David the Prince - Scotland 03 (27 page)

"Hush! You do . . . very well. Words are not all . . ."

He agreed with that, at least, and proceeded to demonstrate his agreement with her entire co-operation. In this matter they were starvelings both.

Nevertheless, presently, Matilda returned to her theme, or another aspect of it. "This is joy, my dear, delight, and I praise God for it - even though I behave like a lost and abandoned woman. Yet - I feel
found,
not lost, never lost! But - have you thought it out, David? Truly considered? What it means or could mean? This of love, between you and me? I am older than you. Much, I fear - no fresh young girl. Born in 1078 and married at the age of twelve - thirty-five years old. That leaves me but five or seven years of child-bearing ahead of me. And I have three young children to cherish. Have you thought, David? Considered what this means?"

"I care not . . ."

"But you must care, since I do! What do you want of me, David? I have to ask it. I cannot believe that it is only my earldoms and my lands. It may not even be marriage that you seek? Only my body. Even that, I think, I might give you. But if marriage, see you - marriage between us could be costly. For you!"

"Costly? What think you I am? I want you, for always. Here and hereafter. Mine, to love and cherish and care for - aye, and you to love and cherish me, companion, help-meet. Your earldoms and lands you may give to your children - for these I care not. You I want, your love and adorable self, to be the joy of my life."

She moistened her lips to match her eyes - which called for redress.

All too soon the children were brought in, for bed, and Matilda bethought her of her hostess's dudes. Emotion had to be relegated meantime.

Although so great a lady, the Countess lived simply, with little of an entourage and household, so there was not much difficulty in having private converse, after the meal, as so often was the case in castle halls and large companies. Matilda had a private apartment near the children's bedchambers. There she took David. But first she led him quietly into the boys' and the girl's rooms, to see that they were all asleep. Clearly she was much more concerned with, and close to, her offspring than was usual in women of her rank and station.

When they were alone, he told her about his life in Cumbria, about his peculiar relationship with Alexander, and about Henry's elaborate campaign in Wales and the Marches. He warmed to his theme when he came to tell her of the Pennant-Bachwy monastery and the Tironensians, dwelling on the Order's virtues and the noble way its representatives had upheld its high ideals in the face of shameful persecution; but confessing that perhaps he had been a little rash in promising them a new monastery under his own protection, in the North.

Matilda would not hear of this, declaring that it was a splendid project, typical of him and worthy of all support.
Her
support, especially, she insisted. She would help in any way she could. What was
the use of all the wealth and l
ands she had inherited and which were meantime her own again, if she could not use some part in such excellent cause? He must promise to call on her resources, as necessary.

Grateful and encouraged as he was by this, her declaration had the effect, nevertheless, of sobering them somewhat, bringing the problems of her special and involved situation uppermost in their minds again.

"Did you tell Henry of this decision of yours, David?" she asked. "What did he say?"

He hesitated. He was not going to tell her that Henry had as good as hinted that if he played his cards aright with the Countess Matilda he need not worry about finding the wherewithal to establish his monastery.

"He declared that I was . . . ambitious," he told her.

"Ambitious? But he did not say nay? And sent you to me!"

"Not, not for that."

"He sent y
ou, nevertheless." She paused. "We have to consider this, David, needfully. Not only this of the monastery. But Henry's attitude. For you, in especial. Henry is your friend and your sister's husband. But he is wily and devious - and he is King of England, with a realm to rule. In that game of kings we could find ourselves little more than pawns! You, a king's son, must know that. I am, in some fashion, in his hands. Because of my earldoms - Northampton, Huntingdon and the claim, in my name, to great Northumbria, once my father's. No earldoms may change hands without royal permission. And no Countess in her own right may marry without the King's agreement."

He nodded. "It is the same in Scotland."

"Think you, then, is Henry pushing you in my direction? And if so - why?"

David rubbed his chin. "It may just possibly be so. I do not know. But if so indeed, should we not rejoice? Myself, at least."

'I
rejoice, yes - whatever his reasons. Since you are more precious to me than any lands or titles. But you, David — you must consider Henry's design in this, and your own interest. I insist upon it, my love. For you are a prince of Scotland. And my earldoms and lands are English."

"You are saying that Henry may seek to have me holding English earldoms? For reasons of his own? Against Scotland?"

"I do not know. But I wonder. Not necessarily
against
Scotland, but to bind Scotland to him in some measure. Scotland is always a great concern of English kings, is it not? He has married a Scots wife. He has wed his daughter to the King of Scots. Might not this be something of the same?"

"If it is, lass, need I fret? If Henry loves Scotland and the Scots sufficiently to do all this, need we be wary? Better than invading our land with armies, as his father and Rufus did."

"You may be right. It may be nothing to
Scotland's hurt. Or yours. But - I
would not like to see Henry shackling you to him with
my
earldoms!"

"I am warned, at least! But Henry may be acting only my good friend - and yours."

"True. I hope so. For I would be sorrowful indeed if you decided, out of all this, that the risk was too great, and rejected me!"

That called for some further demonstration to the contrary, of course, and for a while discussion lapsed.

But presently the woman found another cause for demur, not exactly pushing him away but sitting up and restraining him somewhat. This time she laughed, if unsteadily.

"David mac Malcolm," she declared, "am I not of all women the most foolish? Here have I been discussing marriage and the disposal of my earldoms — not to speak of behaving in this shameless fashion. And in fact, I do not know that you
intend
to marry me! At least, you have not asked me yet!"

