The Passionate Enemies (2 page)

‘It is so soon as yet, sir. You will grow away from it.'

‘That may be, but I cannot help but ask myself what I have done that God should so forsake me.'

‘You have been a true and just King, sir, God will remember that.'

‘Then why did He take my only legitimate son from me?'

‘His ways are mysterious,' answered Stephen. He tried to suppress the lilt in his voice. Was he the chosen one? Was that why William who stood in his way had been removed?

‘Mysterious indeed,' said the King. ‘For years my Queen was barren. Why could I not get children with her? 'Twas no fault of mine. Others could bear my children. Why not the Queen?'

‘The Queen was ill, sir. In health she bore you two fine children, William . . . and Matilda . . .'

Stephen lingered over that name. Matilda. It was more than six years ago that the King's daughter had gone to Germany for her marriage with the Emperor but Stephen had never forgotten her. He often wondered whether she ever thought of him. If he could have married Matilda . . . What a wild dream that had been. He ought to have known that as the third son of the Count of Blois he would then have had no chance of marriage with the daughter of the King of England. But if Matilda had never married, if she were free, now that the King's only son and his heir William was dead, Henry might have given Matilda to his favourite nephew. Stephen was carried away by regrets. What a prospect! Marriage with that fascinating virago. There had been a great bond between them. He had scarcely been able to prevent himself from attempting to seduce her. She would have been willing enough. But she had been only twelve years old when she went away, young in years, but knowledgeable in the ways of the world. Matilda was one of those who appeared to be born with such knowledge. He wondered often how she had fared with her old Emperor – forty years her senior.

Wild, imperious, handsome Matilda and gentle, equally handsome, charming Stephen – what a pair they would have made. And she believed so too. She had wanted him as he had wanted her. He remembered their encounters in detail. They had not been physical lovers. Their passion had not taken them as far as that. There was too much at stake. Matilda in
spite of her desire for her fascinating cousin had been delighted at the prospect of becoming an Empress. Matilda wanted power more than she wanted love. She was after all the granddaughter of the Conqueror – as he, Stephen, was the grandson. They would both consider consequences before they indulged in follies. He had often thought of what could have happened to him if he had followed his inclinations and seduced his cousin. What if he had got her with child? He could picture the King's friendliness turning to wrath; and Henry had the family temper although it was under more control than those of his father and his brother Rufus had been. Matilda was a bargaining counter in her family. The marriage had meant an alliance with Germany against the French. The Emperor, much as he wanted a son, would not wish that son to have begun his life within his little bride before she came to him.

Stephen sweated at the thought. The King's justice was swift and implacable. The favoured nephew would no longer be cherished. He could see himself imprisoned for life, perhaps deprived of his eyes – for doubtless the King would consider that just reprisal: his eyes for Matilda's virginity. It was a picture that had been in his mind since the days when he had sported with his cousin.

But he had escaped disaster. He and Matilda had sighed for each other and made love by words and looks – no more; for each had been fully aware of the pitfalls before them; and Matilda for all her passionate nature had no wish to lose the Empress's crown any more than Stephen had to lose his eyes.

‘Matilda is an Empress now,' said the King. ‘Were she not in Germany, the wife of the Emperor, and had she stayed in England she would have been the heiress to the throne.'

‘A woman . . .' began Stephen.

‘Ay, a woman.'

‘Could a woman hold together a country like this? Could a woman hold Normandy together?'

‘Matilda could,' said the King.

‘Ay, Matilda,' echoed Stephen.

Henry closed his eyes and the lines of bitterness and irritation showed clearly when his face was in repose.

‘I used to think,' went on the King, ‘that Matilda should have been born the boy.'

‘She has a great spirit, sir.'

‘William . . .' The King's voice grew tender. ‘William was a beautiful boy, though over gentle, perhaps. He reminded me of my brother Richard. Richard was of a like nature. Kindly, good – all men loved him. William was like that. And he died, Stephen . . . as Richard died. Sometimes I think that some men are too good for this world.'

