The Passionate Enemies Read online

  ‘It was but a dream, Henry.’

  ‘They come at night . . . men I have killed. How many men have I killed in my lifetime, think you, Adelicia?’

  ‘It often happens that a King must kill if he will survive. This is not murder. It is statescraft.’

  ‘Wise little Adelicia. I have not loved you enough. I have not made you happy.’

  ‘You have done your best and I have not been unhappy. My great regret has always been that I have been unable to give you the son you wanted.’

  ‘Oh, Adelicia, stay awake. Talk to me until the dawn comes.’

  It was sad and disquieting to see a great and powerful man so reduced to fear by the terrors of the night.

  In the morning Adelicia sent for Grimbald, the King’s physician, and at the risk of displeasing Henry told him of these nightly hauntings.

  Grimbald wished to speak to the King and Adelicia confessed to her husband what she had done.

  ‘You did it out of your care for me,’ he said gently. ‘I will see Grimbald.’

  He explained to the doctor: ‘I am sorely disquieted in the dead of night. Sometimes it is husbandmen who surround my bed with their tools in their hands ready to strike me. I have done much that is wrong against them. I have taxed them to pay for my wars. I have taken their homes to make my forests. I have punished them severely for trespassing in these forests and. trapping and killing the animals. They are dreadfully mutilated men, Grimbald, who stand round my bed. And I have caused those mutilations. I see knights and fighting men. They come at me and they are so real that I rise from my bed and take my sword.’

  Grimbald nodded. ‘My lord, you are beset by a surfeit of conscience. You remember now deeds which seemed to be necessary at the time you did them. Now they return in the quiet of the night to haunt you. If you were not a mighty King I would prescribe a visit to the Holy Land. There you could obtain absolution of these sins which worry you. But you cannot do this for your duty lies here with the country you govern. God would not wish you to leave it.’

  ‘My grandfather Robert the Magnificent went on a pilgrimage and left my father but a boy of seven as the Duke of Normandy.’

  ‘The great Conqueror could easily have been killed in his childhood had God not preserved him for a great destiny.’ Grimbald crossed himself and bowed his head since it seemed he had spoken ill of the dead and the sanctified dead at that because all knew that Robert the Magnificent had died during his pilgrimage to the Holy Land and thus expiated the sins of usurpation and murder.

  ‘And I and my brothers would never have been born,’ said the King. ‘But I have no son in whose hands I could place my kingdom, only a daughter, and I doubt not that were I to go and leave the sceptre in her hands there would be trouble.’

  ‘Nay, my lord, you must stay in that place where it has pleased God to put you. But you could reform your ways wherever you consider it possible. Be a faithful husband.’

  ‘I am too old to be otherwise, Grimbald, so there would be little virtue in that.’

  ‘Pray frequently. Found a few abbeys. Devote yourself to the Church, for you are suffering not from a sickness of the body but a display of conscience which comes to us all as our years increase.’

  ‘I have done much to prosper the abbeys,’ Henry said. ‘I and my wives have founded several. Rahere, one of my minstrels, founded the priory of St Bartholomew and I have aided him in this. He built a hospital adjoining the priory and much good was done to the sick and dying. In the field near Clerk’s Well to the north of my city of London, Jordan Bliset founded a priory for Benedictine nuns and there also much that was good was done. My first wife Matilda was unflagging in her efforts to help the poor. She built many hospitals. St Giles of Cripplegate was one and poor lepers were given succour there. She built churches and even bridges, such as Bow Bridge, and although these might not be said to have been made for the glory of God they brought great comfort to the people.’

  ‘This is good,’ replied Grimbald, ‘but you still feel this need for repentance. You will do so until you have founded more abbeys and brought greater good to the Church.’

  The King thanked his physician and went away to discuss with Adelicia what else they could do for the glory of God and the saving of his soul.

  In spite of his efforts to win salvation the King continued to have disturbed nights and these were having a marked effect on him. He looked his age; his temper was even more violent and more easily aroused.

  Sometimes he told Adelicia he believed God had deserted him. He had spent his life in making England great and God had taken his only son and refused to give him another. He greatly feared that God was displeased with him.

  Again and again Adelicia pointed out what benefits had come his way. He liked to hear them listed and he would nod and say ‘Yes, yes. There was that.’ He liked her to keep an account of how many abbeys he and his family had founded. He took a great interest in them and enjoyed going through their accounts.

  But again and again his melancholy overcame him. Then one day there came some joyful news.

  Matilda was pregnant.

  ‘It may well be,’ he told Adelicia, ‘that God is at last answering my prayers.’

  That Christmas, which was spent at Windsor, he fell sick. He could not leave his bed and there were no festivities. Adelicia herself nursed him, for who but a wife, she asked him, should be at her husband’s side at such a time?

  He was even more melancholy in sickness. It seemed clear to him, he said, that God had forsaken him. Yet how could he take a pilgrimage to the Holy Land? God must understand that he had a country to govern.

  Early in the year a terrible fire broke out in London and more than half of the city was wiped out.

  The King lying prostrate on his bed heard the news and groaned.

