The Passionate Enemies

by Jean Plaidy

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Jean Plaidy

  Title Page

  Family Tree

  The King Decides to Marry

  The Wedding and Coronation

  In the Imperial Bedchamber

  The Poet’s Eyes

  Homage to Matilda

  The Reluctant Bride

  The Lovers

  A Surfeit of Lampreys

  Hugh Bigod

  The King’s Mysterious Malaise

  The Queen Commands

  The Troubadour’s Song

  Matilda’s Triumph

  Matilda’s Prisoner

  Flight from London

  The Funeral Cortège

  Escape Over the Ice

  Departures

  The Last Meeting

  The End of an Era

  Bibliography

  Copyright

  About the Book

  This is the third and final book in The Norman Trilogy and tells the story of the last days of the reign of Henry I. His son and wife are dead, and Henry hastily remarries a woman more than thirty years his junior in the hope of producing a male heir and securing the succession.

  If he fails, the throne will pass to Matilda, and Henry fears that his nobles will not willingly serve a woman. But after his death this feckless daughter becomes the focus of a line of would-be kings and soon the country is plunged into a bitter civil war that only a child can undo.

  About the Author

  Jean Plaidy, one of the preeminent authors of historical fiction for most of the twentieth century, is the pen name of the prolific English author Eleanor Hibbert, also known as Victoria Holt. Jean Plaidy’s novels had sold more than 14 million copies worldwide by the time of her death in 1993.

  Also by Jean Plaidy

  THE TUDOR SAGA

  Uneasy Lies the Head

  Katharine, the Virgin Widow

  The Shadow of the Pomegranate

  The King’s Secret Matter

  Murder Most Royal

  St Thomas’s Eve

  The Sixth Wife

  The Thistle and the Rose

  Mary, Queen of France

  Lord Robert

  Royal Road to Fotheringay

  The Captive Queen of Scots

  The Spanish Bridegroom

  THE CATHERINE DE MEDICI TRILOGY

  Madame Serpent

  The Italian Woman

  Queen Jezebel

  THE STUART SAGA

  The Murder in the Tower

  The Wandering Prince

  A Health Unto His Majesty

  Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord

  The Three Crowns

  The Haunted Sisters

  The Queen’s Favourites

  THE FRENCH REVOLUTION SERIES

  Louis the Well-Beloved

  The Road to Compiègne

  Flaunting, Extravagant Queen

  THE LUCREZIA BORGIA SERIES

  Madonna of the Seven Hills

  Light on Lucrezia

  ISABELLA AND FERDINAND TRILOGY

  Castile for Isabella

  Spain for the Sovereigns

  Daughters of Spain

  THE GEORGIAN SAGA

  The Princess of Celle

  Queen in Waiting

  Caroline the Queen

  The Prince and the Quakeress

  The Third George

  Perdita’s Prince

  Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill

  Indiscretions of the Queen

  The Regent’s Daughter

  Goddess of the Green Room

  Victoria in the Wings

  THE QUEEN VICTORIA SERIES

  The Captive of Kensington

  The Queen and Lord M

  The Queen’s Husband

  The Widow of Windsor

  THE NORMAN TRILOGY

  The Bastard King

  The Lion of Justice

  THE PLANTAGENET SAGA

  The Plantagenet Prelude

  The Revolt of the Eaglets

  The Heart of the Lion

  The Prince of Darkness

  The Battle of the Queens

  The Queen from Provence

  The Hammer of the Scots

  The Follies of the King

  The Vow of the Heron

  Passage to Pontefract

  The Star of Lancaster

  Epitaph for Three Women

  Red Rose of Anjou

  The Sun in Splendour

  QUEEN OF ENGLAND SERIES

  Myself, My Enemy

  Queen of this Realm: The Story of Elizabeth I

  Victoria, Victorious

  The Lady in the Tower

  The Goldsmith’s Wife

  The Queen’s Secret

  The Rose without a Thorn

  OTHER TITLES

  The Queen of Diamonds

  Daughter of Satan

  The Scarlet Cloak

  The Passionate Enemies

  Jean Plaidy

  The third book in the Norman Trilogy

  The King Decides to Marry

  ‘A KING CANNOT have too many children, if they be bastards,’ mused the King. ‘It is only the legitimate ones with which he should be sparing. Too many legitimate sons can cause friction, as in my own family. But bastards can be thrown a castle or two, honours, titles and they may boast throughout their lives of their royal connection, and be loyal often, for a man will be loyal to that of which he is proud. But even so a king should have more than one legitimate son, for in what sad case he is if by evil fortune he should lose his heir.’

