by Jean Plaidy
The thought of crossing that unpredictable strip of water so appalled Matilda in her state that she could not suppress a shudder.
‘My mother crossed often from Normandy to England,’ he reminded her. ‘I was born here.’
‘When William is married, then,’ she said.
‘That will be this coming year,’ said Henry.
This coming year! It was a long way away. Where would she be then? It would not surprise her if she had left this earth by then.
Soon after Christmas, Henry sailed for France and, making a great effort, Matilda accompanied him to Dover.
She was rather relieved when she had waved him farewell and the ship which carried him disappeared from view.
Now she could give herself up to the comfort of accepting the fact that she was a very sick woman.
All through the spring she was in decline. She became so tired that she did not leave her room.
Gunilda said, ‘The King should be told of your illness, my lady.’
‘The King has much with which to occupy himself.’
‘Should not the sickness of his wife be his first consideration?’
‘Not if he is a king with a dukedom to hold.’
‘Madam,’ said Emma, ‘would you not like to see your son?’
‘More than anything,’ she answered.
‘Then should you not send for him?’
‘How could he come and the King not know it?’
‘I think the King should be told,’ said Christina.
‘My dear friends, you must not say such things. The King must not be disturbed. He has great tasks to perform. He must not be worried by these domestic details. I have lived for nearly forty-one years, and eighteen of those I have been married to the King. I know him well.’
‘But, my lady . . .’
She silenced them. ‘I know and you know that my end is near. But the King has affairs of great moment which require his attention. He must be in Normandy. What do you think would happen if he were to leave the battle there for the sake of a sick wife?’
Gunilda shook her head and went into the ante-room where she talked in whispers with Emma and Christina. The Queen was a saint. They spoke of all she had had to endure, of the King’s infidelities, of his numerous bastards: all that which emphasized the saintliness of his Queen.
‘He should know,’ said Christina emphatically.
The others agreed, but there was none who dared tell the King.
She lay in her bed. The light was fading fast. She felt wonderfully peaceful. There were moments when she was not sure whether she was in her bed in the Palace of Westminster or in her convent cell.
There were shadows on the wall. The candles cast such a flickering light – elongated shadows that looked like a woman in the dark Benedictine robe, a woman who had a stern face and a cane.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Never. Not now that I know Henry . . .’
‘You did not know Henry,’ whispered a voice within her. ‘You never knew Henry.’
Such men as her husband were complex people. He could be kind to her; he had been a good husband. All those other women, they were like a long procession marching through her bedchamber and at the head of them was Nesta of Wales. Naked she danced and the King with her.
‘No!’ cried Matilda. ‘No.’
And she was in her bed again.
It was only a dream, she told herself. They were not here. But what had he been like with those others? She knew that she had never been able to give him what they had. There were but the two children – the girl and the boy. How she would love to see them now! Little Matilda, an Empress, flashing scornful eyes, proud and bold, and gentle William, her darling son. How cruel that she must leave this life without one more look at them, with no loving word of farewell from their lips.
But they were royal. They were not supposed to have the feelings of ordinary people. Matilda’s marriage with the Emperor of Germany; William’s with the daughter of Fulk of Anjou; Henry’s battles with Normandy – all these were of more importance than a dying mother and wife.
And so farewell my children who are far away, farewell my husband. There will never be another son now, Henry. But you have William . . . and there is Matilda.
How dark it was. Who was that by the bed? Emma? Gunilda?
Bless them. Good and faithful, kind friends. What would they do without her?
‘Emma . . .’
‘My lady.’
‘What will you do . . .? Where . . .?’
‘Do not fret for us, my lady. You should make your peace with God.’
‘Is it time, then?’
There were many at her bedside. There was the cross to hold before her eyes. She remembered hazily a long-ago day when her mother lay dying, grasping the black cross in her hand as she did so. A terrible day . . . when the news of her father’s murder had come to them and that awful desolation had descended upon them. That was, in a way, the beginning. Was that why she thought of it at the end?
Her hands were limp about the cross.
Very soon now it would be over. They would take the news to Henry . . . to Matilda . . . to William . . .
‘Farewell my dear ones . . .’
The tears ran down Emma’s cheeks, and Gunilda took her arm.
‘It is over now,’ she whispered; and they stood for a moment looking down at the still face of the Queen.
It was May-time, the beautiful month, when the trees were in bud and new life was bursting out in the lanes and fields.
But the Queen was dead.
The bells of Westminster tolled for her and it seemed fitting that she should be laid beside that great King of England, Edward the Confessor. She was of his royal house; she had brought together the Saxon and Norman houses; she had been a saintly woman who had been a good and faithful wife to a sometimes harsh and not always faithful husband.
And when her obsequies were over and she was at rest in her tomb the messengers were sent to Germany and to Normandy that her family might learn the dismal truth.
A Horse and a Bride for William
THEY BROUGHT THE news to Henry when he was preparing to go into battle. Matilda dead and buried! ‘It is not possible,’ he cried, as though by denying it he could prevent its having happened.
