The Passionate Enemies Read online

  ‘Poor Adelicia. But the King has been kind to you, has he not?’

  ‘Yes, he has been kind, yet I know that I have been a great disappointment to him.’

  ‘The King is too old to beget children. He should blame himself for this lack, not you.’

  ‘Yet I do not think he does.’

  ‘Of course it is said that he has more children than any of his subjects.’

  Adelicia blushed.

  ‘You know it,’ persisted Matilda. ‘Do not be shy with me. Do not imagine that Stephen is a faithful husband.’

  ‘Not Stephen!’

  ‘He has his mistresses. He is like the King in that. One woman does not satisfy them. It is a fact we must needs accept. At least I do not have to watch him with Matilda.’

  ‘Matilda?’

  ‘My namesake, yes. The King’s daughter. You have heard of that Matilda.’

  ‘It must be years since she was at Court.’

  ‘She left more than ten years ago. She will be twenty-two years of age now. I saw her only on my visits to the Court from Bermondsey. But Matilda is someone one never forgets. I know that Stephen has never forgotten her. I can tell by the look on his face when she is mentioned.’

  ‘But she was so young when she went away.’

  ‘I have heard much of her and sometimes when Stephen says my name . . . Matilda . . . he says it like that yearningly and I fancy he is thinking of her.’

  ‘Oh, how could it be? She was but a child when she went away.’

  ‘There was something about her. She was different from others.’

  ‘You are jealous, Matilda.’

  ‘Am I? I know he has mistresses and I have ceased to think of them. He says they mean nothing to him and I believe him. It is Matilda of whom I think often. I wonder what she is doing in Germany . . . if she ever thinks of us.’

  Adelicia shook her head and taking up a needle threaded it with deep blue silk.

  ‘Why, Matilda,’ she said, ‘you are fanciful. How could he think of this other Matilda now . . . after ten years . . . and she a child when she went away? Nay, you have allowed this matter to obsess you as I have the need to get a child. Our husbands have gone. We will pray for their speedy victory and in the meantime we will be as merry as we can for if I am not with child there is naught I can do about that now; as for you, this Matilda who haunts you is far away; she is the Empress of Germany so what can she do to take your husband from you?’

  ‘You are right, Adelicia. Let us decide what we will instruct the musicians to play this night.’

  A year had passed and the King was still in Normandy. The Pope had been prevailed upon to prevent the marriage of Clito and Sibyl. That at least would show Fulk the kind of adversary he had in the King of England.

  Fulk might rage against the Pope who could be so careless about some marriages and so meticulous about others – depending of course on the power of the people concerned. But of what use? The edict from Rome was no marriage, so no marriage there was.

  The King should see though that the Count of Anjou could be a bitter enemy even if his daughter were not married to the true heir of Normandy – ay, and to England. And the fighting was fierce.

  In spite of his years Henry had lost none of his skill as a general. He had his victories but they were not complete, for all over Normandy the barons were rising against him and the King of France never forgot the enmity he felt towards the King of England.

  One matter which wounded Henry deeply was the disaffection of his old friend, Luke de Barré. This boyhood companion of his, whose verses he had been wont to enjoy, had gone over to the enemy. He had decided that the true heir to Normandy was the young Clito and Luke put himself at the service of the young man.

  ‘I would never have believed,’ said the King, ‘that Luke de Barré would have turned traitor.’

  This was even more than the loss of an old friend for not only had Luke gone over to the other side but he was using his talents to help the enemy. His verses had always been admired and Henry could recall many happy hours in the great halls of his various castles when he had sat laughing at Luke while he sang the songs he had composed.

  They were witty and to the point and often somewhat satirical, for Luke had always liked to parody the foibles of those about him.

  And now he was parodying Henry. It was incredible that he should dare. Some of the songs were brought to the King’s notice and when he heard those sly words he flew into a rage, so that his minstrels dared not sing more of Luke’s songs until told that it would be the worse for them if they did not.

  Some of these were stirring battle songs, calculated to put heart into the King’s enemies; they set out the rights of Clito’s cause and the wrongs of Henry’s; and not only that. When they had been friends they had gone out visiting inns and taverns together, had shared many an adventure with the ladies who frequented such places, and the King’s wrath grew when he heard in detail accounts of those adventures put into verse . . . his confidence betrayed by this traitorous man.

  He told Stephen what he would do to him if ever he fell into his hands.

  ‘By God’s death,’ he said, ‘I would make him wish he had never been born.’

  The Clito had inherited a great deal from his father – not less that which amounted almost to a genius for failure. He was a man who – sometimes through no fault of his own – was never in the significant spot at the vital moment. Henry, with his meticulous planning, his years of experience and the respect and fear he inspired in all those about him, was an adversary as certain to succeed as Clito was doomed to fail.

  One by one castles fell into Henry’s hands and by Easter time it was clear that the rebel defences were crumbling and that this phase of the war was virtually at an end.

  Thousands of prisoners were taken and when Henry heard that the warrior-bard Luke de Barré was among them he laughed aloud.

  ‘Now he will see,’ he cried, ‘what happens to those who would mock the King.’

