by Jean Plaidy
‘I do not by day, but for long they have haunted my dreams.’
‘Pray that God will give you peaceful dreams. Pray that he will forgive your past sins.’
‘I will, Adelicia, I will.’
He lay awake long after she slept and his calm and precise mind took control. He had committed sins, yes. He had been cruel and ruthless. But he had done much that was good.
England was a prosperous land. His father would have applauded, and what greater praise could he ask for than that? He would rather have the approval of the great Conqueror than that of any man living.
He had lived for sixty-two years. It was a great age. Few men attained it. Even his father had died at the age of sixty. He was suffering now from old man’s remorse. Surely not many years could be left. He had built up such treasures on earth and how could he bear to leave them. England and Normandy! They had been life to him. He had them safe, more peaceful than they had ever been, but he himself was old and he had the old man’s fear. What happened when his call came, and he could take nothing with him? His great father had died and his end had been undignified for his body had been left to rot. It was as though some mischievous fate had said: ‘Great dignity you had in life, now in death you shall lose it. You have lost England and Normandy. You would never have lost them in life; but in death they are passed from your hands because you cannot take them with you.’ His brother Richard had died when hunting in the New Forest; his brother Rufus before whom men had trembled in his life had been trundled to Winchester in a cart drawn by churls and no one had wanted to bury him. When at last they had, the Cathedral tower had fallen down and men said that it was the saints protesting because such a wicked man had been laid to rest in a sacred place.
Kings lost their dignity with death – even great kings.
There was his brother Robert languishing in his dungeon. Should he repent and free Robert? And what would happen then? Robert was a broken man, even older than himself – advancing up his seventies.
We’re a long-lived race, thought Henry, when we are allowed to take our full span.
If he released Robert of what use would that be to his brother? Yet it might be that the rebels would rally round him. Nay, leave Robert. He was happier in his dungeon in any case and he could trust that other Robert, his bastard of Gloucester, to look after his uncle.
There seemed nothing he could do to show God his repentance.
But when the morning came he laughed at himself. I have done what I must, he said. None can say of me, Henry I or Beauclerc – whatever they will call me – that I did not leave the kingdom in a better state than that in which I found it.
It was comforting to be with Roger and to talk over events. Never, declared Roger, since the famous year 1066 had there been such peace. Taking Normandy from Robert, the marriage with Anjou, had been proved to be the actions of a wise sovereign. The death of the Clito was Fate’s seal of approval on all the King had done. Comforting talk, for as God so approved that he had removed the Clito surely too bad a view could not have been taken of Henry’s sins.
He could now, said Roger, settle down to a peaceful period. He could improve his relations with the Church; he could found a few abbeys. All that should help to improve his chances of salvation.
This Henry agreed to do and was more contented than he had been for a long time. Then disquieting news came from Normandy. Matilda had left her boy husband and was in Rouen.
‘God knows what this means,’ cried the King. ‘I must go to Rouen at once.’
He set sail with Adelicia and exhausted from the journey and feeling the weight of his years he arrived at the castle where Matilda had installed herself.
She received him coolly enough which irritated him, but Adelicia had warned him that in his less than robust state of health he should be careful about losing his temper. She feared every time he did so that he would do himself some injury.
He sought an early opportunity of being alone with his daughter.
‘What means this?’ he demanded. ‘How dare you leave your husband?’
‘Husband. That baby!’
‘Oh, come, he is no longer so young.’
‘You do not know what I have had to endure from him.’
‘We all have to adjust our ways to those of our partners.’
‘I doubt you ever adjusted yourself to my mother or your second wife.’
‘My affairs are of no concern to you. It is yours we are discussing.’
‘What can you hope for when you marry me to such a one!’
‘He is handsome enough . . .’
‘Enough! Enough for whom? Not enough for me. I hated his silly face the moment I saw it.’
‘And told him so, I doubt not.’
‘I would not choose to lie to my husband.’
‘You must be the most difficult woman on earth.’
‘I’m your daughter.’
‘Now, Matilda, I do not ask of you what is impossible.’
‘You do since you ask me to look upon that boy as my husband.’
‘You will have to try to live in peace with him.’
‘We hate each other.’
‘Are you so foolish that you do not know the purpose of this marriage?’
‘I know it well. It is to make Anjou your friend and not your enemy.’
‘That was the original purpose. Now there is another . . . of even greater importance. If you are to be the Queen of England you must have heirs. Have you forgotten that?’
‘You seem to have forgotten it when you think you can give them that infant for their sire.’
‘I take it he is capable of getting children?’
‘That may well be.’
‘Then he must get them on you.’
‘What sort of children do you think they will be?’
‘It matters only that there are children. Give me a grandson who will in time be King of England and I will cherish him and you for giving him.’
‘You ask a good deal of me.’
‘I ask only your duty.’
‘There were others to whom you could have given me.’
‘I made a fine match for you.’
‘With an old man.’
