The Passionate Enemies (15 page)

Matilda sat there, proud and regal. All was going as she had dreamed. She was home: and her stepmother was barren; and her father had named her heiress to the throne. This was the fulfilment of her ambitions.

Windsor, beautiful Windsor, which had excited her mother so much because she hoped that by the time the King returned from the Normandy wars she would have his magnificent apartments ready. Her thoughts went back to the days before she had been sent to Germany. It had been Whitsuntide and they had celebrated the feast at Windsor – the new Windsor; and it was in this very hall that her father had sent for her and there, with her mother beside him, had told her that great honour had been done to her, because the Emperor of Germany was asking her hand in marriage.

Beautiful Windsor, with its forests and legends of King Arthur from whom her mother must have descended. It was appropriate that she should be back in this hall where she had been told of her destiny years ago and now she could see herself at the pinnacle of her desire – or almost. Not until the crown was on her head would that be so. Yet she was almost there. One more step, she thought. She studied her father. He was ageing fast. His servants said he suffered from indigestion and they could not tell how great the pain was because they dared not approach him when he suffered from it. How many years . . . two, three. Five at the most?

And as she watched that array of knights she thought of other ceremonies – at Utrecht when she had been betrothed to the Emperor Henry and at Mainz when the Archbishop of Trier had placed the Imperial crown on her head. She had thrilled to such honour and had tried not to see the old man at her side who had made it all possible. If it had been young Stephen who had been her husband then how differently she would have felt. But the pomp and ceremony had compensated her to a great degree. Homage, rank, power – these were the real goal, she knew. But love was important as she had realized since she grew older.

And then she thought of a poor old man with wild eyes and trembling hands, rising from his bed and wrapping himself in an old woollen garment and padding barefoot through the castle.

He is dead, she told herself. That is the end of him. Was he not buried with all the ceremony due to an Emperor? That phase of my life is finished. The Empress will in due course become a Queen.

Her father sat beside her, his eyes watchful. There was her stepmother, poor Adelicia, whose barren state made this ceremony necessary. I for one shall not complain of that, thought Matilda wryly.

One by one they came and knelt. Archbishop William of Corbeil first, followed by Roger, Bishop of Salisbury. There was a man she must watch. If ever there was trouble in the country she would want him on her side. And next David the First of Scotland, her mother's brother, who had recently become the King after the death of his brother Alexander. The King was wise; it would be well, in the event of any trouble, to have the oath of the King of Scotland. And then the moment for which she was waiting. Stephen. A triumphant Stephen because he had won his battle with Robert of Gloucester and came before the King's bastard.

She thought: How handsome he is! The others are insignificant beside him. And passionately she asked herself why fate could have been so cruel as to marry her to the old Emperor when she might have had Stephen. It would have been so reasonable if her brother William had already been drowned on the White Ship before her marriage. Cruel Fate, that had given her to that senile old man and then taken William.

But Fate was smiling now. Here she was, an Empress, and a Queen to be; and kneeling at her feet the handsomest man in England, his eyes glowing with passion to which she responded whole-heartedly.

Life was offering a great deal. She must grasp it. It was offering the crown and that was what she wanted more than anything. And Stephen was here to swear undying devotion.

What more could she ask? It was foolish to entertain for
one moment these memories of a crazy old man with wild eyes, padding barefoot about his palace.

Stephen had pressed her hand; his lips were on her skin; he lifted his eyes and they smiled at each other.

ROGER AND THE
King were together in Henry's private chamber. Startling news had come from Normandy. The King of France, perennial enemy of England, had offered his wife's half-sister, Jeanne, to the Clito.

‘By God's death,' cried Henry, ‘here is a fine state of affairs. They were always allies, but this will bind them so close that they will be as one. He does it to plague me. It is a signal, you will see. Trouble is going to flare up in Normandy.'

‘When has there not been trouble in Normandy?' asked Roger. ‘Only your brilliant generalship has kept that troublous Duchy in our hands.'

‘No peace,' said the King. ‘No peace at all. Moreover Louis is making Clito a present of the Vexin – and that piece of land, lying as it does on our borders, has caused me more trouble than any other. I see that I shall soon be leaving for Normandy.'

While they were discussing these matters a messenger arrived with more disquieting news. The Count of Flanders had been murdered and as he had left no heirs, the King of France had bestowed his lands on William Clito.

‘Louis is putting more and more power into that boy's hands,' cried Henry. ‘Soon there will be no holding him.'

‘There is also Fulk of Anjou,' Roger reminded the King. ‘Ever since his daughter was returned to him minus her dowry he has been waiting to get his revenge.'

‘Ah, Fulk. He is the one I fear more than any, Roger. There is a true soldier, a man who is shrewd and ever ready to seize an opportunity. If he were but on my side, I would stand
against Louis and Clito – for neither of whom have I much respect.'

‘There was a time when you and he were friends.'

‘That was when he believed his daughter would one day be Queen of England. Oh, Roger, how often are my troubles and stresses brought back to the disaster of the White Ship.'

‘Marriage brought his friendship, then . . .'

Roger was looking intently at his master.

‘He has a son,' said the King slowly. ‘He is but thirteen years old, I believe. Matilda is twenty-four.'

Roger spread his hands. ‘Age cannot always be a consideration in royal marriages,' he said,

‘There you speak truth. What then?'

‘An alliance with Fulk would change the entire picture.'

Henry laughed. ‘I can picture Louis's face when he heard.'

‘Remember, my lord, how it helped us at the time of your son's marriage with his daughter.'

‘I remember well.'

‘It could change again.'

‘A boy of thirteen and my daughter. Could a boy of that age get sons?'

‘Of a certainty, my lord. You were not much older when your first were begotten I believe.'

