David the Prince

by Nigel Tranter

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Half-Celt and half-Saxon, King David determined to take hold of his backward, patriarchal, strife-ridden country and, against all the odds, pushed and dragged it into the forefront of Christendom's advancing nations. This is a story of independence, single-mindedness and hard-headed leadership. But also, through the turbulent years of his reign, it is a story of devotion: to the woman he admired and loved, Queen Matilda. Set in the 12th century, this is the incredible story of one of Scotland's greatest kings: David, the monarch who made Scotland a power for the first time, told by master of Scottish historical fiction Nigel Tranter.

Release date: September 13, 2012

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 384

Sample

THE THREE YOUTHS splashed across the stream in a great splatter of spray and shouts of laughter – laughter from the two in front, at least, as the one slightly behind got soaked from their commotion, on the smaller, shorter-legged mount. Clambering up the willowed bank beyond, Hervey shouted back.

“A race! Race you to the ridge. We may see them from there. Race you, I say!” And without waiting for agreement from the other two, he dug in his heels and spurred his fine Barbary black up the long grassy slope.

“A plague on you!” Hugo de Morville called after him. “Wait! Start level, at least . . .” But when the other drove on without pause, he kicked his beast into a canter, beating with his clenched fist on the grey’s rump, spattering clods of the damp brook-side earth in the face of the third youth. “Come on, David!” he yelled.

That individual, the youngest by a full year, at fifteen, said nothing but bent doggedly over his stocky skewbald’s shaggy neck, urging it on with a convulsive gripping and stroking action of his fingers, and hissing slightly in the silky ear. It was not a very notable horse, in looks or breeding, with only a modicum of the prized Arab blood in it, but he was fond of it, and it was his all.

It was no race, of course – Hervey de Warenne saw to that, with both a major start and the best mount. But then, he liked to win, was used to it and good at it; after all, he was the son of the famous Earl William de Warenne of Surrey, one of the richest and most powerful Norman nobles in all England; and more important still, his mother had been the Lady Gundred, daughter – albeit illegitimate – of the late and mighty King William the Conqueror, which made him the nephew of the present Red King, William Rufus. So the winning was, as it were, in the blood. He covered the half-mile slope to the rolling Hampshire ridge, with a good seventy yards to spare, and reined up his steaming black on the summit, turning in the saddle to grin back at the others, not scornful but well content.

Hugo came up, his grey snorting through flaring nostrils. “You are an oaf, Hervey!” he exclaimed. “Always were. A race is no race unless there is a fair start.” But he spoke without rancour, an open-faced, easy-going lad of sixteen years, strongly-built, with curling fair hair unusual in a Norman – but then his mother had been daughter of a Saxon ealdorman. He scarcely glanced at his companion however, but stared out over the suddenly wide vista of the rolling Hampshire downland, eastwards by north, which flanked the shallow fertile vale of the Itchen, Tichbourne below, Cheriton Great Wood away on the right. “I do not see them,” he added.

“No. They are late. Plaguey slow. Probably lost!” the other said. And added, grinning again, as the third rider came up. “After all, they are only Scots!”

“My uncle will be with them,” Hugh reminded. “He knows this country sufficiently well.”

The youngest boy, David, seemingly unconcerned at being last, as so often, was already scanning the farther scene with a steady, methodical, quartering gaze. He pointed.

“There they are,” he said. “Beyond that village. On the hillside with the open woodland. Two miles – more, three.” He spoke Norman-French also, but with a carefulness which indicated that it was not his native tongue, and with a slightly sing-song accent which could much amuse his friends.

The others peered through narrowed eyes, in the early afternoon September sunshine. After a few moments they both saw the distant movement which at that range, was really what was to be seen rather than the men and horses of a large cavalcade.

“You have the eyes of a tiercel!” Hugo declared.

“Say a kite!” Hervey amended. He was the oldest by months, nearly seventeen, as well as the most eminent, and was apt to be at pains to show it. But not too unkindly, to be sure, or the trio would not have remained friends. If young David was something of a butt he was still a good fellow, however limited by his circumstances, birth and curious upbringing. “A kite – eh, David?”

That one shrugged, not rising to the bait. He was a slender, slightly-built youth, dark of hair and eyes, large, fine eyes, pale of complexion, almost delicate of feature, but with a strong jawline which redeemed the sensitive mouth from any hint of weakness.

