by Jean Plaidy
‘I never denied it.’
‘At least you were true in one thing. And now you talk to me of dungeons. You would never put me into a dungeon, Stephen. How could you sleep quiet at night if you did that to me? How can you sleep quiet at night now knowing that I am here . . . and we two not together?’
‘Matilda . . .’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Your Matilda as no other Matilda could ever be.’
Their embrace was fierce – reckless on his side, calculating on hers, but nevertheless the overwhelming desire was there for them both.
He was a soft man, this Stephen, and never softer than at such moments.
As they lay together clinging to each other as though by the very force of their passion they could ward off the need to separate, she said to him: ‘Stephen, what matters anything but that we two are together?’
He sighed. ‘We shall have to part,’ he said. His voice broke with anger. ‘Has it not always been thus? When we were children we knew that we two should be together . . . and always we must be apart.’
‘Perhaps one day, Stephen . . .’
‘How could that be?’
‘You have your wife – your silly little Matilda. I have my foolish Geoffrey. Who knows . . .’
‘Matilda has been a good wife to me,’ he protested.
She laughed, all tenderness departed. ‘She has said Yea, Stephen, Yea, Stephen, through day and night. And never Nay, Stephen. That is why you say she has been good to you. Has she given you what I have? Have you ever felt towards her as you do towards me?’
‘You know well that I have not.’
‘Then an end to your falsehoods. You want this Matilda.’ She smote her breast with her clenched fist. ‘You need her – this one. She who has carried your seed in her womb . . . who was meant for you and you for her . . .’
He had raised himself to stare at her. ‘You mean . . . Matilda . . . You mean . . . young Henry?’
She lowered her eyes and a smile curved her lips. When she did look at him she was mocking. ‘You men! How you preen yourselves when .you believe you have fathered a fine male child. Oh, it must be male. It must be a boy for there you see yourselves reborn. My Henry is a fine boy, is he not? Lusty, sharp . . . all a man could look for in a son.’
‘And he is mine!’ cried Stephen.
‘You have spoken,’ she said. ‘I have not.’
‘Matilda,’ he said and he seized her and shook her. ‘Tell me truthfully. The boy . . . young Henry . . .’
She shook him off and stood up laughing at him.
‘That shall be my secret . . . as yet,’ she answered. ‘I would see first how you treat me. ’Twas not long ago that you were talking of putting me into a dungeon.’
‘I would never allow you to be ill-treated.’
‘Is it necessary to tell me that? You insult me by mentioning it. Have I not but a moment ago surrendered myself to you?’
‘Oh, Matilda, did you ever surrender to me? Was it not I who surrendered to you?’
She seemed well pleased. Then lifting her face to him she said: ‘Stephen. Let me go to Bristol.’
‘Your brother is there.’
‘Yes, let me join him there.’
‘Robert of Gloucester is my enemy. You ask me to let you go to my enemy?’
She put her arms about his neck. ‘You will let me go, Stephen.’
‘How can I?’
‘You can because you must. I ask it and you will not refuse me.’
‘It will be expected that I place you in the care of someone who will guard you for me.’
‘Nay, that would make me a prisoner. Would you make a prisoner of the daughter of that King who gave you everything you have? My father favoured you. He had you brought to England. What would you have been had he not done that? Stephen Lackland! He gave you lands . . . he gave you a rich wife. Oh, yes, you owe your fond Matilda to him. He gave me life and I have been yours, Stephen. Think what you owe my father. Could you insult his daughter by making her a prisoner?’
‘And if you go to Bristol?’
‘I will return to Anjou, mayhap. My brother will escort me.’
He knew she was lying. He was bemused. He thought of her yielding as she had such a short while before, whispering to him softly of her love for him which was greater than anything on earth, greater than their marriage vows, greater than the crown which hovered over them both.
She put her lips to his ear and nibbled it gently. ‘Then I shall go to Bristol, Stephen. You will come and see me there. We will make plans for our next meeting. It will be as happy as this one when I am in Bristol.’
He sighed and she said, ‘Thank you, Stephen; thank you, my dear.’
She tore herself away from him. She ran to the door and out of the apartment.
She was calling to her stepmother.
‘Adelicia. Adelicia, where are you? The King has been gracious to me. He has given me leave to go to Bristol.’
Stephen stumbled after her.
You fool! he said to himself. You are mad. You cannot let her go.
He found her with her stepmother.
Adelicia’s relief was evident.
‘Oh, Stephen, my lord King,’ she said, ‘it is noble of you. But then you have always been so.’
‘I should leave at once,’ said Matilda, smiling triumphantly. ‘Dear Adelicia, your fears were without foundation. You were so frightened, were you not? You thought you would offend the King and you see he is our very good friend.’
Stephen did not speak. He was trying to still the voices in his head which were telling him what a fool he was.
Inwardly depressed, Stephen went to his brother Henry, Bishop of Winchester, and told him that he had agreed to allow Matilda to go to Bristol.
His brother stared at Stephen in amazement.
Stephen hastened to justify himself. ‘She is our cousin,’ he said. ‘I and you too, Henry, owe everything we have in this land to her father, our uncle King Henry I. How could I make her a prisoner?’
