David the Prince - Scotland 03

by Nigel Tranter

  "I greet you, I greet you all," he said, "on this the twelfth anniversary of my accession to this throne of England. In token whereof I command this Crown-wearing. Let all my friends rejoice. And let all my unfriends take heed, and tremble."

  "God save the King's Grace!" Bishop Maurice of London, the only cleric present in evidence, intoned in a mellifluous voice, so much better attuned to the cathedral acoustics than William's high-pitched stammer.

  Everywhere the shout was taken up. "God save the King's Grace. God save the King's Grace!"

  Another flourish of trumpets was the signal for the great west doors to be flung open, to admit the procession. First came the King's Champion, a knight in full armour, white-painted, mounted on a huge pure white destrier or war-horse, white lance held high. Behind him came the royal Standard-Bearer, similarly mounted, bearing aloft the St. George Cross banner of England. The horses' iron-shod hooves clattered and slithered and drew sparks from the stone flags of the central aisle, as folk stared and gasped at such sight and sound in a church, some hastily crossing themselves. The two horsemen were followed by a splendidly-dressed double file of soldiers, on foot, halberds shouldered, marching to the rhythmic clash of cymbals, stamping the time.

  There was only a slight gap before Chief Justice Flambard appeared, bearing before him a purple velvet cushion on which rested the Crown of England, a heavy, open gold band heightened with four spikes topped with trefoil heads, all studded with pearls. Flambard walked alone. Behind him the others came two by two. William dc Warenne. Earl of Surrey, Her-vey's father, carrying the sceptre or baton; and beside him, Robert de Bclleme, Earl of Shrewsbury with the orb lopped by the cross. Next came Simon dc St. Liz, Earl of Northampton with the golden spurs on another cushion; and Henry Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick with the ring. These were followed by the two Montgomery brothers, Roger and Arnulf, Earls of Lancaster and Pembroke, each holding a glove, and looking distinctly offended to be so doing. Then, walking alone, was the King of Scots bearing upright the two-handed sword of state. These represented all the coronation symbols to be paraded. But not all those Rufus wished to be seen as supporting them. A group followed, carrying nothing, led by Gruffydd ap Cynan, Prince of Gwynedd and Richard, Prince of Cornwall, with a number of others including Saxon ealds and thanes -none of especially high rank, for all such were dead or imprisoned. Finally there was another file of the soldiers, with more cymbal-clashing.

  This illustrious column might well have looked highly impressive. But it was not intended to do so; and the desired end was achieved in two ways - by packing the individuals close together, so that they were all but treading on each other's heels, and by the soldiers, front and rear, forcing a very quick pace, timed by the cymbals. The result was an undignified, hurrying shuffle, which duly produced mocking smiles from some of the watching audience, frowns from others - and open laughter behind the King's chair. The horses of the Champion and Standard-Bearer misliking the cymbals, snorted and blew and sidled.

  This travesty of a coronation procession was hustled, almost like a file of prisoners in a Roman triumph, up to the chancel-steps, where Flambard lined up the token-bearers in front of William, the soldiers standing at either side. When all was in order, the cymbals fell silent and Flambard stepped forward to the King's left side, bowing low, with the crown on its cushion. The Bishop of London moved round from back to front, bowed in turn, and ceremoniously taking the crown, placed it carefully on William's head. Rufus presumably did not find it comfortable for he promptly took it off again, looked at it and replaced it - to titters of amusement from behind. The Bishop stepped back, raised a hand high, and pronounced a resounding benediction. Bishop Maurice was the only prelate readily available for this service; for Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, was banished the realm, Archbishop Thomas of York was sick, and anyway in disgrace, and most of the other sees, including Winchester itself, cither deliberately kept vacant or their occupants in prison.

