The Passionate Enemies (26 page)

‘Then while this prevails I shall serve you as King,' replied Robert.

That Easter he returned to England.

Stephen's wife, Matilda, heavy with child, was glad to step ashore from the ship which carried her to England. She was uneasy. She would have preferred Stephen to have kept his oath to their cousin the Empress rather than take the crown himself.

It was for this reason that she must come to England now. The child she carried might well be a boy and heir to the throne. It was important therefore that it should be born in England.

Stephen was waiting to greet her at Dover – a Stephen with the new dignity of King. When she had last seen him he had had hopes; now he had a crown. Men paid great deference to him although they did not tremble at his word as they had at Henry's. Stephen was liberal with his smiles. He was going to win people to his side, not by fear as the previous kings had, but by his friendliness towards them.

As for herself she was now the Queen of England, a title which sat uneasy upon her. Even her attitude towards the child she carried had changed. When she had first known she
was pregnant she had been happy. The birth of the child would compensate her for the loss of little Baldwin; and she cared not whether it were a boy or a girl. Now the child had assumed great importance. If a boy it could be heir to the throne. He would not so much belong to her as to the country.

One of her temperament would indeed have been happier in a less exalted position.

Stephen embraced her. ‘I feared for your safety,' he said. ‘and the child's.'

‘The crossing was uncomfortable but could have been so much worse,' she said. ‘How are you faring?'

‘You will see for yourself. The people acclaim me. They want me, Matilda, for their sovereign.'

She smiled and said nothing. Later, perhaps when they were alone she could talk to him. But Stephen would not tell her the whole truth. He was a man of changing moods. At times he believed he could not fail and that the whole world loved him; but he could quickly change and see failure pursuing him and everyone's hand against him.

She knew Stephen's weaknesses better than anyone and she loved him for them.

Now she saw that she must not depress him. She must seem to share their euphoric dream. She must never give a hint of her misgivings. To do so would spoil his pleasure. He saw himself as the elected King. The people wanted him. Even the late King had in time decided that he was the one. Had not Hugh Bigod confirmed this and received an earldom for so doing? It was well to reward one's friends. Stephen was always generous to those who served him. He had always said: ‘One must make friends with everyone.' That had not been the way of the Conqueror and King Henry. They had never bought friendship; they had never sought it. They demanded obedience to their laws.

Stephen rode with her to London, beside her, taking care of her, speaking anxiously of the Queen's condition.

‘The people like to see you thus,' he whispered to her. ‘They want the succession assured. It is when it is not that there can be great trouble.'

And so they came to London.

Very soon after her arrival she was brought to bed. Her child was born after a short labour – a boy. Stephen was in ecstasies of delight. God was smiling on him, he said. This showed, did it not, that God was with him?

He had only been King for a few months and see, here he was the father of a bonny son.

They named the child Eustace.

Stephen could not honour his wife enough. The Empress who had dominated his thoughts for so long was now an enemy. The crown was between them. If ever they met again it would not be in a bedchamber but on a battlefield. In the meantime he had his wife, that other Matilda, gentle, loving, whose sole ambition was to serve her husband. She had begun auspiciously by giving him a son.

He would look wonderingly at the child. He held it in his arms and marvelled at its tiny hands; he kissed its brow reverently.

‘A crown,' he said, ‘and now a son.'

It seemed inevitable that there must be trouble sooner or later. It was while he was congratulating himself on his good fortune that the news reached him that the King of Scotland had invaded England. His excuse for doing so was that he did not understand why there should be a King Stephen on the throne when the lords and knights together with the powerful men of the Church had sworn allegiance to the King of Scotland's niece, the Empress Matilda.

Stephen marched north. As he passed through the towns people came out to welcome him. There were many who were waiting to join his ranks.

During the reign of Henry I, England had enjoyed a long peace and while this was appreciated by many, there were young men who longed for the excitement of war. They joined Stephen; and it was said that never before had such an army been seen. By the time he reached Durham it was of such mighty proportions that it struck terror into the hearts of the Scots and King David immediately sued for peace.

Henry would have taken heavy reprisals for such action; not so Stephen. He wanted all men to love him; even his enemies. When David pointed out that having sworn an oath
of fealty to the Empress Matilda he could not do so to Stephen, he was excused from doing so. It was at this time that men began to doubt Stephen's talents as a ruler.

He was affable, true; he was no coward; he would always be at the forefront of his armies; but he could never strike terror into men's hearts because they would know that if they wept and showed their penitence they would be forgiven. It seemed reasonable to them then, to try their luck at displacing him for in doing so there was much to gain and little to lose.

He even decided to take Henry, the Scottish King's son, under his wing and bestow estates on him. Although his attitude to his enemies was questioned, at least he had shown great promptitude in suppressing the northern rebellion and on his return journey south he was treated to such a show of loyalty and affection that the Scottish trouble seemed to him yet another indication of God's approval.

The King wished all to know how pleased he was with his beloved Queen. He would not be satisfied, he declared, until she had been crowned.

The coronation should take place at Easter and there should be such a celebration of that feast, the like of which few had seen before.

Many were invited; there should be such a display of gold and silver, and jewels and rich garments that all would know prosperity had come to stay. He wanted to impress on them all what a kind and benevolent man he was. His grandfather had been a great Conqueror but he had not been loved; his uncle had been known as the Lion of Justice, but men had trembled at his frown. These two had been wise rulers up to a point, but they had been cruel and ruthless.

Now the people had a king who would rule them wisely and well, yet benevolently. The times had changed and that was a matter for rejoicing.

At the heart of all this magnificence was the coronation of the Queen. His Matilda was to be Queen Matilda and this was to be a ceremony which men would remember all their lives.

