The Passionate Enemies Page 13

  ‘I am to be received back at Court?’

  ‘I cannot keep my daughter shut away indefinitely.’

  ‘People must think it strange,’ she agreed.

  ‘Well, you are recently a widow and in mourning. They will believe that for a time you wished to be alone. But now that period is over and it is time for you to emerge. There will be a grand celebration at Whitsuntide to mark the occasion of your betrothal.’

  She caught her breath and waited. He paused for a few moments before adding: ‘To Geoffrey of Anjou.’

  He waited for the storm of protest, but it did not come. She knew that it was useless to protest.

  He watched her for a few seconds, guessing her thoughts, then he nodded with approval. At least she had learned one lesson.

  ‘So this boy agrees to take me,’ she said.

  ‘His father insists that he does.’

  ‘Poor child, he has no more say in the matter than his bride.’

  ‘It is the way with royal marriages. You will have the satisfaction of knowing that you have saved many lives which would otherwise have been lost in the battles for Normandy.’

  ‘I and this boy must pay the price I daresay.’

  ‘Oh, it will be amusing enough. You can school him. You will, do what you will with him.’

  She shrugged her shoulders. It was useless to do anything but accept. And in truth she was so weary of being shut away that she welcomed any diversion.

  So once again there was a gathering in the great hall and there she was solemnly betrothed to Geoffrey of Anjou. Her eyes flashing, her head held high, she took her oaths and there was a burning resentment in her heart.

  If her father but knew how she hated him he would be alarmed. He must die, she thought, before I can come back, and I hope that day will not be long delayed. To wish a father dead, that was surely a wicked thing; but not when that father first bartered her to a man forty years her senior, because he needed an alliance with Germany, and now having served that sentence, here she was, being handed to a boy ten years younger than herself. It would be understood that she had little love for such a sire. He wanted only the advantage she could bring him and was ready to sacrifice her to attain it; she too wished only for the advantage he could bring her and only his death could give her what she wanted.

  So she was betrothed to Geoffrey of Anjou and was to leave almost immediately for Rouen where the marriage would take place.

  Once more she received the homage of the principal men of the kingdom. They must accept her as the lady of England and Normandy.

  She was glad of an opportunity to have a word with Stephen before she left.

  ‘I trust you have missed me, cousin,’ she said.

  ‘More than I can say.’

  ‘You knew I was in the Queen’s apartments.’

  ‘Ay, I knew.’

  ‘And made no effort to see me.’

  ‘It was against the King’s wishes.’

  ‘Some might have defied those wishes.’

  ‘Not the wishes of Henry of England.’

  ‘Are you such a coward then?’

  ‘I trust I am brave enough. But I would keep myself comely in my features, for dearly as I should have loved to see you I could not have endured for you to turn away in horror when later you saw me.’

  ‘My father is a harsh man, Stephen.’

  ‘He is a King who will be obeyed.’

  ‘You know I am to go away, very soon. Only a few days are left to me here. I’m to be married to a . . . child, Stephen.’

  ‘He is the luckiest child on earth.’

  ‘Oh, Stephen . . . are you thinking what I am?’

  ‘I think so. If they had married you to me how wise they would have been.’

  ‘And how happy we should have been! Good-bye, Stephen.’

  ‘You will be back ere long.’

  ‘And when I come?’

  ‘Who knows – everything may be different then.’

  In a few days time she left. The King had appointed Robert, Earl of Gloucester, and Brian Fitzcount to accompany her.

  Alas, thought Matilda, that Stephen had not been sent. How she would have enjoyed that. But how dangerous that would have been! Always fear of what would happen to them had kept them apart. There were some who would risk all for love. Not Matilda, not Stephen. And Henry would have no mercy on either of them.

  She must forget Stephen for a while. At least she had seen him again; she knew that the flame of desire could still flare up between them. It was a comforting thought.

  Now she turned her attention to her half-brother Robert, and Brian Fitzcount.

  Robert was already her good friend so she set out to charm Brian. He was called Fitzcount because he was the illegitimate son of the Count of Brittany. When he was quite a boy his father had asked Henry if he would take him into his Court and instruct him in the arts of war and chivalry. Henry, who had always liked to surround himself with protégés, had agreed to do so and Brian had become a special favourite of his. A short while before Henry had knighted him and found a rich wife for him. The King had further shown his favour by sending him with Robert of Gloucester to escort Matilda to Rouen.

  Brian was anxious to ingratiate himself with the haughty Empress who, feeling resentful against her father and against fate for separating her from Stephen, set out to charm both Brian and Robert. Before they reached Rouen the two men had sworn to serve her to the end of their days. Any arrogance which had deserted her while she had been her father’s captive now returned, and although Robert of Gloucester brought instructions from Henry that the marriage was to take place immediately she found reasons to delay it.

  The first reason was the celebration which must take place in the city which had been decorated for the purpose. This took time to prepare and the people must not be hurried through it, declared Matilda. Through the streets went dancers and heralds and Henry had decreed that there should be a proclamation bidding all rejoice in the coming marriage of the heiress of England to the son of the Count of Anjou. Any who did not join in with great rejoicing would suffer the King’s displeasure. The heralds sounded their trumpets and criers at street corners announced the declaration which the King had ordered should be given throughout the city.

