David the Prince - Scotland 03

by Nigel Tranter

  23

  IF COUNCILS WERE to be judged by their length and the amount of business transacted, this one held in September in the fortress of Dunedin at Edinburgh, was surely notable. The first major royal assembly of the reign, with representatives from all over the kingdom, it had started on the Feast of St. Hyacinthus, the 11 th, in the great bare dining-hall of the castle, in good style and even some initial enthusiasm, for there was much novel and potentially exciting for all the realm in what was to be discussed and decided, the impact of a fresh and vigorous mind on the affairs of the nation. But it was now the 14th and enthusiasm was flagging noticeably, especially amongst the young Normans, barons, knights and officers, on whom David was attempting to remodel and revitalise the distinctly jaded, haphazard, not to say crumbling patriarchal realm he had inherited, into a modern, twelfth century feudal-system state, organised, law-abiding, productive and effective. The King recognised that it would all take time, a lot of time and patience and learning by experience. But a start had to be made — and this was that start, at Edinburgh, however tedious for those unaccustomed to such indoor and non-martial exercises, debate, exposition, patient listening and decision-drafting.

  It was not helped, to be sure, by the fact that few of the Normans could read or write, this applying also to many of the Scots lords; so that inevitably much of the detailed work of the council had to be in the hands of churchmen, always apt to be long-winded by fighting-men's standards. Added to the fact that the new Chancellor, who acted chairman under the King's presidency, was inexperienced - for now that Robert was Bishop and Primate, he had had to be replaced by Herbert the new Abbot of Shiel Kirk - and expedition could scarcely be expected.

  It had taken until this fourth morning to get to the matter of the proposed parish system, an issue close to David's heart, whereby the entire land would in time be divided up into parishes with dioceses, for civil as well as religious administration, this not only greatly increasing efficiency, it was hoped, but bringing much closer church and state in a way which should benefit both.

  It was when Chancellor Herbert had announced this as the fourth day's main programme, pointing out that it was bound to be a very large issue and must be very carefully considered, that there developed a revolt. Hugo de Morville, now Deputy Great Constable, came to David presently to inform him that his fellow-Normans had had enough and to spare. They could take no more of this endless talk. They beseeched the King to show mercy and call a halt. Let them have respite. One day, at least.

  "Are they so quickly wearied in well-doing?" David demanded. "Like bairns! They think to be leaders of a kingdom, yet tire after three days debate?"

  "They are little used to this, Sire," Hugo pointed out. "They would fight for you for three weeks, I swear - three months, three years! But this of clerks' talk and sitting still, ruling with their bottoms as Hervey calls it . . ."

  "Aye, Hervey would! What do they want, these infants I have brought to Scotland? A day's respite to do what? Whilst prolonging-this council for all others?"

  "Hervey . . . they all say that this Edinburgh is a notable place for hunting, Sire. In the forest and glades and marshes around yonder King Arthur's Chair mountain. There is much deer. Boars also and other beasts. A day's hunting, they say -and they will be the better councillors tomorrow!"

  David grimaced. "You make a persuasive envoy, Hugo! Clearly you are of the same mind. Very well - but not a whole day. This afternoon we shall go hunting — if this forenoon my bairns work at this of the parishes. Tell them so, tell Hervey

  But there was other kind of protest than one to come between a monarch and his reforms. It was his Saxon chaplain Alwin who came to him thereafter, reproachfully.

  "Sire - they tell me that you are going hunting this afternoon. Have you forgot the day, my lord King? I reminded you last night. It is the Day of the Holy Rood, the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross."

  "Save us - I had forgotten! In all this work of council and parishes. It is God's work too, Alwin, mind you. But. . . it is not one of the major feasts, see you. Not any grievous sin to miss it. This once."

  "You say that, Sire - you, whose blessed mother brought the Black Rood to this land. Part of the Holy Rood itself, which now stands in this very castle! Surely of all days, and Your Grace of all men . . . ?"

  "M'mm. Yes. Ah, well - we can do both, Alwin. Have a celebration, a mass for the Holy Rood. Then go hunting afterwards."