  That night he paced his chamber asking himself what revenge would hurt his old friend most. To be condemned to death! He knew Luke. He would shrug his shoulders philosophically and make some ode on the beauty of death and go gracefully to his execution. That was not punishment enough.

  His eyes. Of course, his eyes! Those beautifully dreamy eyes which the women so much admired and with which he surveyed the world that so excited him that he must record what he saw sometimes lyrically, often satirically.

  That should be his sentence. The fate all men dreaded more than any other was to have the light put out and be plunged into a darkness which would last for the rest of their lives.

  He himself gave the order: Luke de Barré to be taken to the scaffold and there publicly to have his eyes put out.

  The King’s kinsman, the Earl of Flanders, begged for an audience.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the King.

  ‘My lord, forgive me, but may I speak to you concerning the poet Luke de Barré?’

  ‘Have they not yet carried out the sentence on him?’

  ‘Not yet, and I beg you will order it not to be done.’

  ‘Why should you plead for a traitor?’ asked the King.

  ‘A traitor he is, sir. But he is a poet more than a warrior.’

  ‘Are you saying that I should pardon this man who has insulted me?’

  ‘Nay, sir, but such a sentence . . . Allow me to bring him to you. On his knees he will ask your pardon.’

  ‘I doubt it not, now that he is my prisoner.’

  ‘It was but words.’

  ‘Words! Know you not the power of words? At times methinks they are more effective than the sword.’

  ‘I beg of you, sir, show mercy on this man.’

  ‘No!’ cried the King. ‘I say no! This man, a wit, a bard, a minstrel, hath composed ribald songs against me and sung them to make my enemies laugh. God has delivered him into my hands. I wish all to see what happens to those who flout me that others may be deter
red from like petulance.’

  ‘Sir . . .’

  ‘Get you gone,’ cried the King, ‘or you too will feel my wrath.’

  Alone the King muttered, ‘Now, Luke de Barré, you will learn what it means to insult the King.’

  ‘My eyes!’ cried Luke de Barré. ‘Not my eyes. Take my life . . . but not my eyes.’

  ‘My lord,’ said the guard, ‘it is the King’s command.’

  ‘My eyes, my precious eyes. It must not be. Take me to the King.’

  ‘The Earl of Flanders has spoken for you but the King has sworn to show no mercy.’

  ‘I will give everything I have . . . lands, wealth . . . everything . . . for my eyes.’

  The guard did not answer.

  All through the night Luke de Barré sat in his dungeon. He had asked for a candle that he might see for as long as he would be allowed to. He asked for writing materials because he must write to the King. But such materials were denied him.

  Henry was a hard man. He had always known it. It would have been different with his brother Robert or the Clito. They would have more feeling for their friend. But Henry was the victor. Henry had always been the victor from the moment he had ridden to Winchester and proclaimed himself the King.

  They had had amusing adventures together. Two young men whose minds had been in tune. That was what had attracted Henry in the first place. He liked a companion when sporting with women and then they would talk together of deeper matters. There had been a bond between them. Beauclerc had chosen scholars for his friends.

  Henry must remember those days of friendship. He must see him.

  Yet he had always known that Henry was a ruthless man. Why had he been tempted to write those songs? The words had been witty and he had always been carried away by words. And Henry was wrong to take Normandy. The Clito – or his father – were the true heirs.

  Henry must know this, for he was a just man. Just, cruel, ruthless . . .

  ‘Oh, God, let me see the King,’ he prayed. ‘Let me talk to him.’

  He could remind him of the old days, the hilarious adventures, the women they had known, the days of their youth.

  But the King would not see him. The Earl of Flanders came.

  ‘I have tried to plead with Henry,’ he explained. ‘He stands firm. Your songs angered him greatly.’

  ‘Oh, fool that I was. I never thought he could do this to me.’

  The Earl looked sorrowfully at the poet.

  ‘You made an ill choice,’ he said, ‘and now must needs pay for it. Did you not realize that the Clito could never win against the King.’

  ‘I thought his cause just.’

  ‘And to mock the King! Did you not know that he would never forgive that?’

  ‘I thought I could talk to him; he ever loved an argument. I thought we would talk as we used to in the old days.’

  The Earl shook his head and Luke put his hands over his eyes.

  ‘So,’ he said at length, ‘there is no hope then.’

  The Earl was silent.

  ‘My eyes, my precious eyes,’ muttered Luke. ‘I will never never part with them until the day I die.’

  The Earl sought to comfort him but what comfort was there for a man who must for ever after grope his way through darkness?

  They led him to the scaffold. The people of Rouen had gathered to watch the agonies of this man whose quarrel with the King had become notorious.

  Luke de Barré, tall, handsome, his hands bound behind his back, his eyes wild and staring as though they were trying to miss no tiny detail of any scene before their light was put out.

  On the scaffold was the brazier; there were the red-hot irons.

  ‘Oh, God, help me,’ prayed Luke de Barré. ‘Thou knowest I cannot live without mine eyes.’

  He spoke in loud tones to the men who guarded him. ‘Tell the King,’ he said, ‘that I shall never forget him, and he will never forget me.’