“It is not better eyes that you need, Hervey,” he said mildly. “Only the wits to tell you what your eyes see. There is a difference, I think.”

“Ha!” Hugo de Morville exclaimed, laughing, and punched his grey’s arching neck, urging it into movement again.

They set off down the long eastern slope, towards the Itchen’s cress-flanked windings, at an easy canter now. Even so, inevitably David fell a little behind. But he was used to that.

The two parties, large and small, drew together in wet splashy meadow-land, between the Alres ford and Cheriton village, where the Tich bourne joined Itchen, mallards rocketing up from the reeds and water-cress-beds on every hand. The company coming from the north-east was fully fifty strong, richly-dressed men in front, with an escort of armoured fighting-men, all travel-stained and dusty, under a great banner which bore the device of a hunched-backed boar. Suddenly the three youths seemed very callow and unimpressive, however fine two of their mounts.

As they approached, it was Hervey and Hugo who held back a little, and the younger lad who rode ahead.

In the forefront of the large cavalcade, a fair-haired young man rode directly under the boar-banner, flanked by somewhat older men just a head behind. He was paying no real attention to the trio before him when, abruptly, at about fifty yards, he leaned forward in his saddle, staring. Then his rather sombre features lightened and he raised a pointing hand.

“Davie!” he exclaimed, and not in Norman-French. “Davie – yourself it is! By all that’s holy – you, here!”

The other smiled, waving, and spurred forward. “Edgar – my lord King! Oh, it is good to see you,” he cried. “It has been so long – two whole years. Edgar – at last!”

They reined up alongside each other, leaning over to grasp each other’s forearms in warm greeting, both still on the young side for anything so emotional-seeming as an embrace – although Edgar mac Malcolm was nine years older than his youngest brother. Thus close, side by side, the family resemblance was evident in the all-but-delicate lines of their faces, the shape of head and carriage of person, although one was fair and quite tall and the other dark and slight.

“Two years, lad, yes – I am sorry,” the elder said. “It has not been possible. I would have sent for you – but . . . all has been difficult. In Scotland. Still is – or, God knows, I would not have come! But – how you have grown, Davie! You were but a halfling when last I saw you. Now you are almost a man!”

Kind as it was of his brother to say so, David wished that he had not done so. He would be left in no doubt that it was not true, by his two companions, later. That thought reminded him, however, of the necessary courtesies.

“These are my friends, my lord,” he said. “This is Hervey de Warenne, a son to the Earl of Surrey. And this is Hugo de Morville, from the Honour of Huntingdon.”

The two other youths made jerky bows from their saddles.

“We greet Your Highness,” Hervey said.

“Your servant to command, Sire,” Hugo mumbled.

The King of Scots inclined his head. “Friends of Davie’s are friends of mine,” he said. “The Earl of Surrey I know – a great lord. Is he behind, somewhere? And de Morville is an honoured name in my kingdom.” He turned. “Sir Eustace – is this young man some kin of yours?”

A middle-aged, heavy-made man just behind, Eustace de Morville, newly-made Great Constable of Scotland, nodded. “My brother’s youngest son, Highness. If this is the Prince David – I could say that he is not in the best of company!”

Into the laughter, Edgar spoke. “My brother, friends – David of Scotland. Come to greet us. We wondered when someone would!”

As salutations were murmured amongst the men behind the King, David bowing right and left, scanned the ranks of the riders. They were a mixed lot, in appearance as in dress and age, some, like the Constable, with the cropped heads and shaven chins of Normans, some with the almost shaggy flaxen to fair hair and beards of the Saxons, some with the darkly Celtic looks and thin down-turning moustaches of the Scots. The face for which the youth looked was not there.

“Where is Alex?” he asked.

A frown flickered on his brother’s brow for a moment. “Alex is . . . Alex . . .” he returned shortly. And then, as though recognising that this might sound unsuitable in front of all these others, he went on, “He asked to be excused the journey. And it was as well that one of us should remain in Scotland. Lest men of ill-will should think to take advantage of my absence. Alexander at least will keep his sword drawn, willingly enough!”

David could not hide his disappointment. He had a strong family-feeling and liked his next brother even though he was the most vehement and aggressive of the Margaretsons, some five years older than himself as he was.

