The Passionate Enemies (7 page)

But there was Adelicia beside him, and she was beautiful. He wished that he could feel more enthusiasm for her. She was too young, too meek and acquiescing. Often it seemed that she was doing her painful duty. Perhaps she was. Poor girl, a stranger to the passionate ecstasy in which he had revelled with so many – but chiefly with Nesta, the incomparable mistress, now married to Gerald de Windsor, a husband he had found for her twenty years ago when he had married his first wife Matilda. Theirs had been an enduring relationship. They had made no demands on each other. How many mistresses had he taken over the years? How many lovers had shared her bed? It mattered not. She was for him, and he was for her, the best they had ever known in all their wide experience.

It was not meet that while he said his marriage vows to this young girl he should be thinking of a woman as old as himself. If God were watching he might decide that for such impiety he should have a barren marriage.

Have done with thoughts of other women. Pray that soon his Adelicia should tell him that the signs were evident.

There was feasting to celebrate the marriage; the King sat at the head of the table, his bride beside him. Roger was on his other side.

Roger was a little silent and seeking to placate him the King said: ‘I thought we should not get through the ceremony. I swear he nearly fell more than once.'

‘Doddering old idiot,' grumbled Roger.

‘Still my Archbishop,' replied the King. He turned to the Queen. ‘Tomorrow, my love, to Westminster and there you shall be crowned, Queen of England in very truth.'

‘I thank you, my lord, said Adelicia warmly.

The King took her hand and placed it on his thigh.

‘This,' he said to Roger, ‘is my beloved wife. God has been good to me.'

‘And may he continue to bless you.'

‘He will, I doubt not,' said the King. ‘Soon you will see the fruit of our nights. My Queen longs for this no less than I. And we pray continually for this fulfilment.'

‘As all your good subjects do. And with such love between you and God's blessing, ere long you will surely have a healthy boy.'

‘Amen,' said the King. He added: ‘You shall crown us both at Westminster, Roger. I dearly wish to see the crown on that fair head.'

Roger smiled his triumph, spirits restored. He had failed to officiate at the King's marriage but that would be forgotten when at the important ceremony of crowning, he was the one to place the crown on the Queen's head.

Ralph lay on his straw exhausted by the day's activities. At least he had the satisfaction of knowing that he had stopped that upstart from usurping his place.

He was thinking of the days of his youth – a preoccupation which increased as he grew more aged – and how peaceful those days seemed in comparison with the present day. But then he had been first a humble monk and after that a prior and abbot of the Abbey at Séez. Then he had come to England and finally, because he was a man of cheerful disposition, he had become popular. There had been some who thought he was too ready to laugh, a quality which somehow detracted
from a man's piety, but since he had proved himself a man of high moral character, what might have been termed a certain frivolity was forgiven.

It was only since his seizure when he had found it so difficult to perform his duties and suffered acutely from many handicaps that he began to be irritable. And now as he lay on his bed he thought that he, being so old and infirm, could not have much time left to him and he doubted he would live long enough to see the King's heir, which was what this marriage was for.

One of his servants came to him in some haste.

‘My lord Archbishop,' he said, ‘the royal party have left for Westminster.'

‘So soon,' cried Ralph.

‘My lord, the Queen is to be crowned without delay and it is said that Roger of Salisbury will perform the ceremony.'

‘Never,' cried the Archbishop, rising from his bed. ‘There is only one who must do that.'

‘You are unfit, my lord.'

‘Do not advise me on whether or not I shall do my duty. Send my servants with all speed.'

The blood was pounding in his head, his limbs were shaking, and the room circled round him as it did when he rose too hastily.

He cared not. He said to his servants: ‘Help me to dress without delay. Have everything ready for our departure. We leave for Westminster at once.'

Breathlessly the Archbishop entered the Abbey. There was a gasp throughout the spectators as he walked, swaying a little yet clearly resolute, towards the altar.

Roger had reached that stage in the ceremony when the crowns had been placed on the heads of the King and Queen and Ralph was so angry that many thought he would die on the spot.

He approached the King. He cried out and his anger gave him some extra power because his words were distinctly heard by all those close to the King.

‘Who has placed this crown on your head?'

Henry was abashed. Who would have believed that this sick man could so quickly have followed him? He had deliberately arranged that the ceremony should begin very early so that it would be over before there was time for repercussions. Evidently they had not been quick enough for Ralph. Crowning was an even more important occasion than the marriage, and Henry should have known that if the Archbishop had been so determined to perform one he certainly would not willingly allow any but himself to officiate at the other.

Henry was aware of the trouble that could ensue. It had been rash of him to attempt to placate Roger in this manner.

He murmured: ‘If the ceremony has not been performed in a proper manner, it must then be done again.'

The Archbishop retorted, his eyes flashing: ‘Indeed, my lord, it must be done again.'

And with that he lifted the strap which was fixed under the King's chin and by which the crown was held in place so that the crown fell sideways on to the King's shoulder.

There was a gasp of dismay from the spectators.

The Archbishop then took the crown and placing it firmly on the King's head proceeded with the Coronation.

Consternation followed. There were also people who saw omens – good or bad – in every event; and the fact that the King had had his crown taken off his head seemed like a bad one.

‘Nonsense,' said the King, who like his father preferred to see good in omens. ‘This is a good sign. I lost my son, and though momentarily I lost the crown from my head, it was replaced. So shall my fair young Queen refill our royal cradle. Ere long our marriage will be fruitful I promise you, for I am a young man again, through my Queen, and I know that ere long she will give me the son I crave.'

So there was rejoicing throughout the land and celebrations at Court; but, although the King and Queen prayed each day that there might be a sign, there was none.

Why, oh, why, do my mistresses conceive and not my wife? the King wondered.

