by Jean Plaidy
Bishop Burchard of Cambrai, in whose charge she was to be put, was very stern, although, like all the others, respectful. He told her that she would continue with her education in Germany after her marriage. The Emperor wished her to speak German so she would have to work hard at that, for everyone around her would be speaking German. She would learn to live like a German, to be a German.
She felt angry and resentful. She was English, she wanted to say, and so she would remain, but she merely regarded the Bishop haughtily and replied that she would do what she judged to be her duty.
Her father sent for her that he might make her fully aware of the importance of what was happening to her.
‘My daughter,’ he said, ‘you are fortunate indeed. This is a great match and you are doubly blessed, for you will be an Empress, the wife of a great ruler, and you will bring great good to your country. Never forget that you are English and that it is your duty to make sure that you bring good to me and your family. Never forget that.’
‘I shall not forget,’ said Matilda.
‘You are a good brave girl,’ he said.
Her lips trembled slightly as he embraced her.
‘I’m proud of you, Matilda,’ he went on. He left her, for he did not wish to know that she was apprehensive: it disturbed him. Poor child, she was only twelve years old. He was thinking that she had always been self-reliant. Once she had children, if she did, all would be well – as long as she remembered her allegiance to her father’s kingdom.
It was different with her mother. The Queen was gentle, remembering that this was the little baby who had filled her with tenderness when she was born, and had continued to do so until Matilda had shown herself to be in no need of tenderness, and was indeed a little impatient with it. Matilda had always wanted admiration beyond all else.
But now the child looked a little forlorn. It was a long way to go from home to a strange land and a husband whom she had never seen. She would know nothing of what marriage entailed. The Queen thought of herself at that age and did not know that Matilda was unlike her and not entirely ignorant as her mother had been.
‘My dearest daughter,’ said the Queen, drawing the girl into her arms, ‘you are going far from us and we shall miss you sorely. But you will have a husband to care for you. You must love him dearly. You must promise me to do so.’
‘How can I until I know I can?’
‘You must strive for this.’
‘My lady, can one strive to love?’
‘One can strive to do one’s duty.’
Matilda said suddenly, ‘I don’t want to go.’
‘My child, this happens to Princesses. They must leave their homes. They must marry where it will do good to their families. It happens to many of us.’
‘It did not happen to you.’
‘No.’ The Queen smiled, thinking of Henry’s coming to the Abbey. How wonderful he had seemed, a shining hero coming to rescue her from the harshness of her Aunt Christina. And it had not turned out quite as she had hoped. The chivalrous knight had turned out to be a lecher, a man who, while he was courting her, was living in intimacy with another woman, perhaps several – so that she was never surprised when some new young man or woman was brought to Court and she discovered him or her to be yet another of her husband’s bastards. ‘Your father came and courted me and I loved him before I married him. Love will come to you after marriage.’
Matilda said nothing.
She was thinking of Stephen, for as the day of her departure drew nearer she thought more and more of Stephen. He was always in her company; they both knew that they wished to see as much as possible of each other, for when she went to Germany and he maybe followed his uncle to Normandy, they would have only memories of each other.
The last day came.
Matilda was dressed in a kirtle of blue, edged with gold embroidery; the little cap on her head was covered in precious stones and her long hair fell under it in two long plaits. She looked very handsome and slightly older than her twelve years. There was a faint colour in her cheeks, in spite of the fact that she was about to leave her home, because she was the centre of attraction and that had always meant a great deal to Matilda.
Down to the coast she travelled with her parents and the members of the embassy from Germany. Stephen was of the party, and he was never far from her side.
Sadly he watched her, and Matilda thought often of how different it would have been if instead of being her poor cousin he had been a great king.
Her parents bade her a tender farewell; she boarded the ship which was to take her to her new life. She was the centre of all attention, for all this pomp had been devised for her.
She stood on deck watching the last of England fade away.