  "But that is scarce suitable, Sire . . ."

  "I have given my word, man. They shall have their hunt -but shall attend your mass first. See you to it."

  "Where, my lord? The Queen's chapel here, wherein is the Rood, is too small to hold more than a dozen . . ."

  "It is a fair autumn day, man - hold your service in God's open air. As the Columbans would do. Bring the Black Rood with you. My friends will approve it, and you, the more!"

  So, soon after mid-day the large and lively company assembled down in the valley, below the dramatically abrupt and lofty hill which soared from mighty brown-stone crags about a mile to the east of Dunedin's fortress-rock. Here, in a green glade with the autumn colours just beginning to stain the trees, Alwin held his mass amidst the calling of birds and the stamping and snorting of horses - and, most agreed, none the worse for that. He had brought the famous Black Rood, the late Queen Margaret's most prized possession, from her chapel, a silver-gilt reliquary in the shape of a cross, having on the outside a figure of the crucified Christ in ebony - hence the adjective black - and containing within a small portion of the true Cross of Calvary, brought with her from Hungary. This Alwin set up on an improvised altar in the midst.

  After the service, the huntsmen, impatient to be off, divided into a number of small groups - for stag-hunting could not be done successfully in the mass. Fortunately the terrain was sufficiently widespread to accommodate all, and allegedly full of game, with a number of local foresters to act as guides and beaters. The area around the mountain spread, in forest and scrub, far and wide, especially to east and south, and some way up the steep slopes. Close below the hill itself the ground tended to be boggy, where the water drained from the high ground and accumulated. Here three lochs formed, haunts of wildfowl. The bogs also attracted the deer and boar, where they could wallow in mud and keep the flies at bay.

  David was fond of hunting, but today he had a different ploy in mind. One of the hillfoot lochs had been a favourite place for his mother to take her children, when they stayed in Dunedin, to watch the fowl and play at the water's edge; and many a happy hour David had spent at what was now being called Queen Margaret's Loch. He had not been there for thirty-five years, and he decided to make the little pilgrimage. He let all the hunting parties get away, not to become involved in their activities, and leaving Alwin to pack up his temporary altar and silverware, and telling him where he was going, set off, riding eastwards along the woodland path, which twisted and turned erratically to avoid the burns, bogs and swampy hollows. Deliberately he went alone, the last of the large family which had laughed and sung here so long ago.

  He had less than a mile to go, and was, he felt sure, nearing the loch, thoughts far away, when he was jerked back to the present abruptly. Above the distant shouts and hound-bayings of the hunters, he heard a crashing noise from along the narrow track ahead of him, a sound rapidly approaching. The woodland was thick here, the path little more than a grassy causeway through swampy ground which drained into the loch. Into sight in front, round a bend only some three-score yards away, came charging, not a galloping horse, nor even a boar as he feared, but a tall and heavy woodland stag.

  Even if no tusker, this made a sufficiently fearsome sight, great antlers held high, shaggy mane tossing, snorting breath from wide nostrils. It was an old beast obviously, almost white, its coat patched with the mud of its wallowing. No doubt it had been disturbed by the hunters. At the sight of the mounted man it did not falter, lessen speed or seek to turn aside. Instead, it lowered his great head and
charged on, if anything with increased impetus, white-tipped antlers forward.

  David had little time for thought. He, no more than the stag, could pull off the track without plunging deep into mire and reeds and decaying elder trunks. He was unarmed, save for his small dirk. He could only flee.

  Savagely he reined round his rearing, frightened horse on the narrow way, and as he did so his glance caught sight of the feathered shaft of an arrow projecting from the rump of the racing stag. The brute was a victim of the hunt, wounded and maddened with pain.

  The alarmed horse did a poor job of turning completely round, staggering partly into the flanking slime and losing precious moments. Spurring it fiercely, David dragged it round, with the stag now only a few yards off. But starting from the stationary again, his mount could not work up to any great speed inside a considerable distance; and anyway it would never rival the pace of a deer.

