The Lion of Justice

by Jean Plaidy

  Now Henry knew that the King of France was conspiring with his enemies; he could safely leave England in the hands of Matilda and his trusted ministers headed by Roger of Salisbury, and so he set off for Normandy.

  Luck was with Henry. The first news that reached him when he set foot in Normandy was that Robert of Flanders, one of the greatest enemies, had been killed when his horse threw him on the Meaux Bridge.

  This was a good augury, he told his followers, and because of their superstitious natures and their certainty that this was so, success seemed to come their way. But Henry was the first to realize that these successes were temporary and the whole picture could suddenly change.

  His great fortune was that England remained peaceful and he had no need to worry about events there, so that he could give his attention to Normandy, and this he did.

  A year passed and he was still there. He dared not leave. Messages came from England that all was well under the wise hands of Matilda and Roger. He heard news of the children. Matilda was growing more forceful each day and was undoubtedly Queen of the nurseries; William was gentle, kindly and doing well at his lessons both indoor and outdoor; their cousin Stephen was a charming boy, inclined to be a little lazy at his lessons, but always with a reason for his misdemeanours and such a charming way of delivering it that he was always forgiven. He and young Matilda had become the greatest friends, and sometimes the Queen thought it a pity that she was betrothed to the Emperor of Germany for they might have made a match for her with Stephen. Then she could have stayed with them, or at least not so far from them. Germany seemed very far away and when the Queen considered that it would not be long before their daughter would have to leave them to go and complete her education in a strange land she was sad. But she did not wish to burden Henry with these domestic details. He would be pleased to know that all was well in England, and he need have no qualms about leaving the country while he settled the affairs of Normandy.

  Henry could hardly believe his luck. Trust Louis to be so foolish. Henry could never quite forget that plump boy of about fourteen who had become so incensed when he was beaten at chess. Louis was in difficulties and he wished to call a truce, that some sort of conference might take place. His choice of envoy would have been comical if it had not been so utterly stupid. What sort of a man did he think Henry was?

  When Robert of Bellême stood before him Henry could scarcely believe his eyes.

  ‘I come from the King of France in good faith and I expect you to show the same.’

  Henry, seated in the ornate chair on which he received envoys and which was a kind of throne, looked up into that cruel perverted face. This was the man who had brought misery to thousands, the man whose name had struck terror into innocent people; those eyes had looked on at a thousand indescribable tortures. And now they were fixed on the King of England in a manner which could only be described as insolent.

  ‘You are bold to come to me, Robert of Bellême,’ said Henry slowly.

  ‘I come as a mediator.’

  ‘Whatever you come as, you are always my enemy,’ said Henry.

  He called to his servants, ‘Arrest this man.’

  ‘How can you do that? I come as an envoy.’

  ‘I can do as I will, Robert of Bellême. Have no doubt of that. Once before you were in my hands and unwisely I allowed you to go back to Normandy. What have you done since then? You have worked against me. You will always be my enemy.’

  ‘I am your enemy,’ said Robert of Bellême. ‘You have robbed me of my lands in England.’

  ‘I shall now rob you of your vile and filthy pleasures. Let me tell you you shall never have an opportunity of torturing my subjects whether in Normandy or England . . . never again.’

  Protesting, Robert of Bellême was dragged away. He was put in prison at Cherbourg until such time as he could be taken to England, where he would be doubly secure.

  Two of his enemies were removed. First Robert of Flanders and now Robert of Bellême.

  ‘There is Anjou now,’ said Henry. ‘When he is my prisoner, then the King of France will be of a certainty not well served against me.’

  This was good fortune, but still he could not leave Normandy and so the government of England remained entrusted to Matilda and her advisers. She was both mother and Queen, and often she thought of Henry and wondered what adventures he was having in Normandy. Sometimes in the night she would awaken and think of him and she wondered then who was sharing his bed.

  It was almost two years since Henry had left England and he still remained in Normandy. He was eager now to return to England. He was longing for a sight of Matilda and his family. He was weary of the conflict, but although he had had success in Normandy he could see that the final battle was yet to be won. In his heart he wondered whether it ever would be, and when he contemplated the future he admitted that before him stretched years of campaigning in Normandy.

  There was another stroke of good fortune, or perhaps it should be called strategy, when Alençon fell into his hands. This lay on the borders of Maine, that constant trouble spot, and Fulk of Anjou was obliged to sue for peace.

  Maine was forced to recognize the suzerainty of the King of England and believing that the best way of cementing an alliance was through marriage, Henry suggested that Fulk’s daughter – yet another Matilda – should be betrothed to his son William.

  This was a dazzling prospect for Fulk. His daughter to be the future Queen of England! True, her rich inheritance would pass into the hands of her husband, but it was a bait that was irresistible.

  The alliance was made, promises were given by parents of the betrothed, and now that Louis of France was denuded of the most powerful of his allies, Henry thought that he might well return to England.

  What a joyous homecoming that was!

  ‘Two years is far too long to be away from my home and family,’ said Henry sentimentally.