Somewhere on the shore which would soon fade from her sight was her dearest cousin Stephen, but he was not meant for her. She turned her face from the white cliffs and looked out to sea.
She must put away childish romantic dreams and begin to think of her new role of Empress.
The Passing of the Queen
THE QUEEN’S SISTER Mary came to Court. Matilda was delighted to see her, as always, for they still both enjoyed talking of the old days under Aunt Christina and congratulating themselves on their escape.
‘Although,’ Mary admitted, ‘it wasn’t quite as wonderful as I used to think it would be when, as a prisoner in the Abbey, I dreamed of love and marriage; and I know it was not for you either, Edith.’
‘How it takes me back to those days to be called Edith. No one calls me that now except you.’
‘If I called you Matilda I should confuse you with my daughter and yours. It is my daughter I want to talk to you about, Edith.’
‘How fares she in the Abbey of Bermondsey?’
‘Very well indeed, I think. Her lot is different from ours. As you know, I visit her when I am here and I make an opportunity of coming whenever I can.’
‘So you do not mind leaving Eustace?’
Mary grimaced. ‘Eustace is always concerned with planning a crusade and then going on it and planning another. I believe he has led such a sinful life that he has much to be forgiven and he thinks this is the way of washing his sins away.’
Matilda said, ‘Oh Mary!’ in shocked tones, which made Mary laugh.
‘Oh, I will say what I mean,’ she said. ‘And so should you. We know that the men we married are not saints, so should we pretend they are? You especially, Edith. All know you are married to the biggest lecher in Christendom.’
‘Mary, I beg of you!’
‘You may beg of me all you wish, but nothing can change this. How many children has he? I’ll swear even he does not know. He only has to show favour to a young man or woman and the young man is said to be his son and the young woman his latest mistress.’
Matilda shut her eyes and shivered.
‘Forgive me, sister,’ went on Mary. ‘You are too good for the world; but I believe in speaking my mind. We were frank with each other in the Abbey. Should we not be so now? I know that you endowed Henry with the virtues of the perfect knight. Well, he is gallant enough.’ She leaned forward and laid her hand over her sister’s. ‘Do you fret because of his habits? Cheer up. When he gets older his desires will lessen. It is in the nature of things.’
‘Mary, could we talk of something else?’
‘With pleasure. We will talk of that which is uppermost in my mind. My daughter’s future. She will need a husband.’
‘And Eustace has plans for her?’
‘Eustace! He is piqued because she was not a boy. He thinks I should have given him a string of sons. How typical of these men! They never doubt their own manhood. They always blame us. He is so much older than I, yet he thinks the reason we have no son is due to me.’
‘So it is you who make plans for your daughter.’
‘I will, with your help.’
‘My help? How can I help you?’
‘By speaking to the King, of course.’
‘You had someone in mind at this Court. Who?’
‘Stephen . . . Stephen of Blois.’
‘Why, that would seem an excellent match.’
‘I am glad you are in agreement with me. Stephen is not greatly endowed but I hear he is a personable young man. He is the son of the Count of Blois and his mother is the daughter of the Conqueror, and your husband’s sister.’
‘He has little prospects.’
‘Little I agree, but in view of his relations with the King, it may well be that he will one day be not so ill-endowed.’
‘So you wish me to speak to the King and to ask him if he would approve of the match?’
‘I should be grateful if you would.’
‘Well,’ said Matilda, ‘there is no harm in mentioning it to the King. He has not said he has other plans for his nephew.’
How strangely quiet were the children’s apartments without Matilda.
They constantly talked of her and often said, ‘Now if Matilda were here . . .’ and then they would realize how much they missed her.
Stephen regretted her going more than any, even though there were plenty of women who were ready to console him and he was eager to be consoled.
William said to him, ‘I shall be married one day, Stephen. Then I shall be gone, too.’
‘You will be married soon, depend upon it,’ replied
Stephen. ‘Your marriage is so much a matter of policy.’
