"I am glad to have work to do, yes." David was wary still. "I am kept engaged. And you my lord King?"
"I do not ail. But... I feel twice my years! Who would be a king, Davie?"
"You would, Alex, I think! Despite the burden."
"Perhaps. Yet it is a thankless task. Sometimes I could wish . . ." He shrugged, leaving that unfinished.
"And the Lady Sybilla? The Queen?" "She is well enough, I believe." "You believe . . . ?"
"I see little of her. She finds her own . . . amusements. At the Ward. I have lent her the Ward of the Stormounth. She keeps her own Court there. For a bastard, she has large notions!"
"And no children? No heir?"
"No heir. But, see you, I did not come here to talk about Sybilla." They stood on one of the many bridges of red masonry which linked together the stark rocks, rising from the swirling tides, on which that strange castle was built. "I have a deal more serious matter in mind."
David waited.
"I need your help, Davie. You have proved yourself to be a man of some wits. And this business requires wits. Careful handling."
Surprised, he looked at his brother. "Not . . . Galloway?"
"No, no - Galloway can wait. It is our father, Davie - his body. See you, it is time that he was brought home. To Scotland. From that Tynemouth. Unsuitable that he should lie there, little regarded. Too long it has been. Now Holy Trinity Minster is near finished. Our mother's great church, at Dunfermline. Edgar carried on the work. As have I. It is near done - a noble monument. I thought to mark its completion by bringing back our father's body from its poor grave at Tynemouth, and placing it beside our mother's, before the high altar she erected. This I would do."
Still more surprised, that this headstrong, down-to-earth brother should be concerned for such a thing, David nodded.
"An excellent project," he agreed. "What can I do to help?"
"It is difficult. These churchmen - a plague on them all! You know that I am having trouble with Turgot? Our mother's friend and confessor, who was Prior of Durham. Whom I made Bishop of St. Andrew's when I gained the throne. He is proving obdurate."
"That I can believe. For he was ever a determined man. But what has this to do with our father's body?"
"He says that once given Christian burial, the body cannot be exhumed without the authority of Holy Church. And since our father is buried, where he fell, at Tynemouth, in the See of Durham, authority to exhume may only be given by the Bishop of Durham. And I am at odds with that man, Flambard!"
"Ah!" So it was Ranulf Flambard again, Rufus's one-time minion and hater of things Scots. "I also know Flambard. He will not give permission for the exhumation?"
"No. Or he says that, in the case of a king, it should be given by his superior, the new Archbishop of York. And I will not go seeking his permission either! For he claims spiritual rule over Scotland, in his arrogance - which I will not have. To go to this Thomas the Second and ask his permission, would be as good as admitting his false claim. Turgot could resolve this coil, but will not. For he supports the Archbishop's claim to rule the Church in Scotland. He says that he, as Bishop of St. Andrews, is the Archbishop's representative. I will not have it! I appointed him, not York. Or Durham."
David stroked his chin. "Yes, I see the difficulty."
"I could take an army and go dig up our father's body and bring it home. No doubt the Columban Church would give all necessary authority to do so, and gladly. Our brother Ethelred is still Primate, in name at least. But that would undermine the position of the Roman Church here, which our mother did so much to build up. And which Edgar and I have sustained. To spurn the authority of the only Romish bishop in Scotland, Turgot, and use that of the Old Church, would undo all that has been achieved - when already I am in difficulties with Turgot. To march would end all . . ."
"Yes. To be sure it would! And Henry would not like it. He is no churchman, and does not love Flambard. But to march into his realm, uninvited . . ."
"I know it, man. I know it. But I have set my heart on this."
"What do you wish from me, Alex?"
"That you use your wits, in this. I need help. You are Henry's friend, his viceroy in the North-West. Go to this Flambard. I am told that he, in fact, makes all the larger decisions for the new Archbishop. He is the true power there. As Earl of Cumbria, you have authority in the North . . ."
"Not over Northumbria. Nor over Holy Church, brother."
