The Lion of Justice (36 page)

He took Stephen to the Tower Royal, a palace situated close to Watling Street and Cheapside. Henry had built it not long before. He asked Stephen what he thought of this new palace.

‘A palace!' replied Stephen. ‘Why, sir, it is a mighty fortress. It is almost as solid as the Tower of London.'

‘I like it well,' said Henry, ‘and the reason I shall give it away is not that it has found disfavour with me. It is yours, Stephen. It is my gift to you and my niece.'

‘My lord, you are generous.'

‘I forget not your loyalty to me. While it lasts, nephew, you will have my favour.'

‘I shall pray to be worthy of your kindness, sir.'

‘We are of a family. Your mother was always my favourite sister. It has pleased me greatly to do something for her son.'

‘My lord, I shall serve you with my life.'

The King bowed his head and an expression of rare softness came into his face.

‘I would you had been born my son, Stephen,' he said.

Stephen replied, ‘Those words, sir, give me greater pleasure than your magnificent gift.'

The wedding ceremony took place without delay, and Stephen of Blois and Matilda of Boulogne were husband and wife.

There were feasting and ceremonies; and the Queen and her sister were constantly in each other's company.

When the married pair settled in the Tower Royal, Mary went back to Bermondsey, where she decided to stay for a while before she made the journey back to Boulogne.

As the King remained in England he decided it would be good to travel about the country, staying in the castles and palaces of his loyal subjects as he went.

Like the rest of his family he delighted in fine buildings and admired the best architecture, so it was always a great pleasure to visit castles which either he, his brother Rufus or his father had built. They were indeed becoming part of the English countryside and it was impossible to go far without coming upon the formidable looking piles, with their turrets and arches. The latest to be built was Woodstock, a palace to be proud of, and the park was delightful.

Also like his father and Rufus, Henry loved wild animals. Not only did he wish to hunt them, he liked to observe them. He discussed with Matilda the possibility of filling the park with wild animals. These, of course, would have to be kept in enclosures; and he believed a great deal of pleasure would be derived from sauntering through the park and watching the animals from as close quarters as was possible.

Matilda thought it an excellent idea and together they set about obtaining the animals to fill the Woodstock Zoo.

Harry did not look for deer and wild boar and such other animals as were familiar in the English forests, for he decided Woodstock should be famous for the animals which did not normally live in England.

How would he come by such animals, Matilda wanted to know.

‘In their travels to the Holy Land, men have passed through countries in which wild animals flourish. I would wish some of these to be brought to England.'

‘Is it possible?'

‘They could be caged and brought. I should like to see lions and the strange animal which my brother Robert told us of when he was with us. He saw it in the desert and it will carry a man on its back through sand and heat. It is called a camel. I should like one or more of that type.'

Henry recovered from the strain of the Normandy battles in his enthusiasm for his Zoo, and the day finally came when he had gathered together lions and leopards; he even had his camel. These animals were put into enclosures that they might be watched from afar, and keepers were engaged to care for them. Everyone was talking of the wonders of Woodstock Park – a change from the continual talk of war.

Henry and Matilda presided over the opening of the Zoo; and rarely had Henry been in better humour. Many of the leading nobles were lodged at the New Palace, and Henry explained to them how he had managed to procure the animals.

A special favourite was a porcupine which provided a great deal of amusement when its prickles shot out.

The Queen was happy on that day. She felt a little better than usual, although far from well; but she was at least able to disguise her weakness from the King.

Just before the opening of the Zoo, messengers arrived from Germany. The Queen was very eager to hear news of her daughter and was delighted to receive letters from Matilda implying that she was content with her lot. The Emperor was very old but very kind. She was taking German lessons, and there had been a splendid ceremony at Mentz.

The Queen questioned the messengers. Had they seen the Empress?

Oh, yes, they had seen her. She had made a progress through the streets of Mentz in her bridal gown, the Emperor beside her in the carriage.

‘Did she seem happy?' the Queen asked.

‘None happier. She seemed very pleased to be among the
German people and they expressed their liking for her in loud cheers. They called her “the little Empress” and they had thought her very handsome. She had spoken to them in German and told them that she loved their country already and would do her best to serve them. The people had been delighted.'

‘And her husband?' asked Matilda.

‘He could not be better pleased. He finds her handsome and amusing. He is pleased with his marriage.'

She might have known that Matilda would be all right. All Matilda needed to make her happy was homage.

She took the messengers to Henry, who listened with approval, and when they were alone he said, ‘You see how useful these marriages can be in families such as ours. Now I have secured the Emperor's friendship. He cannot take up arms against his father-in-law. Would I had more daughters to place strategically throughout Europe.'

And because of the sudden pain she felt, which was often followed by periods of lethargy, she said, ‘I doubt not you are surprised that honours cannot be picked up so easily for those children you have got on other women. It is only my children who are of use to you.'

‘It seems unnecessary to call attention to the fact that my legitimate children can marry in higher places than my others.' He turned on her, with the temper beginning to flare up in his eyes. ‘But let me tell you this, any child of mine will be well looked after to the best of my power and you, Madam, will add your help to mine in this matter.'

‘You ask a great deal, Henry.'

‘I have given you a great deal. But for marriage to me you would be in a convent in your hair shirt and veil.'

‘Our marriage brought advantage to you, Henry. You forget that I am the daughter of the royal Saxon house.'

‘You would not allow me to forget it or I would.'

She felt ill suddenly and had no heart for the quarrel. ‘Oh, Henry,' she said, ‘you are here in England and that rejoices me. Let us not spoil the pleasure of this by harsh words.'

