The Passionate Enemies Page 10

  ‘How could you ever believe I would have such foolish notions? I understood the problems which faced my husband. He was never at rest.’

  ‘You have been well schooled. Now, Matilda, I intend to make you my heir but before you can become this I must make sure that the people will accept you. While I live, yes . . . but if I were no longer here, who knows what might happen. I fear the Clito. I shall command all my knights and nobles to swear allegiance to you. They will need some persuasion.’

  ‘Why so?’ asked Matilda haughtily.

  ‘Because you are a woman.’

  ‘I will show them that a woman such as I am is as good as any man.’

  ‘I believe that you will . . . in course of time. But they do not know that yet. That is why I proposed to assemble them and make them one by one swear allegiance to you.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Therefore,’ he went on, ‘we shall return to England and I shall send out a proclamation that all those whom I summon to London shall come and swear loyalty to you.’

  ‘Shall you send to all those whom it would concern?’

  ‘Every one.’

  ‘There is my cousin Stephen. I believe he is in Boulogne. Shall you summon him?’

  ‘Of a surety I will. It is very important that Stephen swear loyalty to you.’

  ‘He has some slight claim himself.’

  The King nodded. ‘Through my sister, his mother. Yes, he is no less the Conqueror’s grandson than you are his granddaughter. Stephen has been a good nephew. At one time I thought I might train him to follow me. I think he had his hopes. But that was when the Emperor was alive and there did not seem any reason why you should come back.’

  ‘I shall be glad to know that the powerful men of the land accept me,’ she said.

  She would be also equally glad to see Stephen and that she must surely do very soon.

  It was September when they crossed to England. Matilda was moved to see again the burnished leaves, the green grass, the grey castle walls of the land she would always consider to be her home.

  She rode between the King and Queen, and Henry told her how he had been born here shortly after his father had conquered the country and that it had always seemed to him to be his native land. It was one of the reasons why the people had accepted him. His brothers had been Normans; but he reckoned himself to be completely English.

  ‘As I do,’ said Matilda.

  ‘It is well to let the people know you feel this,’ he told her.

  And so they came to London where Henry very soon made his intention known. He called together an assembly of the leading members of the Church and nobility. There he told them that in the event of his dying without a male heir he wished them to swear that they would without hesitation accept his daughter Matilda, as their sovereign.

  This announcement was greeted with silence.

  The King shouted: ‘This is my will.’

  Still there was silence.

  It was Roger, Bishop of Salisbury, who was the first to raise his voice.

  ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘these are troubled times. There are some among us who fear that a woman, however gifted, would not be strong enough to stand against those who would rebel.’

  The King frowned and all those present trembled. They had always feared his wrath and since the disaster to the White Ship he was liable to fly into violent rages when he might order any punishment to be inflicted on those who disagreed with him.

  For a few moments Roger and the King regarded each other steadily while the flame of anger flickered in the King’s eyes. Roger was warning him. He was asking for time, for a private discussion. There they would work out a plan for making the King’s will into law.

  The King said: ‘I give you time to think of this matter. But rest assured this is my will and intention and it will go ill with any of you who attempt to defy me.’

  Crestfallen, the gathering disbanded.

  When the King and the Bishop of Salisbury were alone together, the Bishop said: ‘You must forgive my outburst, my lord. I believed that if we had not disbanded the assembly then some might have uttered that which they would find it hard to withdraw. You have chosen the Empress as your successor. Let us now see how we can prepare the lords and churchmen to accept this.’

  ‘They will accept it,’ said the King shortly. ‘As you all will.’

  ‘We shall, my lord, but let the matter be presented in such a manner that it is seen to be a right conclusion.’

  ‘It is my will,’ said the King, ‘and therefore a right conclusion.’

  Roger smiled blandly but he was thinking how Henry had changed. He was getting old and the need to establish his successor was imperative. Because his temper had shortened he no longer saw with the same clarity. Always before, his great virtue had been the ability to reason and admit he was wrong if proved to be.

  Now, Roger realized, even he must walk warily.

  ‘It is your intention that Matilda should inherit both England and Normandy?’

  ‘I do not wish them to be separated.’

  Roger nodded.

  ‘And,’ added the King, ‘we must bear William Clito in mind. We must make it clear that he has no right to Normandy.’

  They were both silent. As the son of Robert to whom the Conqueror had left his Duchy of Normandy there could be no logical argument that Clito was not the heir.

  ‘Normandy is mine by right of conquest,’ said Henry, ‘as England was my father’s by the same token.’

  ‘Matilda’s descent through her mother will carry weight with the people.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Henry, ‘the Saxon line.’

  ‘You were wise when you married a daughter of Saxon kings, my lord.’

  ‘I know it well. The marriage helped me to the throne. Normans and Saxons united to make the English. That was what the people liked to hear.’

  ‘Now we will remind them that Edgar Atheling was your wife’s uncle and many would have regarded him as the true Saxon King; but the Conqueror took England and brought great good to the land, so your daughter has a right to ascend the throne through her grandfather the Conqueror and through her mother’s family the royal Athelings.’