The messenger bowed his head, not daring to contradict the King, yet being unable to agree with him.
‘When?’ cried Henry. ‘How?’
She had passed peacefully away in her bed. Her women had known she was ill for some time.
Deep in his heart he had known it, too. He thought of her sitting beside him at Woodstock, pale and remote, as though her thoughts were far away. He knew that she had been in pain and seeking to hide it from him.
She was too young to die. Ten years younger than he was. It was eighteen years since he had taken her from the abbey and married her. Eighteen good years!
He had never regretted his marriage even when there had been those uneasy scenes which he hated, when she had reproached him for his infidelities and he had been irritated by her innocence of the world and men such as himself.
Matilda . . . dead! Life would never be the same without her.
But there was a war to be fought and won. He had a kingdom and dukedom to hold; and for such as he personal grief must not come between him and his duty.
‘William,’ he said, ‘your mother is dead.’
William’s face puckered. ‘No, sir . . .’ he stammered.
‘Alas, my son, ’tis so. That good woman has passed away. We are going to miss her sorely.’
‘But to happen while none of us was with her!’
The King nodded.
‘Should we go back, sir?’
‘Back to England! At this time. Are you mad? The King of France would move in in triumph. The Clito is gathering men to his side every day. To go back now could lose us Normandy!’
William was abashed. He should never have made such a foolish comment.
‘And
of what use?’ asked Henry. ‘She is dead now and buried. Nay, we must perforce do our mourning here in Normandy, and take our revenge on our enemies that they have caused us to be absent when your beloved mother passed away.’
When he was alone Henry thought of the future without Matilda. He was no longer young but not too old to take a wife. The Emperor of Germany had married Matilda who was forty years his junior. Perhaps he should consider marriage. Yet he had his son, William, his heir whom he was preparing to follow in his footsteps.
To marry again! It was a little soon to be thinking of that, but kings were not ordinary men. Brides would be offered him doubtless – young nubile women. He was free now with an easy conscience to take his women where he fancied them. Not that marriage had prevented him but he often remembered those occasions when Matilda had reproached him. Why should he marry again – unless of course a marriage offered him great opportunities, and what marriage could make Normandy safe for him? Where in Normandy was there a vassal strong enough to guarantee the submission of that troublesome dukedom? William was to marry Fulk of Anjou’s daughter. They were betrothed. That was enough. Nay, he would not marry. He would go to seek comfort of Nesta when he was back in England.
In the meantime he would mourn Matilda, his good wife, and mourn her with unfeigned sorrow; but his first thoughts must be for battle.
The battle raged fiercely. The King of France had allied himself with the Clito’s forces, but the Clito seemed to have inherited his father’s inescapable curse of failure; and Henry had never had much respect for the King of France since that long-ago game of chess. Henry’s forces were superior and Henry was a great general. When he rode into battle it seemed to him that the spirit of his great father rode with him. William the Conqueror had never been defeated in battle, save once when he fought against his own son and had been unseated. Then Robert could have killed him, but he could not bring himself to harm his own father in spite of the long-standing conflict betweeen them. Poor ineffectual Robert! He had so little luck and when it did come his way he would not know what to do with it. He had not taken advantage of his victory because he, like all the family, had been brought up to believe that the Conqueror had some divine right of victory and that this must be maintained no matter with what results. Poor idealistic futile Robert! Even on that occasion his father had despised him for not making the most of his advantages.
‘Oh, my father,’ said Henry, ‘I should never be guilty of such folly. This young man who comes against me is my nephew, your grandson, but by God and all the Saints, if I come face to face with him in combat I shall slay him, nor should I admire him if he, having the advantage, did not slay me. You prophesied that I should have more than either of my brothers and by this you meant both your dukedom of Normandy and the England you conquered. I know it was your dream to make one country of these two and that is what I shall do. Let your spirit ride beside me and I shall be sure of victory.’
So he prayed not to God but to the spirit of his great all-conquering father.
It was inevitable that he should rout the enemy. He had the superior forces: he was a greater general than the King of France ever could be; and poor Clito was too inexperienced as yet.
During the battle Clito was unhorsed; he managed to escape but the horse was captured – a magnificent creature, caparisoned in the most elaborate fashion. None could doubt that such a horse had belonged to the son of Robert of Normandy, for so magnificent was it that it must have cost a fortune to make it so.
Henry laughed aloud when the horse was brought to him.
‘The Clito’s horse, sire. He was unseated.’
‘And escaped?’ asked Henry.
‘Alas, sire. As soon as he fell he was surrounded by a strong force who held off his attacker, who was slain. Before more of our men should take him he was hustled away.’
‘I would rather have him than his horse,’ said Henry, ‘for while he lives he will find men to rally to his banner.’
But the battle was won: the Clito had been unhorsed, the King of France was in retreat. It was a victory.