An older man spoke, behind the King, whom David recognised as Gillibride, Earl or Mormaor of Angus, one of the ri, literally lesser kings of the Celtic realm, as distinct from the Ard Righ or High King of Scots.

“Are you sent ahead of King William, David mac Malcolm? You boys!” he demanded.

David moistened his lips. “No, my lord,” he admitted. “We come . . . of ourselves.”

“Kind!” the Earl gave back, with something not far from a snort. “But where then is the King? We cannot be more than five or six miles from Winchester. We had thought to see him before this.”

The boy answered nothing.

“Well, Davie?” Edgar prompted. “We have looked for a welcoming embassage from William all this day. Since Farnham, where we slept. To bring us to the King himself. We are near to our journey’s end. Yet here come only my own brother and two young friends. You are come from Winchester, I take it? Where is William?”

David swallowed. “My lord – King William is not here. He is . . . hunting.”

“Hunting!” That came out in an explosion of breath – although it was scarcely to be heard in the sudden volley of exclamation from behind. “Hunting, you say?”

“Yes. I, I am sorry . . .”

“Did he not know that I was coming? Today? My messenger . . .? He must have done – since you knew to come.”

“He knew, yes, Edgar. But . . . went hunting.”

His brother spoke through clenched teeth. “And he sent you to meet me?”

“No, my lord King. He sent none. We, we came of ourselves.”

“You mean . . . God in His Heaven, you mean that William Rufus knew that I was approaching his city, and at his own request, and sent none to greet me, the King of Scots?”

Unhappily David nodded.

“This is . . . insufferable!” Edgar turned to look at the men behind him. None, Scot, Norman or Saxon actually met his eye, although all looked shocked, unbelieving, angry.

“Turn back, man!” Gillibride of Angus shouted, hotly. “He is an oaf! He did this once before, mind – to your father. At Gloucester. I was there. The same year Malcolm died, six years back. He summoned Malcolm – and then when he came, refused to see him. The man is a churl. Son of a bastard, the Bastard of Normandy, who knows not how to behave!”

Some of the Normans present looked distinctly uncomfortable at that, but none raised voice.

“Aye, turn back, Highness,” young Cospatrick, Earl of Dunbar and March urged, second-cousin to Edgar and David. “This is an insult.”

Edgar chewed at his lower lip. His was not a strong face, more rugged than David’s but lacking that firmness of jawline.

“I can scarce do that,” he muttered. “We are three hundred miles and more from Scotland. And, and . . .” He scarcely required to finish that. All there knew the position well enough, Angus included. Without the army William Rufus had lent him three years ago, to march on Scotland, Edgar would still have been an exile, like David, and not wearing the Scottish crown today. He would never have unseated his uncle, Donald Ban, on the throne without English help. And, with much of Celtic Scotland still eyeing him askance, Edgar might need that English aid again, at any time. To turn back now might mean that he would never get it.

“We could halt here, and wait,” Sir Eustace the Constable suggested. For a Norman that was a stout gesture, indicative of how closely he at least had thrown in his lot with the Scots king, in three years. “There is a small monastery a little way to the west, beyond Kilmeston. But two miles or so. I know it well. We could wait there, Highness. Until King William thinks better of it.”

Edgar shook his fair head. “I think not, Eustace. It would not serve. If William, later, does not think better of it, I should look the greater fool, sitting there. William has done this of a purpose, I swear! He will not change his mind. No – we must go on.”

Men murmured, but they rode forward again.

The King was silent, preoccupied, for a while, and David and his companions fell back amongst the less important of the company, unsure of their position. But presently Edgar summoned his brother to his side.

“Tell me of William, Davie,” he said. “Does he do this to scorn me? Why ask me to come? What ails the man?”

“I do not know. I see him but little. He is a strange man – an evil man, men say . . .”

“What is the talk at his palace? About me?”

The other hesitated. “I have been at Winchester Castle only since yesterday. Brought from Romsey especially. With Matilda and Mary. For this Crown-wearing ceremony. I do not speak with many of the King’s people. But . . . folk speak scornfully of all Scots, I fear.”

“Including myself?”

“Ye-e-es.”

“Then why am I summoned here? He sent requiring me to come. And, God pity me, I dared not refuse.”

“Why, Edgar? I am glad to see you, so happy that you come. But . . . I had rather have seen you in Scotland! Come to you, not you to come here. Why must it be?”

