Eyebrows were raised at this announcement, but none were competent to question the decision of the Ard Righ on the matter save one of the other righ or mormaors, and these all held their peace. Cospatrick, who might have commented, was not one of the righ, his earldoms of Dunbar and March not being mortuaths but minted specially for him, south of Forth. But one voice was upraised, nevertheless, and few there would have asserted that its owner had no interest or right to speak.
"I make protest," Duncan mac Malcolm declared strongly. "As eldest son of the King, I should have all along been Prince of Strathclyde. That has been denied me for no good reason, and given to one of my later half-brothers, Edward. Now another, more junior still, who has already been given Dunkeld and the primacy, receives Fife. If it is to go to any of the King's kin, I say that it should go to me."
There was a murmur of agreement from many, led by the speaker's father-in-law.
"The matter is not for discussion," Malcolm grated. "Proceed to the business of this council, my lord Bishop."
Margaret hung her head, hands clutching each other.
"Yes, Highness," Fothad said hurriedly. "This of the realm. The loss by invasion of Cumbria and the Hebrides. A grievous matter calling for urgent redress. What is to be done, my lords?"
A medley of voices were raised at that general query.
Malcolm smashed a fist on the arm of his chair. "Quiet! This is a council not a cattle-fair! Speak in due order, earls first."
Since Ethelred, now of Fife, was scarcely competent to advise on national security, Angus, the oldest mormaor present, spoke up.
"What is there to do but muster again and march?" he demanded. "Firstly into Northumbria and Cumbria. We can do no other. The greatest army we have ever fielded. And whilst we are at this, be building ships. To win back the Hebrides. We should have done this long since — built a great fleet."
There was some acclaim for this straightforward if simplistic proposal, but there was dissent also. Martacus, Mormaor of Mar — he still refused the title of Earl — voiced it.
"Ships take a long time to build. And require trained masters and crews, especially ships-of-war. It would be years before we could seek to retake the Hebrides. And why should one more invasion of England prove successful? Your Highness has invaded times without number and achieved nothing."
"Save booty and plunder!" Maldred put in — and gained the first laughter of the day, although he had not meant it humorously.
Cospatrick took that up. "The Lord Maldred is right. If there is to be invasion again, then it must be better led and controlled," he asserted. "Always this of burning and raping and looting is the prime concern, not conquest of territory or lasting advantage. I say that we must have better leadership."
There was tense silence at this pronouncement, for all knew that it was the monarch himself who most favoured the looting and rapine.
Maldred, with little to lose in the matter, backed that. "Always our forces, after the first days across Tweed, are more concerned with driving back cattle, captives and gear, than in fighting the enemy. Any new invasion would require to be led otherwise, to achieve any success."
"Hark at my heroic warrior cousins!" the King exclaimed. "The Earl Cospatrick, you will all recollect, has scarcely been prominent in the lead of our arms, these past years! Or ever. Perhaps he will lead the next expedition, Maldred of Atholl aiding him? And see how they fare!"
"I could conceive worse arrangements, with Cumbria to win back."
"Ah, yes — you are touched on the raw wound now, cousin. You would not fight before. But, Cumbria — you would draw the sword for Cumbria!"
There was some exclamation and comment at that, cut into by an upraised voice from the improvised dais — the Queen's voice; and it was surprisingly strong and clear despite her frail appearance.
"My lords — already you talk of war and the sword! Surely we have learned that little advantage lies that way, only bloodshed, death, loss — and Norman success at the end. So it has been each time. In arms and numbers they are stronger than we are — it is as simple as that. Surely the time has come to attempt other persuasion than the sword?"
"In the end it is the sword which decides," her husband said flatly.
She laid a hand on his arm. "In the end it is God who decides," she amended. "Let us seek His aid sooner rather than later."
"You do that," Malcolm told her, grimly. " You are good at praying, lass. We shall say Amen — but call also upon stout hearts, strong arms and cold steel!"
"But not wits?" she asked. "God gave us wits to use, did He not?"
