The Passionate Enemies Page 7

  He sent for Roger that he might talk to him of his desire to be rid of her.

  ‘’Tis not that I do not like the girl, Roger. She is a fair and gentle creature; but to look at her is a constant reminder of William and how he met his death on the White Ship, and then I begin to think, Roger, that God has deserted me. He took my son and will not give me another.’

  ‘You are impatient, my lord.’

  ‘As I must needs be. Look at me. Do you not see an ageing man?’

  ‘I see a man in the prime of his life, sir. The Queen longs too passionately for a child, it may be, for I have heard wise women say that often if the longing is too intense the seed will not take root.’

  ‘It is no fault of mine, of that I’m sure. I’ve bastards enough to prove I can get a woman with child.’

  ‘Bastards enough,’ repeated the Bishop. ‘And never fear, an heir to the throne will come in time.’

  ‘In time,’ screamed the King. ‘Am I a young man to have time to spare?’

  Roger could see that his master was getting near to one of his irritable moods and he sought to soothe him.

  ‘You sent for me to discuss the future of your daughter-in-law, I believe, my lord.’

  ‘Ay, Matilda. A sweet girl. But every time I look at her I see the White Ship. The sight of my son’s widow does nothing to ease my pain.’

  ‘Then she must needs be sent away where you do not see her.’

  ‘Where shall I send her?’

  ‘Back to Anjou, back to her father.’

  ‘I will do it, Roger. But wait. She came with a big dowry. Methinks Fulk would receive his daughter back with open arms if that went with her.’

  ‘Ah, her dowry,’ sighed Roger. ‘It was such a fine’ dowry. Fulk was pleased to ally his family with your royal one, and was ready to pay dearly for the honour.’

  ‘Which he did,’ said the King. ‘But the marriage was of short duration; he will want to marry his daughter to another. She is a child still.’

  ‘He will look for the return of the dowry,’ said Roger.

  ‘He will have to search diligently for it and then he will never find it.’

  ‘I thought not,’ said Roger; and he laughed. The King smiled with him, ill humour temporarily banished.

  ‘Nay,’ said the King. ‘I shall send Fulk his daughter but not the dowry he paid that she might marry my son. She married my son, did she not?’

  ‘In all truth she did.’

  ‘Then I kept my word. I gave my son to his daughter and he gave the dowry to me.’

  ‘He will be incensed.’

  ‘Let him be,’ said the King. ‘Do you think I care for the Count of Anjou?’

  ‘A useful province, my lord.’

  ‘Useful yes, and it was well that there was an alliance between us. Now there is peace in Normandy. My son has died; Fulk’s daughter is his widow. Therefore I shall send her back to her father, but her dowry stays with me. She had her brief glory, poor girl. She will remember all her life – and so will Fulk – that she could have been a Queen of England. That was worth a dowry.’

  ‘It is, sir. Even when there is no hope of her ever attaining her ambition.’

  ‘Then, Roger, arrange it. Tell the girl I regret her going. I will see her myself. I like her well, she is comely and pleasant. But her presence grieves me solely because I remember that she is a widow, and whose. She must go . . . but dowerless, Roger. The girl departs but the money stays.’

  Henry took a tender farewell of his daughter-in-law, raising her in his arms and kissing her.

  ‘It grieves me, my dear daughter, that you should leave us,’ he said. ‘But to remain here is too much of a reminder to us both. You will go home to your father and I doubt not that in due course he will find you a husband whom you can love, to whom you can give children: and who will make you forget this unhappy part of your life.’

  She thanked him for his goodness to her and he appeared genuinely sorry to see her go. But when she was no longer there to remind him of his loss, his temper did not improve. Nor would it, said those about him, until he had a son.

  When Fulk of Anjou welcomed his daughter he believed that the enormous dowry he had paid to the King of England at the time of the marriage would be returned with her.

