The Passionate Enemies (10 page)

His own shortsightedness was to blame; and how much harder it was to endure tribulation when one feared it was the result of one's own actions.

There had now come into his mind the growing certainty that God was punishing him for his lasciviousness by making Adelicia barren.

He looked at Stephen and wondered whether after all he might not yet be forced to make his nephew his heir. Stephen
had suffered a bitter disappointment when Adelicia had become the Queen; it seemed he need not have feared.

‘Yes, Stephen,' cried Henry, ‘to Normandy. Anjou must be made to feel my anger. This betrothal of his daughter and Clito can mean one thing.'

‘My lord,' replied Stephen, ‘are not Clito and Fulk's daughter related? I believe them to be cousins of the fifth degree.'

Henry was silent and then burst into loud laughter. ‘'Tis so,' he bellowed.

‘Then, my lord, the Pope . . .?'

‘Ay,' cried Henry. ‘The Pope!'

They were both silent for a moment and each knew the other was remembering that William, the King's son, and Matilda, Fulk's daughter, had been fifth cousins too; yet no one had denied their right to marry on the grounds of consanguinity. The relationship between them was exactly the same as that between Clito and Sibyl.

‘You think, my lord . . .' began Stephen.

‘I think, Stephen, that the Pope will have the good sense to support Henry, King of England, against a mere Count of Anjou. Send for Roger. He can deal with this matter with the Pope. And you are right, nephew, you and I will prepare to leave for Normandy without delay.'

Henry took his leave of his Queen with mild regret.

She did not greatly excite him and he had almost given up hope of getting an heir by her. Away from her he could indulge in a way of life more natural to him; there would be pleasant encounters on the way. For if, he thought moodily, after all the endeavours I have made she remains barren, then barren she must be.

Adelicia herself was not entirely sorry to see him go. She had been overshadowed by this urgent need to get a son and it would be pleasant to be rid of it.

She would have the sole occupancy of her bed at night; she could lie and dream about the needlework she would do, or the songs she would learn to play and sing. She would not have to be overshadowed by that dreadful sense of guilt.

She had become very friendly with Stephen's wife Matilda
and was fond of her son, little Baldwin, a charming child though perhaps too frail for his mother's comfort.

Matilda was desolate at the departure of Stephen. He had the power to make people love him. He was so handsome and courteous always, although Adelicia had learned that he was not always faithful to his wife.

After they had watched the men depart they sat over their needlework together and talked of their lives. Always Adelicia was looking for the signs which did not come. ‘Soon,' she said, ‘if there is no indication I shall know it is useless to hope and that in itself will be a relief.'

‘Poor Adelicia. But the King has been kind to you, has he not?'

‘Yes, he has been kind, yet I know that I have been a great disappointment to him.'

‘The King is too old to beget children. He should blame himself for this lack, not you.'

‘Yet I do not think he does.'

‘Of course it is said that he has more children than any of his subjects.'

Adelicia blushed.

‘You know it,' persisted Matilda. ‘Do not be shy with me. Do not imagine that Stephen is a faithful husband.'

‘Not Stephen!'

‘He has his mistresses. He is like the King in that. One woman does not satisfy them. It is a fact we must needs accept. At least I do not have to watch him with Matilda.'

‘Matilda?'

‘My namesake, yes. The King's daughter. You have heard of that Matilda.'

‘It must be years since she was at Court.'

‘She left more than ten years ago. She will be twenty-two years of age now. I saw her only on my visits to the Court from Bermondsey. But Matilda is someone one never forgets. I know that Stephen has never forgotten her. I can tell by the look on his face when she is mentioned.'

‘But she was so young when she went away.'

‘I have heard much of her and sometimes when Stephen says my name . . . Matilda . . . he says it like that yearningly and I fancy he is thinking of her.'

‘Oh, how could it be? She was but a child when she went away.'

‘There was something about her. She was different from others.'