‘Perhaps you will be allowed to choose.’
Stephen contemplated that and wondered. It was possible that he would not be, for he was not far from the throne. Suppose William did not have any children, would he, Stephen, ever have a chance? There was Matilda to come before him. He had often cherished the idea that one day he might marry Matilda and even though she had been betrothed to the old Emperor he had gone on hoping. The Emperor was a very old man. Sometimes old men died on the night of their weddings when they were married to young girls like Matilda. Suppose the Emperor died and suppose Matilda was a widow and came back to England and needed a new husband.
Matilda would have taken him readily . . . as readily as he would have taken her. His feelings for Matilda had never been expressed except through innuendo, and hopes that could never be realized. It could have been so different.
Sometimes Stephen wished that he had been bolder. Who knew what might have happened then? Danger! What if he had got young Matilda with child? He believed that she was passionate and would conceive readily. He shuddered at the thought. The King could be ruthless. Sometimes he had imagined himself caught in a passionate relationship with Matilda which both of them were unable to resist, and wondered what the King’s reaction would have been. In his nightmares he imagined himself groping his way blindly through his prison, dark sockets in his face where his eyes had been. That could have happened to him if Matilda had been delivered to her Emperor anything but an unsullied virgin.
Nothing was worth the loss of eyes, of freedom: certainly not a woman. There were so many of them and very few who were not ready to be gracious to a handsome young man like Stephen.
The King sent for him and smiled in a friendly fashion when his nephew entered his chamber. He was a fine young fellow, thought Henry, who could never see him without wishing that he was his son.
‘My dear nephew,’ he said, ‘can you guess what I wish to say to you?’
‘I hope, my lord, that you are going to tell me that I may accompany you when you next leave for Normandy.’
‘Ha, that may be sooner than you think. Rest assured, nephew, you shall be with me. But it was not of that I wished to talk to you. What say you if I tell you I have found a bride for you?’
Hope leaped up. Matilda’s husband was dead. She was to have a new husband. Stephen had been chosen. If William died he and Matilda might reign together . . .
Wild dreams! Matilda’s old husband was a few steps from the tomb yet. He had let his imagination run on too far.
‘Pray tell me, uncle, whom you have chosen?’
‘I have chosen Matilda,’ said Henry.
The colour rushed into Stephen’s face. ‘Then, sir, it is so. The Emperor is dead . . .’
Henry looked at his nephew in amazement. ‘What say you?’
‘You said Matilda.’
Henry burst into loud laughter. ‘You are thinking of my daughter. Nay, nephew. She is well married and bedded by now, I doubt not. The Emperor wants an heir before he is too old. There are many Matildas, Stephen. There is one now in the Bermondsey Abbey – a daughter of the Count of Boulogne and the Queen’s sister. That is the Matilda I had chosen for you.’
Henry was amazed by the expression on his nephew’s face, for Stephen’s hopes had been so raised and they so fitted his dream that he was unable to hide his dismay.
Henry was amused. ‘So you thought it was my daughter. She would be a handful, Stephen. I trust this other Matilda will be more meek. It should be so, for she was brought up in an Abbey; and in such places they give a good grounding for meekness.’
Stephen was still silent.
‘My daughter Matilda would give a husband a merry dance, I doubt not. She has something of me in her and my father and my mother. She does not take after her own mother at all. Be content with this Matilda I have chosen for you. By all accounts women are inclined to be gracious to you. Well, you’ll have little to complain of, I’m sure. Do not look for too much pleasure in the marriage bed. Do your duty and look elsewhere for enjoyment. It is often so – and I know full well that you are one to come to a quick understanding of these matters.’
‘I shall, my lord, be happy to marry whomsoever it is your wish to choose for me.’
‘That is the spirit, nephew. I’ve no doubt you’ll make the lady happy. The marriage should take place soon, for it is time you married.’