"What mean you?"
"My lords, I am only a weak woman — but it seems to me that this King William can be dealt with better than by using arms weaker than his own. He is not the strong man his father was. He has two brothers, one older than he, who resent his power. He has lost his wisest adviser — my good friend the Archbishop Lanfranc, who has gone to God. And he, William, we hear to be ill. . ."
"All of which says that now is the time to strike!" Malcolm interrupted.
Patiently she shook her head. "Rather that it is the time to use our wits. By his armed attack and occupation of Cumbria, which was never English territory, William has put himself grievously in the wrong. In the sight of all men. Use that, I say. He calls himself Lord Paramount of Scotland. He is not that, all here know — but use it against him. Write to him. Declare that he has broken faith. Declare that fealty is a two-edged sword. Your oath of fealty to him requires that he, in turn, supports you, does it not? Does not steal from you, as he has done. Demand redress — or your oath is nullified. And, at the same time, write to the Pope . . ."
"The Pope of Rome! A God's Name — why that?"
"Because the Pope presides over the only court in Christendom superior to William's. Even the Conqueror heeded the Pontiff. Moreover, this Rufus needs the Pope's goodwill. A new Archbishop of Canterbury falls to be appointed. Rufus wishes to have the Norman, Bishop Anselm of Bee, appointed. But we know that Bishop Odo, now in France, seeks the Pope's preferment, supported by the King of France. Probably also by Robert of Normandy. His uncle is the last man William would wish to be Archbishop. So he will not desire to offend the Pope."
"But — why should the Pope heed me? He owes me nothing."
"You have done much for Holy Church, my lord King. More than Rufus has ever done. Have you not built the great new minster at Dunfermline? Made grants to St. Andrews? Encouraged and succoured pilgrims? Lanfranc will have kept His Holiness informed of all these . . ."
"Your work, Margaret — not mine."
"Ours, my lord. Now is the time to remind Rome." Her voice had weakened with this long speech, and having to raise it to carry against the flapping of the tentage in the breeze of that lofty place. But she summoned a new surge of urgency. "Moreover, you have something to offer. In the very area you make protest over — Strathclyde. The distant and decayed see of Whithorn, which King MacBeth held was Columban and the archdiocese of York claimed belonged to Durham, and therefore Rome. Offer that back. It is not important to you, little to pay in return for Cumbria."
There was a hush as men considered that, its ingenuity, its subtle persuasion, its likely effectiveness. Some, like Maldred, saw it all as one more weakening of the Celtic Church, one more betrayal. Especially, for the King of Scots actually to appeal to Rome. But most, undoubtedly, only saw it as a most telling weapon to be used against William Rufus, and cared little or nothing for the merely spiritual allegiance of a small and remote area of Galloway already under the temporal sway of the Orkney earls.
Cospatrick was the first to speak. "Excellent!" he cried. "Most excellent! The Queen's Highness has the wits of us all! This could trouble Rufus more than any armed invasion. It would, likewise, bring in the Archbishop Thomas of York, and the Bishop of Durham, on the side of reconciliation. And so affect Northumbria also. I say that Her Highness is right. Send the two letters, my lord King. Forthwith. And ensure that each learns wha
t is in the other!"
There were cries of support. Margaret had at least succeeded in driving a wedge between Maldred and Cospatrick.
"It would give us time," Malcolm conceded. "Time for greater, stronger muster."
Another voice was raised, new to most there. The Mormaor Colin of the Mearns was dead and his son Malpender reigned in his stead.
"My lord King, there is more to give you pause, I think, in this of invasion, than merely Rufus of England. My mortuath abuts the Mounth. There is strong word coming from beyond the Mounth, from Druim-Alban, that revolt is seething there. That, after the failure of the Hebridean campaign, many chiefs and lords of the Highland West are murmuring against Your Highness. They say that you deserted them, left them to face Magnus of Norway unsupported, that you are a Lowland king with no concern for the Highlands. They threaten to rise against you..."