‘You are jealous, Matilda.'

‘Am I? I know he has mistresses and I have ceased to think of them. He says they mean nothing to him and I believe him. It is Matilda of whom I think often. I wonder what she is doing in Germany . . . if she ever thinks of us.'

Adelicia shook her head and taking up a needle threaded it with deep blue silk.

‘Why, Matilda,' she said, ‘you are fanciful. How could he think of this other Matilda now . . . after ten years . . . and she a child when she went away? Nay, you have allowed this matter to obsess you as I have the need to get a child. Our husbands have gone. We will pray for their speedy victory and in the meantime we will be as merry as we can for if I am not with child there is naught I can do about that now; as for you, this Matilda who haunts you is far away; she is the Empress of Germany so what can she do to take your husband from you?'

‘You are right, Adelicia. Let us decide what we will instruct the musicians to play this night.'

A year had passed and the King was still in Normandy. The Pope had been prevailed upon to prevent the marriage of Clito and Sibyl. That at least would show Fulk the kind of adversary he had in the King of England.

Fulk might rage against the Pope who could be so careless about some marriages and so meticulous about others – depending of course on the power of the people concerned. But of what use? The edict from Rome was no marriage, so no marriage there was.

The King should see though that the Count of Anjou could be a bitter enemy even if his daughter were not married to the true heir of Normandy – ay, and to England. And the fighting was fierce.

In spite of his years Henry had lost none of his skill as a general. He had his victories but they were not complete, for all over Normandy the barons were rising against him and the
King of France never forgot the enmity he felt towards the King of England.

One matter which wounded Henry deeply was the disaffection of his old friend, Luke de Barré. This boyhood companion of his, whose verses he had been wont to enjoy, had gone over to the enemy. He had decided that the true heir to Normandy was the young Clito and Luke put himself at the service of the young man.

‘I would never have believed,' said the King, ‘that Luke de Barré would have turned traitor.'

This was even more than the loss of an old friend for not only had Luke gone over to the other side but he was using his talents to help the enemy. His verses had always been admired and Henry could recall many happy hours in the great halls of his various castles when he had sat laughing at Luke while he sang the songs he had composed.

They were witty and to the point and often somewhat satirical, for Luke had always liked to parody the foibles of those about him.

And now he was parodying Henry. It was incredible that he should dare. Some of the songs were brought to the King's notice and when he heard those sly words he flew into a rage, so that his minstrels dared not sing more of Luke's songs until told that it would be the worse for them if they did not.

Some of these were stirring battle songs, calculated to put heart into the King's enemies; they set out the rights of Clito's cause and the wrongs of Henry's; and not only that. When they had been friends they had gone out visiting inns and taverns together, had shared many an adventure with the ladies who frequented such places, and the King's wrath grew when he heard in detail accounts of those adventures put into verse . . . his confidence betrayed by this traitorous man.

He told Stephen what he would do to him if ever he fell into his hands.

‘By God's death,' he said, ‘I would make him wish he had never been born.'

The Clito had inherited a great deal from his father – not less that which amounted almost to a genius for failure. He was a man who – sometimes through no fault of his own – was
never in the significant spot at the vital moment. Henry, with his meticulous planning, his years of experience and the respect and fear he inspired in all those about him, was an adversary as certain to succeed as Clito was doomed to fail.

One by one castles fell into Henry's hands and by Easter time it was clear that the rebel defences were crumbling and that this phase of the war was virtually at an end.

Thousands of prisoners were taken and when Henry heard that the warrior-bard Luke de Barré was among them he laughed aloud.

‘Now he will see,' he cried, ‘what happens to those who would mock the King.'

That night he paced his chamber asking himself what revenge would hurt his old friend most. To be condemned to death! He knew Luke. He would shrug his shoulders philosophically and make some ode on the beauty of death and go gracefully to his execution. That was not punishment enough.

