It was when he found himself kneeling to receive the Elements of the nuptial mass that it dawned upon him that they were now one, man and wife, joined together for all time, and that none could put them asunder - and he all but choked at the surge of emotion this blinding recognition generated within him. He turned to Matilda and found her to be considering him intently, almost anxiously. Her lips moved soundlessly. He nodded, and her eyes lightened.
The final benediction given, the trumpets blared again, this time a prolonged, triumphant paean. The King and Queen moved out first, by the south transept. Waiting until they were gone, the bridal couple, arm-in-arm, proceeded down the length of the building to the west door, through the smiling but critical throng, and out into the cold February afternoon, where further crowds awaited them. Matilda's chief steward and a servant came up, with a fur cloak for her, and with leather bags filled with coins, and from these the happy pair threw token handfuls of silver to the gathering, leaving most of the contents however to be handed out in more judicious and dignified fashion as they progressed through the narrow streets. A horse-litter was waiting for her, but Matilda dismissed it, despite the weather, saying that they had walked together from the first wedding that they had attended, almost seven years ago, and they would walk again — even though Northampton's cobbled causeways were scarcely so well-cleaned for the occasion as had been royal Winchester's. Henry and Maud, who had come round to join them, drew the line at this; but the children were there, eager, excited, and David asserted his husbandly authority for the first time by insisting that they should accompany them. So, with young Simon, Earl of Northampton, proudly leading the way, small Matilda clutching her mother's left hand — difficult, in that the Countess had to use it also to hitch up her long silver skirts above the cobbles' filth -and Waltheof holding David's right, they moved on towards the castle, through the packed streets and alleys, the steward and his men clearing the way as well as distributing the largesse. Popular proceeding as this was naturally, there could be no doubt as to the Countess being well-loved, in herself, by the townsfolk. That this was not lost on Matilda was revealed when David asked if she was not cold, and she asked in return who could be cold when wrapped, not only in his love and in her children's but in that of her people?
There was no privacy for them at the castle, where the royal party and most of the guests had arrived before them, and there was nothing for it but to submit to the prolonged wedding-feast and the still more prolonged entertainment and dancing thereafter.
But as the short winter's day drew to an early dusk, David decided that enough was sufficient. He went to Henry and told him that they had eight miles to ride to Earl's Barton, eastwards, and it was almost dark already, and beginning to rain. He begged leave for his wife and himself to retire, and if possible discreetly.
The King, after the usual comments and innuendoes, with his wife's helpful touch and nod, gave the required permission. Thankfully David returned to Matilda, who said that she must say farewell to the children, now in a private chamber of the castle, with the woman Editha. So they slipped out of the hall, and David accompanied her to the children's room, where there was a touching scene of parting. The boys were not greatly upset, but the little girl was much distressed and clung to her mother, sobbing. They were going back to Normandy with their Aunt Alicia, Countess of Leicester, for a month or two, then on to Matilda's own uncle, the Count Stephen d'Aumale, her mother Judith's brother and nephew of the Conqueror. This promised adventure for the boys, but their sister saw it otherwise. The farewell left the adults feeling guilty, the mother at the desertion, David at being the cause of it.
Without returning to the hall and company, the pair reached the courtyard by a side-door, collected their horses from the stables, and wrapping themselves in heavy travelling-cloaks, took the road eastwards, in the rain, alone together at last. It took some time for the feeling of guilt to wear off.