  In only a few seconds the inevitable happened. David was aware of a jarring pain in his left thigh, which then went numb. His horse screamed in sudden agony and terror, then reared up on its hind legs, pawing the air. Unable to grip with his numbed thigh, the man lurched sideways, was flung over by his staggering mount, and fell to the ground. The animal plunged off, a great bloody gash in its haunch opened by a neighbouring antler-tine to the one which had pierced its rider's leg.

  The stag's headlong rush itself halted by the impact, the brute reeled and all but fell over. But it recovered itself, and seeing the fallen man lying directly in its path, launched itself upon him, head lowered again.

  As well for David that the creature's head was such a fine one, with such wide-branching antlers. If it had been a switch-horn or any narrower headed beast, he would have been skewered there and then. But the huge spread of horn did in fact dig into the soil on either side of the man's head, bringing the stag up with a jolt. David found himself dizzily staring into the great pain-crazed eyes, the sharp white-tipped brow-trays thrusting only an inch or two from his face, and the hot snorted breath from red nostrils puffing over him, himself helpless to move.

  In those desperate moments his mind went back to that other stag and fallen king, in the New Forest, twenty-eight years ago, and the strange fate which should give him a death similar to Rufus's, alone in the greenwood. He tried to pray, but got no further than whispering Lord, Lord, at the stag's protruding eyes.

  He may have swooned away for a moment or two, for he had fallen on the back of his head and was dazed anyway with the searing pain. But suddenly he was aware of a new dimension, changed circumstances. God had indeed come for him. A gleaming cross was before his unsteady eyes. There was no doubt about it, a cross shining between him and the stag. A vision, a joy. A great peace came upon him then.

  Just when he realised that, although it might indeed be a miracle, it was not yet his reception at the heavenly portals, he never thereafter could make up his mind. But two facts did register — that the cross was no vision but a solid one of silver-gilt; and the the stag above him was still snorting and puffing but backing off, tossing its now raised head and stepping foot by foot away from the crucifix.

  He recognised now that an arm was attached to the cross, a man's arm holding it out in front of the animal's face, which it seemed to push back and back, until abruptly the creature wheeled round and went off at a scrabbling run eastwards whence it had come.

  "My lord, my lord David! God and Christ Jesu and His Holy Rood be praised!" Alwin cried, sobbed. "My good lord -thanks be to God! You are hurt - but you are alive! The evil beast is gone, praises be!"

  David was beyond speech, but he nodded his aching, reeling head.

  Alwin, after those first almost hysterical minutes, tended his fallen monarch as best he could, telling the swooning King, babbling rather, how he had come on after him, on foot, refusing to leave the precious Black Rood in servants' hands, along with the other furnishings for the open-air mass, and so, by God's blessed providence, was carrying it when he saw the King's horse bolting past and then the fallen man and the straining, savaging white hart. He had been afraid, desperately afraid, but with the Holy Rood in his hands he could do no other than go forward and thrust the sacred relic in front of the brute's eyes. And God had blessed his sinful servants and the evil had fled away. All glory in the highest!

  After a while David forced himself to try to walk, leaning on the chaplain — and made but a poor business of it. A nasty gash had laid open his thigh, causing continous pain, and the leg had stiffened up. They were hobbling along slowly thus when one of the hunting parties, with the brothers Sir John and Sir Gregan d'Alleyne of Crawford, came trotting back. Appalled to discover their liege lord in such state, they improvised a litter from saddle-cloths slung between two horses, and hoisting the King carefully thereon, took him at a most heedful walking pace back to the town and up the long ascent to the fortress on the rock, there to place him in his wife's alarmed but efficient care.

  That long night, in a strange state between waking and sleeping, David asked himself again and again whether it was all a judgment on him for failing properly to keep the Feast of the Holy Cross? If so, was it not strange that it had been the Holy Cross itself which had saved him? Was it a sign? It was a miracle, certainly. Could it have been his blessed mother who had stepped in, to save him, with her Black Rood? Saved him for greater efforts in God's cause?