"Fools!" Malcolm cried. "Ingrates! They did little enough to aid against Magnus. They talk, that is all, these Highlandmen. They cannot hurt me. Mere idle threats.'*
"Perhaps, Highness. But the word says more than talk. Your own royal brother is concerned — the Prince Donald. The word is that he will head the disaffected chiefs in your overthrow. Either of the Highland parts or of all your kingdom. He has always claimed that he should have had the crown, being, being . . ."He left the word "legitimate" to be inserted by his hearers. "If you were to march into England, Highness," Malpender ended, "there could be war at home. Donald Ban might steal your throne."
There was uproar in the council. The King had to beat his chair for quiet.
"Donald is a weakling and no fighter," he declared. "I am in no danger from him."
"Nevertheless, Highness, I would take due heed of this," the Earl Madach of Atholl put in. "I have heard the same word. There is much unrest in the West. Atholl marches with Mamlorn, where Donald Ban lives. There is much coming and going, I hear. And not only from the West but from Moray. Where MacBeth's kin still rule."
Silence followed that. Madach was a solid man and no scaremonger. And any mention of the great northern mortuaths of Moray and Ross, remote but unswervingly hostile to the present regime, was apt to cause something of a blight.
Maldred looked over at Duncan, who had for years been brought up by Donald Ban, and wondered.
"We shall watch my brother Donald, then, as well as the Highland chiefs, never fear," Malcolm assured. "Likewise Moray. But these are as nothing to the English. Bishop Fothad — you will word these letters to be sent, for my signature and seal — no doubt the Queen aiding you. Meanwhile, we shall muster, partial muster. Not at Dunsinane, but here in Lothian. That the news of it reaches William Rufus the more surely. Leaves him in no doubt that we are ready to march — if he fails to respond in fair fashion to my letter. March south, not north against rebels. Aye — and something else for his spies to report. Donald's also, perhaps. I intend to build a mighty fortress here. On this rock of Dunedin. That is in part why I hold this council here. The Normans build great castles on the Tyne and at Caer-luel, to threaten us, to command the routes into Northumbria and Cumbria. I shall do the same, only a deal better. On this rock shall rise a fortress which will make the Normans' castles seem like bairns* houses! And another on the rock of Stirling. But this one first. Never again shall the English march up through Lothian unthreatened. Forby, others shall take heed also." The King did not actually look at Cospatrick, but few doubted his meaning.
There was a buzz of reaction and conjecture.
Malcolm rose. "This council is ended," he said. "There is food and drink for all down at the cashel. Where my wife intends that a new abbey shall arise." He grimaced. "We shall tell the Pope that also!" He turned and strode out, as unceremoniously as he had entered.
"How say you to that?" Cospatrick asked Maldred. "I wondered why Malcolm chose Edinburgh for this council — which was no council! It is to be a fist shaken in my face, I think. As much against me as against the Normans."
"Or against your good-son, Duncan? Or both of you!" Cospatrick grinned mirthlessly. "We shall see," he said.
IT WAS A strange experience to be riding down through Northumbria and the English North neither burning nor slaying nor yet opposed, indeed almost in holiday mood — although in Malcolm Canmore's company such an atmosphere was difficult to sustain. Nevertheless it was a resounding and practically unique occasion, apt for some sort of celebration. Never in living memory, or well beyond that, had a Scottish monarch progressed in style and fair company peaceably through the English countryside, all clad in their finest, banners flying but not a gleam of naked steel in sight.
William Rufus had indeed made a fair response to Malcolm's letter and the carefully leaked details of that sent to the Pope — although he had taken his time about it. But there was reason for that. All England knew, and by now most of Scotland too, that King William believed that he was dying. He had taken to his bed at Gloucester, and was in the process of putting his earthly realm in order so that he might be better received at his entry into the heavenly one — as his father, and so many another, had done before him. Just what his ailment might be remained unspecified; but it was sufficient for him to require the most influential of prayers — including the Pope's, naturally — and to send a safe-conduct to Scotland with the request that Malcolm should come in person, with his grievances, to a dying man's bedside, so that all their differences might be settled in holy amity and goodwill. Also, he suggested, that the saintly Queen Margaret should likewise pray for him. Nothing was actually said in the letter to Malcolm about the return of Cumbria, but since that was the main issue between them, surely it could be taken that a settlement was envisaged.