* * *
Earl's Barton was the principal manor of the Honour of Huntingdon - as was Earl's Thorpe for Northampton - although not the caput or seat of the earldom, which was at Huntingdon Castle itself, in the small town of the name, sited on the River Ouse. Earl's Barton was placed just over the shire's border, on the Nene near Wellingborough, a fine place apparently - as it certainly should be if it was the choicest of no fewer than one hundred and ninety manors in the Honour of Huntingdon, scattered over eleven counties, although mainly in Huntingdonshire itself, all since last night David's personal property. He could by no means take it all in, as Matilda told him the scope of it as they rode into the wet fenland wind. He had realised that the earldom was rich; but one-hundred-and-ninety manors was almost incomprehensible as a conception. The vast majority of them, to be sure, were in the hands of the earldom's vassals, who paid for them to their lord in money, grain, wool, hides and knight's service, the last so important to the entire feudal system which the Normans had perfected. The Honour, she revealed, could total no fewer than two-hundred-and-twenty-five knight's fees. These were not knights in the sense that he had just been made a knight, of course, but only in that each so-called knight's fee required the vassal to provide a knightly leader, trained in war, mounted and fully armoured, along with two sergeants and a troop of armed men or archers, varying from ten to fifty, ready for war, for up to forty days' service in any given year. Some great manors were worth a dozen knights' fees, others only half of one, depending on size, richness of the land and of population, although most fees ran to eight hundred acres or one plough-gate. This general system was well known to David, naturally - it was the extent of the Honour of Huntingdon which so surprised him. In theory, therefore, his personal armed strength could reach seven or eight thousand men, Northampton's slightly more. Of these, since all was held of the Crown, Henry could call upon him at any time to field two-thirds for war at home, and up to one-third for foreign war. Hence the significance of fealty and the control of earldoms.
As for Earl's Barton itself, although David had never been there, he was assured that it was a fair and pleasant place amongst the Nene meadows, with its own Barton Chase and the two-miles-long lake of Ashby Water nearby, this one of the finest wildfowl haunts in the county, with other hunting and hawking facilities not far off. Huntingdonshire was notably rich in forest, hurst and brake as well as fen, indeed one of the sheriffdoms entirely subject to the Norman forest laws. Matilda had always preferred this manor to that of Earl's Thorpe, but her husband had favoured the latter.
That evening, reaching the place in the windy dark, it might have been anywhere to David. But blazing log fires and warm rooms held their own welcome, and discreet servants were attentive without being intrusive. The couple had eaten more than sufficient at the castle banquet, and although an excellent repast awaited them here, they contented themselves with sipping mulled wine before the hall fire.
They eyed each other questioningly, almost warily, as a silence grew, save for the crackle of the fire and the whine of the wind outside. Matilda suddenly reached out a hand to him.
"David — we said that we would always be honest with each other, did we not? Let us be honest now. We have both longed for this day, this night, for years. Longed for each other, our bodies as well as our hearts and souls. Are we children, to dissemble now?"
"God bless you!" he exclaimed, and throwing an arm about her, moved for the stairway.
In the large bedchamber above, in the warmly genial light of another aromatic birch-log fire, they held each other close. Then urgently David began to undress her, less than expertly perhaps, so that, laughing, she had to assist him. He was no untutored innocent as far as women were concerned, but his engagements hitherto had been apt to be of the earthy sort, with uncomplicated country girls and co-operative females of only intermittent virtue, not with high-born ladies, richly clad, who might well have different priorities and preferences as well as much more difficult garb. So Matilda's frank co-operation now was a comfort and a relief- and he swiftly recognised
that there was no lack of basic enthusiasm here either, no coy pretences. Indeed, naked presently, when she drew away a little from eager hands, it was not in any shrinking fashion but to stand there before him, turning a little this way and that in the firelight, most clearly offering display of herself — yet peering at his face, it seemed almost anxiously.
She was in fact, superb, her person as proudly rich and fulfilling as her facial features were beautiful, mature yes but firm, generously rounded, essentially, challengingly woman, lissom still, long-legged, deep-breasted, dark of aureola and groin, gleaming white elsewhere, belly swelling to match her hips.
He swallowed, all but groaned, and shook his head.
"Say it!" she got out "Tell me - tell me, I say! Am I. . . still desirable? I am no longer young. With three children borne. No man has seen me thus, for many years. Indeed never, just so. For, for . . ." She faltered. "I have sought to keep myself as, as once I was. For this day. But . . ." Her voice tailed away.