‘She would not hesitate to put you in chains.’
Stephen shook his head. He was thinking of those passionate moments when they had surrendered to each other and their emotions. How could lovers such as they had been harm each other?
‘Nay,’ he said, ‘she would remember the kinship between us . . . even as I do.’
Henry was not a man to waste words. His inner thought was: My brother is a fool. But he remained silent.
Stephen seemed relieved. ‘She is to go to Bristol,’ he said. ‘I have given my word.’
To Bristol, thought Henry, where her half-brother of Gloucester is raising an army to drive Stephen from the throne and put Matilda there. Yes, his brother was indeed a fool.
‘She has not yet gone,’ ventured Henry.
Stephen looked pained. ‘I have given my word,’ he reminded his brother. ‘I shall send her with an escort and as there is no one in my kingdom whom I trust as I trust you, that escort shall be you.’
Henry bowed his head.
He was not displeased. He would relish a journey which would put him in close contact with Matilda, that he might get to know better a woman who was clever enough to outwit his brother. Not that Stephen was a wise man. Henry had become more and more disillusioned with him since he had gained the crown. Yet he had an admiration for Matilda and he felt that in the near future it might be necessary for him to make an important decision.
Matilda rode at the head of the party with Henry, Bishop of Winchester, beside her. She was clearly delighted with the outcome of her meeting with Stephen – and had good cause to be. Henry had no doubt that his brother was now regretting his rash action.
Henry was an ambitious man. He had supported Stephen not entirely out of brotherly affection; he was after all a grandson of the Conqueror and as such must be imbued with the desire to govern. As head of the Church he could have had a say in the affairs of the country, and with a weak man such as Stephen was proving himse
lf to be there was no reason why the Church should not take precedence over the State. Farseeing and astute as he was, Henry could look ahead to the days when the conflict between Church and State would be as mighty as that between warring states. As a churchman he was on the side of the Church – particularly when the crown was on an unworthy head. And Stephen’s conduct had led him to the conclusion that Stephen was unfit to be King of England. The people were now realizing that he was no Lion of Justice; even Rufus had been stronger. England needed men such as William the First and Henry the First. Its foundations were not yet firm enough to stand against the feeble government which a weak king would bring.
Henry had naturally supported his brother, but he was beginning to wonder whether he had given his allegiance in the wrong quarter.
Many said that Stephen usurped the throne, and this was true. The heiress was the daughter of King Henry – and it was only the fact that she was a woman that had tempted many people to accept Stephen. Had Stephen been a strong man, this would have been the best possible course, but alas, Stephen had proved by his treatment of his enemies that he was not a strong man. And never could he have shown this so clearly as when he allowed Matilda to slip out of his grasp.
For what purpose did Stephen think Matilda wished to go to Bristol? Was he unaware that Robert of Gloucester was gathering men to her banner there? Why had he done this? Because Matilda had bewitched him. She had seduced him from his duty to his country and those who had given him their allegiance. He was in love with her, and weak enough to let that affect his judgement.
Clearly such a man must sooner or later place his crown in jeopardy, and when he did so, Henry wanted to be on the winning side.
Matilda was haughty. He admired the manner in which she took for granted the fact that she had been allowed to leave Arundel. She behaved as though the crown was already safely on her head.
She did deign to talk to him as they journeyed. She asked the distance they had come and how far they had to go.
She said on one occasion: ‘You are surprised that your brother gave me free passage to Bristol, are you not, my lord Bishop?’
‘I admit,’ he answered, ‘that the matter did take me by surprise.’
‘Stephen is a fool,’ she said.
He flinched. One did not speak thus of the King.
She laughed at him. ‘You should know that I have no intention of letting him keep what he has filched from me. You are startled, my lord Bishop. Have no fear that you listen to treason. What you should fear is treasonable actions in the past. All those who have helped Stephen to the crown are my enemies.’
The Bishop was silent.
‘I would forgive those who came to my side now that I am here,’ she said. ‘So your cause is not hopeless. I know that I was far away and it seemed politic to stand with the usurper. My half-brother made a pretence of doing that. I doubt not others did the same.’
‘That may well be,’ he said cautiously.
‘And you, my lord Bishop, you are his brother, but you are my cousin. You owe much to my father. He would be displeased that you had denied the true heir to the throne because your brother asked that you should support him. Come, Bishop. It is not too late. You are a shrewd man, I know it well. Do you think Stephen will long hold the crown now that I am here?’
‘He has been crowned King of England.’
‘By traitors. And what has he done for you, my good Bishop? Come tell me the truth. When old William of Canterbury died did you not hope for the highest office in the Church? You do not answer. Nor do you need to. We know, do we not, that you are an ambitious man. You were the natural successor to William but you did not become Archbishop of Canterbury. Do you know why?’
‘The Pope refused his consent.’
‘Why? I will tell you. Because Stephen opposed it – urged by his silly little Queen. Yes, that woman is beginning to have quite an influence over the man you call King. For that alone he should be deposed. Together they worked against your election.’
