The Passionate Enemies (28 page)

For he had failed her. She had believed when she had seen him so eager for her, when he had told her in the dark of night that there was no one like her, and she had thought of him as hers in all ways, that he would stand with her, as that poor fool Geoffrey her husband never could. She had believed she could trust Stephen. And he had taken the crown for himself.

She would never, never forgive him. Hers was not a forgiving nature. She was not easy and soft as he was.

When she regained the crown people would understand that she meant to be obeyed. She would quickly make them realize
who their ruler was. She would follow in her father's and grandfather's footsteps and if some were put to the sword or lost a limb or two or were deprived of their eyes – then they would learn the more quickly.

In the meantime here she was helpless – and Stephen was no doubt thanking God for his achievement. He had actually been crowned. And so had that miserable wife of his. Queen of England!
That
Matilda.

‘Stephen of Blois,' she said aloud, ‘you shall pay for this.'

She had asked that her case be tried before the Pope. She demanded that Stephen be excommunicated. She was the rightful heir to the throne; she was her father's only legitimate child and the knights and members of the clergy had sworn allegiance to her. All right-thinking men and women must support her against this upstart son of a count – and not even his eldest born – who had usurped her place.

Geoffrey of Anjou came into her bedchamber. She looked at him critically. She supposed some would call him an elegant man. She had never thought so because always she had compared him with Stephen. She did so now and she wished with all her might that it could have been Stephen standing there before her. How she would have jeered at him; she would have risen from her bed, weak as she was, and flown at him; she would have scratched his face and bitten his hands and exhausted herself and him by the passion of her hatred which would, she knew, turn to love. And how she would have enjoyed that!

But he was far away, in England, in his palace wearing her
crown
and all that was left for her was this silly young fool sporting his sprig of broom in his hat and calling himself Plantagenet.

‘What news?' she asked.

‘None.'

‘Nothing from Rome?'

‘Nothing. Innocent does not want to embroil himself with Stephen.'

‘He is a fool. He should know that no one cares whether or not they offend Stephen.' Her lips curled into a sneer. ‘Stephen is so kind, so gentle. Stephen is so courteous. No one quarrels with Stephen.'

‘Some of his knights do. He has trouble there.'

She was silent, willing the knights to rise against him all over England, all over Normandy, to defeat, but not to kill him. Oh, no, she could not bear that. A world without Stephen would have lost its savour. She wanted to know that he was alive; she wanted to go on dreaming of the day when she would confront him . . . in his dungeon.

‘And what are you doing?' she asked scornfully. ‘A
man
would have been in England, would have made some attempt to snatch the crown from the traitor who has taken it from his wife. But what can one expect from a boy!'

‘What a general!' he said. ‘She gives orders from her bed! What if I went to England? What of Normandy? You haven't even got that.'

‘Then why not?'

‘Because the people do not love you, that's why.'

‘Did they love my grandfather?'

‘Your grandfather was a great ruler.'

‘They shall see that his granddaughter is no less.'

‘Men respected him.'

‘I shall force them to respect me.'

‘You may imprison them, torture them, but you cannot force them to do that.'

‘You have much to learn, Master Geoffrey. If I were not weak from bearing your child . . .'

‘At least I am man enough to give you a boy.'

‘Scarcely a hero's task you'll admit. Now, Master Plantagenet, I want you to go out and subdue those of my Norman subjects who would rebel against me. If you cannot win my English Crown, for the love of God make my ducal one secure.'

‘Methinks the people have heard too much of your temper. They like you not.'

‘I will force them to accept me,' she said. ‘Wait until I am rid of my burdens.'

‘Then we shall see,' he said. ‘I have news for you. Your cousin is in Normandy.'

‘Stephen?'

‘The King of England,' Geoffrey bowed ironically. ‘He has defeated Baldwin of Redvers and has come that his son
Eustace may be acknowledged as the future Duke; he has come to pay fealty to the King of France.'