  ‘This is a sign,’ he cried. ‘God is displeased with me.’

  A few weeks later the picture changed.

  Matilda had given birth to a child – a healthy boy.

  ‘We wish to call him Henry after his grandfather,’ she wrote.

  The King rose from his bed, his spirits restored. God was no longer angry for he had given the King what he had prayed for above all else.

  A grandson! An heir! A Henry!

  He commanded that the church bells should ring. There should be bonfires and rejoicing. All the country must be en fête.

  At last God had granted England an heir.

  He must go to Normandy to see his grandson. Reports that the child was lusty and healthy delighted him and he could not wait to see for himself.

  First he addressed the Parliament and ordered that an oath of loyalty to his grandson, the future King of England, should be sworn.

  Roger had pointed out that the Queen might yet bear him a son but he shook his head woefully.

  ‘You forget, Roger, that I have become an old man. All my hopes lie in this grandchild.’

  The oaths were sworn and the King set out for Normandy. Adelicia remained behind in her role of Regent with Roger of Salisbury to assist.

  ‘I shall return ere long,’ said the King, ‘but I must see my grandson.’

  There was some consternation when, as the King stepped on to the royal ship, the light began to fail. The King looked up at the sky. A short while before the sun had been shining brilliantly, for it was a warm August day. It seemed as though a shadow had fallen over a part of the sun.

  They set sail but before they had gone very far the darkness had increased and the sailors began to feel very uneasy. One shouted that the face of the sun was being slowly covered.

  It was true. The darkness increased so that it was like night. Lanterns were brought. The sailors, the most superstitious people in a superstitious age, were filled with terror.

  ‘An evil omen,’ they whispered. ‘We shall never reach Normandy.’

  The general opinion was that some danger threatened the King. He was an old man and the sea crossing could be dangerous even in summer.

&n
bsp; They talked of the calamity which had befallen the White Ship.

  The King stood on deck with the sailors staring up at the sky in which the stars were now visible and a great melancholy overcame him. He was in his mid-sixties; his end could not be far off. God had shown his displeasure in some ways, although great advantages had been granted him, and the birth of a grandson surely meant that He was smiling on Henry of England. Yet this was an uncanny experience.

  A shout went up. Yes, it was a little lighter. The sun was clearly emerging from the shadow. The stars, vanished; there was no longer any need of lanterns. It was once more a summer’s day.

  ‘To Normandy,’ cried the King, ‘and my grandson.’

  But as the sailors went about their work they murmured that it was an omen.

  ‘If the King reaches Normandy in safety,’ they said, ‘he will never see England again.’

  How happy he was to hold his grandson in his arms. He examined the child minutely.

  ‘This is a perfect boy,’ he cried joyfully.

  Even Matilda seemed to have become lovable since she was a mother.

  The King paraded up and down the chamber holding the child. He thought of all the years he had prayed for a son and now in a way God had answered his prayers.

  ‘This boy will be great,’ he said. ‘Do not ask me how I know. Suffice it that I do. God has answered my prayers not as I prayed they would be answered, yet this I know is his reply and I rejoice. Would I could live another ten . . . fifteen years to see the boy grown to manhood.’

  Matilda was very proud of the child, too, but there was little of the softness of a mother about her. The King was pleased though to see a certain amity between her and her husband. Geoffrey was delighted to have become a father and this was clearly the reason for his better relationship with his wife. No matter the reason, thought the King, as long as it remains.

  The King ordered that there should be feasts and entertainments to welcome his grandson into the world; and all those who did not wholeheartedly rejoice would incur the King’s displeasure. So feasting there was and the minstrels and troubadours excelled themselves and sang tenderly of love and the fruits of love of which this beloved infant was an example.

  Henry found it difficult to tear himself away from the royal nursery. He doted on the child and became young again as he rocked him in his arms.

  England was in safe hands. Roger and Adelicia were reliable; he could dally awhile in Rouen and play the proud grandfather. There he could forget the barrenness of Adelicia. She would never bear him a son now. There he could even accept the arrogance of Matilda. It mattered not. He had his desire and all his hopes were in this child.

  It was true that Matilda’s arrogance was often hard to bear, and as the months passed she became more so. She wanted no one to forget that she was not only the future Queen of England but the Duchess of Normandy: and as she contemplated her ageing father and saw him, nursing his grandson, she thought it was time he left State affairs to those young enough to handle them.

  One day she came to the King and told him that she was pregnant.

  His joy increased. ‘Another son,’ he said. ‘That is the best news I have had since little Henry made his bow. If this is another boy you are carrying then that is God’s seal of approval. Two boys! It is always wise to have more than one as I found to my cost.’

  Matilda cut him short. ‘Oh, yes, yes, we have heard all about the White Ship and we know you married Adelicia to get a son which you failed to do. And now there is my little Henry so that trouble is over. And if I should have another son . . .’

  ‘I shall pray for it with all my heart,’ said the King, and he thought how hard she was, how unloving; and he wondered he did not disinherit her. He would have done so some years ago. He had allowed no one to displease him in the days of his prime – nor later. But he was an old man; and there was trouble enough. If he disinherited her now, with himself so old and the child so young, there could be civil war. That was the last thing a King wanted for his country even if he would not be there to see it.