‘William,’ said Henry, ‘see what a fine horse your cousin rides?’
‘I never saw a horse so richly caparisoned, sir.’
‘These riches should have gone into equipping his men. One does not win battles with gold and bejewelled saddles, my son.’
‘Nay, father.’
‘Never make the mistake of extravagance. Your grandfather never did that.’
William nodded. He had been lectured many times on the need never to waste money. Henry knew to a penny what was spent on his campaigns and on his household. He had not been nicknamed Beauclerc for nothing. He could wield a pen as readily as any scribe and he enjoyed working with figures which must always balance.
‘Learn all you can of your grandfather’s campaigns. He was the greatest ruler ever known. Listen to my advice, for I follow him. One day, William, you will step into my shoes. The death of your mother who was more than ten years younger than I, brings home this truth. I cannot live for ever. Then you will be King in my place. You must be ready, for as your mother was taken when we least expected it, so could I be.’
‘Father, I beg of you . . . stop. The subject is so distasteful to me.’
Henry laughed. ‘There, my son. We kings must face facts. There is little time in our lives for family feelings. You must be ready when the time comes. But a king cannot afford to make mistakes. Learn from the folly of your uncle Robert; and of the Clito – a wanderer one might say in search of his inheritance, yet who spends a fortune on a horse which he could, and has, lost in battle. Your grandfather was a richer man than the Clito could ever be. He was the richest man in England and Normandy, yet he would never have wasted a penny, as I do not. Nor must you. Take this horse, then. I give it to you. Make what use of it you wish.’
William took the horse and left his father.
In his tent, he thought of the horse – a noble creature. He fancied it had a sad lost look in its eyes; and he thought of his own horse bereft of its master. The finer the horse the deeper its feelings. This was the Clito’s horse and he loved his master.
He went out to the stable and looked at the horse again. He patted its neck and he felt the aloofness of the creature, who managed to show him a disdain he understood, as though it were saying: Do you think I am yours because you won me in battle?
The Clito had loved this horse. He had decked it out in this fashion because he wished to give it accoutrements worthy of it. William understood that, though his father did not.
How could he take his cousin’s horse when it belonged to him? It was not like a town or a jewel. It was a living thing. Nothing on earth could make this horse his. It would fret for its master.
William knew, then, that he could never be a king as his grandfather had been or his father was. He could not count his possessions and revel because they were so large and plan how to enhance them. William wanted to live. He wanted to be a king, yes; and he knew that a king had to go into battle. It would always be necessary for a king to fight to hold what he had, to gain more than he had. It was part of kingship.
He was joined by his cousin Stephen, who had come to look at the horse.
‘What a beauty!’ cried Stephen. ‘Look at this cloth! These jewels are worth a fortune.’
‘So my father says. The Clito is a fool to have wasted money which could have gone into more useful things.’
‘But what a sight! And it is yours.’
‘I feel I have no right to it.’
Stephen surveyed William intently. William was too gentle, too honest for kingship, he decided. He wondered what would happen to the kingdom under him. He would be his close friend and cousin, and William would honour him. Their lives would be bound together. How often had he wished that he had been Henry’s son instead of his nephew; being older than William he would have been the heir. Sometimes, he thought that Henry wished that too.
‘You have a right to
what has been honourably won in battle,’ said Stephen.
‘This horse pines for its master.’
‘It would soon forget.’
‘I think not.’
William continued to stroke the horse. ‘You see, he does not respond to me. He resents me. There is only one thing he wants from me and that is that I should send him back to the master he loves.’
Stephen laughed aloud at the thought, but William turned on him almost angrily. ‘That is what I am going to do,’ he said.
Stephen stared in dismay. ‘Your father . . .’
‘I shall do it first and he will hear of it when it is done.’
He called a groom and said. ‘I want this horse taken into the enemy’s camp. It is to be delivered to William the Clito, with my compliments.’
The groom thought the Prince had gone mad, but one did not question one’s master’s orders: one obeyed them.
The King said, ‘So you sent the horse back?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘With a fortune on its back!’
‘I am not a thief, my lord.’
‘You are a fool,’ said Henry. ‘A man is not a thief for enjoying the spoils of war.’
‘I could not in good conscience take it.’
‘William, you are a fool.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And fools do not rule kingdoms.’
‘But a man must be at peace with himself, sir, and if he is not, how can he hope to be at peace with others? Peace is necessary to the prosperity of any land; and to have kept my cousin’s horse would have seemed to me a violation of the rules of chivalry.’
Henry said, ‘Go, my son, I will think of what you say.’
Surprised, William left him. His father’s reception of the news had been much milder than he had believed possible. Was he perhaps in a subdued mood because of the Queen’s death, or did he in fact understand?
Later Henry spoke to him of the matter. ‘I believe you were right to send back the horse,’ he said.
The expression of affection on his son’s face was rewarding.
‘I am not sure about the rich caparisons.’
‘Nay, father, to have returned the horse without them would have seemed to me churlish.’