The Passionate Enemies Page 12
‘Ah, Fulk. He is the one I fear more than any, Roger. There is a true soldier, a man who is shrewd and ever ready to seize an opportunity. If he were but on my side, I would stand against Louis and Clito – for neither of whom have I much respect.’
‘There was a time when you and he were friends.’
‘That was when he believed his daughter would one day be Queen of England. Oh, Roger, how often are my troubles and stresses brought back to the disaster of the White Ship.’
‘Marriage brought his friendship, then . . .’
Roger was looking intently at his master.
‘He has a son,’ said the King slowly. ‘He is but thirteen years old, I believe. Matilda is twenty-four.’
Roger spread his hands. ‘Age cannot always be a consideration in royal marriages,’ he said,
‘There you speak truth. What then?’
‘An alliance with Fulk would change the entire picture.’
Henry laughed. ‘I can picture Louis’s face when he heard.’
‘Remember, my lord, how it helped us at the time of your son’s marriage with his daughter.’
‘I remember well.’
‘It could change again.’
‘A boy of thirteen and my daughter. Could a boy of that age get sons?’
‘Of a certainty, my lord. You were not much older when your first were begotten I believe.’
‘I was advanced in such matters.’
‘A strong woman such as your daughter would be a good teacher.’
They smiled. Then the King said: ‘I believe you to be right in this, Roger. But I must needs think. I had wished that Matilda should marry again but I had wanted an English marriage. As you know there was a hint when I got them to agree to swear fealty to her that there would not be a foreign marriage. The people do not want a foreigner here on the throne.’
‘The throne would be for Matilda.’
‘Ay, but a husband, Roger.’
‘A boy now but he can be moulded into a man. It is better that he should be young.’
‘We need Fulk’s help,’ said the King. ‘We need it badly.’
‘May I suggest, my lord, that we brood on this matter.’
‘A wise suggestion, Roger. Let me give it thought.’
The King sent for his daughter. He wished to be completely alone with her. He had a matter of great importance to discuss.
By God’s death, he thought, she gives herself airs this daughter of mine. One would think she were Queen and I a subject.
Yet in a way he was pleased with her demeanour. When her turn came she would carry the orb and sceptre with dignity.
‘Now, daughter,’ he said, ‘be seated. This is a matter which must be resolved without delay. You are now the heir to the throne and your first duty as such will be to provide the heirs the country needs.’
She was silent. Her heart had begun to beat very fast. She could not get out of her mind the picture of her husband rising from his bed and padding barefoot to the door. She thought of the news of his death and the funeral. She had not seen the face of the man in the coffin.
‘Therefore,’ went on the King, ‘the next matter we have to deal with is your marriage. You have no children by the Emperor and that may well be a blessing, but you must now without delay set about the task of providing heirs for the nation.’
‘Yes, Father,’ she said slowly.
‘We have found a bridegroom for you. This marriage will bring peace to the country and to Normandy . . .’
‘So I am to be used.’
‘My dear daughter, we are all used. I married your mother because she was a Saxon princess and although I had been born and bred in England and was the son of a Norman king. I had to submit.’
‘My mother always used to say that yours was a true love match.’
‘I wooed her it is true but I did so because I know that such a marriage would do for the country.’
‘And secure your accession to the throne.’
‘That was so. I was wise. And so must you be. The country wants an heir. It is your duty to provide that.’
‘And who has been chosen to be the sire?’
‘Geoffrey of Anjou.’
‘Who is he?’
‘The son of Fulk.’
‘Your enemy!’
‘At the moment. Some time since he was my friend. That was when his daughter married your brother.’
‘And I am to have the son.’
‘He will inherit Anjou and as you know this is the most important province in Normandy. He can cause me great trouble if he remains my enemy. If he is my friend everything is turned about.’
‘And so, because of his father’s infidelity this man is to sire my children.’
‘You know full well that you must have a husband. I have chosen Geoffrey of Anjou.’
‘I have no wish to marry . . . yet.’
‘But I wish you to marry without delay.’
‘And what is he like, this Geoffrey of Anjou?’
‘He is a little young at this time, but that is something which time will remedy.’
‘A little young. How old?’
‘He is approaching fourteen years.’
‘Fourteen! A child! For me!
‘He will grow up quickly.’
‘I’ll not have him.’
The King stood up and assumed an expression which would have struck immediate terror into any of his subjects. But Matilda was his daughter and she also rose. They faced each other.
‘It would seem,’ said the King, ‘that you are under a misapprehension. You do not rule this land yet, and you, Madam, are as certainly a subject as the lowliest serf in this castle. Remember this! I have raised you up. As easily could I put you down. Ay, and would, if you displease me.’
Matilda said: ‘And when you put me down who will then be your heir?’
‘There are others.’
‘To come before your own flesh and blood?’
‘There are other members of my family who could succeed me to the throne.’
‘My cousin Stephen? Or one of your many bastards? I believe there are twenty of them – perhaps more.’