Matilda narrowed her eyes. Stephen in Normandy. The sea no longer divided them.

No wonder she felt exhilarated.

Impatiently she awaited for her strength to return. Geoffrey meanwhile set out with his troops to attempt to regain Normandy for her. This was the reason he had had to make this distasteful marriage. He had undertaken it only because his father had told him that one day he would be the Duke of Normandy. For England he did not greatly care, but passionately he wanted Normandy.

It was not long before she received news that he was besieged by those who supported Stephen's claim and that he needed help that he might break out from the town of Le Sap.

Where was Stephen now? she wondered. Was his Queen with him in Normandy, or had he left her behind as Regent? She would be useless. That silly sentimental creature! What would she know about governing a country? She had always despised the woman; it was the only way in which she could console herself for not being in her place.

She gathered together a troop of men and rode to Le Sap. She would show them that although she was a woman she was capable of taking decisive action. When she arrived with her rescuing force she would have the pleasure of putting Stephen's adherents to flight. It would give her great pleasure to picture his receiving the news of her action.

But it did not work out as she had hoped.

When she arrived at Le Sap, Geoffrey had been wounded and it seemed great good fortune that a retreat was possible. There was nothing for her to do but take him back to safety where he could be nursed back to health.

She was as frustrated as ever.

In the castle of Arundel Adelicia felt remote from the troubles of the country.

She had heard of Stephen's illness and had been very sympathetic towards his wife for she knew how Matilda adored her husband. She had often in the past been sorry for
the Queen. Matilda was a good woman, calm and clever in her way. She would have been an excellent helpmeet to any man if she were given the chance to be. She was clever enough to be able to understand statecraft for she had been very well educated in the Abbey of Bermondsey; and at the same time she had acquired a meekness which was becoming. Adelicia had once said to the King her husband: ‘I hope Stephen realizes what a good wife he has.'

It had seemed of late that he did. For she heard that he was often in her company and was eager that all should do honour to her as their Queen. Her coronation had been even grander than his own and he had seemed to rejoice in that.

Adelicia enjoyed tending the flowers in her gardens; she liked to grow her herbs and make them into scents and ointments. She liked to sit at her tapestry. In truth she liked the quiet life of a noblewoman who does not have to be at Court.

If she were truthful she would say that she had come to the happiest part of her life. She had been young when she married Henry the King and the years with him had not been easy ones. He had been kind to her in his way, it was true, but she had always had the terrible feeling of guilt because she had not been able to supply that much-wanted son. She knew that he did not regard her physically with any great excitement. There had been many to tell her what kind of life he had led. This had been conveyed to her in several ways, with suppressed giggles, with shocked allusions, with solemn pronouncements. And she had understood. He had numerous illegitimate children, and his first wife had given him only two legitimate ones. She had learned how he had wooed that first wife and what a love match it had been. It was all long ago and she had always said to herself, ‘I must be grateful for his kindness and tolerance at least.'

Yet, in the quiet of her apartments she could admit to herself that his passing was a relief. No more the labour of trying once more for what seemed to be impossible: no more of those fearful nightmares when his misdeeds had haunted him and he had leaped from his bed to grasp his sword and slash at the hangings. No more irascible bouts of temper. Here she was, not a young woman but not an old one either – for she was but in her thirties and not half way yet and he had been
sixty-six when he had died. Yes, she was happy here at Arundel, shut away from the anxieties of life outside and now and then hearing the clatter of horses' hoofs in the courtyard and looking down to see William de Albini there looking up, kissing his hand to her and later mounting the spiral stairs to her apartments when refreshments would be brought and he would talk to her of what was happening at Court – or more often of the pleasures of his estates of Norfolk, and they would enjoy the gardens of Arundel together.

And as she thought of him she heard sounds of his arrival, and there he was just as she had seen him so many times.