  Flambard then summoned forward each of the symbol-bearers in due order, almost with a snap of his plump fingers. First Warwick with the ring, which he was stooping to place on the third finger of William's left hand, as signifying his marriage to his kingdom, when Flambard barked out for the Earl to kneel as he did it. Scowling, Warwick went down on one knee, to complete his task. Then Northampton was pointed forward, with the spurs - and since there were two of these, Gruffydd of Wales was gestured up to buckle one on the King's heel whilst Northampton did the other. This involved kneeling anyway, however sour the Welsh prince looked about it. Then the Montgomery brothers, Lancaster and Pembroke, were signed to put the gloves on the King's hands, again at the kneel. They obeyed stiffly, with ill-grace, Rufus grinning at their clumsy efforts to fit the things over unhelpful fingers. Then it was Shrewsbury's turn, to place the orb in the royal right hand and Surrey to put the sceptre in the left, William again making it difficult for the kneeling earls, with his gloved fingers fumbling.

  Finally Edgar came forward with the sword. At Flambard's order to kneel, he turned slowly and stared for a long moment at the man, features expressionless, so that even the Justiciar blinked. When he looked back at Rufus, he inclined his head and bent one knee barely perceptibly, before stepping over and thrusting the long hilt of the heavy sword towards the other. But William had the sceptre in his left hand and the orb in his right, and sat, unmoving. The two monarchs gazed into each other's eyes, with mutual loathing. Timeless moments passed thus, until at last Rufus put the orb into his lap and reached for the sword. Edgar stepped back,- lips tight.

  William waved the sceptre at Flambard, who raised his voice again.

  "God save the King!" he cried.

  Over and over again that cry was echoed by the assembly, those behind the throne, with the soldiers, leading— although it was noticeable how little lip-movement there was amongst the group in front of the monarch. At another signal from Flambard, the trumpets sounded again, and Rufus rose to his feet. He had difficulty with the orb until the Justiciar took it. Then he stepped over to the first white destrier, the Champion having dismounted. That man took sword and sceptre meantime, and two soldiers assisted the king up into the vacated saddle, and the two symbols were handed up to him. The sword he rested over his shoulder, because of its weight. The Champion took the beast's bridle and began to lead it down the central aisle, the Standard-Bearer and his banner close behind. The file of soldiers and the cymbalists followed on. Flambard hurriedly marshalled his party of humbled notables, cushions abandoned, and herded them along, in any order, the second party of soldiers immediately at their heels.

  So the King of England rode out of Winchester Cathedral into the sunlight to commence his parade through the city streets, wearing his crown. He was met in the forecourt by a band of mounted musicians playing a stirring marching tune; also by lines of gaily-caparisoned horses for his personal friends. There was one for Flambard now — but the former token-bearers still had to walk between the ranked and quick-marching soldiers.

  There was some cheering by groups of men-at-arms, but by and large the populace in the streets watched in silence.

  David mac Malcolm hurried and weaved his way through the crowd inside the church and seeking to leave, to the west doorway, to be in time only to see the royal procession leaving the forecourt area. Biting his lip at what he saw, and hastening after, he was nevertheless some time in catching up, on account of the crowds choking the narrow streets. But when he managed to do so, some way down the hill of the principal street, he was surprised to see that Edgar was no longer amongst the glumly-marching earls and lords. Gazing about him, he could see no sign of his brother. Turning he commenced to push his way back to the cathedral.

  In the forecourt, where privileged folk now strolled and chattered, he found his two friends Hugo and Hervey with his cousin Cospatrick of Dunbar and other Scots, all looking depressed and at a loss.

  "Edgar - my brother. The King - he is not there!" he panted. "He is not with the others, any more. I
think that he must have slipped away. Lost himself amongst the crowd. Before the soldiers could stop him. It would be quite easy. The streets are throng with folk."

  "A God's name — where is he now, then?" Dunbar cried. "The King - lost in this rabble!"

  "He would make for St. John's, I think, surely? The Hospice”

  "Then let us go. At once. We were waiting here for the execrable procession to return. Come . . ."

  "Where are my sisters? I must tell them . . ."

  "They are well enough," Hugo de Morville assured. "Henry Beauclerc has them in hand — a hand in each arm, indeed! He was escorting them back to the palace, the last I saw . . ."

  "Was my father there?" Hervey de Warenne demanded. "With the procession?"

  "I do not know. I looked only for my brother. But - yes, I think that he was . . ."

