The Passionate Enemies Page 9

  But because of this senile old fool she must remain in Germany, a prisoner if ever there was one. It could not go on.

  It was by night that his growing obsession became more apparent. Then he would ramble on about his sins, and how he had betrayed his father. It was a common failing. So many rulers lived ruthlessly during their youth, trampling underfoot all those who stood in their way and then when old age began to overtake them repentance set in. They became worried about the life hereafter and wondered how best they could placate God for their sins and win a place in heaven. To achieve their ambition on Earth they went forth with fire and sword; to reach it on High they went with bare feet and hair shirt on pilgrimages of repentance.

  Matilda at twenty-four years of age could laugh at them. She was not yet of an age to fear death or seek repentance.

  Her great-grandfather, Robert the Magnificent, after usurping the throne from his brother, and some said murdering him, had become a saint by going on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and dying there. It was simple. Do what you liked in your youth. Pillage, burn, snatch the crown from your brother’s or your father’s head. All was well as long as you repented in due course, suffered a few scourgings, irritated your skin with the hair shirt and walked barefoot to the shrine of Jerusalem. The only catch was that you must do it in time. And if you were a warrior it might well be that death came too swiftly and suddenly to give you that time. Then, presumably, you were doomed.

  Her grandfather – that man whom she had never known because he had died before her birth but who was a legend in the family, the greatest of them all, not excluding Duke Rollo the founder of the Normans or her father Henry I who was known as the Lion of Justice – was one who had never made a pilgrimage to save his soul. He had been too great, too sure of the righteousness of his causes; he had not taken the diadem from father or brother; he had merely snatched it from Harold Godwin of England who many said had no more right to it than he had. She admired her grandfather. She dreamed that one day she would be a Queen as great as any King and the people would say her name in the same breath as that of her father, the Lion of Justice, and her grandfather, William the Conqueror.

  In the meantime she was married to this stupid old man and while this was the case she was a prisoner condemned each night to listen to his ravings. She had acquired the habit of murmuring sympathetically when she had not heard a word.

  It was always the same! An account of the tricks he had played on his father; he and his brother Conrad had risen against their own flesh and blood. ‘What greater crime is there, Matilda, tell me, than that of the son who takes up arms against the man who sired him?’

  She would answer vaguely: ‘It was a great sin, but many have done the same.’

  ‘I feel the burden of my sins heavy upon me. What can I do to gain repentance, Matilda, what can I do?’

  She would sigh and murmur something. ‘Don’t distress yourself so. You will be ill.’ And all the time she would be wondering what was happening in her father’s Court and whether perhaps after all Adelicia was pregnant.

  ‘I can know no peace . . .’ the droning voice went on.

  Nor I, she thought, while you are here to plague me.

  ‘There must be a way. There must be a way.’

  How much longer can he live?

  He looked frail and his eyes were so wild. Surely his ministers must notice it. They did. They looked at each other significantly.

  ‘Try to sleep,’ she whispered soothingly.

  ‘There is no sleep . . . no peace. Heavily my sins weigh upon me.’

  She would pretend to be asleep but he went on muttering.

  If he were dead would my father send for me? she wondered. If he did not I should ask him to.

  How strange it would be to go home. Her father would have changed. So much had happened since she had gone. Her mother had died; then her brother; and the King had a new wife. Adelicia, meek barren Adelicia. Remain barren, dear stepmother. It is very important to me that you should.

  His mutterings had stopped. Thank God, he was sleeping at last.

  She too slept and dreamed that her father had sent for her and once more she saw the green fields of England.

  Her cousin Stephen was waiting to hold her horse as she dismounted; he caught her and held her fast as she did so.

  She awoke startled. There was a lighted candle in the room. She did not speak but lay quietly watching. On the wall was a long shadow of an ancient man like an evil spirit. Henry? she thought.

  He was standing by the bed breathing heavily; his head was bare and he had put on a shapeless garment such as pilgrims wore.