"No. But you are in a stronger position than am I. And Malcolm was jour father, also. Will you do it, Davie?"
"What can I do, and say, that has not been thought of? Our good mother scarcely considered this, I think, when she sought to turn Scotland to the Roman Church!"
"Henry does not love Flambard, you say. Can you not play on that? You, Henry's right hand."
"I am scarcely that . . ."
"You acted it, when you invaded Galloway! And acted mine too, from what I hear!"
David smoothed his lips. "Something had to be done there, Alex. That Hakon Claw was ruining the province. And raiding Cumbria. I acted with Fergus of Carrick . . ."
"I know what you did, man - for whatever reason you did it. And I am glad to see the last of that Hakon Hakonsson. I should have dealt with him myself— but I have had over much else to do." He sighed. "I sent him one hundred gold pieces, to Orkney, as you asked in your letter. I hope that I did not waste it!"
"Henry also sent gold. Even so, it was a cheap victory, I say."
"No doubt. See you - if you use your wits as nimbly with Flambard of Durham as with Hakon Claw, I will have the more cause to be grateful!"
"Very well, I shall try. But I can promise nothing, Alex. And . . . you will confirm Fergus of Carrick as Lord of Galloway?"
"It is as good as done, Davie - when you bring me Flambard's authority to exhume at Tynemouth!"
* * *
So the next morning the brothers parted, Alexander to ride north through Lothian to Stirling and the burdens of kingship, David southwards for Durham. As well as his pair of close Norman friends, he had the company of their host Cospatrick also, a young man always ready for stir and movement. His father, the first Earl Cospatrick, had been slain alongside Malcolm Canmore at the Tynemouth disaster in 1093 - although he had been buried with more ceremony, in Durham Cathedral itself, because of his close association with the then bishop; he would call it a pilgrimage to his father's grave.
With good horseflesh, nobody to delay them and the coastal route in dry condition for travel, they made excellent time, crossing Tweed at Berwick and getting to Waren on Budle Bay, within sight of Bamburgh Castle, that first night. Two of the little party had interests here, for Waren was a new name, a local Anglian version of Warenne, a manor of William de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, Hervey's father. They stayed the night with the Earl's steward. And Cospatrick could look across at the great castle of Bamburgh, the strongest north of Tees, which he claimed should be his own, his father having been Earl of Northumbria until the Conqueror ousted him, when Malcolm Canmore had given him, his cousin, Dunbar.
Next day they were able to reach Tynemouth Monastery itself, a small and modest establishment above a fine mile-long sandy beach, in the graveyard of which, amongst the unmarked tombs of generations of monks - for the place had been founded as early as 627 by the Celtic Church - a rough upright stone marked the resting-place of Malcolm the Third, King of Scots, treacherously killed by Moubray, Rufus's Earl of Northumbria. David had never loved greatly his harsh and irascible sire; as he stood at the graveside and said a brief prayer, his thoughts were more with his beloved mother.
Across Tyne by the ferry of another and larger priory, Jar-row, and turning inland now, by noon the following day they were at Durham, in its dramatic valley, cathedral and castle-palace crowning the whaleback ridge which rose above the coiling river in the midst. The Bishop was out hawking when they arrived; but it was evident that he lived in princely style here. After he had escaped from prison and fled to Normandy, H
enry had rather weakly forgiven Flambard and allowed him to return to this See of Durham, which Rufus had bestowed on him in 1090 - on the theory that it required a strong hand to hold it together against the dominance of York; but as much as anything to appease Canterbury, always looking for means to hold York down, and esteeming Flambard, no doubt rightly, as a satisfactory thorn-in-the-flesh for the rival archbishop.
When the Bishop eventually came riding into the palace courtyard amidst much shouting, baying of hounds and feminine laughter - he was particularly notorious for his concubines - David was struck by how gross and heavy the man had become. It was, of course, ten years since he had seen him, and he was now well into middle years. Even so, the change was extraordinary, the body huge, swollen, shapeless in rolls of flesh, the features even lost in fat. Yet when he came close, to greet his visitors, they could see that the little piglike eyes, half-hidden as they were, gleamed as quick and shrewd as ever they had done.