He did not wish to quarrel either. He said, ‘I am content, Matilda. I love you well. I am only sad that we cannot get
more children. If we could but have another son . . . and if you would cease to harp on these others I have had, I should know complete happiness.'

‘The first I cannot help for that is in God's hands, for the second I will do my best not to refer to the matter again.'

‘I bless you, my dear,' he said; and they went out to the opening ceremony of the Zoo.

While Henry talked merrily of the habits of the animals, Matilda was aware of the nagging pain within her. The terrible notion that she would never have another child could not be dismissed.

The ceremony over, the feasting in the great hall of the palace began; and it was while this was in progress that a messenger arrived from Bermondsey.

Mary had very suddenly been taken ill, and within a few hours was dead.

Matilda was shocked into illness. For several days she did not leave her bed. Mary, who had seemed so very much alive but a short time before . . . dead! It was inconceivable.

The messenger had told her that the Countess had risen from the table and fallen in a faint. She had been alive when they carried her to her bed. She had spoken of her sister and how happy she was that her daughter was safely married. She had asked that her dear sister Matilda be asked always to look after her namesake. Then within an hour she had passed away. As she had always expressed a desire to be buried in the Abbey of Bermondsey her wishes were respected. That Abbey to which she had entrusted her daughter had benefited greatly from her generosity, and it seemed fitting that she should be laid to rest in a spot where she had found peace during her lifetime.

The young bride wept for her mother, but she had her handsome young husband and the novelty of marriage to comfort her. It was Matilda, her sister, who felt her death more keenly.

‘It happened so suddenly,' she said to Gunilda. ‘It could happen to anyone. One day one is well and the next dead. I had thought to go long before she did.'

‘We can never tell when our time has come,' replied
Gunilda, ‘and often those of us who seem most likely to live for a long time go first.'

All the same, Matilda was becoming increasingly aware of her failing health and she often wondered how long was left to her.

It was shortly after the death of Mary that rebellion broke out once more in Normandy. The King left for that troubled country and he took with him his son William and his nephew Stephen. Matilda hated parting with her son, particularly to the wars; she was apprehensive for his welfare and wished as she had on so many occasions that Henry had been content with England and had left Normandy to his brother Robert, who was still languishing in Cardiff Castle. But she gave her time up to comforting Stephen's young wife, and as they sat together over their embroidery she shared with the young girl confidences of her life in the Abbey under her harsh Aunt Christina, and she told of her joy when Henry had come courting her.

When the King had left there was no longer the necessity to keep up appearances. Matilda could spend days in her apartment with only her women about her.

Gunilda and Emma were growing more and more worried about the state of her health because it was becoming clear that she was very ill indeed. Often she lay on her bed asking nothing but to be left in peace. There she liked to think over the past and most of all those days when Henry had first come to court her. She had loved him deeply, and believed that she could have gone on loving him had she not made too perfect an image of him in the first place. Often she believed that had she been brought up in a court instead of an abbey, she might have been accustomed to the ways of men. But because she had led such a sequestered existence she had believed in romantic knights who remained faithful till death.

A pity! Her daughter Matilda had been different. Matilda was knowledgeable of the world and this would doubtless help her in her relationship with her husband.

She wondered whether the marriage had been consummated or whether the Emperor had taken pity on his young bride and delayed that part of the marriage. He could not
delay too long, for he was growing old.

Life was strange. One must needs learn all one could of it and adjust oneself to its demands.

She tried to impress this on her special friends, the two women who had been with her all her married life, and the other, Christina, who had joined them a little later.

‘When I am gone, what will you do?' she asked them.

‘Gone, my lady!' cried Emma in bewilderment.

‘I mean when God has called me from this earth.'

‘You mean . . .
dead!
' said Gunilda, shocked. ‘Oh, my lady, do not speak of such things.'

‘Come and sit beside me,' said Matilda, ‘and you too, Christina. You must know that I am going to die.'

‘No, my lady,' said Emma firmly, ‘except that one day that is something we must all come to.'

‘My time is not far off.'

‘No, my lady. What will the King say?'

‘Life and death is something the King himself cannot control.'

‘He will be desolate.'

She turned her face away from them and a sad smile played about her mouth. Would he be? How much had he loved her? Never with the overpowering love which she had been ready to give him. She had believed theirs would be the greatest love story of their times, because she was young and innocent; and he had cared for her in a certain way, though not as he had cared for Nesta. Or did he care for Nesta? He had desired Nesta as he never desired any other; and he wanted Matilda for his wife. One was sensuous, able to slake his sexual thirst; the other was the daughter of a royal house who could give him the support he needed from his Saxon subjects.

We both had our uses, thought Matilda a little sadly.

And when she was dead would he mourn? A little. But not for long. He would say, ‘I will marry again. There is still time left for me to get a son.'

‘The King will recover from his grief,' she said. ‘But I speak of you.'

Emma, the soft-hearted one, wept surreptitiously.

‘I beg of you, my lady,' whispered Gunilda, ‘do not speak
of these matters, for we should never go from here while you need us and if you did not . . .' her voice broke. ‘It could mean but one thing.'

‘It is in fact that of which we speak,' said Matilda. ‘We must perforce look into the truth. You could not marry now.'

‘Nay,' said Christina, ‘we would have no wish to, were it possible.'

‘Stay together, then. You are good friends and will have the friendship of each other. Perhaps you would be happy in a priory or an abbey.'

Emma had started to weep so heart-brokenly that Matilda agreed not to discuss the matter further at that time. But that did not mean that it was not uppermost in their minds.

For their sake Matilda attempted to bestir herself, but it was difficult, for with each passing day she grew more feeble.

It was November when Henry returned.

When he saw Matilda he was horrified by her appearance.