Matilda was a little pale and strained but Stephen's great delight to see her so honoured sustained her. She wished that
she could throw off her misgivings, and feel as confident of the future as Stephen did. But perhaps it was in her nature to fear.

Stephen took advantage of the occasion to reassure the people of the good times ahead. He solemnly swore that he would serve the country well. As far as the Church was concerned he would not keep the possessions of a bishopric to himself if a bishop died, but would allow these to pass to the bishop who was elected in the place of the deceased one. The tendencies of Rufus and Henry to retain such lands and riches had been greatly deplored. There were constant disputes over the forests. Many people owned forests but to the Kings there was something sacred in these green glades because they harboured the animals they so loved to hunt. Rufus and Henry had made laws that no man was to cut timber in his own forest; he was not allowed to kill a single deer. The forests, no matter who owned them, had been considered to be the sacred hunting grounds of royalty. This was a law which was deeply resented by the people; and when Stephen declared that he renounced that law he was applauded throughout the country. There was another law which the people particularly deplored and that was the levelling of a tax of two shillings on every hide of land. The late Kings had refused to give relief from this tax which had been in existence for many years. It was in fact known as Danegeld.

This public announcement of the King's intention was received with acclaim.

‘The new King,' said the people, ‘is greater than all who have gone before. He is as wise as King Henry and he will keep that King's good laws and renounce his bad ones, for in addition to his wisdom he is possessed of sympathy and understanding of all conditions of men.'

The reign had set fair. Stephen had never been so happy. He had taken the crown with greater ease than he had thought possible; he had a healthy young son; his wife Matilda was a good woman whose greatest happiness was in serving him well. What more could a man ask?

There was a minor irritation.

At the banquet after the Queen's Coronation the King said that Henry, son of the King of Scotland of whom he had
grown fond, should be seated on his right hand.

William of Corbeil, as the head of the Church, was incensed, because this place should surely have been reserved for him.

Archbishop William had been very uneasy since he had been persuaded to crown the King. He did not entirely believe in Hugh Bigod's declaration that the late King had disowned his daughter and because of this he was more touchy than ever. To see the son of a King who had recently openly declared himself to be Stephen's enemy put before him, was more than he could endure.

What reasoning was this that put a recent enemy before the head of the Church?

Nothing could placate the Archbishop. He left the banqueting hall and surrounded by his servants declared his intention of leaving without delay.

The incident was not going to be easily forgotten. It was, said many of the knights, an insult to the Church. And surely the King was unwise to show such partiality for this young man that he set him above the nobility of England?

Stephen was nonplussed. All he had wished to do was help the young man, put him at ease; after all he was a kinsman. He knew the young man's father had recently risen in revolt but he believed in forgiving his enemies.

How difficult it was, even if one was a benevolent man, to please everyone all the time.

The King of Scotland hearing of the trouble which had arisen out of the partiality of the King for his son, declared that he too was offended. Naturally his son as a future King of Scotland should have the place of honour. If this could not naturally be conceded to him then his son Henry must return to Scotland. He should no longer honour a Court with his presence when that Court did not appreciate the dignity due to him.

The matter had become a bit of a joke.

‘Did Stephen or did he not subdue David of Scotland?' was the question which was being asked. One would have thought David and his son Henry were the victors.

Was this what came of being too lenient with rebels?
William the Conqueror and Henry I would never have behaved in that way. None would have dared to defy them.

One morning soon after these events the Queen awoke to find that Stephen appeared to be in some kind of stupor. She bent over him in alarm to speak to him but although he looked into her face he could not explain to her how he felt, merely wishing to lie still.

‘You are exhausted,' she said; and gave orders that the King should not be disturbed.

All through the day he lay there; Matilda remained in his bedchamber and would admit no one.

He is exhausted, she told herself. After a long rest he will be himself.

But the next day he showed no inclination to rise. He just lay in bed, a glazed look in his eyes.

‘Stephen,' said Matilda, ‘can you tell me what ails you?'

He could not, and she said: ‘I must send for the physicians.'

He made no protest and when they gathered round his bed he showed little interest in them or in anything. They could not understand what had happened to him.

Matilda brought in little Eustace but he looked at the baby with lacklustre eyes. This man in the bed was so different from the energetic, charming man abounding in friendliness that Matilda was – as the doctors were, too – completely bewildered.

He could not eat nor could he sleep. He simply lay still, looking blankly before him.

For a week he persisted in this state; he was growing frail; he had the air of a man who was wasting away.

The doctors had never known anything like it. It was as though he were possessed by some spirit alien to himself.

There were whispers about him.

‘The King is mad.'

‘The King is near death.'

They remembered too that he had usurped the throne. Was this God's punishment? All had gone well. He had calmly taken the crown but the late King had commanded his
subjects to swear allegiance to Matilda. Everything had appeared to go well. Men such as Roger of Salisbury and Robert of Gloucester, and old William the Archbishop of Canterbury had been won to his side. But was God merely leading him on that when He struck him down the fall should be more marked?

Never had such a state been heard of. Stephen was not an old man or it might have been understood. He was wasting away, slowly being robbed of his mind and his bodily strength.

In a short time there would be a new ruler of England, for God was showing clearly that he did not intend this one to reign.

Matilda was frightened. She would allow none but herself to attend him. She wondered if some subtle poison had been administered; she would not allow any to prepare his food but herself.

She loved him dearly. In spite of his infidelities, in spite of his action in taking the crown of which she could not approve, she would never swerve from her devotion to him. Her presence comforted him she knew, for sometimes when she moved out of his sight he became agitated. It was the only time he showed any feeling but indifference to what was happening to him.