  Whatever it was, one thing he vowed - that he would build and endow a great abbey there, where he had fallen and risen, in gratitude, an abbey beneath King Arthur's Chair, dedicated to the Holy Rood . . .

  Tomorrow he would give the necessary orders.

  24

  THE THREE-HUNDRED-AND-FIFTY-MILE journey back to Scotland had never seemed so long, so irritating, so frustrating - but then, David was in an irritated and frustrated state of mind that early summer of 1130. He was irritated that he should have to be back in England at all, so soon after the support-swearing business; and at the methods Henry Beauclerc had used to get him there. And frustrated that Matilda, who should have accompanied him, had fallen unwell just when they were about to set out from Rook's Burgh, and had persuaded him to go on without her. The whole thing had been a farce, merely a device on Henry's part to emphasise his superior position and claims. He, Henry, had had one of David's Huntingdon vassals arrested on a charge of treason, in that he had failed to send his due number of knights and armed men to the latest Normandy adventure - as had many another English lord and baron - and then insisted that the offender in this instance must be tried by his own earl, David, but in his, Henry's presence, the most transparent means of forcing the Scots king to come hastening south by a given date. Yet to have refused to go would once again have made Matilda's inheritance liable to forfeiture — and never were its vast revenues more urgently needed for the great and ambitious programme of governmental and church reform David had initiated, as well as for work on the new abbeys and border castles. The trial had in fact been little more than a formality, and the penalty the same substantial fine that Henry was imposing on others of his barons guilty of the same offence. There was no good reason why David should have had to preside over this charade, when Sheriff Gilbert could have done the thing equally well as his deputy. But Henry's fondness for showing his power grew with age. David told himself that this Huntingdon weakness must somehow be remedied.

  The only redeeming feature of the entire episode was the word received while he was at Woodstock that Bishop Flambard of Durham had taken a heart attack and died — so Scotland had one less inveterate enemy.

  But then had also come the other news - revolt in Scotland. So now he was bursting the hearts of a succession of horses, to cover those three hundred and fifty miles in the minimum possible time, a worried man indeed.

  Details of the revolt had necessarily been in outline only. It was his nephew Angus MacEth, Earl of Moray, Lulach's daughter's son, he of whom Alexander had warned. He had risen in arms, and with a great force of Moraymen, estimated at ten thousand at least,
was marching south by the east coast route; whilst his brother Malcolm, evidently finding his loyalty to his uncle less binding than to his brother, had gathered a smaller force from his patrimony of the Stormounth, and was marching to join Angus. Edward the Constable - son of old Sir Eustace now dead, and cousin of Hugo — with Hervey the Knight Marishcal, were mustering all loyal forces. But the King's presence was desperately required.

  David, with Hugo and only four others, had left most of his train behind in this headlong dash for home, in the interests of speed, in no state to wait for laggards. He aimed to reach the border in four days, if it was humanly and equinely possible.

  It proved to be not quite possible; but they crossed Tweed at Berwick bridge before noon on the fifth day, exhausted men on dying horses. At Berwick there was fresh news. The Constable had marched north to meet the rebels with about eight thousand men, as many as he could raise at short notice, less than Angus's numbers but including much Norman armoured cavalry - which the northerners totally lacked. When last heard of the Moray host had crossed Dee and were advancing into the Mearns by the Cairn o' Mounth pass. There was no further word of Malcolm MacEth, but it was now reported that another Malcolm, Alexander's bastard son, the Earl of Ross, had joined Angus with a contingent. All his lieutenants urged King David's appearance at the earliest possible moment.

  David was only twenty-five miles from Rook's Burgh, and Matilda with his family. He had intended to call there, if only briefly, concerned for his wife's health. But the urgency of the news and appeals persuaded him. He sent Hugo westwards along the Tweed's valley with news of his return to Scotland, the situation and his loving greetings, and himself pressed on, up through the Merse by Dunbar for North Berwick, where the Earl of Fife's ferry would take him across the Scottish Sea to Fife, sparing him the enormous detour round the Scotwater and the Forth estuary, by Stirling.