Flambard could scarcely have been glad to see them, but he played the host adequately, genially, making much of David as Earl of Cumbria and giving no impression of past unpleasantries. He introduced his two current ladies openly as his daughters-in-God - and hinted, chuckling, that his principal guest might possibly enjoy the hospitality of one of them, the choice being his.
David, however, found difficulty in gaining private speech with the man. It was not until the rich feasting was over and many of the company were so drunken as to be beyond hearing or comprehension, that he and his friends got the Bishop's attention approximately to themselves. Flambard, admittedly, showed no least signs of the amount of liquor he had consumed.
"I have come to see you on a matter of some import, my lord," David began. "For your ear alone."
"You have my respectful attention, my lord Earl. But drink up, my friends - the night is young. If it is in my power to aid you, I am yours to command."
"I am glad of that, Bishop. I am anxious, you see, that my father, King Malcolm's body, should be uplifted from Tynemouth where he is presently buried, and given final and decent resting-place beside my mother in her new minster of the Holy Trinity at Dunfermline, now ncaring completion."
"A most admirable and filial desire, my son. None could do other than commend it."
"Yes. But it appears that an authority for exhumation is required."
"To be sure. But that should present no difficulties. My lord Archbishop Thomas of York will be pleased to grant it, I have no doubt."
"Need the Archbishop be troubled? You could grant it, my lord, could you not? Indeed, if any priest may bury, may not any priest unbury?"
"Ah, scarcely that, my good young friend. Because a priest has enjoined the soul to rest in peace, it requires a greater priest to disturb that rest. In the case of a king, an archbishop would be suitable."
"Suitable, perhaps - but not essential, I think. The bishop of the see has fullest authority within his see, has he not? Tynemouth is in your see."
Flambard sipped his wine. "In this matter I would prefer to consult my archbishop, my lord," he said.
"As I would prefer otherwise - and for sufficient reason." David spoke conversationally, quietly. "Your archbishop claims archiepiscopal jurisdiction over Scotland. Which all Scots deny. His authority therefore is not acceptable in this matter."
There was a considerable pause, now that the issue was out in the open "I fear that I am helpless in this situation," Flambard said, at length.
"I think that you do yourself injustice," David returned, though mildly enough. "You could give me the authority. And inform the Archbishop later, for ratification of your act - if you felt that was necessary. By which time my father would be on his way home to Scotland. Or you could refer the matter to the Prior at Tynemouth, leaving him to give me the authority. Which again could be refuted later, if advisable. Neither way would your name and repute suffer."
"These would be deceits, dissembling, my lord Earl!" Flam-bard sounded shocked. "You would not have me, a prince of Holy Church, to countenance deceit, deception in matters of religion!"
David eyed him directly. "I suggest, Bishop Flambard, that you are practising deception every day, in your office! For less worthy causes than that of a son wishing his father's body to rest beside his mother's. Princes, not only of the Church, have to dissemble frequently, in the process of rule. King Henry, now, my brother-in-law, must dissemble that he does not know that all is not well in the See of Durham, that parishes are empty, churches priestless, their revenues unaccounted for. Is it not so?"
David's companions held their breaths at that, afraid that their friend had this time let his tongue run away with him.
It was impossible to tell whether the Bishop's expression changed, so formless were his fleshy features. Nor did his voice betray him, for he did not speak.
Far from resiling, David went on, however calm his tones. "And I, as Earl of Cumbria, have likewise to dissemble. In that I do not report to Henry and to Canterbury that Cumbria is all but a heathen province, a Godless desert - although it also is in Durham's see. That few churches are manned, tithes and revenues swallowed up, and there has not been an episcopal visitation in ten years, I am told."
"I lack men, my lord - priests, deacons, monks. In especial senior clergy."
"But not money, gold to hire them?" David gestured at all the luxury around them, greater than he had seen at Henry's or even Rufus's Court.