‘I was advanced in such matters.'

‘A strong woman such as your daughter would be a good teacher.'

They smiled. Then the King said: ‘I believe you to be right in this, Roger. But I must needs think. I had wished that Matilda should marry again but I had wanted an English marriage. As you know there was a hint when I got them to agree to swear fealty to her that there would not be a foreign marriage. The people do not want a foreigner here on the throne.'

‘The throne would be for Matilda.'

‘Ay, but a husband, Roger.'

‘A boy now but he can be moulded into a man. It is better that he should be young.'

‘We need Fulk's help,' said the King. ‘We need it badly.'

‘May I suggest, my lord, that we brood on this matter.'

‘A wise suggestion, Roger. Let me give it thought.'

The King sent for his daughter. He wished to be completely alone with her. He had a matter of great importance to discuss.

By God's death, he thought, she gives herself airs this daughter of mine. One would think she were Queen and I a subject.

Yet in a way he was pleased with her demeanour. When her turn came she would carry the orb and sceptre with dignity.

‘Now, daughter,' he said, ‘be seated. This is a matter which must be resolved without delay. You are now the heir to the throne and your first duty as such will be to provide the heirs the country needs.'

She was silent. Her heart had begun to beat very fast. She could not get out of her mind the picture of her husband rising from his bed and padding barefoot to the door. She thought of the news of his death and the funeral. She had not seen the face of the man in the coffin.

‘Therefore,' went on the King, ‘the next matter we have to deal with is your marriage. You have no children by the Emperor and that may well be a blessing, but you must now without delay set about the task of providing heirs for the nation.'

‘Yes, Father,' she said slowly.

‘We have found a bridegroom for you. This marriage will bring peace to the country and to Normandy . . .'

‘So I am to be used.'

‘My dear daughter, we are all used. I married your mother because she was a Saxon princess and although I had been born and bred in England and was the son of a Norman king. I had to submit.'

‘My mother always used to say that yours was a true love match.'

‘I wooed her it is true but I did so because I know that such a marriage would do for the country.'

‘And secure your accession to the throne.'

‘That was so. I was wise. And so must you be. The country wants an heir. It is your duty to provide that.'

‘And who has been chosen to be the sire?'

‘Geoffrey of Anjou.'

‘Who is he?'

‘The son of Fulk.'

‘Your enemy!'

‘At the moment. Some time since he was my friend. That was when his daughter married your brother.'

‘And I am to have the son.'

‘He will inherit Anjou and as you know this is the most important province in Normandy. He can cause me great trouble if he remains my enemy. If he is my friend everything is turned about.'

‘And so, because of his father's infidelity this man is to sire my children.'

‘You know full well that you must have a husband. I have chosen Geoffrey of Anjou.'

‘I have no wish to marry . . . yet.'

‘But I wish you to marry without delay.'

‘And what is he like, this Geoffrey of Anjou?'

‘He is a little young at this time, but that is something which time will remedy.'

‘A little young. How old?'

‘He is approaching fourteen years.'

‘Fourteen! A child! For me!

‘He will grow up quickly.'

‘I'll not have him.'

The King stood up and assumed an expression which would have struck immediate terror into any of his subjects. But Matilda was his daughter and she also rose. They faced each other.

‘It would seem,' said the King, ‘that you are under a misapprehension. You do not rule this land yet, and you, Madam, are as certainly a subject as the lowliest serf in this castle. Remember this! I have raised you up. As easily could I put you down. Ay, and would, if you displease me.'

Matilda said: ‘And when you put me down who will then be your heir?'

‘There are others.'

‘To come before your own flesh and blood?'

‘There are other members of my family who could succeed me to the throne.'

‘My cousin Stephen? Or one of your many bastards? I believe there are twenty of them – perhaps more.'

‘And more joy they bring me than my legitimate children. One died . . . and the other a virago who would rule the land before she comes to the throne.'

His anger was terrible but her common sense warned her that if he became truly enraged he would disinherit her. She would have to go carefully.

‘But Father,' she faltered, ‘a boy not yet fourteen.'

‘It is his age now.'

‘I am a woman, Father. I do not want a child for a husband.'

‘It is necessary. We need this marriage. We have, to placate Fulk or there will be bitter bloodshed in Normandy with God knows what disasters. Clito is rising. I do not fear him, but I do know the might of Fulk. And marriage alone will bring him to our side.'

She was silent for a few seconds and he went on: ‘So, we shall go ahead with the negotiations. They will take a little time. You will have some months before you need go to Anjou.'

‘Go to Anjou! Why should he not come here?'

‘Because his estates are in Anjou.'

‘But . . .'

‘You are not yet Queen of England; it would be well to remember. When I die you would return with him and rule this country. In the meantime it would be necessary for you to go to Anjou.'

To go to Anjou. To leave England. Not to see Stephen. It would be as bad as being in Germany. Had she escaped from one doom to walk straight into another?

She would not have it. Anything . . . anything was better than that.

She made up her mind.

‘There is something I must tell you,' she said. ‘It concerns my husband.'

He looked at her sharply. ‘The Emperor?'

She nodded. ‘He . . . he may not be dead.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘One night he left our bed. I saw him wrapped only in a woollen garment . . . the sort pilgrims wear. Barefooted, he left the apartment. I never saw him after that.'

The King narrowed his eyes. ‘What means this? You did not see him! Did you not attend his funeral and was he not buried
in state and was not a monument erected to him?'

‘This was so, but I cannot swear that the body which was buried at Spires was his. I did not see him after that night. I was told that he had died.'

‘But you must have looked on his face. You, his wife . . . not to know him!'

‘I did not.'

‘This is a wild story and I believe it not.'

‘It is wild certainly but where there is madness strange things happen.'