‘And more joy they bring me than my legitimate children. One died . . . and the other a virago who would rule the land before she comes to the throne.’
His anger was terrible but her common sense warned her that if he became truly enraged he would disinherit her. She would have to go carefully.
‘But Father,’ she faltered, ‘a boy not yet fourteen.’
‘It is his age now.’
‘I am a woman, Father. I do not want a child for a husband.’
‘It is necessary. We need this marriage. We have, to placate Fulk or there will be bitter bloodshed in Normandy with God knows what disasters. Clito is rising. I do not fear him, but I do know the might of Fulk. And marriage alone will bring him to our side.’
She was silent for a few seconds and he went on: ‘So, we shall go ahead with the negotiations. They will take a little time. You will have some months before you need go to Anjou.’
‘Go to Anjou! Why should he not come here?’
‘Because his estates are in Anjou.’
‘But . . .’
‘You are not yet Queen of England; it would be well to remember. When I die you would return with him and rule this country. In the meantime it would be necessary for you to go to Anjou.’
To go to Anjou. To leave England. Not to see Stephen. It would be as bad as being in Germany. Had she escaped from one doom to walk straight into another?
She would not have it. Anything . . . anything was better than that.
She made up her mind.
‘There is something I must tell you,’ she said. ‘It concerns my husband.’
He looked at her sharply. ‘The Emperor?’
She nodded. ‘He . . . he may not be dead.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘One night he left our bed. I saw him wrapped only in a woollen garm
ent . . . the sort pilgrims wear. Barefooted, he left the apartment. I never saw him after that.’
The King narrowed his eyes. ‘What means this? You did not see him! Did you not attend his funeral and was he not buried in state and was not a monument erected to him?’
‘This was so, but I cannot swear that the body which was buried at Spires was his. I did not see him after that night. I was told that he had died.’
‘But you must have looked on his face. You, his wife . . . not to know him!’
‘I did not.’
‘This is a wild story and I believe it not.’
‘It is wild certainly but where there is madness strange things happen.’
‘Madness?’
‘You know full well the Emperor was mad. His usurpation of his father’s crown preyed on his mind. He could talk of nothing else. All through the night he would ramble. You cannot know what I suffered with him. He was mad, I tell you. I knew. His ministers knew it. All those close to him knew it. And I verily believe that he either left the palace to become a pilgrim or was spirited away by those who realized that they could not leave the Imperial crown in the hands of a madman.’
The King was staring at her in horror. ‘This cannot be true.’
‘You know full well that it could be true.’
‘Why did you not demand to know the truth?’
‘Because I did not want to. I had endured that insane old man long enough. I wanted to come home to my true inheritance.’
‘If he has been buried he can be deemed dead, and there’s an end to it.’
‘And if I married? If I had children and if my first husband were alive what would these children be but bastards?’
‘God’s death,’ said the King.
‘I tell you this,’ went on Matilda, ‘that if I were sent to a thirteen-year-old boy I might well refuse him because, since I know not whether my husband be dead or alive, I am in no position to become a wife to another and bear children who would be the heirs to England.’
‘So you refuse to marry Geoffrey of Anjou?’
‘I have told you my reasons. You will admit they are good ones.’
‘Nay,’ thundered the King. ‘I do not call them good ones. You are a widow. Know that.’
‘How can I be when . . .’
‘Because I say so.’
A scornful smile curved Matilda’s mouth but the sight of her father’s cold fury made her suppress it. She was ruthless but no more so than he was. He had married her into Germany when she was a child; he had brought her back because he wished to make her his heir; and now he was determined on her marriage to Anjou. She knew that if she defied him she would do so at her peril. He had not the same love for her as he had for Robert of Gloucester. She was his legitimate daughter but his love children were closer to him. Her strength was in her legitimacy, not her father’s love. Stephen could take the crown, for he was near enough in the succession and the people would prefer a man to rule them rather than a woman.
She must be careful or it might be that she, like the poor Emperor, might be spirited away.
She was playing a very dangerous game.
So she was silent and lowered her head so that her father might not see the speculation in her eyes.
‘You have much to learn,’ he said, and the coldness of his tone showed her the calculating depth of his anger. He would stop at nothing, she knew. ‘I am the King. There are many years left to me – a fact which may disturb you.’
‘Nay, nay,’ she cried and tried to simulate real emotion.
He went on: ‘I will be obeyed. You will have heard what happens to those who disobey me.’
‘I know that you are just and never hesitate to punish the unlawful.’
‘No matter who they be,’ he added. ‘Understand this, my subjects obey me unquestioningly. You may be my daughter but you are also my subject.’
‘I know that, Father.’
‘Rather think of me as your King. What you have told me is disturbing. But I know full well that the marriage I have chosen for you and which will bring much good to your country is distasteful to you. I believe it may be that you have invented this wild story because you do not wish to marry the man I have chosen for you.’