"Eh? Lord!" he said. And again, "Lord! Is it . . . can it be . . . ? Save us - it is true! I have not said it, no. Not in words. Forgive me, my heart. How could I have forgotten? All this talk, assumption. It is beyond belief." He slid down from the settle on which they sat, to his knees, to take her hand "Lady, fair
est of women, kindest, truest - I
humbly seek this hand in marriage. Seek to be your husband and help-meet and proud companion all the days of my life. Seek the haven of your love, the warmth of your arms, the bliss of your body, and your l
eal companionship on the journey of our lives. Will y
ou wed me, Matilda?"

Swallowing, wordless, she shook her head - but even a stupid man would scarcely have taken that as a negative.

It was enough eloquence for one evening, however belated.

Later still, when she saw him yawning - for he had ridden seventy miles that day - she declared that it was time that he sought his couch. She said it a little uncertainly. Taking up one of the cluster of already-lit lanterns, she took his hand to lead the way along the corridor to his room. At its door she paused.

"My heart," she said. "We say good night here?" That was a question.

He eyed her in the wavering lamplight. "You would . . . say otherwise?"

"I might!
, I am a weak woman."

"That is not how I would name you, my dear. But — I thank vou for saying it." "But . . . ?"

"I
am weak, also. And, and sorely tempted. Not by you, lass, but by the nature of me, in me. Yet . . . with you, for you, I desire more than the body's desire. I am but a sore saint, God help me! But with you I seek to show only the best part of me. We have awaited each other for long. We shall wait a little longer, shall we not? If I can! Now that I have the promise of joy-"

She did not speak.

He reached out to her. "You understand me, my love? You are not . . . hurt?"

"How could I be hurt, David? When you pay me so true a compliment. I am proud. The true, the best part of me, rejoices. The unworthy part will need to lean upon your strength, always. I thank you, my sore saint!" She drew away from him abruptly, thrust the lantern at him, and hurried off along the passage.

He looked after her, features working, a man torn and no saint indeed.

The travellers left again mid-day, on fresh horses from the Countess's well-filled stables, the parting controlled, low key, almost formal, in front of the children and the others.

"Tell Henry Beauclerc that I thank him. And that I know my own mind," she said. "He will not concede me Northumbria, I think. And Sim must be Earl of
Northampton, in due course. But y
ou are Earl of Huntingdon, in my eyes, from this day on. And master of all my substance, as my person. Tell him so, David. And rejoice me by endowing your monastery as first charge on it all. Make it an abbey, indeed."

He shook his head and rode away, not daring to look back.

11

T
hat
D
avid should
be riding through the great Forest of Ettrick, in South Scotland, a few weeks later, prospecting for the site of an abbey, certainly was something that he could not have foreseen. Yet that was the way it had worked out. Henry had been graciously pleased to indicate his concurrence with the Countess Matilda's ideas as to her future and the disposal of her earldoms and wealth - as well he might since so he himself had planned it - and had, in the end, actually encouraged David in his monastic venture, just why uncertain, although that man would have a reason. So, on the dispersal of the allied armies, after a satisfactory c
onfrontation with Robert de Bel
leme of Shrewsbury, David and Alexander had set off on their long journey northwards again, laden with thanks, goodwill and gifts, and taking with them the Prior Ralph and his dozen surviving colleagues. And at this stage Alexander had announced that he wished to be associated with the enterprise. In the name of their sainted mother. Let it be a joint venture. He would donate the necessary lands and charters and privileges, and David could pay for the work of building and equipping. It transpired that he was rather suspicious of Henry's support for the project, and argued that if it was good for the King of England to involve himself, then it was good for the King of Scots. Moreover, the monastery should undoubtedly be sited in Scotland, otherwise Henry would almost certainly claim much of the credit, and perhaps even take it over at some stage. As to exactly where, was a matter for discussion and selection, but he suggested somewhere in the Forest of Ettrick, which was royal property, a vast hunting demesne, almost empty, unpopulated, and might benefit greatly from such an establishment, a civilising influence as well as a useful place to lodge in on hunting trips, badly required. If David was a little doubtful as to the piety and disinterest behind all this, he had nevertheless recognised certain advantages. The cost of the exercise was beginning to weigh on his mind. He was loth to delve too deeply into Matilda's wealth before they were even wed; and he had insufficient of his own to purchase much land as well as pay for the construction. So the offer of royal land was not to be dismissed lightly. Moreover Prior Ralph indicated a distinct preference for a remote site - as at Pennant-Bachwy -the Tironensians being concerned to keep themselves from becoming contaminated by worldly preoccupations, the great danger in monastic Orders. And it was true that the establishment would best be sited in Scotland; he had promised his protection, and he was only in Cumbria on Henry's orders and sufferance and might easily be moved away. Galloway was too unsettled, exposed to invasion and war, whilst the Ettrick Forest area was almost an upland sanctuary, and fairly readily accessible from Caer-luel, up the Annan and Esk rivers.

When they had reached Caer-luel they had discovered all to be well. Fergus in Galloway, was exercising a strong hand, and this was having its effect on trouble-makers in Cumbria, so that the two provinces were more peaceable than had been the case in living memory. Alexander had left David there, and pressed on for Stirling with his host, wondering what
he
would find on his return home.