Henry's temper, which had improved since his marriage and
the hopes of getting an heir, now became easily frayed once more. He was restless. It was a month since the official marriage and there was still no sign that Adelicia was pregnant. It was not as though they had not attempted to get a child before that. Ever since that marriage at Ely he had spent each night in her bed. And still no sign! It was ironical that he had feared they might not have the official ceremony in time.

Roger had returned to Salisbury and taken his Matilda with him. He missed their company. Stephen was amusing and his wife, another Matilda, was pleasant enough; his troubadours and minstrels did their best to entertain him but he was restless. He wanted to be young again. He was still a healthy man, but he was beginning to suffer from the irritating little ailments which came with encroaching age, and his digestion was not of the best. It was not that he was a man who overate or drank excessively. Indeed he was moderate enough – except where his favourite foods were concerned. He admitted to a certain greed over lampreys which his cooks knew how to stew and serve deliciously; and he sometimes took more of this dish than was advisable – but he was abstemious in most things. It had always been women and the chase – never food and drink – which had pleased him.

He enjoyed the company of Stephen, but Stephen had changed slightly. He knew his nephew must have had hopes of succeeding him. He did not blame him. Such thoughts would have entered his own mind had he been in Stephen's position. And now, for all his affection, Stephen could not help being secretly pleased that the Queen did not astonish them all by the speed with which she had conceived. This must needs put a barrier between them. Well, he could scarcely blame Stephen for being ambitious.

The sooner a son was on the way the sooner everything would be settled. Stephen would then know that he could no longer hope. But in the meantime the situation was a difficult one and there had begun to come into the King's mind a fear that the Queen might be barren.

There was one man who could usually entertain him. This was Luke de Barré, one of his best warriors, who was at the same time a poet. The verses Luke wrote were of such a nature as to amuse the King; he had known Luke since their
boyhood and they had always been good friends.

Now he sent for Luke and commanded him to sing some of his latest songs.

Luke complied, and although occasionally the songs were a little ribald and now and then contained sly allusions to the King himself, Henry was amused and forgot his irritation.

While Luke sang to the company a messenger arrived. He had ridden at full speed from the Welsh border. He had brought grave news. The Welsh were marching on Chester. The Earl of Chester had recently died and it was due to this that the Welsh had revolted.

The King rose from his chair.

‘There is nothing else to be done,' he said, ‘than for me to leave for Wales without delay.'

Adelicia was tearful.

It was so short a time since they had been married.

The King took her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly. ‘Who knows,' he said, ‘perhaps by the time I return you will have some news for me. If you should have it, send to me wherever I am. Nothing could put me in better spirits.'

‘I will, my lord, and I will pray day and night.'

Prayers! he thought with some impatience. Of what avail were they? Babies were got in warm beds not draughty chapels.

But let her pray. She was a good sweet child, and longed to give him what he wanted as fervently as he wished for it.

‘It grieves me to leave you, my fair Queen,' he said.

But already he was thinking of Wales – the home of Nesta. He was remembering how, when he had heard that his presence was needed in Wales his blood would tingle and his spirits soar; and in fact when Matilda had been alive he had invented trouble in Wales that he might have an excuse to ride to Carew Castle.

Adelicia stood at the turret watching him ride away. He turned to lift a hand to her in farewell.

‘Oh, God,' she prayed, ‘let me be with child.'

It was no difficult task, old warrior that he was, to subdue the Welsh. The enemy retreated before him and he marched as far as Snowdon. It was not long before they were ready to accept
him as the victor. He insisted they pay him tribute – always something which pleased him. He loved money as his father had before him. Money, land, possessions to have and to hold and never lose grip of them – for they meant power. Rufus had been the same; only Robert had been the foolish one of the family; and look what had happened to him: his patrimony lost – the beloved Dukedom of Normandy – and himself his brother's prisoner. He took hostages from the Princes of Wales – their sons – and by so doing he was sure that the tribute would be paid.

Now he could call at Carew Castle and be sure of a welcome.

He was amazed by her just as he had always been. She was no longer young but seemed to have lost none of her allure.

‘You amaze me, Nesta,' he told her. ‘Every time I see you I seem to have forgotten how desirable you are.'

‘You should remember,' she told him.

Gerald de Windsor was complaisant. How could he be aught else? Who had given him his rich lands? Where would Gerald be if he had not had the good fortune to be selected by the King as husband of his beloved mistress?

So when the King called Gerald must play the generous host to his sovereign and not only relinquish the place of honour to his lord but his bed also.

‘Also,' said the King, ‘I become young again with you.'

She lay back on her bed smiling at him.

‘We were meant for each other, Henry. You know that.'

‘If I had not been a King . . . Were the best times before I became King?'

‘The best time is always now,' she said. ‘That is the secret.'

She became philosophical. ‘My dearest King,' she went on, ‘you should regret nothing. Our love has always been removed from dull domesticity. Would it have been the same if we had been together every day and night?'

‘I am taken away so often. Each time I should have returned to you with the utmost eagerness. I should have thought of you while I was fighting.'

‘And lost your wars because of it.'

‘Nay, fought the harder that I might the sooner return to you.'

‘You must learn, my beloved, that fate does not give us all we ask. Our love has been a joy to us both and neither ever had a lover like the other. But how should we have known this perfection of each other if we had not had so many others to set it against?' She laughed at him. ‘Come, be gay. Soon you will have ridden away. Tell me of your new wife. She is a beauty, I hear.'

‘She is a pretty creature.'

‘Then because I love you, I rejoice for you.'

‘There is no rejoicing save when I am with you. Yours is the only bed in which I long to be.'

‘You always spoke so gallantly to me, Henry, but I did not always believe you. Come, be truthful. Is it not an enjoyable task getting this fair creature with the heir of England?'