"My dear, my dear," he cried. "You do not know what you say! You are lovely, utterly desirable, an incomparable delight beyond all telling. You, you wring the heart of me with your beauty. And more than the heart, by God . . .!"
"In truth, David? You do not kindly cozen? This firelight is kindly . . ."
"Lord, woman - look at me! Do I seem to cozen? Does my body not speak full truth, even if my tongue were to lie! A plague - aid me off with these wretched clothes . . ."
Nothing loth she came to help him - yet by her nearness delayed the business by distracting his hands to her delectable self. So they wrestled and laughed and panted, until at length he was rid of his clinging, restraining garments — and the proof of his assertions was amply evident to still any last doubts she might have entertained.
Picking her up bodily, he ran with her to the great canopied bed, time for talk undoubtedly over.
There were over twelve hours until day would dawn.
Part Two
13
AFTER TWO WEEKS of unalloyed bliss, days spent in splendid idleness, or hawking or visiting parts and personages in the great Honour of Huntingdon, with long nights of delight, the Earl and Countess set out for the North. David, although now to be styled Earl of Huntingdon, was still governor of Cumbria, and in a more vague and unofficial way ruler of Strathclyde also. So he had no lack of responsibilities, and was a little anxious as to what might have transpired in his absence -although winter was the time when incidents were least likely, with all campaigning and sea-raiding difficult. Matilda had made it clear that she expected to accompany him, although he assured her that travelling conditions would be less trying later; but she insisted that she had married him to be with him, not to be some stay-at-home guardian of his new southern possessions. She would not have sent her children to Normandy otherwise. Besides, she had been constrained and trammelled hereabouts for too long as it was. She was commencing a new life and was eager to make a start.
David had no reason to complain of any delay or hampering on their journey — not because of the women anyway, for she took a tirewoman and a maid-servant with her, and ensured that they were good horsewomen. Nevertheless it took eight days to reach Caer-luel, through a rain-soaked and high-rivered countryside.
There he found all reasonably well, although the Viscount Richard had broken a leg hunting and Hugo de Morville, not wishing to trouble David in the circumstances, had taken temporary command — and appeared to have done very well. David was thankful that it was not Hervey de Warenne who had taken this initiative, and whose methods might well have displayed more vigour than tact. Fergus of Galloway, of course, was a tower of strength, to the north — even though his own methods likewise caused David some little anxiety.
Matilda settled in well amongst the mainly Norman establishment at Caer-luel, all young men and appreciative of feminine company, especially when good-looking. From the first, David found her a positive help in his administration,
indeed, not only in that he could discuss problems and policies with her, knowing that she understood and approved his general attitudes, but that, in backing them up before the others she enhanced his authority. He had ample powers, to be sure, to enforce his authority, but preferred to carry his colleagues with him. And Matilda emanated a quiet but unmistakable air of authority of her own.
To remind all that he was back, and in the saddle, David made a tour round the Scottish territories under his supervision, when April made travel through the Lowland hills practicable. He took Matilda - indeed part of the object was to introduce her to Scotland in general and, if possible, to Alexander its king in particular.
Of course Shiel Kirk was early on the list of calls. Matilda was enchanted with the place and much interested in all that went on. Clearly she made a great impression on Prior Ralph. In fact, her enthusiasm was such that her husband began to judge her almost as much a danger to his treasury as was the Prior, approving of this extension and that and suggesting further improvements and refinements of her own. And she was in a position to all but choke off his guarded doubts and protests by asking him why he thought that she had handed over to him in its entirety one of the richest earldoms in England, if it was not that the might no longer have to worry over matters such as this? What more worthy use was there for Huntingdon's wealth then glorifying God adequately in this lovely place?
The work was, in fact, proceeding apace, although winter conditions had apparently held things up somewhat. Least progress showed on the church itself, inevitably, for on this all must be perfection, the masonry hewn to an exacting standard, . the carving meticulous - and skilled masons did not grow on every tree of the Forest of Ettrick. As well as the building work, ground was being cleared for crop-growing, orchards and gardens, essential drainage put in hand, and the beginnings of the sheep and cattle stock accumulated. More money was urgently-required.
