The Passionate Enemies (8 page)

‘'Tis no easy one.'

‘Virgins they say do not conceive as easily as those who have borne children before. You must curb your impatience. Ere long a messenger will come riding to Wales with the news that the seed is sown.'

‘Why do we talk of other children when you and I have our fine sons to warm our hearts?'

‘Because, my lord, these children cannot be the heirs to the throne. But I beg of you, cast aside your cares. This night you are here and I am here so let us not waste the precious hours with regrets. Rather let us rejoice because tonight at least we are together.'

And there she was, as beautiful as ever, the most desirable woman in his life. He forgot all else – there was nothing, nothing but Nesta, his beloved.

If he could but stay in Wales how joyous he would be. But of course he must remember always that he was a King with a kingdom to protect.

He rode through the valley with his men behind them, his standards fluttering in the wind, his mind full of memories of Nesta, and he was promising himself that before he left her native land he would have another night with her.

The fighting was over. He had done that for which he had come. There was no reason why he should not mingle some pleasure with the serious business of subduing the Welsh. He
would rest here awhile; he would feign to be occupying himself with state business, which he would in a measure, and at night he would be a guest at Carew Castle, and his bed would be that of the custodian's wife.

It was while he was riding through English territory that he felt the arrow strike his chest. It was well aimed; but for the fact that he was wearing heavy armour it would have pierced his heart.

‘By God's death,' he cried, ‘it was no Welsh hand that shot that arrow.'

He ordered that the arrow be picked up and given to him. He held it for some time looking steadily at it. It could have happened so easily. If he had not been wearing steel, if the arrow had found a chink, he could be lying on the ground now, as Rufus had lain. He had a vision of his brother when they had brought him to the lodge in the churl's cart – the poor muddied, bloody body of King William Rufus. Rufus had worn no armour. He had been hunting. There had been no protection for Rufus against the assassin's arrow – if assassin it had been. There would always be a mystery about Rufus's death but someone must know; and he, Henry, had had everything to gain from it.

The incident of the arrow was disquieting. So near death – such a lucky chance that he was seated on his horse when he might have been lying on the ground dead.

How vulnerable were kings – more so than most men.

He must remember that. He should not have been spending his nights with Nesta. There was no time to lose with his true and lawful Queen. They must get a son. He decided that without delay he would go back to Adelicia. Who knew – by the time he arrived she might have some good news for him.

Alas, it was not so.

IN THE IMPERIAL COURT
at Utrecht, the Empress Matilda eagerly awaited news from England. She had heard that her father's marriage had so far proved fruitless and she laughed to herself.

How she wished she were there! How she would love to have seen Stephen's disappointment when he heard that there was to be this marriage. How she would have jeered at him.

He had hoped to inherit the crown. Stephen! Not even the eldest son of the Count of Blois! She would have teased him had she been there, laughed at his pretensions, maddened him until he wanted to seize her, shake her and then make love to her. Those had been the exciting days, and how she missed them.

Here she was married to an old man who bored her. She had to take great pains to keep her temper, yet she did for the most part, because it was wise to do so. He adored her, his handsome young wife, his clever ‘wife who could advise him on so many occasions, for it was the sad truth that the once great Emperor was becoming somewhat senile.

Often she wondered how long he would live, and what would become of her when he died. The people here were pleased with her. She was always very careful, when in public to behave with gracious charm; it was only with her immediate servants that she allowed her violent temper its range. They went in fear of her rages; and if they as much as whispered a word of them outside the household they were punished for it.

Often she laughed when she heard herself described as a good wife and a gracious Empress. She liked to think though that she had a hand in ruling the country, and the more feeble her husband grew, the more powerful she became.

Poor old Henry, he had changed since their marriage . . . though even then he was a poor old man. And when he died what would become of her? That was the thought which was always uppermost in her mind. What if this Queen Adelicia
was in truth barren? What if there were no son and heir? The King of England would remember that he had a daughter, for surely she was next in succession.

A Queen! Would they accept a woman? She would see that they did. What excitement to be back again. To watch the effect she would have on Stephen, poor Stephen, who loved her – and to whom she was far from indifferent – cheated of the crown and married to the wrong Matilda!

It was small wonder that she eagerly awaited the news from England.

In the Imperial bed she yawned and glanced at her sleeping husband. He was more repulsive in his night attire than in his imperial uniforms. He was getting so frail. Surely soon she must be free.

She dozed a little and dreamed of England. She awoke startled and saw that the Emperor had risen from his bed.

She lay still, watching him. He walked to the window, groaning.

She leaped out of bed and said to him. ‘Henry, what ails you? Are you ill?'

She laid her hand on his arm; he was trembling.

‘Matilda,' he said, ‘my wife Matilda.'

‘In truth it is I,' she said. ‘Could it be any other here in your bedchamber?'

‘I cannot sleep,' he said.

‘Your nights are always restless. Come back to bed. You are cold.'

‘Cold with fear,' he answered.

‘Of what should you be afraid? We are well guarded. The people are not displeased with their Emperor and they love their Empress.'

‘Not of the assassin's blow, Matilda. Perforce I should welcome that . . . if I were prepared.'

‘Henry, you are ill.'

‘Sick of mind,' he answered.

Yes, you poor old fool, she thought. I have long known that.

‘Come back to bed for I find it cold, if you do not. Come back and talk to me.'

He allowed her to lead him back. She lighted a candle and
set it down on a stool near the bed.

‘What has set you wandering from your bed in the night? Fie, my lord, did I catch you on your way to visit a mistress?'

His horror was apparent. ‘You could not believe such a falsehood.'

‘Nay, nay,' she soothed him. And she thought: You impotent old man, you cannot satisfy one woman let alone more. ‘I did but seek to lighten the conversation. Tell me now what ails you.'