  "Come!" Dunbar exclaimed. "Back to the Hospice. There is Angus. Tell him."

  "And my Uncle Eustace," Hugo said.

  So the group beat their way through the crowds, downhill as they had come, through the poorer quarters. Being mounted it was easier, David on Edgar's horse, Hervey pillion behind, Hugo with his uncle, the flats of their swords driving a way for them.

  At St. John's they found all in a stir, men saddling horses and strapping on gear. Edgar was already there, set-faced and urgent with his commands. They were leaving, and at once. He would not stay another hour in this accursed city. Rufus would be some time making his damnable procession - their going would not be noticed. There was to be another banquet after. It would be hours before they were missed. They would outdistance any pursuit - although Rufus might well not seek them. He had had his infamous Crown-wearing . . .

  Dunbar and Angus were loud in agreement, the Constable also. Unfortunately, however, some of the Scots party had not yet returned.

  "You will wait and send them on after us, Davie?" the King said.

  "But... I would rather come with you. Back to Scotland."

  "That is not possible. I am sorry, lad - but it cannot be," Edgar told him. "That would bring Rufus after me. You are here as something of a hostage. And have you forgot our sisters?"

  "No. But ..."

  "It cannot be, David. Not yet. One day, I may be able to contrive it . . ."

  So, only minutes later, the three youths watched the Scots group ride off to the East Gate and out of Winchester, spurring fast as soon as they were beyond the great drawbridge.

  "So that is . . . all!" David said, almost bitterly for he who was seldom bitter. "The end of our hopes."

  "Your hopes," Hervey said. "We will never get away. We are prisoners, that is all. None want us, not even our own kin, sufficiently to risk the King's wrath."

  "So it will be back to Romsey," Hugo sighed. "To tutoring and Latin and nuns and watered ale. Your brother did not serve much to get us out of there. What of Henry Beauclerc? He seems friendly towards you and yours. Would he not aid to get us free of Romsey Abbey?"

  "I do not know. Would King William heed him? They also are unfriends . . ."

  2

  THE GREEN-CLAD cavalcade drew rein at Bramshaw Mill, as hitherto. This was the fourth New Forest hunt the three friends had attended; and the others had halted here also, for brief refreshment after the dozen-mile ride from Winchester, before dispersal to the various favourite glades of the vast forest area where the best sport might be looked for — the King, of course, choosing the most hopeful. It was a pleasant enough place to rest, by the stream-side, where the horses and hounds could drink, with greensward along from the mill for grazing — although the mill itself was rather disfigured by the beam which projected above the hoist in the gable from which dangled four bodies in chains, creaking and swaying in the breeze, one quite new by the look and smell; these were Saxons almost certainly, since the arms were handless and the eye-sockets empty, the prescribed punishment, before hanging, for Englishmen caught trespassing anywhere in the King's forests. But then it was quite difficult to find spots where there was grass and water and shelter, suitable, around the New Forest's perimeter, these days, which were not so decorated.

  The youths sat a little way apart, to eat their plain oaten cakes and dry old cold mutton from the satchels - which was all that the nuns had provided for them - not mixing with either the royal hunters' party nor with the Norman foresters and men-at-arms drafted for the day's beating, local folk not being permitted to enter the forest precincts even as beaters.

  "Your friend Henry might at least offer us a mouthful of his wine!" Hervey declared, as they watched the King and his companions eating and drinking very differently from themselves.

  "If the Princess Matilda was with us, it would be different!" Hugo said.

  "He must not seem to show us too much favour," David pointed out. "Or the King might not allow us to come at all. It is good of him to consider us and get us out for these hunts."

  "He only does it as an excuse to call at the Abbey, coming and going, and so see your sister, who appears to have smitten him!"

  "Perhaps. But it is good, for us. Better beating for the hunt in the forest than sitting in Romsey Abbey under Brother John, learning Latin!"

  Neither of the others could deny that. "We should be hunting, not beating," Hervey asserted. "We are not children any more. And better bred than most of these! I am almost eighteen years."