  Matilda was delighted to see him. She met him at Dover and they rode triumphantly back to Westminster, the people cheering them on the way. The Queen’s piety and goodness to the poor had always been applauded. The King was harsh but he was a good king – as kings went – and he had wiped out the humiliation of the conquest in the minds of the Saxon community by winning victories in Normandy.

  ‘Welcome to the King of England and the Duke of Normandy,’ they cried.

  It was indeed good to be back.

  The children had grown. His eyes lingered on William, a goodly boy. He would have to teach him the art of kingship. That would be a pleasure. And Matilda: she was growing handsome, and how proudly she held her head and how her eyes flashed!

  He said, ‘How is my young Empress?’ He spoke ironically, for she was not entitled to the title until the marriage was solemnized. That day was not far off. But Matilda saw nothing ironical. She already saw herself as the Empress.

  ‘And Stephen, my nephew.’

  Stephen bowed gracefully. He was a handsome young fellow and growing fast.

  ‘Why, Stephen,’ said the King, ‘you will soon be joining me on the battlefield.’

  ‘It cannot be too soon for me, sir.’

  ‘So you want to be a soldier eh?’

  ‘I want nothing more than to be at your side and to put an end to all those who are traitors against my lord King.’

  ‘Well spoken. Very soon, then. Next time I go to Normandy I may take you with me. Your brother Theobald gives a good account of himself and that pleases your mother.’

  Stephen bowed his head, full of respect for the returned warrior.

  The Queen, watching, thought that Stephen had more grace than her own children. William was perhaps too gentle; Matilda was too proud. Henry would be able to report very favourably on his nephew to his sister Adela.

  There was a banquet at which the children were present and the King ate heartily of his favourite dish of lampreys.

  Yes, a very pleasant homecoming.

  It would be advisable, Henry believed, now that he h
ad returned, to show himself to his subjects. So he arranged with Matilda a succession of tours throughout the country.

  They were well received in most places. The only dissatisfaction with Henry was his harsh taxation (which he always declared was necessary if he was going to subdue the rebels of Normandy and prevent England being invaded by men such as the cruel Robert of Bellême) and his even harsher forestry laws. The latter Henry’s better judgment warned him to modify but he would not forgo his great passion for the hunt any more than his father could. He needed the exhilaration the chase could give him. He spent much of his life in battle – or he had since the conquest of Normandy – and he must have the only relaxation that meant anything to him: hunting, whether it was the deer, the wild boar or a woman. He was not sure which of these gave him the greater satisfaction, but that satisfaction he must have.

  Now for a while he would be the faithful husband of Matilda. She was not uncomely, with her long fair hair and her swan-like neck, and it pleased him to congratulate himself on his temporary virtue. Moreover they needed more children. Two was a poor tally. Daughters were as valuable in the game of statecraft as pawns were in the game of chess. Young Matilda had proved that through the alliance with Germany. He had his son and heir, it was true, but there should have been more. When he thought of his brother Richard’s death in the New Forest he remembered the grief in the home, but his father had remarked, ‘By the grace of God, we have other sons.’ And so he had – too many as it turned out. Robert, Rufus and himself . . . and not enough land for poor Henry. But he was no longer poor Henry, for he had more than either of his brothers had had, which was what his father had prophesied. But what would have happened if Richard had been the only one?

  What was the matter with Matilda that she had suddenly become barren? It was since she had discovered his peccadilloes: it was almost as though her body declared that since he had fathered so many others he should have no more from her. Which was absurd, for she longed for more children even as he did.

  So be it; he would be a faithful husband for the sake of his conscience and the hope of another son or even a daughter.

  The great Abbey of Hyde which they had founded and endowed was now ready to be opened and Henry decided that they would make a grand ceremony of the opening; and since he felt, after his long absence in Normandy, he had need of placating the Saxon element of his country, he decided to honour one of the greatest of their kings.

  The bones of King Alfred and his Queen Alswitha had been buried in Newminster chapel in Winchester, and this seemed to Henry an appropriate moment to remind the people that not only was Matilda descended from Alfred the Great but he was also – for of Alfred’s three daughters, one of them, Ethleswitha, had married Baldwin of Flanders, and it was well-known that Henry’s mother Matilda was the daughter of another Baldwin of Flanders.

  So in a brilliant ceremony the bones of the Great Alfred were taken from Newminster to Hyde and there Henry told the people that he found great satisfaction in honouring the greatest Saxon king, from whom not only the Queen but he himself had descended.

  The children accompanied their parents, for now that they were growing up Henry liked them to be seen as much as possible.

  They had watched the ceremony of the burial of the bones with great interest and when they were alone together discussed it.

  William said that he hoped when the time came for him to rule he would be as great a ruler as King Alfred had been.

  ‘You never will,’ retorted Matilda. ‘I should have been born the boy. I know it, and I am sure everyone agrees.’

  ‘They do not,’ declared William hotly. ‘Our father is pleased. He told me so, and when he next goes to Normandy I am to go with him.’

  ‘To marry that girl! She is only the daughter of a vassal of our father. When I go it will be to marry an Emperor.’ She looked at Stephen and her expression softened. ‘But I don’t want to go, now,’ she added. ‘I don’t want to go one little bit.’