  He picked up a staff and she saw him clearly as he walked to the door. His feet were bare.

  Where was he going?

  At the door he blew out the candle and set it down. She heard the door open quietly and she was alone.

  He cannot have a mistress, she thought, and laughed at the notion. He had gone completely mad, she was sure of it. He was walking about the palace in his shapeless garment, his feet bare. Someone would see him, they would bring him back; they would talk to her very discreetly. ‘The Emperor is mad,’ they would imply.

  And they would put him away and there would be a new Emperor and she would be of no importance because she had no son.

  She lay still, thinking.

  Could it be that he often made these nocturnal wanderings? Perhaps some of his servants knew it and they kept it from her. He must be imagining that he was a pilgrim. Walking round his palace deluding himself that he was in the Holy Land!

  There could be no doubt that he was mad.

  She lay awaiting his return. He did not come and at last she slept.

  When she awoke he had still not returned.

  His ministers told her the Emperor was dead. He had been taken ill in the night. Death, all knew, had been creeping gradually upon him.

  She thought of the poor old man rising from his bed and walking barefooted from the room.

  ‘Where is he?’ she asked.

  They took her to a small room. It was dark, for very little light came through the slits of windows and there were no candles. There was a bed on which lay what appeared to be a body covered over with a cloth.

  ‘It is indeed the Emperor?’ she asked.

  They told her that it was. He had died in the night. They had been expecting it. The funeral should take place without delay. There were secrets in their eyes and their looks were furtive, but she did not ask for explanations. She did not wish to know.

  The Emperor was buried with accustomed pomp and she arranged for a monument to be erected to him in Spires Cathedral.

  She asked to be left alone to mourn.

  It pleased her to play the stricken widow. She shut herself in her apartments asking herself what would happen next. She knew and she rejoiced in it. What she had thought of as her days of bondage were over.

  Her ministers came to see her to express their grief. They had always been respectful to her.

  They wanted her to know that they hoped she would stay in Germany. They believed she would find consolation there.

  She thanked them and said how she appreciated their kindness to her in her bereavement. ‘It came so suddenly,’ she said, watching them intently. ‘Although I had known for so long that he was ailing, I feared his mind . . .’

  They nodded gravely.

  They would not want a madman on the Imperial throne. They were genuine in their respect for her. The years of careful behaviour had borne their fruit. Stay here! she thought. Nay. This is a release for you, gentlemen, and no less so for me.

  ‘I think my father may command me to return to him. If he does, as his daughter I must obey him.’

  But she thanked them and told them that she had been very happy in their land, that she had become German through her marriage. But as yet she was too recently bereaved to know what she wished.

  They bowed themselves out.

  It was a grand ceremony. She list
ened to the dirges and thought of poor mad Henry and wondered about him.

  He was having a magnificent funeral though and the monument was very stately.

  Back to the palace to shut herself in her apartments, to mourn she said; but she meant to wait.

  Life had become exciting.

  The King had welcomed Adelicia to Rouen and was glad of her company. Perhaps it was because he was getting old but he found it soothing. She was undemanding, full of the desire to please, as though she could not do enough to make up for her barrenness.

  He told her it was a comfort to have her with him. He feared he was often irritable but he did not always feel well and sometimes a man wanted to talk and not weigh his words. He could do that only with his wife.

  She accepted the compliment happily enough and still continued to pray for a child.

  He had given up hope.

  When the news of what had happened in Germany came to him he discussed it with Adelicia. It was a family matter first, he said, although it could become a State one.

  ‘Matilda a widow and childless! I shall bring her home, Adelicia.’

  ‘Yes, Henry.’

  ‘I wonder what she is like now? She is twenty-four years of age – no older than you. You could be sisters.’

  ‘Poor Matilda. How sad she must be.’

  ‘A widow . . . and childless. Had she had a son it would have made all the difference to her life.’

  Adelicia sighed, reminded as she was of her own shortcomings.

