The Passionate Enemies Read online

  At such a time she must be grateful to Stephen. All the finest traits in his character were uppermost: his tenderness, his concern for her, his gentle explanations to little Maud as to why her brother had gone away. What would she have done without Stephen? wondered Matilda. He was not faithful, she knew. She was aware of his passion for that other Matilda; but he was the kindest and most tender husband in the world at this time and she could not have wished for a better.

  The child was buried in the Priory of the Holy Trinity, outside Aldgate – that very Priory founded by the King’s first wife, the little boy’s aunt.

  The Court mourned deeply for him, and in particular the King, who remembered afresh the loss of his own son and talked incessantly of the tragedy of the White Ship.

  It seemed to Matilda that nothing would go right. Stephen would have come to her and whatever happened afterwards they would have fulfilled their destiny, so she believed. What if he had got her with child? She laughed at the thought. Then she would have gone back to Anjou; she would have forced her husband to spend a night with her if she had to give him a love potion to make him do so and hers and Stephen’s child would be the heir to England. The thought excited her. That was how she would have had it.

  But he had not come. His child had been sick and died. Fate had intervened. Would he have come if that had not happened at that precise time?

  She believed he would. There would be another time. She had never been able to abide inactivity. There must always be drama about her. She wanted to live boldly and dangerously.

  One day when she was thinking of these matters in her chamber one of her women came to her in a mysterious fashion and said that a stranger was in the castle – a holy man – and he wished to have speech with her.

  ‘You are sure he said with me?’ she asked.

  ‘He said he must speak with the Empress Matilda, my lady.’

  ‘The Empress. So he called me by that title. And a holy man, you say. You may bring him to me.’

  The monk was brought to her chamber.

  ‘You are the Empress Matilda?’ he asked.

  ‘I am,’ she answered. ‘What brings you to me?’

  ‘What I have to say, my lady, is for your ears alone.’

  She signed to the woman to leave them.

  Then she said: ‘Proceed, good monk. Why have you come to me?’

  He looked over her shoulder. ‘We must be entirely alone.’

  ‘We are. Continue.’

  ‘I come from the Emperor, your husband.’

  ‘The Emperor is dead,’ she said.

  ‘Nay, my lady, but he soon will be. He wishes to see you before he dies.’

  ‘What tale is this! The Emperor is dead, I tell you. He was buried at Spires and a monument has been erected there in honour of him.’

  ‘This is not so. He has been working in a hospital. For years he has been doing this as penance for great sins, he says.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He is at Westchester. He implores you to come to him. He wishes to ask your forgiveness for his action. He wishes you to know the truth.’

  ‘How can I be sure that you are speaking truth?’

  ‘My lady, if you come with me I will take you to him. He confessed his sins to me and has put this burden on me. It is the last request of a dying man that you shall go to him.’

  Matilda was silent for a moment; then she said: ‘Wait here a while.’

  When she returned to the chamber, the King her father was with her.

  ‘Hear what the monk has to say,’ said Matilda.

  The King listened.

  Then he said: ‘You and I, daughter, will ride to Westchester. We will go alone with this monk.’

  There was no doubt that the man lying on the pallet was the Emperor; he was emaciated and dying but there was an expression of tranquillity on his face which Matilda had never seen there before.

  ‘Matilda,’ he whispered.

  Matilda knelt by the bed. The King stood back watching her.

  ‘I am here, Henry,’ she answered.

  ‘It was good of you to come. This had to be. My sins lay so heavily on me. Forgive me, Matilda . . . for going.’

  ‘You found peace,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘Peace,’ he repeated, ‘and I believe, the forgiveness of my sins.’

  ‘You walked out of the castle that night then . . .’

  ‘Yes, with nothing. I had already arranged this with my confessor. I took nothing with me but I was brought to England and worked here in the monks’ hospital. I served here as the lowliest and I have found peace, Matilda.’

  ‘Your ministers knew . . .’

  ‘They thought me mad. They had wished to put me away . . . They took this opportunity to proclaim my death. It fell into place, Matilda . . . and so I expiated my sins.’

  She said: ‘You should not speak. Rest.’

  ‘Stay beside me, Matilda. Tell me that you forgive me.’

  She stooped over him and kissed his brow. ‘You did right,’ she said. ‘You are now at peace.’

  ‘It is a great thing, Matilda . . . to come to peace . . . at the end . . . of one’s life.’

  His eyes had become glazed and he lay back and closed them.

  The King came to his daughter and touched her shoulder.

  ‘I will send for the priest to come to him,’ he said.

  Henry and Matilda remained in the chamber while the priest administered to the dying man.

  The King appeared to regain some of his old vigour during the next weeks. It was always so when there was something important to be done.

  He had been deeply affected by what had happened at Westchester; it had been a reminder of his own need for repentance; but there was a matter of greater importance to be settled.

  As the Emperor had been living during the ceremony of marriage between Matilda and Geoffrey of Anjou, they had not in truth been married. He was rather relieved now that there had been no children. That could have brought about a very awkward situation, and one which might have stored up trouble for the future, for however much secrets were guarded they had a way of leaking out.