She laughed. She could see she had struck a vulnerable spot. That rankled with him. He had believed he would be elected to the See of Canterbury. But he was still merely Bishop of Winchester. Was that the just reward from Stephen for one who had helped him to the crown?
‘So,’ she went on, ‘they elected Theobald.’
‘The Pope was in fact a good friend to me,’ he answered. ‘He made me Legate of England which could well be a position of as great power as that of the Archbishop of Canterbury.’
‘I doubt not that you are a man of some influence in my kingdom,’ she replied. ‘And that you are a wise man. It is for this reason that you will cease to support the usurper and rally to the banner of the true Queen.’
‘The King is my brother . . .’
‘The usurper is assuredly that, but your allegiance belongs to your cousin. I do not sue for it. It is not in my nature to sue. I demand it. And, my lord Bishop, you would be wise to accede it without delay. I am not of a temper to deal lightly with those who work against me. You do not see in me such a one as your brother Stephen.’
‘I have learned that, Madam.’
‘Then when the time comes you will receive me in Winchester.’
He did not speak but he had stopped his horse as she had hers and for a moment they looked steadily into each other’s faces.
‘I see that you will give your loyalty to me,’ she answered. ‘And I promise you that when you do this you shall regret nothing. I know full well that you have knowledge of the government of this realm. I should not take one whit of your power from you and I should leave in your hands the preferments to bishoprics and abbacies. We understand each other, I believe.’
‘Yes, my lady, I am sure we do.’
She nodded and rode on, he beside her.
She gives herself such airs, he thought, she could indeed already be the Queen of England. Although she had yet to gain the crown she behaved more like a sovereign than Stephen ever had when the crown was actually on his head.
My brother, thought Henry uneasily. Yes, but a fool. And I believe that but for him and his wife Matilda I should be the Archbishop of Canterbury.
He admitted then what he had known in his heart he was going to do. He was going to change sides and support Matilda against his brother.
Matilda’s Prisoner
THE NEWS THAT Stephen had freed the Empress Matilda and that she was on her way to Bristol to join Robert of Gloucester astounded Stephen’s supporters. The King was mad, they said. What had that mysterious illness which had attacked him so suddenly really been? The Queen had nursed him herself and had allowed few to go near him. Could it really be that the King had been attacked by madness?
He had been over-lenient with his enemies which had proved to be a weakness in him, though his genial temper was well known and he was not disliked for it; but to allow his rival to walk calmly out of the trap in which she was caught it seemed could only be the action of a madman.
Matilda was here and she was indeed the true heir to the throne. A woman, yet by all accounts an indomitable one. Moreover, Robert of Gloucester was supporting her and he was one of the ablest generals in the country. Many had believed that, as the King’s son, he should have had the throne. But he was a bastard – favourite son of the King though he had been – and he made it quite clear that he had no intention of taking the throne from the one whom he considered to be the true heiress of England – his half-sister Matilda, King Henry’s only legitimate child.
Thus by the time Matilda joined Robert in Bristol many of those knights and barons who were anxious to be on the winning side had thought it expedient to rally to her banner.
After leaving Arundel, Stephen had returned to Westminster and there his Queen was waiting for him. She tried to hide her melancholy foreboding; she had been stunned with horror and grief when she heard that Stephen had allowed Matilda to escape. At first she could not believe that this was possible, but when the implication of what this me
ant dawned on her she understood perfectly. Stephen had been trapped by the enchantress. What power had this woman? Matilda the Queen knew that her rival was a handsome woman but her character was far from attractive. Haughty, selfish, arrogant she undoubtedly was. And yet her brother Robert, who was a man all must respect, was her faithful adherent, and Stephen – her own husband – was so besotted by her that he put his crown in jeopardy by letting her go free.
Her mind went back to the early days before her marriage when she had been brought from the Abbey of Bermondsey to the Court to learn that she was to marry handsome, gentle Stephen and how happy she had been and thought herself the most fortunate of princesses because such a husband had been selected for her. That other Matilda had been forced to leave her home and go to an old man while she was given handsome Stephen. Had she been so lucky?
Yes, because she loved him. His weakness made her more determined to protect him; and how strange that she, Matilda of Boulogne, as they called her, who had been so quiet and unassuming, now knew herself to be so much stronger than Stephen.
She greeted him affectionately when he came. He was shame-faced, knowing that she would have heard by now that the Empress was on her way to Bristol. Some might have reproached him for being a fool and for being unfaithful to his wife – for she knew he had been – but she did not. It was in his nature to be unfaithful to his wife. There had been other women before the Empress had come back. They had been different. Dear, charming, easy-going Stephen, who could not easily say No, even when his crown was in danger.
When they had dined and were alone in their chamber she said to him: ‘There is little time to be lost, Stephen.’
He nodded.
‘I hear that many are rallying to the Empress’s banner.’
He was silent.
‘Depend upon it,’ she said, ‘there will be a mighty battle.’
‘I have many faithful followers,’ he answered.
She was silent, wondering how many of those had deserted to the enemy since he had shown himself to have acted in a manner unaccountable to those who did not know of the passionate involvement of the King with the Empress.