‘It may be, sir. William was good. Yet he was a fighter.'

‘So was Richard. My father had great hopes of him. Secretly I think he was my father's favourite.'

‘Had your father lived longer,' went on Stephen, softly flattering, ‘you would have been that. I wish the Conqueror could have lived to see your greatness, sir.'

Henry said: ‘I have done my best – often in great difficulties.'

‘You are a great King, sir. Unrivalled . . .' Stephen looked obliquely at the King and decided to amend the flattery. ‘Save by one, the great Conqueror himself.'

‘None of us can hope to rival him, Stephen.'

‘No, sir. He was a man to whom conquest was the meaning of life. He had no real life outside it. It was the Conqueror's way of life, but mayhap it is not the best way. A man's life is not enriched by battle and nothing but battle. The exercises of the mind make great men greater. You, sir, have astonished the world with your scholarship and you have taken your pleasure and given much to others – surely love, sir, is a more worthy object than war.'

Henry smiled benignly. Trust Stephen to cheer him up. He had been asking himself in his latest mood of depression whether God was punishing him for his lechery and Stephen in that golden voice of his was calling it giving pleasure to others while taking it himself, an exercise in relaxation that he might fight his worthy causes with more energy than he would otherwise have had.

‘Stephen,' said the King, ‘you are a great help to me. I rejoice that you are at my side in this hour of tragedy. Kings are denied the mourning that humbler men can indulge in.'

‘'Tis true, sir.'

‘And when a king is left without an heir, he must needs plan.'

‘You have one legitimate child, sir.'

‘Matilda! Empress! Nay, Stephen, she could not be Queen of England and wife to the Emperor at the same time. The people would not have it. They would suspect that Germany was trying to take England and make a vassal state of her. Nay. Matilda is Empress of Germany.'

‘Do you regret her marriage, sir?'

The King hesitated. ‘It brought me great good, as you know. Stephen. The King of France hates the match; therefore it must be good for me, must it not? Yet had I not made it she would be here and by the saints, Stephen, I would have trained her to rule this land and made her my heir.'

‘But as you so rightly say, sir, it is too late. She is the Empress.'

‘It is this solemn fact, Stephen, which has brought me to this decision.'

Stephen was afraid to look at his uncle for fear he should betray his eagerness.

It was coming now. He was certain of it. The King was going to tell him that, because he was the son of his favourite sister, his beloved nephew whom he regarded as his own son, who had fought gallantly at his side in Normandy, who had shown himself to be liked by the English and a young man malleable to the King's will, he would name him his heir.

This, thought Stephen, is the greatest moment of my life. Why should I not be King of England? Am I not the Conqueror's grandson? Of the three sons who survived great William, Rufus was dead, Robert a prisoner in his brother Henry's hands, and Henry was fifty-two without a male heir. So why should not the son of the Conqueror's daughter take the coveted crown?

It was almost as though fate was playing into his hands. Fate had married Matilda to the Emperor of Germany so that she could not be Queen of England (and how would the people react to a woman on the throne?). William, the King's only son, had been drowned in the White Ship. And he, Stephen, had been sent at an early age to the English Court;
he had won the King's favour; he had a grace and charm of manner which had brought many to his side.

This was his great moment. He could almost feel the crown on his head.

Time seemed to slow down. So many thoughts pushed themselves into his mind with the rapidity of lightning.

‘Yes,' said the King, speaking ponderously as though to give greater effect to his words, ‘I have given this matter much thought. It is not a step to take lightly. But I am no longer a young man, Stephen. I have lived through fifty-two winters. It is a goodly age, and although I am still in the full flush of my vigour I must perforce look facts in the face. A kingdom without an heir is a kingdom which breeds trouble. Long before I die the people must know that there is another to step into my shoes. I trust you, Stephen. You have proved yourself to be a good friend to me and this country.'

Stephen could scarcely suppress his excitement.