From Shiel Kirk they made their way down Tweed to Ersildoune in Lauderdale, where Cospatrick welcomed them warmly. He took them to see the small Benedictine monastery of Melross, founded by his father for his own purposes, and now rather run-down and neglected, with only three or four monks remaining. The site was dramatic, on a high spine of land where Leader met Tweed, the place all but islanded. The buildings however were utilitarian, modest. David found himself inclined to boast moderately how much finer the Abbey of Shiel Kirk was going to be - until he caught Matilda's amused glance.
Whilst at Ersildoune they made an excursion further down Tweed a dozen miles, to where Teviotdale branched off westwards. Two items took David there. In the Forest of Jedworth, near the mouth of Teviotdale, his eldest brother Edward, Prince of Strathclyde, had died in 1093, wounded at Alnmouth where his father had been slain, the spot now marked and being called Edward's Aisle. Also, the Northumbrian border came close here, and there had been a number of raids by Northumbrians recently into Cospatrick's territories, which called for redress. So David made a pilgrimage to Edward's Aisle, and arranged to have a stone carved, in the Celtic fashion, and set up there. He had been only nine years at Edward's death but remembered him as quite the finest, noblest of his brothers as well as the eldest, a most grievous loss to Scotland. Surveying part of the march with Northumbria, David was struck by the remarkably strong natural position and strategic significance of a site there named Rook's Burgh, where Teviot joined Tweed, the two great rivers forming a long whaleback ridge at their confluence, this with a notably narrow neck which, if ditched and moated, would make the position all but impregnable. Indeed there were the remains of fortifications crumbling thereon, presumably Pictish. A strong castle sited there would be of enormous value in protecting a vulnerable section of the borderline from Northumbrian invasion. David promised to speak to Alexander about this. Cospatrick pointed out, incidentally, that the Forest of Jedworth, part of the greater Ettrick, was quite the finest piece of hunting territory in Southern Scotland.
Leaving Cospatrick after a couple of days, they moved on northwards up Lauderdale, Matilda del
ighted with this fair land of tall green hills, foaming rivers, heather moors and forests of gnarled and ancient pines, such as they never saw in the South. From the head of Lauderdale they climbed over a lofty pass of the Lammermuir hills, and from its summit looked out over the lovely land of Lothian, wide, rich and fertile, to the gleaming cordon of the Scottish Sea, blue and silver, with Fife beyond, and away to the north-west the jagged purple outliers of the Highland mountains. In the middle distance rose the isolated peak of Arthur's Chair and its neighbouring fort-crowned rock of Dunedin, where David had watched at his mother's death-bed twenty-one years before and at Edgar's unhappy couch more recently. The sight aroused mixed feelings in that man, but his wife, used to the more level landscapes of East Anglia and the Fens, exclaimed that she had never seen so magnificent a vista.
They came to Edinburgh, tired, in the long light of an early May evening, with the afterglow behind the hills beyond the Scotwater. Less than eager for the gloomy atmosphere of the fortress-palace up on the rock, David sought the hospitality of the Celtic Church cashel of St. Nicholas, under Arthur's Chair, where they were kindly, if simply, entertained, despite the suspicions with which that Church viewed the Rome-inclined present royal house. They got on very well with the Columban monks, in fact.
In the morning they climbed up to Dunedin, mainly to visit the tiny, plain Queen's Chapel which Margaret had built for her own private worship, so astonishingly different from the splendid minster she had erected at Dunfermline. In this quiet and humble shrine, so much more like a Celtic cell indeed than one of her own Romish churches, they said a prayer for her soul's peace - which was not in doubt - and another for their own, which might well be. Then they set off on the thirty-five mile journey through the west of Lothian and Calatria, for Stirling, with the Scottish Sea narrowing to the Firth of Forth on their right.
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