  ‘Let no man here present, native or foreigner, rich or poor, high or low, stay away from these royal rejoicings, for whosoever shall do so shall be named guilty of an offence against the King.’

  So, at the coming of Matilda none dared but rejoice.

  The Archbishop of Rouen called at the palace to see Matilda. She received him with that haughty demeanour which was already beginning to be noticed and resented.

  ‘My lady,’ said the Archbishop, ‘I have instructions from the King, your father, to perform the ceremony of marriage between you and the son of the Count of Anjou without delay.’

  ‘I am as yet unprepared,’ replied Matilda.

  ‘These are commands from the King.’

  ‘You cannot make me take my vows if I refuse to speak,’ retorted Matilda.

  ‘You have come here to marry, I understand.’

  ‘In my own time. I will not be unduly hastened.’

  ‘The people are already celebrating this event.’

  ‘Let them. I shall say when I shall marry.’

  The Archbishop was torn between what he had understood the King’s orders to be and the stubborn determination of his daughter. When Matilda stood to her full height and her eyes flashed with rage, she was indeed formidable; and everyone knew that the King was an ageing man and that she had been proclaimed his successor.

  The Archbishop postponed the ceremony.

  When the King heard of Matilda’s prevarication he flew into a rage but after calm consideration and discussion with Roger of Salisbury he came to the conclusion that a little delay was not so much to be deplored. The bridegroom was over young. Sixteen would be a more reasonable age for marriage; and Matilda had many years before her for childbearing. Fulk
had been placated because the King had sent his daughter to Normandy and there was no danger from that quarter.

  In due course, Henry would go to Normandy and deal with Matilda’s tantrums.

  He did this sooner than he expected, for a few weeks after Matilda had arrived, fresh trouble broke out in the Duchy and the King’s presence was urgently needed there.

  He left at once.

  In Rouen he demanded of Matilda what she meant by disobeying his orders and forcing the Archbishop of Rouen to do the same.

  ‘I needed time,’ she said. ‘This is a serious step, particularly in view of my husband’s . . .’

  Henry held up his hand. The Emperor’s end was a matter he did not want mentioned.

  ‘Your marriage shall take place when I have settled this trouble,’ he told her. ‘I give you till then to come to terms with your future.’

  She was pleased. It was a victory if a small one.

  William Clito in his new found strength, with the King of France firmly behind him, was a greater menace than he had ever been; and no sooner had Henry brought order to one trouble spot than another presented itself.

  A year had passed since Matilda had come to Rouen and she was still unmarried.

  It was June before Henry could safely leave the battlefield and return to Rouen. Geoffrey was at that time fifteen and Henry decided that there should be no more delay.

  Fulk came to Rouen with his son and the prospective bride and bridegroom were presented to each other. Neither was favourably impressed; Matilda saw a petulant boy, Geoffrey an arrogant woman; and neither was of a temperament to pretend otherwise.

  The King had much to say to Fulk and he suggested to him that the happy pair should be allowed a few moments alone to ‘congratulate each other on their good fortune’.

  When they were alone the happy pair scowled at each other. Matilda was determined to show Geoffrey right from the first who would be in control of their household.

  ‘Do not imagine,’ she said, ‘that I want this marriage.’

  ‘You could not want it less than I do.’

  ‘You should be pleased with your prospects.’

  ‘I do not see it so, Madam,’ he replied insolently.

  I should be the one to complain. You are but a boy . . .’

  ‘And to be married to an old woman!’ he countered.

  ‘Old! I am not old. It is because you are but a child that you think so.’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Your father is overeager for this match.’

  ‘Yours is not averse to it, I gather.’

  ‘They have arranged it between them.’

  ‘So there is something to be gained on both sides.’

  ‘I do not wish to consider their motives. They are obvious enough.’

  ‘You began it, Madam.’

  ‘I can see you are going to be a tiresome boy.’

  ‘And you will be a shrew.’

  ‘Two such as we are sure to have a happy marriage,’ she retorted with sarcasm.

  ‘Alas,’ replied the boy, ‘it is something we must submit to.’

  ‘Then we must needs accept our ill fate.’

  ‘’Tis so, I fear.’

  Then Matilda turned her back on him and went to the window to look out. They were shortly joined by their fathers.

  ‘Alas,’ said Fulk beaming with pleasure, ‘we must interrupt this happy meeting. Condolences, my son, but you will have the rest of your life to spend with this gracious lady.’

  Matilda noticed too that the King was delighted. It seemed everyone was pleased about this coming wedding, except the two it most concerned.

  Henry was indeed pleased. Fulk had told him that he was contemplating going to Jerusalem. It was time he repented of his sins; and when he did so he would pass over all his possessions to his son Geoffrey who would immediately become the Count of Anjou. He proposed to see the marriage solemnized and then depart.

  Nothing could have delighted the King more. His prospective son-in-law was a young man who could be guided. Anjou would therefore be, from every practical point of view, under the King’s command. His greatest enemy would be removed; this was to have happened with the marriage but if Fulk cut himself off from his interests in Anjou it would be doubly desirable.