Stephen bowed and left the King; then he went to his chamber and brooded on his future.
He was a fool to think that he would have aspired to that other Matilda. If she had been free a man in a very much more important position would be found for her. He was not even the eldest son of the Count of Blois and it was only because his mother was Henry’s favourite sister that he received his present favour.
His family would consider this marriage a good match.
He must resign himself to Matilda of Boulogne instead of Matilda of England.
Mary was delighted, and went to Bermondsey to acquaint her daughter that she was to be betrothed to Stephen of Blois.
The Queen missed her. She missed her daughter, too, for the children’s apartments were so quiet without the dominating Matilda. And now Stephen was to marry and presumably would leave Court. The next would be William; but at least he would not have to go away.
It was comforting to have Henry in England although he must keep a continual watch on the situation in Normandy, and at any moment he would be called away to deal with some rising.
He had not been to Wales to visit Nesta for some time, and Matilda knew that he prayed that a son might be born to him and the Queen.
She did not tell him that she was often very tired and suffered from breathlessness at certain exertions. She tried her best to disguise her ill-health. Henry did not like sick people about him, and he could not understand why it was that she did not become pregnant. The fault could not be his; he had proved that many times over.
‘Only two children,’ he brooded. ‘’Tis not for want of trying.’
He could not understand it. He only had to spend a week or so with a new mistress and she would be telling him she was enceinte very soon. It was particularly galling to have so many fine sons and daughters born outside wedlock and to have merely two legitimate ones. He was pleased with them. Matilda was a daughter to be proud of and the German alliance would set the King of France shivering in his shoes. He wished he had six daughters that he might marry them to the enemies of the King of France; he would plant them all along his borders and that would show fat Louis that Henry was capable of b
eating him at more than a game of chess.
William was the delight of his life; and the more barren Matilda seemed to have become the more was he drawn to William.
William was a fine-looking boy . . . and a good boy too. He had inherited the Norman characteristics of the family. He was gentle-tempered though – something rare – yet brave and making progress in the art of chivalry. A son to be proud of. He would be a good king of England.
‘If only there was another boy,’ Henry used to say to Matilda. ‘I’d give him Normandy, but I’d make William and him swear to be allies. This fighting in families brings no good.’
‘Why does it have to go on? Robert is your prisoner in Cardiff Castle. You are Duke of Normandy as well as King. Why do not these miserable risings cease?’
‘Because I allowed the Clito to go free. Had I imprisoned him as was my intention, there would be no figurehead to rally them. Clito is only young as yet but he is the thorn in my side, Matilda. In future I shall take my own counsel. That boy should be in an English prison with his father, not roaming the Duchy, held up as the rightful duke by my rebellious subjects.’
‘But now that you have affianced William to Anjou’s daughter.’
‘William is young for marriage. I must needs postpone the ceremony for a few years.’
‘But the betrothal is firm?’
‘Ay, and Louis likes it not. But I don’t altogether trust Fulk of Anjou.’
‘But surely he would do nothing to prevent his daughter’s marriage to the heir of England?’
‘I think not. But it is long ere the marriage will be celebrated. I would to God we had more children, that I might make matches for them.’
This was a reproach which stung Matilda to retort, ‘Perhaps God has given you so many out of wedlock that He has seen fit to restrict the number within it.’
‘He has given us an indication that the fault does not lie with me.’
It was a near quarrel, for this subject was a sore one with Henry, but they avoided it. Quarrelling was not the way to get children.
Mary had arrived at Court with her daughter. When the young Matilda met the man who was to be her husband she was enchanted with him. Stephen was some seventeen years of age; he was good-looking but his charm of manner would have made him attractive even had he been less handsome. He had a habit of putting everyone at ease; even the humblest were treated well by him. He was indolent by nature; to charm required little effort from him, and he was shrewd enough to realize that the popularity he acquired by this would be useful to him.