  He was furious when he understood that the intention of the King of England was to keep it. He had paid that sum of money to see his daughter Queen of England; the fact that fate had intervened and her husband had been drowned and she had lost her opportunity was no reason why he should be asked to pay for what he had not received.

  ‘The King of England is a miser,’ he cried. ‘He is like all that breed. His father was a man who stretched out and took all within his reach and never let go of anything on which he laid his hands. They are a miserly acquisitive breed and I want my money back. And if he thinks he can cheat me, he must be taught otherwise. Henry of England shall learn it was an evil day when he decided to cheat Fulk of Anjou.’

  Anjou was the most powerful province in France, and the history of Fulk’s family was as romantic an epic as that of the great Dukes of Normandy whose first Duke Rollo had ravaged the French countryside so determinedly that the French King had been obliged to bestow Normandy upon them.

  The founder of Fulk’s family was Tortulf the Forester who had lived in the ninth century. He was a hunter and an outlaw and his home had been the woods. He became renowned for his skill in hunting wild animals and fighting valiantly those who came against him. It was said of him that he feared nothing but ill-fame.

  At this time the Danes were ravaging the fair lands of France as they were those of England, and Tortulf threw in his lot with King Charles the Bold and together they repulsed the Norsemen. For his reward Tortulf asked for land and this was granted him. He had a son, Ingelger, who joined him in battle and was as skilled as his father. Together they won that land which was called Anjou.

  The greatest of their line was Fulk the Good who brought peace and prosperity to Anjou but, as frequently happens, a wise ruler is often followed by a foolish one and under the next Duke, Geoffrey Grey-gown, the Angevins lost their power and became mere vassals to the neighbouring lands of Blois and Champagne.

  Yet out of this vassaldom there arose like the phoenix great Fulk the Black, a mighty man. He was a man who determined that he would make Anjou once more the most powerful province in France; he dedicated his life to this purpose and as he cared for no man but only for his ruthless ambition he succeeded. Nothing was allowed to stand in his way. He was cold, ruthless, incapable of affection even to those nearest to him, as was shown by his treatment of his wife and son. When his wife was unfaithful to him he decreed that her crime warranted death by burning and he, dressed as though for a festival, himself led her to the stake, and he lighted the faggots and watched unmoved while she writhed in her death agonies. When his son Geoffrey took up arms against such a tyrant and was beaten, he insisted that the young man be saddled as though he were a beast of burden and that he grovel at his feet begging for a pardon which he was led to believe he would not receive. As his son must be a future count of Anjou he was pardoned for expediency, not from a fatherly affection.

  Like most men of his times as his youth passed he began to fear the hereafter and contemplating his sins a desire for forgiveness overtook him. While he could face any earthly foe, he was unsure of how he would fare in Heaven. He shared the general belief that a show of extreme piety could wipe out the past so, as many had before him, he took the pilgrimage to Jerusalem and had himself whipped through the streets there. This he endured with stoical courage but when he returned to Anjou by no means mended in his ways, believing that the severity of the scourging had settled the score for future as well as past sins.

  These were the ancestors of that Fulk whom Henry had placated by the marriage of his son to Fulk’s daughter; and whom he now flouted by returning that daughter without her dowry.

  It was not to be expected that the proud and powerful
Count of Anjou would meekly accept such treatment.

  Fuming in his castle he wondered how best to discomfit Henry of England.

  There was one who, many would say, had a greater right to the crown of England than Normandy; and that was the Conqueror’s eldest son Robert. Robert, who had done battle with his younger brother Henry and been defeated, was now his brother’s prisoner in Cardiff Castle, but he had a son, William the Clito.

  If William were victorious in Normandy and succeeded in taking what many believed to be his rightful heritage from the usurper Henry, there was every possibility that he might make an attempt on England as well. Fulk was well aware that one of the greatest anxieties in Henry’s life was his nephew, the Clito.

  Discreetly he sent messages to the young man. Would a meeting be possible? If the Clito would come to his castle he would have a proposition to lay before him which he felt sure he would find very attractive.