"A see such as Durham involves great expenses. You cannot conceive how much falls to be spent in maintaining the dignity of Holy Church in this, the largest diocese in England. Nor the problems . . ."
"Your revenues are insufficient, Bishop? Despite all?"
"Greatly so. I must support York also, with moneys. Durham is York's greatest support. At times I know not where to turn for gold."
"You say so? Then perhaps, who knows, I might be able to help in some small way. No large aid, I concede, But . . ." David paused.
"Yes, my lord Earl?"
"It is the matter of Coldingham, in the Merse. My brother, King Edgar of Scots, left the church of St. Mary, Coldingham, with ten farmsteads, to Durham, In gratitude for Turgot the Prior's ministrations towards our mother . . ."
"This I know. Turgot has informed me. But I have received not a penny."
"King Alexander has withheld payment. On account of this . . . dispute. About spiritual jurisdiction and York. But - I think that I might persuade him otherwise."
"How much worth is this Coldingham?"
"That I do not know. But the Merse holds some of the best land in Scotland. My cousin, the Earl of Dunbar here, perhaps can tell you. Coldingham is in his earldom."
"They are rich farms, my lord Bishop," Cospatrick said. "And the church's own manor is a fair one. It was once an important abbey of the Celtic Church. The revenues will be of no little substance."
There followed a pregnant silence.
"How can your lordship be sure of King Alexander's agreement?" Flambard asked, at length. "To this withheld payment."
"King Malcolm was his father also, Bishop," David reminded. "I have little doubt as to his approval."
"I see. The Archbishop Thomas is . . . indisposed, at the present. At York. It would be a pity to trouble him over this matter. How soon would your lordship wish to raise the body of your royal father?"
David hesitated only for a moment. "At once. As soon as may be."
"Then, my lord, go tell Prior Eadric at Tynemouth that you have seen me, and that he may exhume."
"Ye-e-es. Will that be sufficient? No writings?"
"No writings. He is a Saxon. He will do what he is told." That was scornful.
"My mother was a Saxon, Bishop Flambard. I would wish this Eadric to come to no hurt thereafter. You will mind it?"
"He will be well enough."
"Then we are agreed. One last matter. Send you priests to me, at Caer-luel. I shall sec that they find parishes in Cumbria. And are paid. Then I shall dissemble the less!"
They
eyed each other.
* * *
Flambard was right in one respect, at least. Prior Eadric of Tynemouth, when they returned and announced that his bishop had given permission for the exhumation, made no objection, demanded no written warrant.
It was a harrowing and unchancy business, unpleasant to a degree. The Prior provided two burly lay-brothers, who went to work with spade and mattock, beneath the upright monolith bearing the roughly-inscribed legend MALCOLM. The King had been buried just as he was when dragged out of the river, in campaigning garb and chain-mail shirt, and had lain so for eighteen years. David had purchased from Flambard some blankets and a large and handsome cloth-of-gold bedcover to wrap the body in; also two pack-horses to carry a litter.
Fortunately the soil was sandy, near the beach, and this helped, both in the disinterring process and because of its dryness, in preserving the corpse from putrescence and, at this stage, liquefaction. Even so, when the remains were reached, part covered in the relics of a cloak, it was a gruesome sight, mainly skeletal but with semi-mummified flesh and sinew adhering, the more incongruous for the rusty chain-mail over the empty rib-cage and the leather accoutrements. At least there was no strong smell, as they had feared. Nor was there any doubt about identification; the great skull, with patches of grey hair still clinging, could be only that of Malcolm Canmore, Big Head. The huge cavernous eye-sockets seemed to stare at them accusingly.
Muttering a prayer, David hurriedly had the remains wrapped up in the covers he had brought, hiding all under cloth-of-gold. In the horse-litter it looked less dire.
Nevertheless, on the long ride northwards thereafter, slowed as they were by the pack-horses, the young men never ceased to be aware of the burden they escorted. The success of their mission could not make it other than a gloomy journey.
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