  And this was precisely the evil fortune which had overtaken him, King Henry I of England, and since he had lost his only legitimate son he had become irascible, ready to burst into anger at the slightest provocation, to the terror of those who served him. Before this tragedy, although he had been capable of acts of cruelty, he had been known, harsh and ruthless though he might be, as a just man.

  There was none who could soothe him as easily as his nephew Stephen and indeed it was whispered that he might make Stephen his heir. This would not have been viewed with great disfavour for this young and handsome man was affable to all no matter how humble; he knew how to charm and never hesitated to, even when there seemed little to gain from it but the affection of those who, if the King willed it, would be his subjects. Stephen practised charm on all so that when it was turned on those who could bring him great good, it seemed to be used naturally and without sly motive.

  Since the death of his wife, two years before, Henry I of England had sought comfort in wild animals and women. All through his life these pastimes had afforded him more pleasure than any others and he had pursued them with a verve which never flagged and had resulted in many a fine deer or wild boar being brought to the royal table and the most desirable ladies of England to his bed. As a result of his indulgence in these pursuits he had developed indigestion, and innumerable young men and women claimed him as their father. While he deplored the former he delighted in the latter.

  Never before in his life had he felt so restless as he did at this time and the cause of the unwelcome change in his nature was the recent tragedy when his son William, on crossing from Normandy to England, had been drowned in that fated White Ship which had struck the rocks just out of Barfleur; and another son and daughter of the King (though these were of the numerous illegitimate brood) had gone down with him.

  And here was Henry, fifty-two years of age, master of both England and Normandy, a widower, without a son to follow him to the throne.

  Henry loved order in his life. There were some who said he should have been a clerk. Indeed the French had nicknamed him Henri Beauclerc. He loved learning and favoured scholars.
He had no intention of dying yet but he wanted to make sure, as his father the Conqueror had, that he had a son to follow him.

  Henry knew that he must come to a decision and he could enjoy no peace until he did. True, he could temporarily forget his dilemma in his pleasures and it was always a joy to ride out to the hunt and stop at some castle where a loving châtelaine would be eagerly waiting for him; but with the light of morning would come the depressing realization: fifty-two years old and no son to follow him.

  One of his relaxations was to go through his household accounts in which every penny must be accounted for personally to him. This was a task he had reserved for himself whenever he was not absent fighting in Normandy. Alas, he had spent a great deal of his life as King fighting Normandy for there would always be barons there to oppose him and, while his nephew, William the Clito, lived, men would rally to his banner and try to take Normandy from Henry. That was something he accepted. It was these cruel blows of fate which exacerbated him beyond endurance. His wife had given him only two children, a son and a daughter, and then after several barren years had died; his only son was drowned in the prime of his manhood on the White Ship; and he, Henry, who had arranged his household and his armies with precise efficiency, had suddenly found that fate had dealt him a cruel blow which had at one stroke ruined his careful plans.

  The figures of his accounts danced before his eyes. He saw that his Chancellor of the Chaplains had had his simnel cake and his measure of clear and ordinary wine; he had had his thick wax candle and his forty pieces of candle with his five shillings a day. His watchmen had had no more than their four candles, their food and one and a half-pennies a day. All members of the household from the Chancellors, who were the chief of all departments, to the most menial serving men had had their dues and one set of figures neatly balanced another, so that there was nothing of which he could complain.

  He put aside the accounts and shouted to one of his pages to bring his nephew Stephen to him.

  Stephen immediately responded. One did not keep the King waiting at any time, but in the last weeks one responded with even greater alacrity to his commands.

  The King’s mood softened a little at the sight of his nephew. Stephen grew more like his mother every day and Adela had been Henry’s favourite sister. Married to Stephen of Blois she had been in a position to help him in odd little ways when he was planning his conquest of Normandy and Henry was glad to be able to repay her by taking her son under his wing. He had given Stephen estates in England so that he was a rich man; he had found a bride for him, none other than the dead Queen’s niece; and since the death of his son, Stephen was constantly at his uncle’s side and none would have been surprised if the King had not declared him his heir.

  Now the King smiled affectionately at his good-looking nephew.

  ‘Ah, Stephen,’ he said, ‘be seated.’

  Stephen bowed and sat as requested on the faldestol close to the King’s chair.

  ‘You find me in ill mood,’ said the King.

  ‘You have had much to plague you,’ replied Stephen in that gentle soothing voice which charmed so many.

  ‘’Tis true. I dream of the White Ship. I can’t forget it, Stephen. She was so beautiful, that ship. The finest in my fleet. I hear the cries of the stricken . . .’

  ‘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?’