So the colourful and mainly cheerful throng rode southwards through the early August richness, with the English scene looking at its verdant and bountiful fairest — where it was not still a charred desert from the Conqueror's politic devastations, that is. The safe-conduct had stipulated the exact route to be taken, which first was on the east side, through Northumbria, not west through Cumbria as would have been shorter and more appropriate. Robert de Moubray, Earl of Northumbria, had met them at the Aln, with a large company, apparently to act as escort, without contributing notably to the gaiety. The two parties kept fairly carefully apart throughout.
For that matter, the Scots themselves were apt to ride in separate groups — Malcolm's own, Cospatrick's, and a gay and noisy younger company, consisting of three of the princes, Edward, Edgar and Ethelred, and the younger of the mormaors and thanes. Edmund, the black sheep, was none knew where. The Queen was not present, having been with difficulty brought to Edinburgh from her summer-time hermitage in Forfar Loch, in no state of health for lengthy travel. She would superintend the building work on the rock of Dunedin, no doubt more interested in the small personal oratory or chapel she was erecting there than in the fortifications. Duncan was travelling with them, but very noticeably avoiding his father and half-brothers and riding with Cospatrick. Maldred was in some measure able to bridge the gaps between the parties, through his friendship with Prince Edward and his link with Madach in the King's group.
Cospatrick frequently proved to be a better guide than did his enemy Moubray, his years of roaming England as a wandering friar giving him the advantage. He was also instrumental in causing the cavalcade to call in at Durham, where he carefully maintained relations with Bishop William and Prior Turgot — and where, on the nth of August, he actually persuaded Malcolm to assist in laying the foundations-stones of part of the new cathedral to be erected there.
Turning south-westwards at York, they threaded the dales and climbed over the great moors into Mercia, and so down through the Peak country, to the valleys of the Dove and the Tame and the Avon, and finally through the pleasant Malvern Hills. It made a long journey, but there was no especial hurry and it made a welcome change for most of the travellers.
But any pleasure there was in it stopped at Gloucester. The place was an armed camp and not a friendly one. Indeed the Scots
were halted peremptorily, well back from the city with its great Benedictine abbey, wherein William was lodging and where a new minster was being built. In no respectful fashion they were instructed to camp and wait; and when Malcolm demanded to be taken into the presence of King William, at once, he was informed that the King's Grace was not available, was in fact away hunting in the Forest of Dean. When they expressed astonishment at this activity on the part of a man so gravely ill, they were assured that the monarch no longer felt himself to be dying, or in any danger, God and His saints having suddenly effected an all but miraculous cure.
Moubray rode on to investigate, but the Scots had no option but to wait as instructed.
They waited, in fact, to some tune, no word reaching them before night-fall, no indication that their presence was acknowledged or even known. Next morning it was the same. By mid-day, Malcolm's offence and resentment knew no bounds. He ordered all his party to mount, brushing aside the protests of the screen of guards they had acquired, to ride into the city.
But long before they reached the stretch of Roman wall which marked Gloucester's central area, a sufficiently large and determined company of armed men came to halt them, curtly ordering them back whence they had come. With Malcolm's fury exploding in awesome fashion, Moubray of Northumbria materialised from the midst, in most evident discomfort. After some throat-clearing, he announced that he was commanded by the renowned William, by God's grace King of the English, to declare that he, the King, did not afford audience upon demand to any, especially to rebels and faith-breakers. If there was any issue which Malcolm of Scotland wished for decision, it could be placed before the suitable English court for judgement. Meantime, the Scots would return to their camp and await instructions.
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