The Passionate Enemies (22 page)

Luke had never said such words, at least not in his hearing. But it seemed likely that he had spoken them to some.

Why was he thinking of Luke when this fearful problem was presenting itself to him? If Matilda died, what then?

A baby King with a host of ambitious men juggling for power. Better Stephen. Could Stephen hold the crown until young Henry was of age? To put the crown on a man's head was a dangerous thing, for Stephen would have sons. He had a daughter now for he had lost little Baldwin, but there would
be others and he would be ambitious for his own flesh and blood.

Matilda must live.

Oh, God, let her live. Barré was right. There were times when it must be impressed on the Almighty how important certain matters were.

He knelt in prayer. He prayed for Matilda and he had never prayed more fervently. Yet he prayed not for love of her but rather for his grandson and the need to preserve the country he loved from a possible civil war.

His prayers were answered. The physicians were at the door.

‘The child is born, my lord.'

He lifted his eyes and said earnestly: ‘And his mother?'

‘Exhausted, sir, and very weak, but she is indeed your daughter, and has great determination to live.'

‘She will recover,' he said. with a smile. And remembered that he had not asked the sex of the child.

‘It is a boy,' they told him.

‘Another boy. A strong and healthy boy. So I have two grandsons, eh?'

God was smiling on him after all.

The second boy was as lovely as his brother. The King's happiest hours were spent in the nursery. He could not hear enough details of these young lives. As for the elder, Henry, he was certain that he was destined for greatness. He would have the boy on his knee and try to tell him that he was going to be a King. The child appeared to listen intently and was fascinated by the manner in which his grandfather's lips moved. He would put up a hand to grab his nose and the King would laugh and demand to know if anyone had ever seen a brighter and more lusty child.

Matilda, the mother of Henry and Geoffrey, for the new arrival had been named after his father, was even more arrogant than ever. She still called herself the Empress and indeed had never abandoned the title. She had always liked the sound of it.

Her husband had been a little reconciled at the birth of two sons. There were still violent quarrels but now that he was a
little older he felt a grudging admiration for his forceful wife. Their stormy quarrels added a fillip to the emotional side of their relationship and he was finding her almost as physically attractive as he had once thought her repulsive. Now that he was more mature the difference in their ages seemed less marked. It was hardly a happy marriage – what marriages made for ambition ever were? – but at least they had two lively sons and he had been put on good bargaining terms with the King of England.

Matilda took a great dislike to her father. She had long thought it was time he died. But he clung to life too firmly to please her. Some people seemed to think that he was immortal and would live for ever. God forbid that, she thought. For what then of her inheritance?

One day when she was alone with Geoffrey he commented on the King's devotion to their sons.

‘In particular, Henry,' he said. ‘Their nurses tell me that he creeps into the nursery and watches them when they're asleep. He often picks up Henry and talks to him – as though the boy can understand.'

‘He dotes on him,' replied Matilda. ‘He wanted a son of his own so badly and when young Henry arrived, he believed his prayers had been answered.'

‘He should do something for the boy, then.'

‘He looks upon him as a future King.'

‘That's along time away,' retorted Geoffrey. ‘His mother has to inherit first. But what of Normandy? Why shouldn't he give young Henry Normandy now?'

‘Give Henry Normandy! How could a baby govern Normandy?'

‘He should give it to the boy's father to hold it for him.'

‘To you!' jeered Matilda.

‘And why not?' demanded Geoffrey. ‘Why should I not hold it in trust? It would be some tangible proof of his love for the child. He is always prating about that. He promised me various castles at the time of our marriage. Why does he not give them to me now?'

‘My father hates parting with anything. He has always been avaricious. It is a family failing. It was my grandfather's. He clung to everything he won. Everyone will tell you that.'

‘We should ask your father to keep his promises.'

‘We should and we shall. We will catch him when he is in the nursery drooling over Henry and we shall ask him, since he is always saying how much he loves the boy, to show his affection in a more practical form.'

They plotted together as to how they would approach the King: it was such matters which had the effect of bringing them closer together.

They found him in the nursery holding Henry on his knee. Geoffrey was sleeping quietly in his cradle.

‘Why, Father,' said Matilda, ‘we guessed we should find you here.'

‘This little fellow has grown in the last days,' declared the King. ‘Look at him smiling at me. He knows his grandfather. Do you not, young Henry?'

Matilda took the child from her father and held him aloft.

‘Come, my son,' she said, ‘you know your mother, do you not?'

She handed the child to a nurse and told her to leave them as they wished to be private.

When they were alone, she said: ‘Father, you are pleased with your grandsons?'

‘You need not ask such a question. You know well my feelings.'

‘They have compensated you for the barrenness of your Queen.'

‘They are God's blessings in my old age.'

‘Then since you love them so, you should give some proof of your feelings for them.'

‘Do I not . . . constantly?'

‘You are in the nursery often. You dangle Henry on your knee and doubtless will Geoffrey when he is old enough. But that asks little. I should like some real proof of your love for these children and your gratitude to me for providing them.'

‘You have done your duty,' he answered, ‘and these children are God's blessing to you as well as to me. In due course Henry will be King of England. What greater honour and glory could be given him than that?'

‘He should have Normandy,' said Matilda.

‘He shall in due course.'

‘We think he should have it now,' put in Geoffrey.

The King's anger blazed. This was the young boy he had befriended. He had been his sponsor in chivalry; he had given him a Spanish steed, a steel coat of mail, golden spurs and a scutcheon decorated with golden lions. He had taken pleasure in presenting him with a sword made by the greatest armourer of all, great Gallard. He had been pleased by the boy's good looks and elegance. He had not been displeased when he had been obliged to agree to his marriage with his daughter.

