by Jean Plaidy
Matilda sat by her husband’s bed. He turned to look at her and, to her delight, he spoke to her.
‘You are sad,’ he said.
‘How could I be otherwise when you are so ill?’
‘What ails me?’ he asked.
‘I know not. Nor do the doctors.’
‘I feel a great weight upon my body and my mind. I want nothing but to lie here and wait for death.’
‘How can you do so when you have a kingdom to govern?’
‘I am too tired,’ he said. ‘Others will do it better than I.’
‘What has happened to you, Stephen?’
‘I do not know,’ he answered.
‘If you could but rouse yourself . . .’
‘Why should I? Because I have a kingdom to govern? Many will say I had no right to it, Matilda.’
‘You have a wife, a daughter and a baby son. You have a right to protect them.’
‘You are right, Matilda. I have them. May God bless them.’
The tears came into his eyes and fell on to his cheek.
‘Give me your hand, Matilda,’ he said.
She did so.
‘Help me to rise.’
He stood up, but he could scarcely do so.
‘You are weak still,’ she said. ‘But you will recover. I know you will recover now.’
‘I must, my dear wife. For you and my children.’
‘Thank God,’ said Matilda She summoned servants. ‘Bring the King’s garments. He is so much better that he will dress.’
He allowed them to put his garments on. They hung about his body for he had lost much weight.
‘I shall prepare a meal for you,’ said the Queen. ‘None shall do that but myself.’
And they sat together and he ate with relish.
Matilda cried: ‘I thank God we have come through that slough of despair.’
Stephen recovered from his mysterious malady as quickly as he had fallen into it. The fact that several of the knights whom he had trusted had shown that as soon as he was laid low they were ready to rise against him seemed to speed his recovery. There was need for immediate action.
It seemed that Hugh Bigod had not in fact rebelled but had merely fortified his castle in his own defence and as soon as the King was known to be well, he removed those fortifications – which seemed a reasonable enough action.
The case of Robert of Bampton was different; he had broken the country’s laws so firmly enforced by Henry I, and had ravaged the countryside, robbing and raping, so that in his area there was a return to the terror of the days of William Rufus. Stephen marched on Bampton, seized Robert and he was brought before a court who punished him by forfeiting all his possessions.
It was a different matter with Baldwin of Redvers. Here was a very ambitious man. He had inherited the title of Earl of Devon from his father and with this some extensive lands, not only in Devon but in the Isle of Wight. Having been forced, during the reign of Henry, to suppress his rapacious designs, he now saw an opportunity to give full play to them. The stern Lion of Justice was no more; the new King, some said, was on his deathbed, and certainly too ill to take action; so this seemed the moment for him to rise up and let it be known that he was the ruler of his particular territory. He began by subduing the city of Exeter; no one was safe there after dark; men of substance were kidnapped and held to ransom; they were tortured until they gave up their money, their women or whatever was demanded.
The citizens appealed to the King to come to their aid. This made Baldwin laugh. ‘The King is half dead,’ was his rejoinder. ‘This is an end to the restrictions we have suffered for years.’
But he was wrong.
News was brought to him that the King had recovered and that he was going to make an example of Baldwin of Redvers. He was on his way to Devon with a strong force but was sending two hundred cavalry ahead of him.
Baldwin snapped his fingers; but he was uneasy. He fortified Exeter Castle but he had no intention of being starved out in it. He could do better, he believed, by leaving it in the hands of some of his men, making them first swear that they would not submit to the King as they owed their first allegiance to him. As a hostage to his followers he left in the castle his wife Adelisa and his children.
Stephen arrived with his army and encamped about the castle. The siege had begun. It followed the usual pattern, but Stephen followed the practice of his uncle and, leaving some troops to continue with the siege, went away for a while to take other castles and rich lands belonging to Baldwin.
For three months the siege continued. Then it seemed to Stephen’s followers that God intervened for the wells within the castle precincts dried up and the besieged were obliged to use wine for cooking. Since there was no water Stephen ordered that lighted torches should be flung over the walls for the enemy would have no means of putting out the fires which were started except with wine.
It was clear that the besieged must be on the point of surrender.
A truce was called, that two of the leading knights might come out and parley with the King. They would make terms they said.
Stephen received them and when he saw how thin they were he was moved to pity.
His brother Henry of Winchester was with him at the interview.
‘My lord King,’ said the first of the men, ‘we have meant no rebellion towards you. We have sworn fealty to our lord the Earl of Exeter and he it was who commanded us to hold this siege.’
Stephen conceded this and was about to speak when his brother tugged at his sleeve.
‘I am sure,’ said Henry, ‘that the King would wish to consider what you have said.’
Stephen dismissed the men and when they were alone Henry said: ‘They are on the very point of surrender. Did you not notice their sagging and wasted skin? They are dying of thirst. You should not make terms but insist on absolute surrender.’
Stephen said: ‘They are of a certainty greatly suffering.’
‘Strong men do not make terms with traitors unless it is expedient to do so.’
Stephen was at last persuaded and his answer was: ‘Absolute surrender.’