‘My lord, I will serve you and this land with my life.'

‘I know it, Stephen. You are a good boy. If I had a wife and got her with child it would be a year before a son could be born. I should be fifty-three years of age, Stephen.'

Stephen nodded safely. ‘How wise you are, sir. I have most admired your love of truth. You always looked it in the face and admitted to what you saw. Sir, it is a quality I most admire. I strive always to emulate it.'

The King inclined his head.

‘So,' he went on. ‘I have decided to marry again. Now . . . no waiting. By the saints, there is no time for dallying. I must get my bride to bed and with child without delay.'

Stephen was speechless. For once he could not find the right words to say.

The King did not seem to notice. ‘Yes, I shall marry at once. I must have a son. The Kingdom must have an heir. I trust you, Stephen. When my son is born you will swear on sacred bones to me that you will uphold him if I should die before he is of an age to defend himself. I know you would do so, but I shall need your oath . . . and that of all those who serve me. Yes, Stephen, I have come to this decision. There is nothing for me to do but take a wife.'

Stephen bowed his head, still not speaking. How could he
trust himself to do so when he had seen his hopes shattered, his greatest ambition shown to him as to be as nothing more than a dream.

Stephen rode from Westminster to the Tower Royal, that magnificent palace which Henry had given him at the time of his marriage. In the Chepe the merchants recognized him and bowed their deference. He knew that they believed he could well become their king. Many a merchant's daughter smiled at him from a window. Stephen's liking for attractive girls was well known, and so courteous was he in his approach, so kindly even when the
affaire
was at an end, that his amatory adventures were regarded as a kingly pastime to be indulgently accepted rather than deplored.

Past the wooden houses with their thatched roofs to the great stone fortress between the Chepe and Watling Street – a palace, a king's residence but not to be the home of a king, he thought bitterly.

In her solarium his wife was seated with her women working on a piece of needlework. She looked up with pleasure as he entered, so did the rest of her ladies, some of whom had at one time been on intimate terms with him.

He gave no indication of the bitterness in his mind which the blow to his hopes had aroused. He waved to the ladies to be seated for they had all risen with the exception of his wife to curtsey.

‘Pray do not disturb the charming picture you make,' he said, smiling, but his wife knew that something had disturbed him for she was well aware of his changing moods and she dismissed her women that she might be alone with her husband.

‘Stephen,' she said, ‘you have had bad news.'

‘Have I betrayed it, then?' he asked.

‘Only to me who know you so well,' she answered.

He sat down on the faldestol and leaned his head against her knee. She touched his luxuriant hair and was happy because in this disappointment, whatever it was, he had come to her.

He was thinking: My meek Matilda. She is a good wife to me. I would that they had given her a different name
though. Matilda! Small wonder that when I hear that name I must always think of that other Matilda. But she excited him not at all, this dear good little wife of his, and never had, even in the early days of their marriage.

‘You come from the King,' said Matilda gently.

‘Ay, from the King.'

‘Stephen. He is not displeased with you!'

‘Nay. I am still his good nephew. He has told me that he intends to marry.'

She was silent. She understood perfectly. Stephen had been disappointed of his hopes. Only she knew how he had longed for their fulfilment. She herself had regarded that state with apprehension, for if he were King of England she would be Queen and she knew that her nature was such as to shrink from such a position.

Gently she stroked his hair. She said: ‘If he married, he might not get a son.'

Stephen turned his head, took the hand which caressed him and looked up into her face. ‘It is what I tell myself. He is an old man. Yet he is lusty still.'

‘The Queen could not latterly get children by him.'

‘Nay,' said Stephen gloomily, ‘but others could.'

‘Let us wait and see. It may well be that he will not get a child, and if he does not . . .'

‘If he does not,' said Stephen, ‘who knows?'

He was gay suddenly; he was convinced now that the King was too old to get sons. Stephen's was an optimistic nature and he could always bring himself to believe what he wanted to happen.