  Then with a sudden cry he ran from his guards. They followed him but not with any concern for his hands were bound behind his back and escape was impossible for him. There were many in that crowd come to witness the agony of the King’s enemy who felt sorry for the poet. Some of the women would have sheltered him could they have done so, for even now that he was no longer young there was about him undeniable charm.

  ‘Hold him,’ cried the guard, but no one moved. Then Luke de Barré faced the crowd and said: ‘I cannot say farewell, my eyes, for thee and I must never part.’

  Then running fast forward he lowered his head and thrust it against the stone wall.

  There was a groan from the crowd as the blood streamed from his head and again and again he threw his head against the wall.

  He lay on the ground. The guards bent over him.

  Luke de Barré was dying but there were a few moments of consciousness left to him.

  He was heard to murmur: ‘He could not take my eyes from me. I see . . . I see while life remains, I see.’ And then: ‘He shall never forget me . . . never while he lives.’

  And so died Luke de Barré before the King’s order could be carried out.

  When the news was brought to the King he was greatly disturbed.

  Henry dismissed depressing thoughts. He had brought the trouble in Normandy to a temporary standstill. There still remained Fulk of Anjou, quiet at the moment because the time was not ripe for attack but smarting from the news that the Pope had given judgement against the marriage of Clito and his daughter.

  Henry knew that if he left Normandy the rebels would immediately return. Clito was still free. Anjou was biding his time. So what could he do but stay here?

  The news from England was not of the best. The war with Normandy had proved even more costly than Henry had calculated. There had to be taxes which the English loathed.

  The crime of debasing the coinage had increased. Often a pound was so reduced by clipping that it was worth only half its value in gold. Henry drew up laws of even greater severity to be used against offenders. Mutilation was the greatest deterrent. No one wanted to lose a hand, a foot, a nose, his ears, or most of all his eyes for the sake of money.

  But he was wise enough to know that these measures were unpopular and although the English realized that he had brought a law and order to the land which they had not enjoyed under his brother Rufus, there was a limit to what they would endure.

  Life was turning sour for him and it had all begun with the loss of the White Ship. There he was back at the old theme. Adelicia was barren. He was never going to get a child – let alone a son – from her.

  Sometimes in the quiet of the night a great depression descended upon him. God had forsaken him . . . not in all matters. He gave him victory; He gave him wealth; and these were important to him; but He denied him comfort; He would not give him a son and his sins weighed heavily on him.

  He had started to think of the old days before he had become King, when he was a penniless Prince, the youngest son of the great Conqueror who had had nothing to leave him but five thousand pounds of silver while his brothers Robert and Rufus had Normandy and England. ‘But,’ prophesied his father, ‘have patience and you shall excel your brothers in wealth and power.’

  And that had come to pass. Yet here he was a melancholy man. He had lived fifty-six years and for twenty-four years he had been King of England. His father would not have been displeased with his endeavours. There was a similarity between them although Henry’s lechery was quite alien to the Conqueror’s austerity. Henry’s father had been a cold man, a faithful husband, who spent so much time at war that there had been little time for love.

  Perhaps, thought the King, when a man reaches my age, melancholy is often his companion.

  He thought of Adelicia in England. A pleasant, meek creature who had always tried to please him. He remembered how she had interested herself in the animals in his Zoo when she, poor child, was afraid of half of them. She was determined to please him and do all that was required of her which was admir
able in a wife. Also, there was one thing she could not do for that was not within her power. And that was all I wanted of her, he thought angrily.

  He was finding it hard to sleep at night. He would go to bed exhausted and find even so that sleep would not come.

  When it did it would be light, uneasy sleep.

  One night he awoke startled because he thought someone stood by his bed. He sat up sweating. He saw a face there . . . a laughing face with eyes that glittered oddly.

  ‘Ah, Henry, but you remember me. I have sworn that never, never shall you forget me.’

  ‘Luke,’ he said. ‘Is it you, Luke?’

  He stared out of bed, but there was no one there.

  He went back to bed uneasy. Was Luke de Barré going to haunt him for the rest of his life?

  Homage to Matilda

  THERE WAS ANOTHER who was tormented by remorse. This was the Emperor Henry V. Matilda, who was the recipient of his nocturnal monologues, daily expected that he was going mad.

  She often wondered what would happen then. Would they put him away? And what of her? She was without children so she would not be the mother of the new Emperor; she would be of no importance without her husband. If he went mad then she would have no standing at all.

  Popular she had been with the people for they were unaware of her arrogant nature as she had always taken care to appear gracious in public. Looking at the senile old man she often thought how unfairly life had treated her. Had her father known that her brother William was to die and he be unable to get legitimate sons he would never have sent her so far away. Would he have married her to Stephen? They were cousins. Bah! Who cared for that? She laughed when she heard that the Pope had refused the Clito permission to marry Anjou’s daughter on grounds of consanguinity. There was one law for the powerful and another for the less powerful in such matters.

  And now Adelicia was barren and if Matilda became a widow her father would recall her to England, and who then should he appoint as his successor but his own daughter! A woman! She laughed. Let her go to England, let her show the people the stuff of which she was made and they would realize that a woman could be as great a ruler as any man.