The men went away but they had realized that the King had wavered and it was only the influence of his brother that had made him resolute.
Later that day there was another emissary from the besieged castle. It was Baldwin’s wife, Adelisa; she came in all humility, her feet bare, her hair hanging loose about her shoulders. She was weeping bitterly, as she threw herself at Stephen’s feet.
‘I beg of you, my lord,’ she said, ‘have pity on us. My children are starving. You have children of your own.’
There was no doubt that the King was moved at the sight of this beautiful woman and it took all Henry’s considerable powers to make him refrain from offering to lift the siege without delay. But Henry did succeed in the end and Baldwin’s wife went sorrowing back inside the castle walls.
Stephen called together his advisers and among them was naturally his brother Henry and there was also Earl Robert of Gloucester.
Stephen said: ‘Baldwin has fled. His men at arms and his servants are at our mercy. I could destroy them all.’
‘It is what you should do,’ said Henry.
Robert of Gloucester said: ‘You cannot destroy so many and it would be unjust to select a few and let them suffer for the sins of all. But what sin have these men committed? They have sworn an oath of fealty to their lord and they have obeyed him.’
‘That lord had already sworn an oath to me,’ Stephen reminded him.
‘’Tis so, but these men had not,’ pointed out Gloucester.
Henry said: ‘If you allow these men to go free all the lords in the land could rise against you. They could leave their men to do battle with you knowing that when they were defeated your prisoners could say, “Oh, but I only obeyed my lord.”’
‘I would be a benevolent king,’ said Stephen.
‘Benevolent kings are for peaceful states,’ retorted Henry.
&nb
sp; Robert of Gloucester was thinking that Stephen for all his charm, good looks and talent for pleasing people was a weak man. He wanted to live at peace. And a strong man was needed to rule this country. It had had the benefit of two strong men, the Conqueror and Henry I, and they had done much; but the task was by no means completed and what had been so hard won could be easily lost.
Moreover Robert had sworn fealty to his sister. This man Stephen was a usurper. He had declared his readiness to serve Stephen for what would have happened if he had not done so? He would have been languishing in a dungeon now. That was not the way to bring Matilda back to England and place her on the throne.
So he urged Stephen to show leniency while Henry of Winchester tried to point out the folly of following this advice.
But Stephen would do what he wished to do; and he could not get out of his mind the sight of that beautiful woman with her feet bare and her hair hanging from her shoulders, and how she had spoken of her children.
He made his first blunder. He would accept the fact that those who had conducted a siege against him were acting on the orders of their lord the Earl of Exeter, to whom they had sworn fealty. They were not the criminals; it was their master.
The siege was over. There were no reprisals. The news spread throughout the country. It was possible to rebel against the King and suffer no punishment for so doing. This was an invitation for those who favoured rebellion, to rebel. They would do so with impunity for they were not responsible.
This decision had made nonsense of the oath of fealty. Baldwin in the Isle of Wight was at first amazed and then amused. One siege had failed; so he would try another. He fortified Carisbrooke Castle and from there attempted to set up a new kind of rule. He gathered about him a company of pirates to harry the ships which went between England and Normandy.
Stephen, although lenient to his fallen foes, lost no time in acting against them. He assembled a fleet and went to the Isle of Wight.
The summer had been hot and dry and strangely enough the wells of Carisbrooke dried up as had those of Exeter. This greatly heartened Stephen’s followers because they believed it was a sign that God was on their side.
The outcome was that Baldwin was forced to surrender, but here again Stephen made a major mistake. With Baldwin in his hands he did not keep him his prisoner; he contented himself with stripping him of his possessions, and sending him into exile.
And where should Baldwin go?
To Anjou; there to be made much of by Matilda and her husband who were busy with plans as to how they were going to defeat the upstart Stephen.
The Queen Commands
NEVER IN HER life had the Empress Matilda suffered such frustration. She had long dreamed of ruling England; during her father’s lifetime she had waited impatiently for his death and when it came she was unable to take advantage of it.
Here she lay in childbed; and like the birth of her second son the birth of the third was long and arduous. Then . . . another boy.
How ironical life was! How her father had longed for a boy from his meek Adelicia, and the poor thing had been barren! Yet no sooner did she allow Geoffrey Plantagenet to be a husband to her than she was with child and in a short while had three boys. Young Henry was but three years old and here was master William making his appearance – and there was young Geoffrey in between.
He shall be the last, she decided. For I am heartily tired of their father and having got three boys I need not concern myself with getting more from him.
What she would concern herself with was getting the crown.
Stephen was constantly in her thoughts. She loved him; she hated him, If her father had arranged a marriage for them instead of giving him that insignificant Matilda of Boulogne and her the senile old Emperor of Germany and then a foolish boy . . . But how many times had she railed in this manner.
Suffice it that Stephen had betrayed her. The thought maddened her, yet delighted her in a way. There had been a time when she had planned how she could seduce him; now she found equal joy in planning how she would outwit him. For the time would come when she would snatch the crown from him, and then she would take the greatest delight in tormenting and humiliating him.
