The Passionate Enemies (32 page)

‘I feel I must.'

‘Because she demands it? She is in no position to demand.'

‘She is our cousin, Henry.'

‘She is your bitterest enemy.'

‘I fear her not.'

‘Nor should you while she is in your power. But if she were to escape . . .'

‘She
is
in my power. I wish to bring that home to her.'

‘So you will see her.'

‘Yes,' said Stephen happily. ‘I shall see her.'

Triumphantly she awaited his coming. As soon as she saw him her spirits were lifted. What a handsome man he was. The years had not impaired those looks, rather had they intensified them. All the old charm was there. Again that oft repeated sentiment came back to her. Why did they not marry me to Stephen? If they had only had the foresight to have done that the country would not now be facing the threat of civil war. There would have been no need for it.

It was typical that she should be the first to recover from her emotions and to speak before he did.

‘So, it is Stephen, the would-be King.'

He felt the old excitement rising. It was a hundred times more exciting than going into battle with any other foe.

‘It is your sovereign lord, Stephen the King. You should be on your knees in homage and fear for your life.'

‘It is you who should do homage and be in fear for yours.'

‘Now, Matilda, you joke. You cannot forget that you are my prisoner.'

‘So you enter the house of another as a friend and then announce you will plunder it. Is that your interpretation of kingship, Stephen of Blois?'

‘Stephen the King comes in expectation of obedience.'

‘You always set your expectations too high.'

‘Come, Matilda, let us be sensible. You are my good cousin but I am the King and you have come here to dispute my right to the crown, is that not so?'

‘Your right to the crown. What is that? What right, pray, have you to my crown?'

‘The right of possession.'

‘Not for long,' she cried. ‘Oh, not for long.'

‘You are asking me to have you sent to a dungeon.'

‘Do you doubt that I should not ere long be rescued and you and I would change places? And know this, Stephen of Blois, aught that you did to me would be done a hundred times more harshly to you.'

‘I doubt that not . . . if it ever came to pass.'

‘You are too sure of yourself.'

‘Nay, you are that.'

‘Then perhaps we both are. Perhaps that is why we are so well matched.' She was inviting friendliness now. He knew that this was the moment to beware. ‘So, Stephen,' she went on, ‘you are a false friend and lover. You who professed to love me would now be cruel to me.'

He seized her by the shoulders and drew her towards him. She suppressed her triumph and smiled at him. ‘You have forgotten so soon?' she asked softly.

‘You know that I shall never forget.'

‘Those hours we spent together,' she said, ‘they were precious to us both. There was nothing like them for either of us . . . not for you with your silly Queen who dares to bear my name, nor I with the poor old Emperor and my callow boy husband. Admit it, Stephen.'

‘I never denied it.'

‘At least you were true in one thing. And now you talk to me of dungeons. You would never put me into a dungeon, Stephen. How could you sleep quiet at night if you did that to me? How can you sleep quiet at night now knowing that I am here . . . and we two not together?'

‘Matilda . . .' he said.

‘Yes,' she answered. ‘Your Matilda as no other Matilda could ever be.'

Their embrace was fierce – reckless on his side, calculating on hers, but nevertheless the overwhelming desire was there for them both.

He was a soft man, this Stephen, and never softer than at such moments.

As they lay together clinging to each other as though by the very force of their passion they could ward off the need to separate, she said to him: ‘Stephen, what matters anything but that we two are together?'

He sighed. ‘We shall have to part,' he said. His voice broke with anger. ‘Has it not always been thus? When we were children we knew that we two should be together . . . and always we must be apart.'

‘Perhaps one day, Stephen . . .'

‘How could that be?'

‘You have your wife – your silly little Matilda. I have my foolish Geoffrey. Who knows . . .'

‘Matilda has been a good wife to me,' he protested.

She laughed, all tenderness departed. ‘She has said Yea, Stephen, Yea, Stephen, through day and night. And never Nay, Stephen. That is why you say she has been good to you. Has she given you what I have? Have you ever felt towards her as you do towards me?'