  ‘That shall be done,’ said the King, ‘but they will know my wish and it would be well if they obeyed it.’

  ‘I have no doubt they will,’ replied Roger.

  The Court had moved to Windsor, one of the King’s favourite spots ever since his first wife Matilda had, during one of his absences in Normandy, occupied herself with making the castle habitable. Matilda had been very interested in architecture as he was and his father and brothers had been; and they had certainly made some fine additions to the castle as they had to their apartments in the Tower of London.

  Here the King decided to call together the assembly of nobles and high members of the Church that they might make their vows to Matilda.

  The edict had gone out. All noblemen and churchmen above a certain standing were to present themselves at Windsor for the ceremony and any who did not appear would suffer the King’s displeasure. What form that would take none could be sure, but eyes, noses, ears and hands were too precious to be risked.

  Matilda was delighted with the way everything had turned out, and on the day Stephen arrived at Windsor she was greatly excited.

  She saw his arrival, watching from a turret window. He had changed little, she thought, and where he had it was for the better. He was a man now.

  She saw his silly little wife with him; courteously he helped her from the saddle and she stood smiling at him foolishly, thought Matilda.

  Then he turned and spoke to some of the grooms. They smiled and bowed. Stephen always knew how to please everyone and did not hesitate to use his charm on the most lowly. She watched him come into the castle.

  He was conscious of her as she was of him. When they assembled in the great hall and took their places at the board she was aware of his eyes eagerly scanning the company and she knew for whom he looked
.

  At length his eyes met hers. Oh, yes, the old spark was there; it flashed between them. Matilda wanted to sing aloud; she wondered if he felt the same.

  When they had eaten and the drinking horns were being filled he came to sit beside her.

  ‘Welcome home!’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  ‘You are still the same exciting Matilda.’

  ‘And you have changed little, Stephen. Did you know that I was here?’

  ‘The whole world knows that you are here.’

  ‘Yet you were in no haste to see me.’

  ‘I came with as much speed as I could muster.’

  She shrugged her shoulders petulantly. ‘It took so long. Boulogne is not so far.’

  ‘I have estates, duties. I was being harried by the Clito. I could not come until I had driven him off and beaten him . . . even for you.’

  ‘Stephen,’ she said, ‘will you swear fealty to me?’

  ‘With all my heart,’ he answered.

  How beautiful was. the forest. How exhilarating to ride through in the chase and to know that Stephen was of the party.

  They were of more importance to each other than the deer or the wild boar.

  He was beside her, and it was not difficult to lose the rest of the party. How handsome he is! she thought. He must be the handsomest man in England. Oh, what joy to be home! How had she endured those weary, dreary years with that senile old man when this handsome knight was here, desiring her, dreaming of her surely, as she had dreamed of him.

  ‘Oh, Stephen,’ she cried as he brought his horse close to hers, ‘how beautiful is England! Nowhere in the world is there a forest like this.’

  ‘Because the Empress rides in it – that is why.’

  ‘Mayhap you prefer the forests of Boulogne.’

  ‘It would depend who was there.’

  ‘But this is our forest, Stephen, my forest. Look back at the castle. Is it not a noble sight? Did you know it is said King Arthur lived here . . . and that Merlin built a forest on the heights here? The Round Table was here.’

  ‘Legend,’ said Stephen. ‘It is of greater moment that you and I are here . . . together.’

  ‘So you feel that to be so.’

  ‘I do. And you.’

  ‘I am not displeased to be here.’

  ‘Then I must be beside myself with joy because my haughty Empress is not displeased.’

  ‘They used to call it Wyndleshore because of the winding river-banks. Did you know that, Stephen?’

  ‘I knew it not, nor cared,’ he answered.

  ‘My mother enlarged it and made it what it is today. Before that it was simply a hunting lodge. I remember seeing it for the first time.’

  ‘Do you remember seeing me for the first time?’

  ‘Yes. Our cousin Stephen! Even then I liked you better than my brother.’

  ‘I liked you better than the whole Court put together.’

  She inclined her head, her cheeks flushed.

  Then she cried out passionately: ‘And they married me to that old man!’

  ‘You were so anxious to be an Empress. You put on airs in the nursery the moment you knew you were going to marry him. It seemed the title compensated for the man.’

  ‘It didn’t, Stephen. I’d rather be a Queen.’

  ‘Ay,’ said Stephen, ‘and a Queen of England.’

  She lifted her head and studied him challengingly.

  ‘Stephen, you are going to swear fealty to me. It is for that reason you are here.’

  ‘I know it well. The King has made his wishes clear.’

  ‘And will you do it?’

  ‘How could I do aught else and not earn the acute displeasure of the King?’

  ‘So for that reason, you will swear to serve me?’

  ‘That . . . and others.’

  ‘What others?’

  ‘It was ever my greatest wish to make you happy.’

  ‘Oh, Stephen, it was so unfair. To give me to that old man and you that foolish girl.’

