The Passionate Enemies (19 page)

‘It is little Baldwin. He is sick of a fever. He is so hot and he mutters all the time.'

He followed her into the chamber where the boy slept; he was on his bed; his face unnaturally flushed; his hair in damp tendrils about his temples.

He knelt down and laid his hand on the boy's brow. It was burning hot.

Baldwin opened his eyes and said: ‘Father,' in such a manner that Stephen felt a lump in his throat.

He looked up at his wife.

‘Have you sent for the physicians?'

She nodded. ‘They will be here shortly.'

The boy closed his eyes and Stephen stood up. ‘How long has he been like this?'

‘Since morning.'

‘It is a childish ailment.'

‘I hope so.'

He gripped her hand and she turned her face away that he might not see how frightened she was.

The King's Saxon physician, Grimbald, came into the chamber. He examined the boy.

‘He has a fever,' he said.

‘Will it pass?' asked Matilda.

‘We must wait and see, my lady. I will prepare a cooling draught which should soothe him.'

The draught did little for the child. Matilda had drawn up a stool and sat by the child's bed. Stephen sat on the other side.

Now and then the boy opened his eyes; he looked from one to the other and smiled.

‘Our presence comforts him,' said Matilda.

Stephen nodded.

How fragile was the child, how beautiful. Matilda wished that she could bear his pain. Stephen watched her anguished gaze and thought:. She has the air, of the Madonna. He remembered that other Matilda in the forest – her eyes flashing. She would be waiting for him in her bedchamber. She would have dismissed her attendant women in her imperious manner. She would be expecting him to go to her by means of the secret stairs which he knew and she knew. It would take him almost to her apartment. He would tap lightly on her door; she would be waiting for him.

The great moment was almost upon him.

He had half-risen from his stool and the child, conscious of movement, opened his eyes.

‘Father,' he whispered. ‘Stay.'

He sat down again. Across the bed Matilda looked at him; the terrible fear was in her eyes and it was a shared pain.

He sat on, watching the boy, not daring to move lest he disturb him.

A messenger came. The King was without. He had heard of the child's illness.

Stephen rose quietly and left the chamber. Henry was waiting there, his eyes anxious. ‘Stephen, nephew, I have heard the news.'

‘My lord, we fear . . .'

The King laid his hand on Stephen's arm. ‘I know what it means,' he said. ‘I have suffered myself. Is the child conscious?'

Stephen nodded.

‘Let us go in.'

Henry stood by the bed but the child was not aware of him, yet his relief was obvious when his father sat down close to him.

‘I shall stay with him,' said Stephen.

The King nodded. He touched Matilda's head and said: ‘My thoughts are with you. May God bless you both and save this child.'

He left them; and all through the night Stephen and Matilda kept vigil at their son's bedside.

Little Baldwin was dead. The news spread through the castle. The child who had been healthy one day had caught a fever the next and the end had been speedy.

His mother kept to her room and only her husband could comfort her. ‘She is in good hands,' said the King, ‘for Stephen is a tender husband and a family man. It is best to leave them alone together.'

For the next few days Stephen thought only of his wife and sought to appease her, for she had loved this son of hers more than any other being. She loved her daughter Maud and she loved Stephen, but little Baldwin with his bright and loving ways, the little son of whom she was so proud, had been the first with her.

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.'