  William the Clito was in many respects like his father. Good-looking, charming, easy going, he had one great ambition which was to restore Normandy to his branch of the family and to bring about the release of his father, Robert of Normandy (nicknamed Curthose by his father, the Conqueror, because of his short legs), a very charming man, in spite of his feckless ways and the many enterprises in which he had indulged and which had all come to failure. Always there had been those who would follow him in spite of his irresponsibility. The Clito remembered his father with affection and the thought of his suffering in a dungeon, held prisoner by that ogre, his uncle Henry of England, could make him fly into a rage which ended in tears of sorrow.

  So when Fulk of Anjou sent him an invitation he accepted with alacrity.

  Fulk received him with great respect, which considering his recent alliance with Henry through the marriage of his daughter might have made most people suspicious. But the Clito, like his father, was ready to accept friendship wherever it was offered without asking too many questions.

  ‘My dear, dear Prince,’ said Fulk, ‘you find here a man who has suffered great disillusion. I made a great mistake when I trusted the King of England.’

  ‘In allying yourself with him you played the traitor to the rightful Duke,’ the Clito reminded him.

  ‘Alas! Let me explain to you. I love this land, and we have had too many wars. The country needs peace. Your father was unable to give that peace. I believed that Henry could. It was a terrible decision for me to make but I put what I thought to be the good of the country first.’

  ‘And arranged a marriage for your daughter at the same time.’

  ‘This seemed a wise thing. The young people loved each other. How could I refuse them?’

  Fulk narrowed his eyes. Had he gone too far? His daughter had been a child; so young that the marriage could not be consummated at the time of the ceremony. He allowed himself to be carried away by his own eloquence and the sentiments he was whipping up in his cynical mind. ‘They were happy and then the tragedy happened.’

  ‘And it is for this reason . . .’ began the Clito.

  ‘My lord, my reason is that I now realize my error. There is one true Duke of Normandy and that is not Henry. Indeed, is he in truth the rightful heir to England? For twenty years and more he has held the crown of England but was he the Conqueror’s eldest son?’

  ‘My father was that. He should have had England before Rufus. He should have it now.’

  ‘And Rufus is dead and Henry reigns . . . and some would say he knew something of Rufus’s end. And the eldest son of Great William lies a prisoner in England.’

  ‘It shall not always be so.’

  ‘Nay. It shall not. That is something on which we can agree. I want us to stand together. Anjou is the most powerful of provinces. You cannot doubt that. You will find me at your side with all the help I can give you. I want nothing so much as to see Henry routed. I want him turned out of Normandy. That is our first step. Then we shall free your father. We shall consider England.’

  Clito’s eyes shone. Like his father he was better at talking victory than fighting for it. He could see in Fulk’s eyes his hatred of the King of England and he knew it to be real.

  ‘We will talk of these matters at length. But first we will eat and afterwards you shall hear my daughters play and sing to you. They are reckoned worth the hearing.’

  ‘Your daughter who was the wife of my cousin William?’

  ‘His widow, yes. She is with me now, poor soul. I rejoice to have her back. I liked it not when she resided at the Court of that . . . miser of England. She has a sister . . .’

  He was watching the Clito. eagerly. Young, impressionable – and Sibyl was a charming girl, as beautiful as her sister Matilda.

  Clito would have to understand that one of the conditions Fulk would demand for his services was a marriage between Sibyl and the Clito.

  He laughed aloud when he thought of Henry’s receiving the news. Fulk’s daughter, the wife of his nephew, the true heir of Normandy. Henry would know that meant trouble. He would know whose side Fulk was on. He would know that he would not stop at Normandy either. He would have his eyes on England.

  The news of the betrothal of Sibyl to the Clito threw Henry into a passion of rage. For a whole day none dared approach him.

  Then Adelicia timidly begged him to take care that he did no harm to his health.

  Henry looked at her as though he did not see her. How could he explain to this simple girl what was going on in his mind? He had made a mistake. He should have sent the dowry back to Fulk. He had learned early in life that there was nothing so costly as war and it was almost always advisable to take other measures – even those which cost him dear – to avoid it.