The King looked uneasy as he always did when the Emperor was mentioned.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘you have a young one and I doubt not he can give you fine sons. It is your duty to forget your differences. Many royal couples have no great love for each other, but they know they must get heirs and they do so. You shall now go back to Geoffrey. You will tell him that you have come to live in peace. You will be a good wife to him and he a good husband to you. You will go at once. That is my command.’
Then Matilda played her trump card.
‘That I cannot do, Father, for the simple reason that he will not have me.’
The King stared at her. ‘’Tis true,’ she said. ‘We have quarrelled much and at last he said to me: “Get you gone. I never want to see your face again. I regret the day I ever married you and I care nothing for the consequences. I want only to be rid of you.”’
The King was nonplussed. He understood Geoffrey’s sentiments. Yet how could he order him to take back his wife and get her with child?
It was a sorry matter. His luck had changed. He had quietened Anjou and the Clito was dead. But if Matilda would not get children where was the heir to the throne? The people had reluctantly accepted a woman but would they rally to her if she had no children? If she had a fine, bonny son to follow her, it would make all the difference.
But they would not get children. They hated each other. And Geoffrey had driven her away.
There was nothing he could do but take her back to England with him.
Stephen was excited by the return of Matilda. It amused him that the marriage with Anjou had gone awry. How many times did he rail against a fate which should have married him to Matilda! Then he could have been King to her Queen.
But what was the use? He had his good Matilda and she was as royal as
the Empress; and they had two dear children whom he loved. It was difficult to imagine not being the father of young Baldwin and Maud. He was a good father; he liked to play with his children; they were not in the least in awe of him; he supposed later Baldwin would have to go away and be brought up in the household of some chosen knight, to learn the arts of war and chivalry among other nobly born boys. His wife did not wish the boy to go; nor did he.
In the meantime the haughty Empress – now Countess of Anjou – was back at Court, imperious, demanding and exciting as always. Two unsatisfactory marriages had by no means softened her; but to him she would always be the most fascinating woman in the world.
There was a new recklessness about her, a certain gleam in her eyes when they rested on him. Stephen knew that she was tempting him to commit a folly; and he knew that when the moment came he might well be unable to resist.
She did not exactly seek him out; but often he found himself alone with her; it was usually during the hunt, for then they could be most inconspicuous. The King still hunted whenever possible; that was one pastime of which he would never tire. It was said that he no longer chased women as he had been wont to do, though there was the occasional encounter; but, was the verdict, these were of a shorter duration and held nothing of the fierce passion of the past.
The King was indeed beginning to show his years.
Stephen riding with the huntsmen invariably made a point of losing himself; he could be certain that when he did he would come upon Matilda lost in the same manner.
One afternoon they met in a glade of Windsor Forest. He saw her eyes sparkle as he rode up to her.
‘Well met, cousin,’ she said. ‘I expected you.’
He bowed his head.
‘You are going to miss the kill, Stephen.’
‘I fancy I shall miss nothing.’
‘You always knew how to please women.’
‘I hope always to please you.’
‘You do. I know you through and through, Stephen, and yet . . .’
‘And yet you have soft feelings for me.’
‘I cannot imagine why. You are a laggard, cousin. You do not seize your opportunities.’
‘Of which opportunities do you speak?’
‘All, I dare swear.’
‘There is one opportunity I long for.’
He leaned towards her and took her hand.
‘Yet you do not seize it,’ she said.
He leaped from his horse and was about to tie the creature to a tree when she laughed at him. ‘Do you think I am some forester’s daughter to be rolled in the bracken?’
She touched her horse and was away. Disconsolately he remounted; he turned his horse in the opposite direction to that which she had taken but before he had gone very far she was beside him.
‘There is a time and a place for everything,’ she said.
‘Tell me when and where?’
‘You wouldn’t dare, Stephen.’
‘You know how it has always been between us.’
‘Yes, I know. For me as well as for you. Oh, God, if they had given you to me instead of that senile old man and that puking boy.’
‘Ah, Matilda, what a life we would have had!’
‘You are content enough with your Matilda. How dare she have my name.’
‘It is a favourite one among ladies of high birth.’
‘They should have named me differently. My mother, my grandmother . . . and that silly little wife of yours.’
‘Your mother was not Matilda in truth. She took her name from our grandmother.’
‘Oh, we are close, Stephen . . . cousins. Perhaps cousins should not marry. There would have had to be a dispensation, would there not?’
‘It would have been easily obtained.’
‘Then why did they not obtain it!’ She struck her thigh with her clenched fist. ‘They have ruined our lives, Stephen, yours and mine. Or perhaps yours is not ruined. You seem satisfied with your silly little wife.’
Stephen flushed slightly and said: ‘She is a good woman. I have naught to complain of in her except that she is not you.’
‘Yes, you are smugly satisfied. You like your wife and you would wish me to be your mistress. I, the Empress, the Queen to be. That is what you wish, Stephen of Blois.’
‘What a shrew you have become.’
‘My little husband would agree with you.’
‘Poor man!’