“Do you not understand, Davie? You are all but a prisoner here. But, so am I, in one way! William seated me on our father’s throne, three years ago – just as he had seated our half-brother Duncan on it three years before that. He can unseat me, as easily. So long as Scotland is so divided as it is. I sit anything but secure, lad – and Rufus knows it all too well. And uses the threat of it against me.”

“But what could he do? Against you? If he sent up another army to invade Scotland, then surely the Scots would unite to throw them back? All would rally to your aid, then. They would have to, or be conquered. And that the Scots will never allow.”

“You think so? Davie – you are old enough to understand, surely? Why think you I have not brought you, and our sisters, back to Scotland? Not for lack of love. I know well that you all would be free of our Aunt Christina at Romsey. I do not, because I cannot. William insists that you remain. Hostages. As I said, all but prisoners. And why? So that, at need, he could use you. Against me. He chooses to consider Scotland a vassal kingdom. It is not – but he would have it so. His father sought the same. And Canute before him. All would bring Scotland beneath England’s heel.”

“How could he use me? I am not important – and would never be used against you, Edgar.”

“I fear that you would have scant choice, Davie. He would declare me deposed, if I refused to do his will, calling himself Lord Paramount – as he did with our Uncle Donald. Nominate you in my place, and march north with you, at the head of a great army, calling on all Scots to support you and unseat me. He threatened as much when last I saw him, two years ago. That is why Alex would not come south with me. He does not wish to be so used. So William keeps you, to be used if need be. And he can rely on the Scots to be sufficiently divided to play his game, North against South, Highland against Lowland, Celtic Church against Roman. The house of MacBeth, in Moray and Ross, would leap at the chance to bring down our father’s line and replace it with their own. They attempted it against Duncan, and when they failed in war, had him assassinated. Half Scotland, all the North, would support them. William knows it. I walk in that shadow, lad.”

There was silence between the brothers for a space, David tight-lipped.

“So William will not let you leave England, Davie,” the elder went on. “And he summons me south to carry his Sword of State at his Crown-wearing, knowing that I dare not refuse to come. But this, of neither coming himself to greet a fellow-monarch, or sending a deputy, is bad, bad – an open affront. I fear that there may be worse in store.”

“Perhaps he is but careless, heedless, Edgar? Means no special ill. He loves hunting above all else – save perhaps young men!”

The King glanced sidelong. “You . . .? He has never looked that way? Towards you?”

“No, the saints be praised! I see but little of him. He never looks at me, never visits Romsey Abbey although it is but ten miles. Besides, he has a sufficiency of young men to pleasure him, eager and willing enough!”

“M’mm.” Edgar changed the subject. “How goes it with you, then? At Romsey Abbey. Is Aunt Christina as harsh and sour as ever? I hated it there.”

“Sour, yes. Is it not strange that our mother should have had so different a sister? So stern. Holy, yes – but unloving. It is worse for Matilda and Mary. Matilda hates her. She treats them just as she does her other nuns and serving-sisters. She can do little with me, now. When I was a child it was different. But now I am largely in our tutor, Brother John’s hands. With my friends. We are scarce ever in the women’s part . . .”

“I am sorry for it all,” the King of Scots sighed. “What a broil it all is! We can only hope for better days, Davie – hope.”

“Hope – and pray,” the youth said simply. “I pray a lot.”

The King did not comment on that. Not all the Margaret-sons were as pious as their sainted mother had been. But then, their father had been no saint.

Presently the cavalcade came down the long hill to reach the walls of Winchester, on its slope above the Itchen, capital city of England and favourite seat of the monarchy, presided over by the twin magnificences of the largest castle and greatest cathedral in the land, whose thrusting towers had drawn all eyes for miles back. Those of the visitors who had not been here before were duly impressed, some even over-awed by the size and grandeur of it all, the extent of the walled town, the jostling spires and turrets and gables and the riot of fluttering flags and banners which flew everywhere in honour of tomorrow’s occasion. When they had to join a long queue of folk, however, noble and poor, priests and beggars and chapmen, to get in at the heavily-defended gatehouse, the admiration wore off somewhat. The leaders of the party were too preoccupied with their possible reception to be impressed.