‘You know well that I have not.'

‘Then an end to your falsehoods. You want
this
Matilda.'
She smote her breast with her clenched fist. ‘You need her –
this
one. She who has carried your seed in her womb . . . who was meant for you and you for her . . .'

He had raised himself to stare at her. ‘You mean . . . Matilda . . . You mean . . . young Henry?'

She lowered her eyes and a smile curved her lips. When she did look at him she was mocking. ‘You men! How you preen yourselves when .you believe you have fathered a fine male child. Oh, it must be male. It must be a boy for there you see yourselves reborn. My Henry is a fine boy, is he not? Lusty, sharp . . . all a man could look for in a son.'

‘And he is mine!' cried Stephen.

‘You have spoken,' she said. ‘I have not.'

‘Matilda,' he said and he seized her and shook her. ‘Tell me truthfully. The boy . . . young Henry . . .'

She shook him off and stood up laughing at him.

‘That shall be my secret . . . as yet,' she answered. ‘I would see first how you treat me. 'Twas not long ago that you were talking of putting me into a dungeon.'

‘I would never allow you to be ill-treated.'

‘Is it necessary to tell me that? You insult me by mentioning it. Have I not but a moment ago surrendered myself to you?'

‘Oh, Matilda, did you ever surrender to me? Was it not I who surrendered to you?'

She seemed well pleased. Then lifting her face to him she said: ‘Stephen. Let me go to Bristol.'

‘Your brother is there.'

‘Yes, let me join him there.'

‘Robert of Gloucester is my enemy. You ask me to let you go to my enemy?'

She put her arms about his neck. ‘You will let me go, Stephen.'

‘How can I?'

‘You can because you must. I ask it and you will not refuse me.'

‘It will be expected that I place you in the care of someone who will guard you for me.'

‘Nay, that would make me a prisoner. Would you make a prisoner of the daughter of that King who gave you everything you have? My father favoured you. He had you brought to
England. What would you have been had he not done that? Stephen Lackland! He gave you lands . . . he gave you a rich wife. Oh, yes, you owe your fond Matilda to him. He gave me life and I have been yours, Stephen. Think what you owe my father. Could you insult his daughter by making her a prisoner?'

‘And if you go to Bristol?'

‘I will return to Anjou, mayhap. My brother will escort me.'

He knew she was lying. He was bemused. He thought of her yielding as she had such a short while before, whispering to him softly of her love for him which was greater than anything on earth, greater than their marriage vows, greater than the crown which hovered over them both.

She put her lips to his ear and nibbled it gently. ‘Then I shall go to Bristol, Stephen. You will come and see me there. We will make plans for our next meeting. It will be as happy as this one when I am in Bristol.'

He sighed and she said, ‘Thank you, Stephen; thank you, my dear.'

She tore herself away from him. She ran to the door and out of the apartment.

She was calling to her stepmother.

‘Adelicia. Adelicia, where are you? The King has been gracious to me. He has given me leave to go to Bristol.'

Stephen stumbled after her.

You fool! he said to himself. You are mad. You cannot let her go.

He found her with her stepmother.

Adelicia's relief was evident.

‘Oh, Stephen, my lord King,' she said, ‘it is noble of you. But then you have always been so.'

‘I should leave at once,' said Matilda, smiling triumphantly. ‘Dear Adelicia, your fears were without foundation. You were so frightened, were you not? You thought you would offend the King and you see he is our very good friend.'

Stephen did not speak. He was trying to still the voices in his head which were telling him what a fool he was.

Inwardly depressed, Stephen went to his brother Henry, Bishop of Winchester, and told him that he had agreed to allow Matilda to go to Bristol.

His brother stared at Stephen in amazement.

Stephen hastened to justify himself. ‘She is our cousin,' he said. ‘I and you too, Henry, owe everything we have in this land to her father, our uncle King Henry I. How could I make her a prisoner?'

‘She would not hesitate to put you in chains.'