She beguiled these wretched hours of inactivity in thinking up tortures for him.
In the meantime she must recruit as many people as possible to her banner. Stephen was a fool. He was too soft and gentle. He cared too much whether people liked him or not. That was no way to rule. Subjects must see that there was a strong man ruling them, a man who would show no mercy when his laws were broken. Was that not how her father and grandfather had ruled. One ruled by strength, not amiability.
Handsome gracious Stephen! He had some lessons to learn. When he was in his dungeon perhaps she would visit him, remind him of the nights they had spent together – torment him, tease him, perhaps submit to his entreaties to linger with him. And afterwards she would have the chains set on his feet and hands to remind him that, although she might amuse herself with him when the whim took her, he was still her prisoner.
For he had failed her. She had believed when she had seen him so eager for her, when he had told her in the dark of night that there was no one like her, and she had thought of him as hers in all ways, that he would stand with her, as that poor fool Geoffrey her husband never could. She had believed she could trust Stephen. And he had taken the crown for himself.
She would never, never forgive him. Hers was not a forgiving nature. She was not easy and soft as he was.
When she regained the crown people would understand that she meant to be obeyed. She would quickly make them realize who their ruler was. She would follow in her father’s and grandfather’s footsteps and if some were put to the sword or lost a limb or two or were deprived of their eyes – then they would learn the more quickly.
In the meantime here she was helpless – and Stephen was no doubt thanking God for his achievement. He had actually been crowned. And so had that miserable wife of his. Queen of England! That Matilda.
‘Stephen of Blois,’ she said aloud, ‘you shall pay for this.’
She had asked that her case be tried before the Pope. She demanded that Stephen be excommunicated. She was the rightful heir to the throne; she was her father’s only legitimate child and the knights and members of the clergy had sworn allegiance to her. All right-thinking men and women must support her against this upstart son of a count – and not even his eldest born – who had usurped her place.
Geoffrey of Anjou came into her bedchamber. She looked at him critically. She supposed some would call him an elegant man. She had never thought so because always she had compared him with Stephen. She did so now and she wished with all her might that it could have been Stephen standing there before her. How she would have jeered at him; she would have risen from her bed, weak as she was, and flown at him; she would have scratched his face and bitten his hands and exhausted herself and him by the passion of her hatred which would, she knew, turn to love. And how she would have enjoyed that!
But he was far away, in England, in his palace wearing her crown and all that was left for her was this silly young fool sporting his sprig of broom in his hat and calling himself Plantagenet.
‘What news?’ she asked.
‘None.’
‘Nothing from Rome?’
‘Nothing. Innocent does not want to embroil himself with Stephen.’
‘He is a fool. He should know that no one cares whether or not they offend Stephen.’ Her lips curled into a sneer. ‘Stephen is so kind, so gentle. Stephen is so courteous. No one quarrels with Stephen.’
‘Some of his knights do. He has trouble there.’
She was silent, willing the knights to rise against him all over England, all over Normandy, to defeat, but not to kill him. Oh, no, she could not bear that. A world without Stephen would have lost its savour. She wanted to know that he was alive; she wanted to go on dreaming of the day when she would confront him . . . in his dungeon.
‘And what are you doing?’ she asked scornfully. ‘A man would have been in England, would have made some attempt to snatch the crown from the traitor who has taken it from his wife. But what can one expect from a boy!’
‘What a general!’ he said. ‘She gives orders from her bed! What if I went to England? What of Normandy? You haven’t even got that.’
‘Then why not?’
‘Because the people do not love you, that’s why.’
‘Did they love my grandfather?’
‘Your grandfather was a great ruler.’
‘They shall see that his granddaughter is no less.’
‘Men respected him.’
‘I shall force them to respect me.’
‘You may imprison them, torture them, but you cannot force them to do that.’
‘You have much to learn, Master Geoffrey. If I were not weak from bearing your child . . .’
‘At least I am man enough to give you a boy.’
‘Scarcely a hero’s task you’ll admit. Now, Master Plantagenet, I want you to go out and subdue those of my Norman subjects who would rebel against me. If you cannot win my English Crown, for the love of God make my ducal one secure.’
‘Methinks the people have heard too much of your temper. They like you not.’
‘I will force them to accept me,’ she said. ‘Wait until I am rid of my burdens.’
‘Then we shall see,’ he said. ‘I have news for you. Your cousin is in Normandy.’
‘Stephen?’
‘The King of England,’ Geoffrey bowed ironically. ‘He has defeated Baldwin of Redvers and has come that his son Eustace may be acknowledged as the future Duke; he has come to pay fealty to the King of France.’
Matilda narrowed her eyes. Stephen in Normandy. The sea no longer divided them.
No wonder she felt exhilarated.
Impatiently she awaited for her strength to return. Geoffrey meanwhile set out with his troops to attempt to regain Normandy for her. This was the reason he had had to make this distasteful marriage. He had undertaken it only because his father had told him that one day he would be the Duke of Normandy. For England he did not greatly care, but passionately he wanted Normandy.
