The Passionate Enemies (12 page)

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 listened 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 sure 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.'

‘How could you ever believe I would have such foolish notions? I understood the problems which faced my husband. He was never at rest.'

‘You have been well schooled. Now, Matilda, I intend to make you my heir but before you can become this I must make sure that the people will accept you. While I live, yes . . . but if I were no longer here, who knows what might happen. I fear the Clito. I shall command all my knights and nobles to swear allegiance to you. They will need some persuasion.'

‘Why so?' asked Matilda haughtily.

‘Because you are a woman.'

‘I will show them that a woman such as I am is as good as any man.'

‘I believe that you will . . . in course of time. But they do not know that yet. That is why I proposed to assemble them and make them one by one swear allegiance to you.'

She nodded.

‘Therefore,' he went on, ‘we shall return to England and I shall send out a proclamation that all those whom I summon to London shall come and swear loyalty to you.'

‘Shall you send to all those whom it would concern?'

‘Every one.'

‘There is my cousin Stephen. I believe he is in Boulogne. Shall you summon him?'

‘Of a surety I will. It is very important that Stephen swear loyalty to you.'

‘He has some slight claim himself.'

The King nodded. ‘Through my sister, his mother. Yes, he is no less the Conqueror's grandson than you are his granddaughter. Stephen has been a good nephew. At one time I thought I might train him to follow me. I think he had his hopes. But that was when the Emperor was alive and there did not seem any reason why you should come back.'

‘I shall be glad to know that the powerful men of the land accept me,' she said.

She would be also equally glad to see Stephen and that she must surely do very soon.

It was September when they crossed to England. Matilda was moved to see again the burnished leaves, the green grass, the
grey castle walls of the land she would always consider to be her home.

She rode between the King and Queen, and Henry told her how he had been born here shortly after his father had conquered the country and that it had always seemed to him to be his native land. It was one of the reasons why the people had accepted him. His brothers had been Normans; but he reckoned himself to be completely English.