‘I am very weary of this life,' he said. ‘I would I could depart from it but I must make my peace with God and that will take me many years of repentance. I pray God that I may have time to expiate all my sins.'

‘You have expressed your penitence. Rest assured it has been granted to you.'

‘My dear Matilda, you cannot guess the extent of my wickedness.'

‘Tell me of it if it eases you to talk.'

‘You know that my brother Conrad and I plotted against our father, the Emperor.'

‘Many sons have done this.'

‘It was an evil thing to do.'

‘Mayhap not. If you brought good to your country by usurping the crown, that could not be wrong.'

‘A son against his own father!'

‘Many sons have rebelled against their fathers, Henry.'

‘And what will their punishment be in Heaven?'

‘That I cannot tell you, never having rebelled against my father and gone to Heaven.'

He did not seem to hear her. He went on: ‘When my brother Conrad joined the revolt against my father I was at his side.'

‘You were led astray by your elder brother.'

‘Nay. I was ambitious – more so than Conrad. I was determined to become the Emperor and because Conrad had led an expedition against my father I was proclaimed his heir. But I could not wait, Matilda. How ambitious I was in those days. You know what I did. It is common knowledge. I trapped him,
trapped my own father. We met and were reconciled. And then when he was in my power I forced him to abdicate that I might take the Imperial crown. Poor old man, I imprisoned him and he escaped me and there was war between us until his death.'

‘It is long ago and best forgotten,' said Matilda. ‘You gave the country many years of peace.'

‘I took the crown from my father.'

‘And were a good Emperor to your people.'

‘I often think of the bloodshed in Italy when I marched there and forced the Pope to come to terms.'

‘The investiture matter had to be settled and that you did.'

‘There was much bloodshed. Sometimes in my dreams I see the corpses piled up high.'

‘All rulers must needs go to war.'

‘I was ruthless. I was cruel.'

‘As all rulers must be.'

‘You seek to comfort me, Matilda. You have been a good wife to me. Never shall I forget when you first came to us . . . a handsome child. You were but twelve years old.'

‘And you were forty years older than I!'

‘Poor child. And you seemed not afraid.'

‘I am not easily frightened,' replied Matilda. ‘You indulged me, too. Apart from the fact that you made me speak German and act like a German, you were good to me.'

‘I would we had been blessed with sons.'

Matilda was silent thinking, you were over old for that. And if I had had sons I should never have been able to leave Germany. I should have been here all the days of my life when my heart is in England.

‘Try to sleep,' she said.

‘It is not easy. I like not the darkness of the night. In the dark I see pictures of the past. It is only by daylight that they disappear.'

‘Then I will leave the candle burning.'

‘And talk to me, Matilda. While I talk to you I am better. You comfort me when you tell me that you have not been unhappy here.'

She lay down watching the flickering shadows throw grotesque shadows on the walls. He talked a little and she
answered drowsily. She was not sleepy but her thoughts were far from him.

He cannot live much longer was the theme of these. Then I shall be free.

Freedom! She had watched the birds wheeling in the sky; how effortlessly they flew. That was how she wished she could fly . . . back to England.

‘Are you asleep, Matilda?'

Oh, God, she thought, is he going to start again? Go to sleep, you senile old man. I have had enough of you.

He sighed and was quiet. She lay still, thinking of home. What was happening there now? Adelicia was sleeping beside her husband – poor barren Adelicia. And Stephen was with his Matilda, or with some mistress more likely. She knew Stephen.

She wondered whether he had forgotten her. If he had when she returned to England he would soon remember. But how could she return while she was tied to this old fool of an Emperor?

Tonight though when he had stood shivering by the window and she had lighted the candle and looked into his yellow face she had thought she had seen death there.

Soon, she prayed. Let me have my freedom. Let Adelicia remain barren. Let the King, my father, in his despair of ever having a son, remember that he has a strong and clever daughter.

Let all these things come to pass. Let me go to England . . . and Stephen.

THE KING WAS
growing melancholy again. Surely Adelicia would become pregnant soon? Why was it that in spite of his efforts she remained barren?

He was growing more and more irascible. So much seemed
to irritate him that all his servants were afraid to go near him. Adelicia was unhappy, wondering whether she was to blame because she could not give the King the son he so urgently needed. Each night the King came to her bed but he was beginning to show that his performance there was in the nature of a duty.

He was finding fault with everyone and everything; and it was during one of his restless periods that he decided to send his daughter-in-law back to his father.

He liked his son's widow. She was a charming young girl. Another Matilda. There were too many Matildas: his dead wife; his spirited daughter; Stephen's wife; and they reminded him of the past when he had a healthy son and had been content enough even though his wife seemed to have stopped childbearing at too early an age. And in particular did his daughter-in-law, her head downcast, her thoughts of her young lost husband making her melancholy, bring home to him his dilemma.

He sent for Roger that he might talk to him of his desire to be rid of her.

‘'Tis not that I do not like the girl, Roger. She is a fair and gentle creature; but to look at her is a constant reminder of William and how he met his death on the White Ship, and then I begin to think, Roger, that God has deserted me. He took my son and will not give me another.'

‘You are impatient, my lord.'

‘As I must needs be. Look at me. Do you not see an ageing man?'

‘I see a man in the prime of his life, sir. The Queen longs too passionately for a child, it may be, for I have heard wise women say that often if the longing is too intense the seed will not take root.'

‘It is no fault of mine, of that I'm sure. I've bastards enough to prove I can get a woman with child.'

‘Bastards enough,' repeated the Bishop. ‘And never fear, an heir to the throne will come in time.'

‘In time,' screamed the King. ‘Am I a young man to have time to spare?'