took the opportunity to found another new abbey at Soulseat, to demonstrate that the King was not the only one who could make gestures. And so to end at Caer-luel where, at a moving ceremony, David created Malcolm Prince of Strathclyde and Cumbria, William, Earl of Northumbria and announced that six-year-old David would be titular Earl of Huntingdon - only titular meantime, since Stephen had confiscated that earldom and its useful revenues, and David refused to go to war to redeem it.

Thereafter, tired and feeling
his age, but reasonably satis
fied, the King returned to Rook's Burgh.

The news which awaited him there was important, although he was little moved by it—and realising the fact, recognised that he was indeed growing old. Recognised also that it could be dangerous for a realm to have a monarch, weary of life and failing to react adequately to news and events which, however distant, might affect his kingdom. The sorrow was that there was only an eleven-year-old boy to succeed him - or he would be glad to leave it all and cross the river to his abbey of Kelshaugh, there to become a simple monk until his due time came. But clearly that was not for him, too easy a road.

Was he, then, of all evil fates, growing sorry for himself? That, at least, he could still fight.

The tidings which sparked off this train of thought were that the Empress's husband, Geoffrey of Anjou, had died, and their son Henry Plantagenet- or Fitz
Empress as he was being called
-
had declared himself to be Duke of Normandy as well as Count of Anjou, marching into that dukedom to consolidate his claim. He had, moreover, threatened to invade England on his mother's behalf if Stephen failed to accept the situation. Clearly there was a new force manifesting itself in that weary struggle — a force which might one day bring itself to bear on Scotland. David did not fail to see the writing on the wall.

Nor apparently did Stephen who, after Maud had retired back to France in 1146, had sat precariously on the English throne. For shortly afterwards there was further news from the south that that unhappy man had not only acceded to the Plantagenet grab of Normandy but had entered into a solemn treaty, ostensibly with Maud, that he should retain the English crown only for his own lifetime, but that on his death it should go, not to his own son but to Henry Fitz Empress.

David pondered this development for long. Perhaps he should have been well enough pleased that his niece's cause was vindicated, at last, with England spared the almost certain consequences of Maud's own misrule and arrogance. This Henry Plantagenet he knew. He had indeed come visiting Scotland a few years before, only in his sixteenth year but a spirited, indeed somewhat noisy youth, but no weakling — on whom David, in fact, had been persuaded to confer knighthood. But - King of England? Which would be best for Scotland? A weak, unreliable, inimical but dispirited Stephen? Or a young, strong and ambitious if brash Henry? David had little doubts as to the answer to that.

-
-With a mere child to succeed him, could he possibly force himself to live for another ten years, to give Malcolm dme, time? Ten more weary years, God help him . . . !

» * *

Whether God was helping or hindering or entirely neutral in the matter, David mac Malcolm mac Duncan did not reign another ten years, nor even one. On
the
ninth day before the Kalends of June 1153, in the early morning he was found by Alwin his chaplain, kneeling at his bedside in the castle of Caer-luel, in the posture of prayer, but dead. It was his seventieth year and the thirtieth of his reign. His expression was happy, Alwin told Abbot Ailred. He had gone to find Matilda and Henry.

In those thirty years he had changed Scotland more than any other man before or since. Although later canonised, like his mother, and known to succeeding generations as David the Saint, it was as a sore saint that his descendant James the First categorised him. He would have been the last to claim the first title but might well have accepted the second.