But here, at least, they were expected, for as they neared the portcullis arch a captain of the guard and two soldiers, roughly pushing aside the people before them in the queue, came forward to demand if they were the Ecossais party? On this being admitted, he proffered no greeting or any mark of respect, but shortly told them to follow his two men, who would lead them to their quarters. He then turned on his heel to leave them – when Sir Eustace de Morville could contain his proud Norman temper no longer.

“Sirrah!” he rapped out. “What respect is this to pay to my lord King of Scots? And his lords.”

The captain turned at this peremptory tone, in his own language, and perceiving the style of the speaker submitted a grudging salute – but to this recognisable authority that he was prepared to accept, not to the fair-haired figure under the boar-banner, who wore the simple, slender golden circlet around his brows.

“Respects, sir? I but obey orders from Monsieur Flambard.”

In through the thronged and narrow twisting streets of the city they followed the two soldiers, in little more than single-file now, even though their guides sought to open a way for them ungently with the staffs of their halberds. The place was crowded to a degree, with folk of all sorts and conditions, notably many armed men wearing the colours and badges of lords and knights arrived for the festivities.

They had proceeded only a short distance when David, behind his brother, turned to look back unhappily at his two friends. They were heading downhill, away from the high ground towards the West Gate where towered the royal castle-palace. Yet the two guides obviously knew exactly where they were going, clearing the way in no uncertain fashion still. They were, in fact, heading down towards the poorest quarter of the town.

Sir Eustace voiced his own recognition of this fact. “This is not the way to the castle, fools!” he called. “Where are you taking us?”

The older soldier looked back. “The Hospice of St. John, sir. Orders.”

“Whose orders, by God?”

“Monsieur Flambard’s, sir.”

David considered his brother’s stiff back in some agitation. St. John’s was a hospice for the poor, founded by St. Birinus, the Roman who had converted the Saxon King Cynegils in the seventh century, set down in Winchester’s most wretched area, half-a-mile from palace and cathedral. The city was crowded, to be sure, but the castle itself was vast. Even he and his friends and sisters were installed there, however modest their quarters. And there were other hospices and friaries in the town less lowly than this poors’-house. He said nothing, however.

They came to the place – which indeed was none so ill a building, quite large and well-constructed. But the air of poverty was all about it, the smell of poverty also. And there was a notable lack of stabling for over fifty horses. The crowds thronging outside seemed to consist only of the aged, the disabled, the blind, beggars and the like. They were received by an elderly friar, who looked defeated and apologetic.

Angus burst out into profanity, and others took up the resentful complaint. But the King made no comment. Dismounting, he stalked inside behind the friar. It was quite the poorest accommodation they had experienced in all their long journey from Scotland.

David’s two friends, embarrassed, decided to remove themselves back to the palace, but he elected to remain with his brother meantime.

At least there was a sufficiency of food, plain fare as it was, with light ale to wash it down. After they had cleansed themselves, changed from their travelling clothes, and eaten, Edgar announced that he was now going up to the palace. He certainly was not going to wait humbly down here in this kennel until such time as he was summoned to appear before Rufus, like some wretched suppliant. Some argued that this could lay him open to further embarrassment, but most agreed that it was better to grasp the nettle thus.

So, with only some half-dozen of his senior supporters, and David, he mounted, to ride uphill again, in the early evening.

In the event they had no least trouble in passing through the castle gatehouse-pend and entering the palace precincts. The place was astir with nobles and knights and clerics and men-at-arms, coming and going, few sparing more than a glance at the newcomers, these less handsomely dressed than many there. Grooms took their horses readily enough, but otherwise they were ignored. David led the way to the Great Hall.

This proved to be an enormous, pillared cavern of a place, quite unlike the hall of any castle, rath or hallhouse in Scotland, fully two hundred feet long by half that in width, the walls hung with tapestries and arras. Down the two sides, quite near the walling, servitors were setting long tables for a banquet, leaving a wide space open in the centre. At the head of the great apartment was a raised dais with another table, crosswise, already set with gold and silver vessels. In a minstrel’s gallery above the bottom end, musicians were tuning up their instruments.

Edgar pointed, wordless, to the dias, and led the way, to climb on to it – watched askance by the servitors but not interfered with.

“I shall await William here,” he declared, sitting on a bench.

“I think that he cannot be back from the hunt, yet,” David said. “I have seen none of his friends.”

His brother nodded. He beckoned one of the servants. “Fetch us wine, fellow.”

