by Jean Plaidy
‘How so? When I have no son . . . to follow me and no wife by whom I could get one.’
Roger understood his lord. He wanted him to suggest he do what Henry had already made up his mind to do. Well, that suited Roger. Get the King married; let him get a child and that child be educated by the Church, which meant the Bishop of Salisbury. He would be moulded into a future king with a correct appreciation of Roger and his family. There was Roger’s son, Roger le Poer, born of his dear Matilda; there was his nephew Nigel, already Bishop of Ely; and there was another nephew Alexander, and Roger had the bishopric of Lincoln in mind for him. Roger wanted a powerful ring of the members of his own family, all dabbling in state affairs, all working for the administration under the King of course, who would bring not only good to the country but to the family as well.
He said therefore: ‘My lord, you could take a wife.’
The King’s expression lightened. ‘I confess it has been in my mind.’
‘The idea of marriage may be distasteful to you,’ said Roger soothingly, ‘but you will do it, I doubt not, for the good of the kingdom.’
The idea of marriage distasteful! The thought of a new woman could never be that. Roger knew it but he wanted to placate the King who was not his usual shrewd self. Henry needed wooing from this irascibility which was beginning to be turned on all those about him – even favourites. The prospect of a marriage with a young and attractive woman would help a great deal.
‘Yes,’ said the King, ‘I would marry that I might give the country an heir.’
‘The question arises, whom would you marry?’
‘That is what we must discover.’
‘The bride should be young, my lord.’
‘Well,’ replied the King, ‘I am not so young myself. I have a fancy for a mature woman, one in her late twenties. A widow mayhap who has already proved herself capable of bearing sons.’
A widow! A strong-minded woman of mature age. A new influence on the King. No, thought Roger. A young girl would be better. A young girl who could be moulded.
‘A young virgin would be more to your taste,’ said Roger.
‘They can be a little tiresome,’ said the King. ‘I am not of an age to do much wooing.’
‘Nay, the girl would be overawed by your rank, by your greatness. Older women can be shrews.’
‘The Queen was never that.’
‘Ah, but you moulded her to your ways. She was a virgin untried in all ways when she came to you. You were able to make of her what you wished.’
‘She had a mind of her own, Roger. She did not agree with me in all things.’ He smiled wryly. ‘The Church for one thing. I can’t tell you how horrified she was when she heard of your living here with your Matilda.’
Roger nodded. We want no more of that, he thought. Most definitely a young girl for the King.
And because he had expected that marriage would be a prospect which would soon come into the King’s mind he had already thought of a possible bride for him.
She was young, some eighteen years of age, a fair virgin of not too grand a house so that she might be overawed by marriage with the King of England and grateful to the man who had helped to arrange it.
Roger began to talk of the allure of young virgins and he and the King exchanged accounts of their adventures as they had done on other occasions, but with the prospect of marriage before him the King found the talk amusing and stimulating.
During the discourse Roger mentioned the girl he had had in mind since the question of the King’s remarriage had occurred to him.
‘I hear the Duke of Brabant has a beautiful daughter,’ he said.
‘The Duke of Brabant?’ repeated the King thoughtfully.
‘Some seventeen years of age, a delicious virgin. I have heard her referred to as the Fair Maid of Brabant. She and her family would be overcome with joy to be united with the royal house of England.’
‘What do you know of this maiden, Roger?’
‘Only that she is young, ready for marriage and can trace her descent to Charlemagne.’
‘She does not sound impossible,’ mused the King.
Roger was amused. Negotiations should begin without delay. The King should have his young bride and this would mean an end to Stephen’s hopes, which was exactly what Roger wanted.
In the court at Mainz the Empress Matilda was thinking of England. She had done little more since she had heard of the death of her brother William in the White Ship. Often she wished she were home. Often she thought of her cousin Stephen. Was he thinking of her, she wondered, or had he contented himself with his meek little wife? Was he roaming the countryside sporting with mistress after mistress – and doing so, did he ever give a thought to his cousin Matilda?
Matilda lay in her ornate bed – the Imperial bed – and thought of her husband – poor doddering Henry! What could one expect from a man nearly sixty years of age, although her father was in his fifties and by all accounts as virile as ever. How unfortunate that she, Matilda, should have been given a husband teetering on the edge of senility.
There had been no child of the marriage. That did not surprise anyone. If her father had known that the White Ship was going to founder would he have given her to Stephen? From all accounts St Stephen was ingratiating himself with all those who could bring good to him. Clever Stephen! Handsome Stephen! How flattered he would be if he knew how often she remembered him!
‘It is only because, Master Stephen, I am married to this impotent old man and as the Empress I am not allowed to take lovers,’ she murmured. ‘It would be treason I believe and I have no desire to be done away with. If I had had other lovers I would have forgotten you, as you, libertine that you are, have no doubt forgotten me in your numerous love adventures.’
To speak to him as though he were there was a great comfort. In spite of the fact that it was nearly seven years since she had seen him, she could picture him clearly.
Heaven help me, she thought, I must have truly loved that man.