  His great concern was to secure the succession. He had failed himself with Adelicia, and Matilda was his only hope. The day she presented him with his grandson a great weight would be lifted from his mind. It was because he had feared the Emperor might be living and Matilda’s marriage with Geoffrey no true one, that he had allowed her to stay at his Court and had made no effort to send her back to her husband.

  Now he was assured that the Emperor was dead his great desire was to reunite Geoffrey and Matilda and there must be another ceremony so that the marriage was legal and binding; then Matilda must produce a son.

  When some major problem had to be settled he always sent for Roger of Salisbury. This is what he did on this occasion. He told him the story, ending with the fact that he had witnessed the passing of the Emperor in his miserable cell but gloriously peaceful in spirit.

  Roger said: ‘At least we can now proceed. It is a mercy that he sent for the Empress otherwise he might have died in obscurity and the mystery never been solved. Let us be grateful for that. Our first plan is to get them together.’

  ‘Unmarried,’ said the King.

  ‘There must be another ceremony. This could easily be performed in secret.’

  ‘The trouble is,’ said the King, ‘that these two hate each other. Both are delighted to be apart.’

  ‘Your daughter, as heir to the throne, must realize her responsibilities.’

  ‘It may well rest with Anjou.’

  ‘My lord, you will not allow this little Count to flout you. I’ll swear. We can put out feelers. You are most displeased at this rift and your displeasure will be felt in Anjou if the young man does not make some move to be reunited with his wife.’

  The King nodded. ‘That is it, Roger. They must come together. I want to see my grandson. Once I see a healthy boy I shall turn my thoughts to repentance.
’

  ‘I trust, my lord, you will not leave us to go into a hospital as the Emperor did.’

  ‘I am too weighed down by responsibilities. I could have concerned myself with my own conscience long ere this if God had not taken my only legitimate son from me.’

  ‘His ways are mysterious, my lord. But your efforts have been marked with great success which shows His approval of what you do. The Anjou marriage at precisely the right moment, the death of Clito . . . and now the Emperor himself. He is dead. Let us go from there.’

  ‘You are a wise man, Roger. I knew it the moment I clapped eyes on you in that little church in Caen.’

  ‘Gabbling through mass at a speed which delighted my lord.’

  The King laughed. Trust Roger to raise his spirits.

  ‘Then first, Anjou,’ he said. ‘Geoffrey will ask his wife to return. And I shall command her to do so.’

  ‘Then the ceremony will take place. They are older now. They will know what is expected of them. I’ll warrant that ere long you will see your grandson and you will rejoice at the happy outcome of this matter.’

  The King smiled with a show of affection on his old friend and wise counsellor.

  The King faced his daughter.

  ‘You are to return to your husband. There shall be another marriage ceremony in secret, and you will then live together that you may have sons.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’ demanded Matilda.

  The King flushed angrily. It was at times like this that he wished he had never named her his successor.

  ‘Then,’ he said, ‘I shall disinherit you. Do not think that there would be any to support you. The news would be received with joy. You should know that only my insistence made the lords of this land accept you. They have no great wish to be ruled by a woman and in particular one as arrogant and overbearing as you are proving to be.’

  Matilda was silent for once. She saw the purpose in her father’s eyes. She had to be careful.

  ‘So the secret ceremony will take place, and this will be the true one. Then I want sons. Do you understand me? I want sons without delay.’

  ‘What of Geoffrey? He may well refuse.’

  ‘Geoffrey, like you, Madam, will obey his King or suffer the consequences.’

  Here was the raging Lion of Justice, the King who had taken over a disordered country from Rufus and by his stern and almost always just laws brought back order and prosperity to the land.

  Matilda bowed her head. She knew when she must obey. She must curb her dislike of the boy they had chosen for her husband; she must marry him, bed with him; and do everything in her power to give the King the grandson he insisted he must have.

  So the marriage took place in the presence of the King and when it was over Henry showed his great relief to Roger because the first step in their plan was achieved.

  Matilda was determined now to get a child quickly. She knew her father and she realized that if she did not soon provide the heir he would consider disinheriting her. He had stressed the fact that the people would be glad to see her replaced and this was the candid truth.

  She was not popular with the people – her sex and her character were against her. She knew that the people liked Stephen and that she enjoyed no such popularity.

  Stephen had always ingratiated himself with the people – highly or lowly born. He had always courted popularity which was something she had never done. He wanted the people to be on his side because they liked him; she wanted them to support her because they feared to do otherwise.

  Stephen was never out of her thoughts, Stephen whom she wanted passionately as a lover and who was yet her rival. For if her father disinherited her to whom would he look but to Stephen? His nephew was the Conqueror’s grandson; his wife Matilda was of royal Saxon blood. She was able to bear children. There had been a son, little Baldwin who was dead – but there was a daughter, Maud, who lived and they would get more sons.

  Matilda wanted to laugh aloud because the situation amused her. Stephen, the man she desired with a passionate longing, was her great rival. She was determined to have Stephen as her lover and at the same time she was going to fight him for possession of the crown.