  Fulk was happy too. He could now pass to his period of repentance and make sure he had expiated his sins before he died. He could congratulate himself that Normandy would be brought to his family through his son; and that was the fulfilment of a lifelong ambition.

  Once he had seen Geoffrey married to the King’s daughter, he could leave for Jerusalem and repentance, knowing that he had gained all he set out to gain in Normandy; and there would doubtless be certain battles in the Holy Land which would be a joy, for there he could practise war with all its attendant cruelties under the eye of God and it would not be a sin but all in His cause and therefore laudable.

  There was no longer any reason to delay the marriage.

  The King knighted Geoffrey and the royal party travelled to Le Mans and on the 17th of June of the year 1128 Matilda married Geoffrey of Anjou.

  That the marriage should prove a failure was inevitable since both parties had firmly made up their minds that it should be.

  Their dislike did not diminish as they knew each other better and as neither would make the slightest attempt to placate the other they indulged frequently in their favourite pastime which was throwing insults at each other.

  Henry had had to hurry from Le Mans because fresh fighting had broken out in Normandy, a reminder that although he had appeased Anjou, the Clito was still a formidable enemy.

  It seemed though that fate had decided to favour him. A hint of this came in one of the despatches he received from the battlefield of Alost. At first it had been dismissed as trivial for the wound was nothing but a prick in the thumb from an enemy’s lance. When Henry heard that because of this his nephew had gone to the monastery of St Bertin to recover, he laughed aloud.

  ‘The poor boy is so concerned about a scratch then?’ he cried.

  But the scratch was no ordinary one. The thumb was infected and the poison spread through the Clito’s body.

  Within a week he was dead.

  Henry could scarcely believe his good fortune. Anjou his to command through the marriage of his daughter and the young Count; and now the Clito to whom so many had rallied because they believed that, with his father a prisoner in England, he was the true heir at least of Normandy if not England as well, was dead.

  He was growing old. But it seemed to him that all his wishes were coming true. Now there could be some peace in Normandy. He was in truth now – if one forgot Robert in his prison and all must agree that Robert was unworthy to govern – the rightful heir to England and Normandy.

  He would go back and enjoy a little domestic peace. Adelicia did not excite him in the least, but she was good and meek; and he was of an age which did not look for the sensational adventures of youth.

  The Lovers

  WHEN THE KING had a great deal to occupy his mind he did not give much thought to the past, but since he had returned to England where State matters could peacefully be discussed and there were no longer the sudden and urgent calls to Normandy he began to look back over the outstanding events of his life.

  He found a certain pleasure in sitting with his wife and discussing these. Again and again he recounted the story of the lost White Ship and how his misfortunes had begun with that dire tragedy. He continually stressed that if it had not been for the loss of that ship there would not have been this desperate need to get an heir, for he would have had one already. He would not have had to marry again. Poor Adelicia! she cast down her head as though in apology.

  He patted her hand. ‘You have been a good wife in all but one thing,’ he told her.

  ‘The most important thing,’ she answered.

  ‘That was not in your power to supply,’ he told her and added kindly: ‘you have been a comfort to me.’


  It was true. When he meandered on about the past he did not want an intellectual companion. Sentiment suited him much better in such moods and the self-effacing nature of the Queen was exactly what he needed. He could talk to her for hours and she would only answer briefly or nod her head in sympathy. He was therefore able to tell her of his many sins and how he was beginning to feel the need for repentance.

  ‘Fulk of Anjou has gone to Jerusalem. I heard he is to marry Melisande, the daughter of Baldwin. He will follow him as King of Jerusalem. So you see he has found a happy solution. He had a son to whom he could leave his estates in Anjou. Could I go to Jerusalem? Could I make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land? What of. my duties here? What of England and Normandy?’

  Adelicia ventured that perhaps God would accept repentance from England as readily as from the Holy Land.

  ‘It is much easier for a man who has lived by his sword. He simply transfers allegiance from ambition and love of power to God. When he fights the Infidel he fights for God; when he respects the Holy Land he respects God. His sins are forgiven and he is rendered pure again. Fulk’s sins were great – and think, now he is saved!’

  Adelicia thought it might not be as simple as that and Henry had brought much good to England and Normandy so perhaps that would count in his favour.

  He liked to listen to her comfort, but his sins still hung heavily on him.

  One night she awoke to find him shouting in his sleep. She tried to soothe him, but he sprang out of bed and wild-eyed picked up his sword.

  ‘Henry, where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘I am going to kill them . . . these men who mock me . . . they are blind for I have ordered that their eyes be torn out. Their arms are stumps for I have had their hands cut off. Their faces are mutilated . . . for I . . .’

  ‘Henry, there is no one here.’

  He was staring at her wildly.

  ‘Was it just a dream then?’

  ‘A dream – nothing more.’

  She helped him back to bed. ‘It was as though they were here . . . in this chamber . . . those whom I had long forgotten . . . the dead . . . the mutilated . . .’

  ‘Do not think of them.’