Why? she asked herself. It was because they were so different. She had criticized him, argued with him and would often have liked to fight him physically wounding him, so greatly did he irritate her. But fighting with Stephen would have been more stimulating than being affectionate with anyone else. She had often wondered what it would have been like to make love with Stephen.
So near they had come to that . . . dangerously near. But always it was Stephen who held off. That was another difference in their natures. Stephen was cautious as she never would be. Stephen thought before he acted; she never did. When her fury was raging she never stopped to think of consequences. Stephen’s temper was always in control – or almost always. That smooth tongue of his continued saying charming, soothing things which he did not mean. Deceiver, she thought. And yet people loved him for it.
She had loved him for it. She remembered the clever manner in which he had brought peace in the schoolroom, simply because he did not want to be involved in strife. Stephen wanted people to love him, to find him charming; he could not bear to have even one person dislike him, whereas she, imperious, demanding, cared not whether people loved or hated her as long as she had her way. ‘I am strong,’ she used to argue, ‘you are weak, Stephen. You want to rely on the friendship of others. I can stand by myself.’ ‘You will see, when you are older, who is right and who is wrong,’ Stephen had retorted. ‘You will learn that it is never wise to make enemies.’
How she longed for those verbal battles, which had given such spice to the old life. She could see herself with flashing eyes and Stephen lolling elegantly on a faldestol laughing at her with veiled desire in his eyes.
She wanted to go home. She wanted to see Stephen again.
She looked up at the frame of the bedstead which was elegantly carved and inlaid with metal and enamel. It was very grand, this bed in which it had been hoped that she would bear the Emperor a son.
She was pleased that this had never come to pass. It never would now.
She had often wondered what would happen to her if her father died, for now that William was dead she, Matilda, was the heiress of England, or would have been had they not married her into Germany.
As the wife of the Emperor she would never be accepted as Queen of England. She could imagine the barons and bishops putting their heads together and deciding that to bring Matilda back to England and make her Queen would be against everything they believed to be right. In the first place she was a woman and they would consider it beneath their dignity to be ruled by a woman. In the second place they would not accept the wife of the Emperor as Queen of England. They would suspect Germany of trying to unite the two countries. No, never while the Emperor lived . . .
Of course he would not live for ever.
While she lay in bed Henry came into the chamber. Poor old Henry, he sat down heavily on the faldestol, seeming a little breathless, his eyes somewhat vague as they often had been for some time.
He looked at his beautiful young wife and his eyes brightened a little. She was a very handsome girl with her long hair flowing about her and those proud flashing eyes.
He half rose from his stool.
You foolish old man, thought Matilda scornfully, you haven’t the strength.
‘My love,’ he said, ‘not yet risen?’
‘Nay,’ she answered. ‘I will rise when I have a mind to.’
‘Yes, yes.’ She had made it clear on her arrival in Germany when she was little more than twelve years old that she would have her way. Then he had been very willing to indulge her. A beautiful, clever child wife and he an ailing man even then.
She compared him now with Stephen and she felt the familiar mingling of longing and resentment.
‘News from England,’ he said. ‘I thought you would like to hear it, my dear.’
She felt angry. News from England and it went to him. Her father should send news to her. Was she not his daughter? But she was merely the Empress. She was a woman. She was going to show people that a woman could be as forceful, as shrewd a ruler as a man.
Yes, a ruler. She had always wanted it. A ruler in her own right. A ruler of England. That was what she had always wanted. How she had railed against being born a girl. She would have been a better ruler than William ever could. Poor William. But one must not say aught against the dead because that brought ill luck. Yet had she been the son instead of the daughter, she would never have been so foolish as to get drowned on the White Ship for she did hear that there had been far too much merry-making on that ship before it set sail and that many of the crew had been drunk. But ever since the death of William she had had in her mind that one day she would go back to England and be its Queen.
The stumbling block was the Emperor – poor senile old man – for while he lived she must stay here. Her consolation was that he could not live for ever.
The forests of England seemed greener than these; she longed to be riding through them. The deer there were more fleet, the boars more wild; the minstrels’ songs were more appealing; the people were more gay. That she should think so was, she knew, a symptom of homesickness. Well, she was homesick for England and obsessed by a desire to claim her dues. And more than anything she wished to see Stephen.
‘Stephen,’ she would say, ‘I am a widow now. There is no longer the need for caution . . .’
She could imagine his response.
And if she were indeed the Queen! She pictured his kneeling to do his homage. Their eyes would meet; there would be understanding between them. You are my lover, Stephen, she would convey to him, but never forget that I am not only your mistress in the bedchamber but in the State also.
Exciting dreams – and this old man stood between her and them – and even when there was news from England her father must needs send it to the Emperor, not to his daughter.
‘You are breathless, Henry,’ she said. ‘Has this news so excited you?’
‘Nay. You know what my breathing is like.’
Yes, poor old man, she thought. Soon I doubt not it will cease to be at all. Then I shall be free.
She nodded as though with compassion. ‘This news from England. What is it?’
‘There is to be a marriage.’
‘A marriage? Who is to marry then?’
‘The King no less.’
‘My father? He is an old man.’