  ‘Yes, she must come home. There must be no delay. I despair, Adelicia, of your ever giving me a son.’

  ‘My lord husband, it grieves me . . .’

  ‘I know. I know. But it is God’s will. And now there is my daughter. At least God has left me one child. I shall make her my heir, Adelicia . . . that is unless you give me a son even now.’

  ‘If I could . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. But perhaps this is the answer. A woman, though!’

  ‘Will the people accept a woman, Henry?’

  ‘They will if I say they shall.’

  She bowed her head.

  ‘I shall send for Matilda at once. She shall join us here, for God knows how long I must remain here. There are traitors everywhere. And when she comes I will have her proclaimed my heir. It seems to me, Adelicia, that this is the answer.’

  Her eyes shining with excitement, Matilda saw before her the walled city of Rouen. From the distance it appeared like one vast castle; the river Seine shone silver in the sunlight which glinted on the stones of Rollo’s Tower. A glow of pride swept over her. This had been the capital of her famous grandfather and now it was in the hands of her father, the only one of his sons who was worthy of him.

  She was proud of her ancestry. This was where she belonged – here in the stronghold of the Norman Dukes who had wrested the land from the French and in England too where she had been born and bred.

  The years of bondage were over. She had escaped from her poor senile old husband and was a free woman again.

  Through the gates and into the town. One or two people looked at her curiously. They did not yet know who she was, but they would. At least they could see that she was a personage of importance; her entourage would tell them that, but even without it they would have known, for she carried herself like an Empress.

  The drawbridge was lowered and there waiting to greet her were the King and Queen.

  Father and daughter surveyed each other appraisingly for a few seconds, then Henry took her into his arms. He seemed genuinely moved.

  ‘Matilda, daughter, this gives me great pleasure.’

  ‘Oh, Father,’ she replied with feeling, ‘I have longed so much to see you.’

  They stood away from each other. Two of a kind, and although they did feel affection for each other they could not help assessing the possibilities each offered the other.

  He was thinking: She’s a handsome girl and twenty-four, which is marriageable. She has lost none of her forcefulness. Yes, if they would accept a woman that would be Matilda. She has a dignity, a stateliness. She has the air of one born to command.

  And Matilda thought: How he has aged! He is indeed an old man. He cannot last many more years. Five. Six. Ten perhaps. Nay, that’s too many. He’s strong though. A lion in truth.

  They were proud of each other.

  ‘Here is the Queen,’ said the King.

  Matilda bowed graciously and Adelicia, flushing, took her hands and kissed her.

  ‘Welcome,’ she said. ‘We have been impatient for your arrival ever since we knew you were coming.’

  No spirit, decided Matilda. Of no importance. Completely subservient to the King. Perhaps the right kind of wife for him.

  The King led his daughter into the castle. Adelicia walked on the other side of her. In the great hall the King’s knights were drawn up in readiness to be presented to his daughter. He had clearly meant it to be a solemn occasion.

  Henry, watching his daughter receive their homage, felt his spirits rise. What a woman, he thought. Germany had been good for her. She was every inch an Empress. She would not need to learn how to become a Queen.

  One by one they came to do homage to her and the King’s eyes glowed with pride when Robert, Earl of Gloucester, stood before her. He loved that boy – his own son by his beloved mistress. How often had he said: ‘Oh, God, why was not Robert legitimate!’ If he had been there would have been no anxieties, no need to have made this second marriage which had brought him nothing.

  Any man would be proud of two such children. He never liked Robert to be too far from him. It was several years now since he had brought him to Court and founded his fortunes in a rich marriage. Mabel, daughter of Robert FitzHamon and heiress to the rich lands of Gloucester, had proved a good wife; she had given him children who were a delight to the King. Healthy grandchildren. Why had not Robert been legitimate!