And now the boy was insolent – and all because he was the father of the King's grandsons.

‘
You
think!' cried the King. ‘When have I given you leave to think when and how I shall dispose of my dominions?'

‘You have made promises to me,' declared Geoffrey. ‘You promised castles in Normandy on my marriage. Where are these?'

‘They shall be yours in due course.'

‘I demand them now.'

Hot anger had turned the King's face to purple.

‘You demand from me? You upstart! Do you forget that I am your King and you no more than my subject? Pray do not tell me what I shall and shall not do, or you will find yourself the occupier of a castle dungeon instead of its proud owner.'

‘You needed my father's help once.'

‘I need no man's help. Forget not that I am the son of the greatest King that ever lived. You are but a scion of a family which because its lands were set in a certain spot were important. That is all. Remember it.'

‘You were glad of my father's help . . .' began Geoffrey.

‘I made a treaty with him and that treaty included marriage – your marriage with my daughter. Do not fancy yourself too great, Geoffrey. That would not become you.'

‘You have not treated Geoffrey as you promised,' said Matilda sharply.

‘Enough!' thundered the King, and strode to the door.

When they were alone together Matilda and Geoffrey laughed aloud.

‘A few more scenes like that and he will burst with fury,' said Geoffrey. ‘I have seen it happen to men of his temper.'

‘And then,' said Matilda, ‘you think you will not have to ask for favours.'

‘I shall take them,' he added.

‘Only if I decide to grant them.'

Geoffrey laughed. He was certain that when the time came he would make his wife obey him. He was after all a man and even though she was the King's daughter and named as the Queen, he was her master and she would have to learn obedience.

Matilda smiled cynically. She knew what thoughts were passing through her husband's mind.

Let him wait and see. Of one thing she was certain: She and she alone was going to rule.

The King was very much upset by the quarrel with his daughter and her husband.

‘As long as I live,' he declared, ‘I will have no one my equal, and certainly not master in my house.'

Geoffrey sulked and left Court. Shortly afterwards news was brought to the King that his son-in-law had taken possession of a castle which belonged to the Viscount of Beaumont.

Henry was incensed because Viscount Beaumont happened to have married one of his illegitimate daughters and the King always concerned himself affectionately with the affairs of his sons and daughters.

He immediately ordered that the castle be given back, to which Geoffrey replied that if the King would not give him his due he would take it.

Henry's answer was that he would accept insolence from no man and if his son-in-law behaved like an enemy then he should be considered as such. His wife and children should be taken from him and he would find himself an outlaw.

There were always men in Normandy who were looking for trouble and eager to provoke it whenever they saw a possibility of doing so. This they now saw. Sides were taken in the quarrel between the King and Geoffrey of Anjou, and against Henry were two men whom he had good reason to distrust – William Talvas, of the notorious family, and Roger de Toesny.

The King had no choice but to gather together his forces and
go out to subdue these rebellious noblemen. He did this without effort; but alas, while he was thus engaged news was hurried to him that the Welsh were causing trouble again. They had crossed the border and had taken possession of a castle there.

It was the old pattern. There was no peace. No sooner had he left England than there was trouble there; and as soon as he returned to England there would be risings in Normandy.

He complained to his nephew Warren, the Earl of Surrey, the son of his youngest sister Gundred, ‘It has always been thus. Since I took the English crown I have scarcely known one year's peace.'

He blamed the intransigence of his son-in-law.

‘One would have thought,' he mourned, ‘that because I raised him up he would have thanked me, but instead he asks all the time for more.'

Now he was in a quandary. Should he return to England to subdue the Welsh insurrection or remain in Normandy? For he knew that as soon as he was away Geoffrey would stir up more trouble.

He made a decision. He would send some of his best soldiers to England and remain with others in Normandy. He could see great trouble looming here.

He went to the nursery to comfort himself by the sight of the little boys. He took Henry in his arms and walked up and down the nursery talking to him.

‘To think, my precious child,' he murmured, ‘that your father is at the root of all my trouble, and because he gave me you I must needs be lenient with him. Oh, my Henry, my beloved Henry II, would that you were a man! Then you and I would stand together. With what joy would I contemplate the placing of the crown on this dear head!'

The child looked at him wondering and crowed with laughter.

‘There is a bond between us already,' said the King and was momentarily happy.

The King had taken William Talvas prisoner.

‘Let him be put in a dungeon and there await my pleasure,' he said.

Matilda came to him when he was in the nursery and said that she wished to speak to him about Talvas.

‘I do not wish to speak of traitors in my grandson's nursery.'

‘He will not know of what we speak.'

‘I will not speak of him,' thundered the King.

‘Yet I will,' said Matilda. ‘And I ask for his pardon.'

‘You may ask all you wish elsewhere and receive no for your answer. But when I say I will not speak of these matters in my grandson's nursery I mean it.'

‘Take care of your health, Father. Your anger is dangerous to you.'

‘You will see that it is dangerous to others.'

‘If a daughter cannot speak to her father . . .'

‘Forget not that I shall decide when I think of you as a daughter and that will be when I see a daughterly attitude towards me. Your insolence and arrogance try me sorely and I will not be tried. Remember I brought you up to your high place. I can put you down.'

‘Your nobles have all sworn on oath to serve me.'

‘I can make them unswear.'

‘So you would disown your grandson?'

‘Never.'

‘I thought you planned to disinherit me and put another on the throne. Who would that be? Stephen?'

‘Stephen?' he repeated.

‘Why not Stephen? Did you not at one time plan that he should take what is mine? He is your nephew who never offends you . . . who weighs his words . . . who says: “Dear Uncle, clever kind Uncle, to whom I am so grateful. Dear Uncle, everything you do is right. I will obey you in all things. I will grovel at your feet . . .” '