  Fulk was wily. How dared he marry his daughter to the Clito! This meant of course that his alliance with Henry was at an end. He was now on the side of Robert and his son and all the considerable forces at his disposal would be turned against his one-time ally.

  This was his answer to the return of his dowerless daughter.

  If his own William had lived . . . It all came back to that disastrous loss of the White Ship.

  Henry knew that he could not allow matters to drift. Immediate action was necessary.

  Stephen was begging for an audience. He came in warily, knowing the moods of the King.

  ‘My lord,’ said Stephen, ‘I come to ask what you wish of me. Am I to prepare to leave with you for Normandy?’

  The King’s anger lifted a little. Of course he must go to Normandy without delay, and Stephen would be with him. Good Stephen.

  ‘It is pleasant to know that there are some on whose loyalty I can rely,’ muttered the King.

  ‘You will wish to leave at once?’ asked Stephen.

  Henry nodded. It was the only way. Normandy was the great thorn in his flesh. All his life it seemed he had been fighting in Normandy; and with the alliance with Anjou he had hoped to keep the peace. The worst thing that could happen was that Anjou should join with Clito. And by sending back Matilda without her dowry he had brought this about.

  His own shortsightedness was to blame; and how much harder it was to endure tribulation when one feared it was the result of one’s own actions.

  There had now come into his mind the growing certainty that God was punishing him for his lasciviousness by making Adelicia barren.

  He looked at Stephen and wondered whether after all he might not yet be forced to make his nephew his heir. Stephen had suffered a bitter disappointment when Adelicia had become the Queen; it seemed he need not have feared.

  ‘Yes, Stephen,’ cried Henry, ‘to Normandy. Anjou must be made to feel my anger. This betrothal of his daughter and Clito can mean one thing.’

  ‘My lord,’ replied Stephen, ‘are not Clito and Fulk’s daughter related? I believe them to be cousins of the fifth degree.’

  Henry was silent and then burst into loud laughter. ‘’Tis so,’ he bellowed.

  ‘Then, my lord, the Pope . . .?’

  ‘Ay,’ cried Henry. ‘The P
ope!’

  They were both silent for a moment and each knew the other was remembering that William, the King’s son, and Matilda, Fulk’s daughter, had been fifth cousins too; yet no one had denied their right to marry on the grounds of consanguinity. The relationship between them was exactly the same as that between Clito and Sibyl.

  ‘You think, my lord . . .’ began Stephen.

  ‘I think, Stephen, that the Pope will have the good sense to support Henry, King of England, against a mere Count of Anjou. Send for Roger. He can deal with this matter with the Pope. And you are right, nephew, you and I will prepare to leave for Normandy without delay.’

  Henry took his leave of his Queen with mild regret.

  She did not greatly excite him and he had almost given up hope of getting an heir by her. Away from her he could indulge in a way of life more natural to him; there would be pleasant encounters on the way. For if, he thought moodily, after all the endeavours I have made she remains barren, then barren she must be.

  Adelicia herself was not entirely sorry to see him go. She had been overshadowed by this urgent need to get a son and it would be pleasant to be rid of it.

  She would have the sole occupancy of her bed at night; she could lie and dream about the needlework she would do, or the songs she would learn to play and sing. She would not have to be overshadowed by that dreadful sense of guilt.

  She had become very friendly with Stephen’s wife Matilda and was fond of her son, little Baldwin, a charming child though perhaps too frail for his mother’s comfort.

  Matilda was desolate at the departure of Stephen. He had the power to make people love him. He was so handsome and courteous always, although Adelicia had learned that he was not always faithful to his wife.

  After they had watched the men depart they sat over their needlework together and talked of their lives. Always Adelicia was looking for the signs which did not come. ‘Soon,’ she said, ‘if there is no indication I shall know it is useless to hope and that in itself will be a relief.’