The Emperor smiled. ‘He is some seven years younger than I.’
For a moment her eyes were cruel. She wanted to say: ‘And that is too old for marriage.’ But she curbed her tongue.
‘It is but two years since my mother died.’
‘It is a reasonable time for mourning. And since your brother’s death . . .’
She nodded. Since her brother’s death! The foundering of the White Ship had had its effect on all of them, and that which had brought despair to her father had set hopes soaring in his daughter’s heart.
‘So it is the need to get an heir,’ she said and there was a constricted feeling in her throat which had its source in bitter anger. He would marry again, get a son, and that would be the end of Matilda’s hopes.
‘Of a certainty,’ replied the Emperor. ‘For what other reason should he wish for marriage? He has chosen the lady.’
‘And who is she?’
‘Adelicia of Louvaine.’
‘I know nothing of her.’
The Emperor smiled again. ‘Your father would not think it necessary to ask your approval, my love.’
‘Adelicia of Louvaine,’ she repeated. ‘Is she young? Is she likely to give him an heir?’
‘You may rest assured that as far as these mysteries are known to men the answer to that is yes.’
She wanted to rage; she wanted to throw her pillow at this old man. It was always difficult to control her violent temper. Stephen had laughed at it, Stephen who was always calm and amiable.
She said: ‘I will rise now. I must offer my congratulations to my father.’
The Emperor nodded. ‘We must both do that.’
Unsteadily he rose. He looked at her and she thought he was coming to the bed. She drew her thick brows together in a frown and he turned away.
She would shout at him in a moment. She was so infuriated. Her father to marry! What if the new bride proved fertile! She could have many sons. And Matilda, who had been one step from the throne, would be pushed so far back that she could never hope to reach it.
The Wedding and Coronation
PRINCESS ADELICIA OF LOUVAINE knew that something important was about to happen for envoys from a foreign land had arrived at her father’s castle and there had been much serious talk between them and her parents; that the matter concerned her she was also aware and when a Princess became a matter of State this could mean one thing, and that was marriage.
She had been expecting it for she had passed her seventeenth birthday. That she was not already married was doubtless due to the fact no suitor had yet been considered worthy of her. Her mother had descended from great Charlemagne himself, a fact which she neither forgot herself or allowed her family to.
Her sister was watching her covertly, but Adelicia pretended to be absorbed by her needlework, for which she was famed. Such work as she did with silk and gold thread was considered to be a woman’s greatest asset. In the long ago days when she had been no more than five years old her governesses used to say to her: ‘Now, Adelicia, that will not do. You will never have a grand husband if you do not persevere with your needle.’
She wondered why husbands should set such store by fine needlework; and if that was all hers looked for, he should be well pleased. The standard she had worked for her father to carry during the battle was said to be a masterpiece.
Her sister said: ‘They say the messengers have come from England.’
‘From England,’ repeated Adelicia. She knew of England, of course. Who did not? The King of England was often in Normandy which he had taken from his brother. The King of England, who was also the Duke of Normandy, was one of the most
powerful men in Europe.
‘I wonder on whose behalf they come,’ went on her sister. ‘It cannot be for the King, though he is recently widowed, for he is a very old man, too old for marriage.’
Adelicia said: ‘Why should you suppose they come to talk of marriage? Could it not be of other matters?’
‘Nay, ’tis marriage. All say so. And that means you, Adelicia, for you are the eldest. My turn will come next.’
Adelicia shivered slightly. It was alarming to contemplate giving up all that had been home during one’s lifetime to go away to a foreign land.
She returned to her stitching.
‘How you can go on working at such a time I can’t imagine,’ said her sister impatiently. ‘If a husband were to be offered to me I would be so excited.’
Adelicia smiled. Inwardly she was far from calm, but of what use would it be to give vent to her feelings? She must wait and see. At that moment a serving woman appeared and said that the Duke, her father, wished to see her without delay.
Calmly she laid aside her needlework and rose.
Her sister watched her with round eyes. ‘I can’t wait to hear, Adelicia,’ she said. ‘Promise to come straight back and tell me.’
Adelicia went sedately to her father’s apartment.
‘Come in, daughter,’ he said.
Her mother was there too. The Countess took her in her arms and kissed her ceremoniously.
She is pleased, thought Adelicia. So it must be someone worthy of her blood.
‘My dear child, a great honour,’ murmured the Duke. ‘But be seated.’
Godfrey of Louvaine was tender. It was sad, he thought, that girls should be taken from their homes. But this was life and it happened to all. He loved his eldest daughter dearly. He cherished the beautiful standard she had made for him and often regretted that rulers such as himself must be forced to leave their homes so often in order to protect or regain their patrimony. Men must go away to fight and women must go away to marry. It was, alas, the accepted order of things.
He stroked his smooth cheek – a habit he had acquired thirteen years or so before when he had shaved it. He was even now known as Godfrey Barbatus because before the year 1107 he had worn a luxuriant beard. He had made a vow that he would not shave this beard until he recovered Lower Lorraine which had belonged to his ancestors. Now his smooth face proclaimed to the world that he had regained that which had been lost to his family.