  That was an old story and required no comment. Presently the King rose and called for his horse. Immediately there was a stir as hunters moved and coalesced into their groups for the dispersal, the Chief Huntsman, Le Chiene, marshalled his beaters, to allot to each group, and the hounds moved in on the royal scraps. This was always a tense moment amongst the guests. For Rufus, who was an expert and practised hunter, preferred to have only the one companion with him in the forest, for the sake of better sport and less noise. Whom he would choose was an important matter for those at Court - and it was not always the monarch's reigning favourite, who might be a poor marksman or feeble horseman. Ivo de Vesci was the darling still; but he was by no means the best shot with a crossbow, and after the last hunt William had blamed him hotly for having missed a hart which he had graciously left for him.

  The King enjoyed keeping people on tenterhooks and he grinned at his party as Le Chiene allotted the beaters, assigning to the monarch three seasoned foresters, who would know the best places and be more skilful at driving the deer. The other groups could make do with the men-at-arms. Prince Henry beckoned the three from Romsey over to himself and Sir William de Breteuil, the Treasurer, who was one of the few friends he had at his brother's Court.

  "Walter," the King called, at length, gaily. "Walter Tirel - you will accompany me today. And see that your shooting is better than was Ivo's last week!"

  The beautiful dc Vesci looked daggers, even though the King turned to clap him on the shoulder consolingly before mounting. Walter Tirel, the Sieur de Poix from Ponthieu, had been the favourite whom de Vesci had dispossessed some eighteen months before, a handsome dark man some eight years his senior.

  As the others were mounting there was a diversion. An officer of the royal guard came riding in from the north, where lay Winchester, with a monk uncomfortably astride a spirited horse behind.

  "Sire!" he cried, saluting. "Monsieur Flambard sent me with this clerk. He has a message for Your Grace. The Chief Justice believed that you might wish to hear it."

  "A message, man? When I am hunting! From a monk?" Rufus snorted. "What foolery is this?"

  "No foolery, Sire," the cleric, a sturdy, sober man of middle years, declared. "I am Ulfric, Sub-Prior of St. Peter's Abbey at Gloucester. I have ridden all this way from there, near thirty leagues, these two days, at great discomfort . . ."

  "Well man - well! I am not interested in your discomforts. What has happened at Gloucester?"

  "It was a dream, Sire - a most notable dream. My lord Abbot Serlon said that for Your Grace's sake I must come and tell Your Grace . . ."

  "God in His Heaven - give me patience! Dreams,
now!"

  "I pray you to heed me, Sire. For your own good. For it was a sore dream, a sore omen. I dreamed three nights ago that the Lord Christ sat upon His throne in Heaven . . ."

  "Rot your bones, clerk - you dreamed! You say your name is Ulfric? Ulfric, was it? So you are an Englishman, a Saxon! And you dare to come to me, the King, with your wretched dreams! I have a mind to have you flogged, fellow!"

  "The dream concerns your royal self, Sire. And my Abbot sent me — who is a good Norman." The monk spoke quietly, determinedly, an obstinate, stolid man. "And the Chief Justice sent me on . . ."

  "Then Flambard should have had greater sense! He grows addle-pated as well as fat. Well, fool - out with it. But be quick about it. What of Christ in Heaven?"

  "The Lord Christ, Highness, sat on His throne amidst the cherubim and the seraphim, all wings and eyes. And a holy angel brought three women to the golden steps, amongst the four-and-twenty elders. Poor women - Englishwomen, Lord King. And these tore their hair and beat their breasts. And they cried, they cried . . ." Even the stalwart cleric's voice faltered for a moment. "They cried 'Saviour of the human race, look down! Look down in pity on Thy people. Who groan, Lord God, who groan . . . under the yoke ... of William!'" He almost choked on that last word.

  The King also all but choked. For the moment he could find no words.

  "And . . . and the Lord Christ answered them, Sire," the other forced himself to continue. "He said, He said, that He had seen the sufferings of His people and was not heedless. He said that He sorrowed greatly - but sorrowed the more for William, His disobedient servant. Who, who had sworn in his coronation oath to protect His people, not to persecute them. He said that . . . this day . . . William must choose."

  Despite himself, Rufus leaned forward on his horse. "Choose? Choose what, man?"