  ‘My Matilda is a good woman.’

  ‘A good woman. Did you want a good woman, Stephen? Was that why you wanted me?’

  ‘I wanted you because you were the only one I cared for.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘It seems I am a man who does not change.’

  ‘They should have married us, Stephen. If they had, how different everything would have been.’

  ‘I should have had a virago for a wife instead of a meek woman who does all in her power to please me.’

  ‘But your virago would have pleased you more. Admit it, Stephen . . . if you dare.’

  ‘I make no attempt to deny it.’

  ‘I shall be your Queen one day.’

  ‘Hush. To say that is to anticipate the King’s death. That’s treason.’

  ‘Is he not anticipating it by calling you all here to swear loyalty to me?’

  ‘In a manner. But he does not believe it will come to pass for many years. Who knows, but by that time he may have got himself a son.’

  ‘Never. The Queen is barren.’

  ‘Trees which have stood barren for years will suddenly bear fruit.’

  ‘A barren woman and an old man. I am safe enough. You say this but to plague me.’

  ‘I beg you to take care for your own sake.’

  She laughed at him. ‘Poor Stephen, you had hopes did you not?’

  ‘At one time, yes.’

  ‘And now I have disappointed them.’

  ‘You could never disappoint me.’

  ‘Nay . . . nor you me, Stephen. But they should have married us. You have some claim, I’ll agree to that. You and I together would have worked well, Stephen. But my brother was alive then. He died too late.’

  Stephen said ironically, ‘Would you have had him hasten his departure?’

  ‘There. You plague me again! Oh, Stephen, it is good to be home. It is good to see you. You are not bold enough, cousin. You never were. You were afraid that we should allow our feelings their full rein, were you not? You used to think that if you got me with child you would have lost your eyes. You are not bold enough, Stephen.’

  ‘You were but twelve years old.’

  ‘Some are mature at that age. If you had not a wife, Stephen, it might be possible now. My father likes you. You are his good nephew. Your mother was always his favourite sister. I believe if you were free he would let us marry.’

  ‘But I am not free, Matilda.’

  In the distance they heard the sound of horses’ hoofs. Some of the party were returning. She spurred her horse.

  ‘You must learn to be bold, Stephen,’ she threw over her shoulder as she rode away.

  They had given in. They knew they must; and although they could not imagine serving a woman, since it was the King’s will there was no question of disobeying him.

  So they came to Windsor and the King congratulated himself and Roger on their astuteness in pointing out how truly English Matilda was while being the granddaughter of the great Norman Conqueror.

  They were earnestly discussing the matter of precedence. ‘I doubt not that the Archbishop of Canterbury will expect to take his oath first,’ said Roger.

  ‘As head of the Church he will.’ The King smiled. ‘I remember well old Ralph’s fury when you half-crowned the Queen and how we had to start from the beginning. We want no repetition of such a scene.’

  Roger grimaced. ‘Then I must needs swear my oaths after him.’

  ‘William Corbeil is not a bad fellow as Archbishops go. He is determined to cling to his rights. Who is not? But I had made up my mind to have no conflict with him such as I and my brother before me had with Anselm. The Church can be a plague to a King as you well know.’

  ‘But think what a blessing, my lord, when Church and State work together as in some cases.’

  ‘I forget not that you have worked well for me, Roger. Nor ever shall. I would I could set you above William. But it so happens that t
he Archbishopric of Canterbury has been appointed the first in the land.’

  ‘I know it well and let it be. It is not I who will complain. And after me will come your brother-in-law, the King of Scotland. That is as it should be, for he is the highest rank among the laymen. So it will be the Archbishop as head of the Church followed by me as your chief judiciary as well as your Bishop, and then the King of Scotland. It is the next, my lord, that gives cause for careful thought.’

  ‘I have thought my son Robert.’

  ‘’Tis either Robert of Gloucester or your nephew Stephen.’

  ‘Stephen is but my nephew, Robert is my son.’

  ‘I know well how you love the Earl of Gloucester.’

  ‘Love him? Why, Roger, a hundred times a day I look at that young man and say, “Would to God, you had been my legitimate son.”’

  ‘There lies the problem, my lord. For all his virtues he is your bastard.’

  ‘Alas ’tis true.’

  ‘And Stephen, born in wedlock, is the son of your sister.’

  ‘I have a fondness for them both. I confess, Roger, often I have wished that they had been my legitimate sons.’

  ‘And now, my lord, who shall precede the other?’

  ‘I am unsure. When Matilda was a wife and not a widow, I should have said Stephen, for Stephen though my nephew is legitimate. But now there is Matilda . . . I know not, Roger. I will ponder the matter and let you know my decision.’

  ‘And when that decision is made the rest will be easy.’

  They talked of other matters.

  When Stephen heard that there was a possibility of Robert of Gloucester’s taking precedence over him he was bitterly angry. This would be construed – and rightly so – that the King considered his illegitimate son of greater importance than his nephew. It must not be. He must do all in his power to prevent it.