‘That is not so, Father. The story is a true one.’
‘That I shall discover. In the meantime you will do as I say. You will mention this to no one and to make sure that you do not, you will not mingle with the Court.’
‘You are sending me away?’
He was thoughtful for a moment. ‘I cannot do that. But you are going to need nursing and I shall ask the Queen to care for you in her apartments; and there you will stay with her until I give you permission to emerge.’
‘Please, Father, I promise that I will not say a word of this . . .’
‘There is one thing you must quickly learn, Matilda. Methinks your years in a foreign court have made you forget that I am the master here. Wait here until I return.’
He left her. She sat down on the faldestol; she was trembling. What had she done? She was going to be a prisoner here, perhaps. The Queen’s prisoner! But perhaps at least she had saved herself from marriage with that odious boy. She was sure he was odious. Thirteen years old. The thought was revolting. To go away from England to Anjou, to leave everything she had come home for . . . power . . . and Stephen!
But had she done the right thing?
The King returned and the Queen was with him. Poor silly Adelicia, thought Matilda, she looked alarmed. And well she might be with such a husband.
‘I have told the Queen that I wish you to have a rest. She will look after you in her apartments. Adelicia, my dear, take care of my daughter. See that she is undisturbed. I want her to be kept from everyone. You will be her constant companion. Then I am sure in due course she will recover her health.’
Adelicia was smiling shyly; and Matilda had no recourse but to go with the Queen to her apartments since the King accompanied them and made it clear in a quietly sinister way that she was his prisoner.
Matilda sat at the window and looked out on the courtyard. They were celebrating Christmas at Windsor but she was not down in the great hall. She must stay up here with only the Queen for company.
In the great hall they would be thinking of her, if they dared not talk of her. They would be careful not to arouse the King’s displeasure. What were they thinking? His only daughter just returned from Germany; all the powerful men of the kingdom had been commanded to swear allegiance to her; and now she was shut away from the Christmas festivities although she was in the castle.
It must be a great mystery.
Stephen would be down there with his wife, that other Matilda. Was he thinking of her? But of course he was. Suppose he had been a bold lover caring only for his lady’s weal, like those of whom the minstrels sang, would he not have risked all to come to her?
But Stephen was not of that kind. She would have despised him if he had been. Had he attempted to come near her he would have incurred the King’s displeasure with who knew what dire consequences. She, whose ambition was to wear a crown, could understand and respect a like desire in Stephen. Oh, the pity of it that they had not married them when they were young. She would have been the Queen and he her consort. Always she would have made him aware of who was the ruler. But what a wonderful life they would have had together!
Dreams! she thought contemptuously. All dreams.
And so she must pass her days with Adelicia and the best thing she could say of her was that she was kind.
There Adelicia would sit over her needlework – Matilda was not interested in such feminine accomplishments – while Matilda paced up and down, or sat looking out of the windows, or talked endlessly of the wrong which had been done to her.
Adelicia always tried to soothe her and to tell her that everything the King did was for his daughter’s good. How that made Matilda want to scream. Everything the King did was for his own good, she replied, to which Adelicia m
ade the comment, which was perhaps not unwise, that what was good for the King was good for his daughter, for she would one day rule the country after him.
Adelicia talked of the Emperor for whom she had some affection, she said, because he had helped her father to recover Lower Lorraine.
‘He was good to my father,’ said Adelicia.
‘Remember this,’ retorted Matilda cynically. ‘Sovereigns are never good to others. They are only good to themselves. You may depend upon it that it suited the Emperor to help your father and it was for this reason that he did so.’
Adelicia shook her head and said she believed there was a great deal of kindness in the world.
Such a companion for me! thought Matilda. Oh, why did not Stephen come to see her?
Everything had gone wrong. A horrible premonition came to her that she might never become Queen of England.
What if her father discovered that the Emperor was not dead? What had they done with him? Imprisoned him somewhere? Supposed he lived for years and years until she was too old to bear children?
What if she never came to the throne after all? Who would? Stephen? She laughed at the thought. She would never allow that. Robert of Gloucester? That was what the King would like but even he knew that the people would never accept his bastard. But her grandfather the Conqueror had been a bastard, and before he became known as the Conqueror he had been called ‘the Bastard’, often slightingly. His father, Robert the Magnificent, had forced his vassals to accept him as their Duke. And what had been the result? Wars throughout his life. And those wars had ravaged Normandy ever since.
It was a horrifying thought.
It must never come to pass.
It was more than eight weeks since she had been placed in Adelicia’s apartments. Spring had come; she watched the buds on the trees from her window and heard the mating songs of the birds.
Her father came to the apartment. He sat down and looked at her gravely.
‘I’ll swear you have had enough of these walls,’ he said.
‘I am sick unto death of them.’
He smiled. ‘And in a mood to be wise mayhap.’
‘I would prefer anything I believe to staying here.’
‘I am glad to hear it, for you are going to leave these rooms.’