  ‘You won’t hate your going half as much as I shall,’ said Stephen, his face growing melancholy – which Matilda thought made it look more beautiful than ever.

  ‘Dear, dear Stephen! The Emperor is an old man. I wish he were young and beautiful.’ She and Stephen exchanged smiles and she went on, ‘You think I’d make a better ruler than William will, don’t you, Stephen?’

  Stephen was never at a loss for words. ‘I think you would both make the very best rulers it is possible to have.’

  Matilda went to him and threw her arms about his neck. She loved kissing Stephen. She thought him the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. Stephen returned her kiss lingeringly.

  William watched them and said, ‘Stephen always says what people like hearing, but it is not always what he means.’

  ‘William is trying to be clever,’ retorted Matilda, watching Stephen.

  ‘He doesn’t have to try, he is,’ replied Stephen, always the diplomat, making sure that his replies could never be taken amiss by any member of the company.

  Stephen had the cleverest tongue of all the young people at Court, it had been said. He was very popular with the women. Matilda knew that he often did what he should not do. Many of these women had husbands. She had heard it said, ‘He will be another such as the King.’

  Matilda would have liked to share Stephen’s adventures. It was a little game between them. There was so much he would like her to share with him but always he remembered that she was the King’s daughter, an Empress-to-be, and Stephen’s position at the Court was one which had been given him by the bounty of his uncle. His home was really in Blois and his parents had impressed upon him that when in England he must do nothing to displease the King or Queen, for if he did, such action might result in his being sent back to Blois, his prospects in ruins.

  He knew the King and Queen well. The Queen must never hear of his little adventures; if the King did – and he believed he had – he would shrug his shouders and laugh, for he had had very similar adventures when he was Stephen’s age. But of course if Matilda was involved in those adventures it would be a very different matter.

  Matilda knew this, too. It was a titillating situation, though. She wondered how she would have felt if she had been able to marry Stephen. Very excited, she believed, and looking forward to the consummation.

  But Stephen was not for her. He was merely a humble son of the Count of Blois and not even the eldest son. He was only at the Court because his mother was her father’s favourite sister and she had asked the King to look after Stephen’s future.

  Matilda was reserved for a more glorious match; but she was not sure now whether she would have preferred to be the wife of Stephen of Blois or the Emperor of Germany.

  Until Stephen had begun to fascinate her with his good looks, his lazy ways and his gallant speeches she had been absolutely sure that the finest thing in the world was to be a great Empress.

  It was spring when the embassy arrived from Germany. From a window the young Matilda watched their arrival. She knew, of course, for what purpose they came. For the first time she began to feel afraid. It was one thing to be told when one was seven years old that great honour had been done to one, the result of which was that one would be the wife of a great ruler and an Empress. But when one was twelve years old and began to understand something of the meaning of marriage, it was a different matter.

  She was going to a man she had never seen. He was forty years older than she was. She would be conducted to his country with great ceremonies which her proud heart loved, and that was well enough if only she did not have to arrive. But she would, and in the not very distant future. Then there would be the greatest ceremony of all, and after that . . . she shivered.

  She was frightened. She, Matilda, the bold one, who had sworn to William and the other children that she was never frightened of anything! She was frightened of this old man who would be her husband; and she did not want to leave her home to go and be his Empress.

  Som
eone was standing behind her. She knew who it was before she turned, for he, too, would come to see the arrival.

  ‘Stephen,’ she said with a little catch in her voice.

  She turned to him and threw herself at him. He put his arms around her and stroked her hair.

  ‘This means I shall soon be gone, Stephen,’ she said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Oh, Stephen, what am I going to do?’

  He did not answer. He went on stroking her hair.

  ‘I don’t want to be married to him. I don’t want to be an Empress.’

  ‘You’ll be all right. He will love you dearly.’

  ‘I don’t want him to. I don’t want him. I want to stay here.’

  ‘You will be a great Empress, Matilda.’

  She brightened a little at the thought, but only momentarily. ‘Oh, Stephen,’ she said, ‘I wish . . .’

  ‘I wish it, too,’ he told her.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind not being an Empress . . . I wouldn’t mind anything . . .’

  ‘We have to marry those who are chosen for us, Matilda. It happens to us all.’

  ‘Perhaps . . .’

  Speculation shone in her eyes. She did have the wildest fancies. Somewhere in her mind was the thought that she, Matilda, could do anything she wished simply because she was Matilda.

  Stephen was not like that. Stephen was lazy; he would do nothing to offend the King because he feared that if he did he would be sent back to Blois and that was the very last thing that must happen. Perhaps she liked Stephen so much because he was so different from herself.

  Stephen said, ‘I shall think of you all the time.’

  She nodded. That must be her consolation.

  There was little time for grieving. The ceremonies to entertain the embassy occupied all her time. She must be presented to this one and that and she was aware of the new respect with which she was treated, and this gave a little balm to her feelings.

  If only she could stop thinking of Stephen, and how beautiful he was, how young and amusing. And the Emperor was forty years older than she was. That made him fifty-two! He was a very old man . . . older than her mother and father.