  It was her relationship with Stephen, and that only, which would make her endure the embraces of the hateful Geoffrey of Anjou.

  She had seen the death of her first husband with her own eyes. She was truly married to this boy and no matter how they disliked each other they must get a child.

  In the bedchamber they faced each other.

  ‘It is, alas, a necessity that we get a child,’ she said.

  He scowled at her.

  ‘Oh, come, little fool. I am a beautiful woman and when you are now scowling you are not uncomely. Do not imagine that this matter is any more to my taste than yours but we have to get a son.’

  Geoffrey understood this.

  She took his hand and with a show of amiability led him to their bed.

  Stephen had joined the King’s entourage. He was reckless now and so was Matilda.

  ‘We have missed so many opportunities,’ she said to him. ‘that if we miss another we deserve to be parted all our lives.’

  He was still afraid. What if there was a child?

  She laughed.

  ‘Who should know but us two? If there were, Stephen, and he were a boy, he would be King of England one day.’

  How those words moved him! She was never sure whether they or his passion for her swept away his fears.

  The passionate attachment! How delightful it was! There would never be anything like it for either of them again. They could not know how long it would last. At any time the King would settle his affairs in Normandy and return to England.

  Each day they feared he would announce his intention to depart. She was delighted that his presence was needed in Normandy. This was the time of great excitement. She and Stephen were meeting whenever possible. A clandestine love affair was all to her taste. It was only the excitement of her encounters with Stephen that made it possible for her to do her duty with the boy they had chosen for her husband.

  She glowed with a beauty that she had not possessed before. Whenever she was in an assembly where Stephen was, her eyes would seek him out and a great triumph would fill her. For years she had mourned because they had not married her to Stephen but would she have had it otherwise? Would not marriage have made something mundane of their relationship? Now every meeting was an exciting adventure because they could never forget the fear of discovery; the fact that their passions urged them on to greater daring added such a fillip to their fierce pleasure as could never have occurred in the nuptial chamber.

  Only because of this could she endure her relationship with the inexperienced boy whom she despised.

  Destiny had brought her and Stephen together, had parted them and brought them together again. Lovers and rivals. And always she wondered: Does Stephen’s seed live within me? Shall it be his son or Geoffrey’s who inherits the throne?

  She was happy as she had never been before.

  People – what blind fools they were! – said: ‘Matilda has grown contented with her marriage.’

  The King was satisfied. Matilda was living in at least outward amity with her husband; those whose duty it was to keep him informed, assured him that they shared the marriage bed and were indeed endeavouring to make the union fruitful.

  With fresh warnings to Matilda that it was imperative for her to get a son, he returned to England.

  Stephen, naturally, must return with the Court.

  So this was the end of that first passionate phase. The lovers took a long and sorrowful farewell.

  ‘Stephen,’ she said, ‘we overcame our fears, did we not, and was it not worth it?’

  ‘I would have willingly died rather than never lived as I have these last months.’

  ‘This is not the end, Stephen. Our destinies are entwined. Who knows – I may carry your child. That would not be an impossibility, would it?’


  ‘Is it so, then?’

  ‘I know not,’ she answered. ‘I do not even know that ‘I am with child, but if I should be there would be the question, would there not? Stephen’s or Geoffrey’s? What if that child should become a King of England?’

  He embraced her. She saw the speculation in his eyes. He had failed to achieve his ambition but it might be passed on to his son.

  She wondered then how often the thought had occurred to him at the height of his passion: ‘Shall it be my son?’

  This was there at the root of the pleasure. The uncertainty, the discovery of each other’s minds as well as bodies.

  ‘What shall I do without you, Stephen?’ she asked.

  ‘Or I without you.’

  ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘There will be other times.’

  So Stephen left for England and Matilda was left alone with her young husband.

  A Surfeit of Lampreys

  WITH A MORE peaceful period the King’s obsession with his sins returned. He drew closer to Adelicia who was the one who could best comfort him.

  She was accustomed now to his waking at night and calling out to her. The nightmares were growing more and more frequent.

  One night he arose shrieking and picking up his sword began to slash at the hangings.

  Adelicia, awakening startled, dashed from their bed to restrain him.

  ‘There is no one here,’ she assured him. ‘Come back to bed, Henry.’

  She drew aside the hangings to show him that no one was hiding there. He put down his sword and sat up in bed covering his face with his hands.

  ‘I saw Barré there, Adelicia. You remember Luke de Barré. He was my friend. We went adventuring together in the days of our youth. He wrote verses against me, inspiring my enemies and worse still laughing at me. I ordered that his eyes be put out.’

  ‘I know,’ said Adelicia. ‘He was punished for his sins.’

  ‘But he had been my friend. Somehow I think he meant no great harm. He loved words, Adelicia, and words commanded him sometimes. He would say something and I would challenge him. Then he would say: “But see how beautiful that sounds. I must say it because it is poetry.” And I ordered his eyes to be put out . . . his eyes, Adelicia, the most precious thing he had, for he loved the flowers and the trees, the grass and the sun more than most men do. He glorified them. And I ordered his eyes to be put out! He killed himself rather than lose them. And now he comes to haunt me.’