The man looked doubtful. “The Deputy Chief Butler dispenses the wine, sir. Later.”

“Aroint you, fool – wine!” Sir Eustace barked. “Are you telling the King of Scots to wait?”

“Eh . . . no. lord! Yes, lord!” Bowing, the man hurried off.

There was some considerable delay before the wine appeared, nevertheless. And when it did, the servants were accompanied by two or three others, richly garbed, the foremost of whom was a fleshy but smooth man of early middle years, round-faced, balding, smiling, with shrewd small busy eyes.

“Flambard!” David groaned into his brother’s ear. “Now the King’s chiefest minister and right-hand. A man hateful.”

“Ah – here is a surprise,” the newcomer said, his voice high and light, but pleasingly modulated. “Do I see the Lord Edgar of Scotland? You take us unawares, my lord.”

“Do I? It might almost have seemed so – only the keeper of your poors’ asylum here was ready for us, at least! Under instructions from one Flambard, it seems.”

“That is my humble self, my lord. I hope that you found all to your comfort at St. John’s? The town is plaguey full, I fear, folk roosting in every corner. But you will have all St. John’s Hospice to yourselves, I promise you. The . . . inmates have been removed.”

Edgar made no comment. “Where is King William?”

“His Grace has just returned, my lord. From Somborne Forest. I heard his company ride in but a few minutes ago. Let us pray that he has had a good day’s sport so that he is in genial temper!” Despite the lightsome voice there was a grating behind that somewhere, a warning or threat.

“We had looked to see him before this,” Edgar said flatly.

“Your patience will soon be rewarded, my lord.”

“My patience is not the best of me, Monsieur . . . what was the name?”

“Flambard, sir – Ranulf Flambard. His Grace’s humblest servant.”

“Are you, then, this Deputy Chief Butler?”

“Ah, no. Scarce that. I am, all unworthily, the Lord Chief Justiciar of England, my lord.”

“Indeed. I am . . . surprised.”

For a moment those small eyes gleamed daggers. Then the man bowed. “Here is wine for your refreshment, my lords. But – may I suggest that you drink it otherwhere? This dias-table is set and reserved, you will understand, for the King’s Grace.” Flambard backed away.

“I am sufficiently comfortable here, sir,” Edgar told him. “And it is usual to name a monarch Highness or lord King.”

“Ah – but there is only one lord King in England . . . Highness!” the other asserted, smiling, and swept out.

“That low-born scullion Chief Justice!” Sir Eustace exclaimed. “A priest’s bastard, from the Cotentin. Red William must have run mad!”

“He is named the most cruel man in England, as well as the Justiciar,” David said. “But – that was well-spoken. I wish that I could speak like that, Edgar. You, you are not going down from this dias?”

“No.”

“Good lad!” the Earl of Angus chuckled. “Er. . . Highness.”

So they sat drinking, as the hall filled up, seeming at ease but wary-eyed. They were stared at, as guests came to take their seats at the lower tables, but none actually came to speak with them, although there was much whispering and head-shaking. No women were present. William Rufus did not like women. They all had quite a lengthy wait, with only the Scots party drinking. The musicians played now.

Then, at last, the music stopped and a trumpeter appeared in the gallery, to blow a loud and stirring fanfare. All men rose – all men, that is except the King of Scots.

A door was thrown open behind the dais area, and as the trumpet-notes faded, a herald cried, “Attend on the King’s Grace!”

There was a pause, quite prolonged. Then laughter could be heard from beyond the doorway. The herald stood aside, and bowed low. Two men came strolling in, one of middle years with his arm around the shoulders of one much younger. Both were chuckling, one deeply, the other in more of a high giggle. After a slight interval came a casual gaily-clad group of about a dozen, Chief Justice Flambard prominent amongst them.

The leading pair were, of course, immediately confronted with the Scots group occupying the dais platform, the older man affecting not to notice at first, although his companion, a beautiful young man most elaborately dressed, contrived to look both alarmed and determinedly amused at the same time. Then, when he was within a few feet of the Scots, William fitz William halted, arm still around his friend, to stare.

Edgar rose from his bench, at last. “Greetings, Cousin,” he said into the profound hush.

“On my soul – Edgar of Scotland!” the other monarch exclaimed. He stuttered somewhat. “S’so you have answered my s’summons with becoming promptness!”

Willia