  Nay, he would forgive Matilda, for whatever else she had done, she had given him little Henry.

  During a banquet in the castle of Rouen which was part of the celebrations for the birth of the King’s grandson a messenger arrived from England. The news he brought plunged the King into melancholy.

  His brother Robert had died in Cardiff Castle.

  It was twenty-eight years since Henry had seen Robert, who must have changed greatly for he was eighty years old . . . an age rarely reached by any man.

  The King left the banquet and retired to his chamber and that night was beset by dreams more violent and disturbing than any he had known before.

  He could not get Robert out of his mind and he sent for one of his brother’s servant-guards for he wanted to know every detail of his brother’s last days.

  When the man arrived he was closeted with the King for a long time and was submitted to many questions.

  ‘I wish you to tell me the truth,’ said the King. ‘If he cursed me, I would know it. Fear not for yourself. However unkind that truth to me I would have it. And you need only fear if you should withhold aught from me.’

  ‘The Duke was not a vindictive man, my lord,’ replied the guard. ‘He did not revile you. He used to say he understood you and that you were another such as your great father.’

  ‘He said that, did he?’

  ‘Ay, my lord. And as the years passed he grew to be content with his prison.’

  ‘He was a man of great charm, dearly loved by many, but he lacked the qualities to become a great ruler.’

  ‘He knew it in the end, my lord. He liked to hear what was happening in England and he used to say: “My father would like that. Strange that our young brother would be the only one to resemble him.” ’

  The King felt happier to hear such sentiments expressed but when men have trembled for fear of displeasing you, can you be sure that they are telling the truth?

  ‘Did he accept the fact that he was a prisoner while I was a King?’ he insisted. ‘Did he never complain that I kept him under guard?’

  ‘Sometimes, my lord, he would say that he was like a bird in a cage who could look out at the green fields and never walk on the grass. There was one oak tree that he used to watch all through the years. He became excited when the buds came and then the leaves; and sad when they fell. “Another year is passing,” he would say, “and I am still the King’s prisoner.”’

  ‘For twenty-eight years he languished in my castles, my prisoner,’ mused the King. ‘Had I released him there would have been those to rally to his banner. His was a sad life. He lost his wife; he lost his son. She died many years ago in childbed.’

  ‘A sad tragedy, my lord, one of the saddest in the Duke’s life.’

  ‘But there were rumours that he wished to be rid of her. It was said that her death was due to poison.’

  The guard did not answer. He had heard of the King’s melancholy and that his conscience troubled him greatly. He did not believe this story against the Duke but he felt that he dared not defend him at this stage. It pleased the King at this time to remind himself that Robert, whom many would say he had wronged, was no saint.

  ‘It was said that he wished to marry the widow of William Giffard,’ went on the King, ‘who was possessed of great wealth, for she had promised that if his wife died and he married her she would rouse up all her powerful kinsfolk and put all her possessions into his hands. And then . . . his wife did die.’

  ‘Yet, my lord, there was no marriage with Giffard’s widow.’

  ‘There was never time for it,’ insisted the King. ‘He was busy fighting.’

  The guard was silent and the King went on: ‘And he lost his son. All his hopes must have been in the Clito, as mine were in my heir. How did he take the news of Clito’s death?’

  ‘He was in Devizes Castle then, my lord. He dreamed that he was fighting in Normandy and during the bat
tle a lance pierced his arm. He awoke crying that he had lost his right arm. And then he told the meaning of the dream. “My son is dead,” he said, and ’twere so. We heard that William the Clito had been wounded by a lance and the poison entering his body killed him.’

  ‘Life is full of strangeness,’ said the King. ‘Who would have believed when we were playing in our father’s castles, years and years ago, that it would come to this? Richard and Rufus dead in the New Forest; Robert my prisoner for twenty-eight years and myself master of England and Normandy, yet I have had my sorrows which have been as great as any endured by them. Tell me more of my brother, though. I have kept him as a noble pilgrim worn out with many troubles reposing in a royal citadel with abundance of delicacies and comforts.’

  ‘Sometimes, my lord, he would not eat. He used to say he would starve himself because he would not live as a prisoner.’

  ‘But he never did. My brother was one to make plans which, never reached fulfilment. Did he not have the best to eat? I sent him rich garments.’

  ‘He used to say that if they were not well made enough to suit the King they came to him.’

  ‘Which was right and fitting. Was he not my prisoner?’

  ‘I think, my lord, that he was not unhappy. He was ever a dreamer and he dreamed his dreams in prison.’

  ‘Where he did not have the tragedy of carrying them out to find they did not work.’ The King nodded. ‘Let him be given a royal burial. It shall be in the abbey church at Gloucester and there shall be an effigy erected to his memory.’

  He liked to think of Robert being given those honours in death of which circumstances had forced him to deprive him in life.

  But his dreams were disturbed and Robert became yet another phantom to haunt his nightmares.

  Matilda was brought to bed in the following May. Her labour was long and her life was in danger. The King waited impatiently to hear that the child was born.