‘He is scarcely that. They married me to him, Stephen, but I’ll not endure it. I’ll not go back to him. I’ll stay here and you and I will be together as we were meant to be.’
The moment of temptation had come. He knew it. If she turned to him; if he touched her he would succumb. He knew that theirs would be a wild passion; it would not be tender as it was with that other Matilda. There was an inevitability about his passion for this proud woman and hers for him; it had been there from the time they were children. There was a hatred in it too, as well as desire. He was not sure that he loved her. He knew she was cruel and ruthless; he knew that she longed for the crown and her father’s death. As for her she was aware of his ambitions; she thought him a coward; she knew that there would be something excruciatingly exciting about their union for Stephen would be in great fear. It would be such fear that only an irresistible desire could overcome it. He would be thinking all the time of what would happen if they were discovered. What would his chances be of survival? And hers? But what did she care for her silly little husband, for her tyrannical father? What if he disinherited her? What if he decided to put his bastard Robert on the throne? He might well do that. He would have the excuse if she and Stephen were caught in adultery.
It was this knowledge which made it so exciting.
‘Matilda,’ said Stephen.
‘Not here,’ she said.
‘Then for the love of God say where.’
‘In my bedchamber.’
‘That would be madness.’
‘This is madness, Stephen. I shall be waiting.’
‘If we are discovered . . .’
‘Then we must say to ourselves – for I doubt we should be allowed to say it together – “It was worth while.”’
They rode through the forest. They fell in with the rest of the party; then they rode back to the castle.
When Stephen returned to his apartments in the castle his wife was waiting for him. There was a look of such anxiety on her face that he was immediately full of concern.
‘What ails you?’ he asked quickly.
‘It is little Baldwin. He is sick of a fever. He is so hot and he mutters all the time.’
He followed her into the chamber where the boy slept; he was on his bed; his face unnaturally flushed; his hair in damp tendrils about his temples.
He knelt down and laid his hand on the boy’s brow. It was burning hot.
Baldwin opened his eyes and said: ‘Father,’ in such a manner that Stephen felt a lump in his throat.
He looked up at his wife.
‘Have you sent for the physicians?’
She nodded. ‘They will be here shortly.’
The boy closed his eyes and Stephen stood up. ‘How long has he been like this?’
‘Since morning.’
‘It is a childish ailment.’
‘I hope so.’
He gripped her hand and she turned her face away that he might not see how frightened she was.
The King’s Saxon physician, Grimbald, came into the chamber. He examined the boy.
‘He has a fever,’ he said.
‘Will it pass?’ asked Matilda.
‘We must wait and see, my lady. I will prepare a cooling draught which should soothe him.’
The draught did little for the child. Matilda had drawn up a stool and sat by the child’s bed. Stephen sat on the other side.
Now and then the boy opened his eyes; he looked from one to the other and smiled.
‘Our presence comforts him,’ said Matilda.
Stephen nodded.
How fragile was the child, how beautiful. Matilda wished that she could bear his pain. Stephen watched her anguished gaze and thought:. She has the air, of the Madonna. He remembered that other Matilda in the forest – her eyes flashing. She would be waiting for him in her bedchamber. She would have dismissed her attendant women in her imperious manner. She would be expecting him to go to her by means of the secret stairs which he knew and she knew. It would take him almost to her apartment. He would tap lightly on her door; she would be waiting for him.
The great moment was almost upon him.
He had half-risen from his stool and the child, conscious of movement, opened his eyes.
‘Father,’ he whispered. ‘Stay.’
He sat down again. Across the bed Matilda looked at him; the terrible fear was in her eyes and it was a shared pain.
He sat on, watching the boy, not daring to move lest he disturb him.
A messenger came. The King was without. He had heard of the child’s illness.
Stephen rose quietly and left the chamber. Henry was waiting there, his eyes anxious. ‘Stephen, nephew, I have heard the news.’
‘My lord, we fear . . .’
The King laid his hand on Stephen’s arm. ‘I know what it means,’ he said. ‘I have suffered myself. Is the child conscious?’
Stephen nodded.
‘Let us go in.’
Henry stood by the bed but the child was not aware of him, yet his relief was obvious when his father sat down close to him.
‘I shall stay with him,’ said Stephen.
The King nodded. He touched Matilda’s head and said: ‘My thoughts are with you. May God bless you both and save this child.’
He left them; and all through the night Stephen and Matilda kept vigil at their son’s bedside.
Little Baldwin was dead. The news spread through the castle. The child who had been healthy one day had caught a fever the next and the end had been speedy.
His mother kept to her room and only her husband could comfort her. ‘She is in good hands,’ said the King, ‘for Stephen is a tender husband and a family man. It is best to leave them alone together.’
For the next few days Stephen thought only of his wife and sought to appease her, for she had loved this son of hers more than any other being. She loved her daughter Maud and she loved Stephen, but little Baldwin with his bright and loving ways, the little son of whom she was so proud, had been the first with her.