Stephen shook his head. He was thinking of those passionate moments when they had surrendered to each other and their emotions. How could lovers such as they had been harm each other?

‘Nay,' he said, ‘she would remember the kinship between us . . . even as I do.'

Henry was not a man to waste words. His inner thought was: My brother is a fool. But he remained silent.

Stephen seemed relieved. ‘She is to go to Bristol,' he said. ‘I have given my word.'

To Bristol, thought Henry, where her half-brother of Gloucester is raising an army to drive Stephen from the throne and put Matilda there. Yes, his brother was indeed a fool.

‘She has not yet gone,' ventured Henry.

Stephen looked pained. ‘I have given my word,' he reminded his brother. ‘I shall send her with an escort and as there is no one in my kingdom whom I trust as I trust you, that escort shall be you.'

Henry bowed his head.

He was not displeased. He would relish a journey which would put him in close contact with Matilda, that he might get to know better a woman who was clever enough to outwit his brother. Not that Stephen was a wise man. Henry had become more and more disillusioned with him since he had gained the crown. Yet he had an admiration for Matilda and he felt that in the near future it might be necessary for him to make an important decision.

Matilda rode at the head of the party with Henry, Bishop of Winchester, beside her. She was clearly delighted with the outcome of her meeting with Stephen – and had good cause to be. Henry had no doubt that his brother was now regretting his rash action.

Henry was an ambitious man. He had supported Stephen
not entirely out of brotherly affection; he was after all a grandson of the Conqueror and as such must be imbued with the desire to govern. As head of the Church he could have had a say in the affairs of the country, and with a weak man such as Stephen was proving himself to be there was no reason why the Church should not take precedence over the State. Farseeing and astute as he was, Henry could look ahead to the days when the conflict between Church and State would be as mighty as that between warring states. As a churchman he was on the side of the Church – particularly when the crown was on an unworthy head. And Stephen's conduct had led him to the conclusion that Stephen was unfit to be King of England. The people were now realizing that he was no Lion of Justice; even Rufus had been stronger. England needed men such as William the First and Henry the First. Its foundations were not yet firm enough to stand against the feeble government which a weak king would bring.

Henry had naturally supported his brother, but he was beginning to wonder whether he had given his allegiance in the wrong quarter.

Many said that Stephen usurped the throne, and this was true. The heiress was the daughter of King Henry – and it was only the fact that she was a woman that had tempted many people to accept Stephen. Had Stephen been a strong man, this would have been the best possible course, but alas, Stephen had proved by his treatment of his enemies that he was not a strong man. And never could he have shown this so clearly as when he allowed Matilda to slip out of his grasp.

For what purpose did Stephen think Matilda wished to go to Bristol? Was he unaware that Robert of Gloucester was gathering men to her banner there? Why had he done this? Because Matilda had bewitched him. She had seduced him from his duty to his country and those who had given him their allegiance. He was in love with her, and weak enough to let that affect his judgement.

Clearly such a man must sooner or later place his crown in jeopardy, and when he did so, Henry wanted to be on the winning side.

Matilda was haughty. He admired the manner in which she took for granted the fact that she had been allowed to leave
Arundel. She behaved as though the crown was already safely on her head.

She did deign to talk to him as they journeyed. She asked the distance they had come and how far they had to go.

She said on one occasion: ‘You are surprised that your brother gave me free passage to Bristol, are you not, my lord Bishop?'

‘I admit,' he answered, ‘that the matter did take me by surprise.'

‘Stephen is a fool,' she said.

He flinched. One did not speak thus of the King.

She laughed at him. ‘You should know that I have no intention of letting him keep what he has filched from me. You are startled, my lord Bishop. Have no fear that you listen to treason. What you should fear is treasonable actions in the past. All those who have helped Stephen to the crown are my enemies.'

The Bishop was silent.

‘I would forgive those who came to my side now that I am here,' she said. ‘So your cause is not hopeless. I know that I was far away and it seemed politic to stand with the usurper. My half-brother made a pretence of doing that. I doubt not others did the same.'