A groom took his horse; he dismounted; he came up the stone staircase and he was taking her hands and kissing them.

‘I am happy to see you,' she told him.

‘I have come to say farewell,' he answered.

Her expression was suddenly woebegone and she could not hide it.

‘Then my absence will sadden you?' he asked.

‘Tell me how long you will be away,' she said.

‘I trust not long. I am to go to France to celebrate the marriage of the young son of the King of France.'

‘You will joust, I doubt not.'

‘I doubt it not either.'

‘And you will astonish them all with your skill. I know well that is so. I would I could see you.'

‘I would ride the better if you did. There is something I would say to you before I go. You will know that I have long been devoted to you. I was aware of you even before the death of the late King. I envied him then.'

‘Many envy a king his crown.'

‘'Twas not his crown I envied. And now you are free. I have long thought of what I would say to you and now I find it difficult. You are a queen . . .'

‘A queen without a husband, of no importance in truth.'

‘I am but a knight . . .'

‘Pray say what is in your mind for it may make me very happy.'

He took her hands and kissed them. ‘Adelicia,' he said, ‘could you forget you were a queen and be the wife of a humble knight?'

‘I could only be happy thus,' she said.

‘Then,' he answered, ‘let us plight our troth for we have both learned the pleasures of the simple life. I know in my heart that you will be ready to exchange the glories of the Court for them.'

They smiled at each other. Adelicia thought she had never been so happy in her life; so did William; but they did not mention this. It would have sounded like treason to the late King.

There seemed no reason why Stephen or the Queen should object to their marriage.

What a joy, thought Adelicia, at last to be of no great importance.

They planned to marry as soon as William returned from his mission to France.

Matilda, Queen of England, had changed since her husband had taken the crown. Until the death of King Henry she had seemed insignificant, so meek that she scarcely ever expressed an opinion. Since she had become a queen that meekness had dropped from her. She was by no means arrogant and in truth the change in her had nothing to do with the fact that she had become Queen of England.

From the time she had been brought to the Court of England from the Abbey of Bermondsey to be betrothed to Stephen of Blois she had been conscious of her inadequacy. There had always been that other Matilda. The fact that they bore the same name had seemed significant; and her cousin had always made her feel she had no right to it.

That Matilda, known as the Empress from an early age, for no sooner had she been betrothed to the Emperor of Germany than she began to assume the manners of an Imperial ruler, had dominated her cousin's life. The Empress had ruled the nursery, Stephen had adored her, and of course she, Matilda, who had been brought to the Court for the purpose of marrying Stephen, had adored him.

It seemed the most natural thing in the world to love Stephen: She had not been surprised that in her arrogant way the Empress loved him too or at least looked upon him as hers. The Empress could in fact love no one but herself, but
Stephen's presence had at one time been necessary to her pleasure. Then she had gone away and Stephen had in due course married Matilda, but always there had been the shadow of the Empress between them.

Stephen was a man who could win the love of others without effort. He was also kind to people and pretended to be interested in their affairs. Even the humblest scullion could be sure of a smile and a greeting from him. This ensured their loyalty. Matilda had never been sure whether Stephen loved popularity so much that he made an effort to gain it or whether he smiled and feigned amiability because he was too lazy to do anything else. She had never fully understood Stephen. He could be brave and energetic – as he had been when he seized the crown. At other times he could become so lethargic as to ask for peace at any price. She deplored the fact that he had allowed Baldwin of Redvers to escape him. yet at the same time she loved him for his susceptibilities which would not let him be hard on those he had conquered.

The truth was that she loved Stephen with a quiet and abiding love which was in sharp contrast to the feelings the Empress had for him.

Matilda knew that she did not excite his senses as his cousin did. She knew that he was not a faithful husband. With that easygoing way of his he slipped into love affairs and there were offspring to prove this. But she was his Queen and there had been times when he had told her that of all the people in the world she was the only one he could be completely sure of.