  He must needs make the best of what he had and Robert was constantly with him. He had proved himself a good soldier and had shared many of Henry’s campaigns. It was well to be served by members of the family who owed their prosperity to him. Robert was the result of a fervent passion which his legitimate children were not. He had been fond of his first wife Matilda, mother of this proud and haughty daughter and sad William; but it was the mother of Robert of Gloucester who had meant more to him than any other woman and he was glad that he had this reminder of their love constantly before him.

  Now he knelt to Matilda and the King hoped that Robert would always be near her when she needed his support.

  When this ceremony was over, Adelicia took her stepdaughter up to the chamber which had been prepared for her. and Matilda said: ‘I did not see my cousin Stephen among the knights.’

  ‘Stephen left the Court some weeks ago,’ Adelicia told her. ‘He has gone to Boulogne.’

  ‘He married Matilda of Boulogne, I know.’

  ‘And he is there looking after her estates. He was with the King in Normandy and now that it is peaceful he has gone to Boulogne.’

  Matilda felt disappointed. Her greatest anticipation had been a reunion with Stephen – well, perhaps not her greatest. That was certainly the hope of becoming her father’s heiress. But not far off was the hope that the excitement she used to know in Stephen’s presence had not diminished.

  ‘I doubt not,’ said Adelicia, ‘that he will ere long rejoin the Court. He never stays long from the King’s side.’

  Matilda smiled. She would see him soon. Of course he would not stay long from the King’s side. She could guess what went on in his mind.

  He too would have hopes of the crown. She was amused. That they should both have the same ambitions – which neither could achieve if the other were successful – would, she believed, add a piquancy to their relations which would make it even more intriguing than it had been in the old days.

  Before his daughter had been a week in Rouen, Henry had made up his mind.

  He sent for Matilda and made su
re that they were quite alone together so that they could talk frankly.

  ‘Matilda,’ he said, ‘as you know I am disturbed at having no male heir.’

  Matilda replied: ‘My lord, you have a young wife. It may well be that you will ere long have a bonny son.’

  He shook his head. ‘I fear not. Adelicia is barren. We have been married six years and not a sign.’

  ‘But for some part of that time you have not been with the Queen.’

  ‘I have been with her long enough to fear that she is barren. I am married . . .’ he waved his hand ‘. . . and so there is no hope.’

  ‘I know it must be a matter which greatly distresses you.’

  ‘I have never been one to mourn for what God has denied me. It seems to me wise now to cast about for a means of settling my affairs without a male heir.’

  ‘You are a wise lion as well as a just one,’ she said.

  ‘And you are my only child’ and I believe that therefore as my nearest kin you should take the place of your dead brother.’

  Her heart leaped with joy. Was this not the very moment of which she had dreamed for so many years?

  ‘Father,’ she said, ‘you could rely on me to play my part.’

  ‘I know it. I have seen enough. You are indeed my daughter. I can see my spirit in you and that of your grandfather. I would have no qualms at leaving my crown in your hands.’

  ‘That is many years away,’ she said; and she thought: Four perhaps. Five. Mayhap less. ‘I would have time to study your ways, to walk in your footsteps. I would be an apt pupil.’

  ‘I believe that. Do not think it is a joyous state to be a King of England and a Duke of Normandy’.

  ‘It is a great inheritance, a fearful duty.’

  ‘I see you understand. I have had little peace since I came to the throne. Many years of my reign have been spent out of England. That country I have ruled strongly and some might say harshly but all must admit justly. In Normandy I have fought bitterly for many years and I fear shall continue to do so. I should never have allowed the Clito to go free. Where he is, there will be trouble. As my elder brother’s son, many declare him to be the heir of England as well as Normandy. I shall never know peace while he lives and he is a young man. His father, my brother Robert, as you know, is in prison in England and my good bastard Robert of Gloucester is in charge of him, so that I know he is in the best possible hands. But there has been trouble and there will be trouble. Clito will never give up his claims and there will always be those to support him. So do not think for one moment that being a ruler of countries merely consists of banquets and pleasure and being acclaimed by the people as one rides through the countryside.’