His eyes. Of course, his eyes! Those beautifully dreamy eyes which the women so much admired and with which he surveyed the world that so excited him that he must record what he saw sometimes lyrically, often satirically.

That should be his sentence. The fate all men dreaded more than any other was to have the light put out and be plunged into a darkness which would last for the rest of their lives.

He himself gave the order: Luke de Barré to be taken to the scaffold and there publicly to have his eyes put out.

The King's kinsman, the Earl of Flanders, begged for an audience.

‘What is it?' asked the King.

‘My lord, forgive me, but may I speak to you concerning the poet Luke de Barré?'

‘Have they not yet carried out the sentence on him?'

‘Not yet, and I beg you will order it not to be done.'

‘Why should you plead for a traitor?' asked the King.

‘A traitor he is, sir. But he is a poet more than a warrior.'

‘Are you saying that I should pardon this man who has insulted me?'

‘Nay, sir, but such a sentence . . . Allow me to bring him to you. On his knees he will ask your pardon.'

‘I doubt it not, now that he is my prisoner.'

‘It was but words.'

‘Words! Know you not the power of words? At times methinks they are more effective than the sword.'

‘I beg of you, sir, show mercy on this man.'

‘No!' cried the King. ‘I say no! This man, a wit, a bard, a minstrel, hath composed ribald songs against me and sung them to make my enemies laugh. God has delivered him into my hands. I wish all to see what happens to those who flout me that others may be deterred from like petulance.'

‘Sir . . .'

‘Get you gone,' cried the King, ‘or you too will feel my wrath.'

Alone the King muttered, ‘Now, Luke de Barré, you will learn what it means to insult the King.'

‘My eyes!' cried Luke de Barré. ‘Not my eyes. Take my life . . . but not my eyes.'

‘My lord,' said the guard, ‘it is the King's command.'

‘My eyes, my
precious
eyes. It must not be. Take me to the King.'

‘The Earl of Flanders has spoken for you but the King has sworn to show no mercy.'

‘I will give everything I have . . . lands, wealth . . . everything . . . for my eyes.'

The guard did not answer.

All through the night Luke de Barré sat in his dungeon. He had asked for a candle that he might see for as long as he would be allowed to. He asked for writing materials because he must write to the King. But such materials were denied him.

Henry was a hard man. He had always known it. It would have been different with his brother Robert or the Clito. They would have more feeling for their friend. But Henry was the victor. Henry had always been the victor from the moment he had ridden to Winchester and proclaimed himself the King.

They had had amusing adventures together. Two young men whose minds had been in tune. That was what had attracted Henry in the first place. He liked a companion when sporting with women and then they would talk together of deeper matters. There had been a bond between them. Beauclerc had chosen scholars for his friends.

Henry must remember those days of friendship. He must see him.

Yet he had always known that Henry was a ruthless man. Why had he been tempted to write those songs? The words had been witty and he had always been carried away by words. And Henry
was
wrong to take Normandy. The Clito – or his father – were the true heirs.

Henry must know this, for he was a just man. Just, cruel, ruthless . . .

‘Oh, God, let me see the King,' he prayed. ‘Let me talk to him.'

He could remind him of the old days, the hilarious adventures, the women they had known, the days of their youth.

But the King would not see him. The Earl of Flanders came.

‘I have tried to plead with Henry,' he explained. ‘He stands firm. Your songs angered him greatly.'

‘Oh, fool that I was. I never thought he could do this to me.'

The Earl looked sorrowfully at the poet.

‘You made an ill choice,' he said, ‘and now must needs pay for it. Did you not realize that the Clito could never win against the King.'

‘I thought his cause just.'

‘And to mock the King! Did you not know that he would never forgive that?'

‘I thought I could talk to him; he ever loved an argument. I thought we would talk as we used to in the old days.'

The Earl shook his head and Luke put his hands over his eyes.

‘So,' he said at length, ‘there is no hope then.'

The Earl was silent.