by Jean Plaidy
Stephen nodded. ‘The White Ship foundered not far out of Barfleur. She sank and all went with her save one butcher who lived to tell the sorry tale.’
The King said nothing; his lips moved but no sound came.
Then slowly he got to his feet. He would have fallen had not Stephen caught him.
The news had been such a shock to him that he had fainted.
The King shut himself in his chamber. He wanted to see no one. Only Stephen ventured near him, and for a few days he did not speak even to him.
Then there came the day when Stephen went to him and he said, ‘Sit down, nephew.’
‘My lord,’ said Stephen with a smile of compassion which seemed beautiful in the King’s eyes.
‘My boy,’ said Henry, ‘I wish you were my son, then the tragedy would seem less severe.’
It seemed to Stephen then that he felt the crown upon his head. The dreams that seemed so wild were wild no longer. Was it possible? There is no male heir: those words kept hammering in his brain. There is Matilda, but she is the Empress of Germany. If I could have married Matilda, there would be no doubt.
‘I would I were,’ he answered the King vehemently.
‘You are a comfort to me, Stephen, in my bereavement.’
‘My uncle, there is nothing I would not do to bring you comfort.’
‘I know it well. I rejoice in you. You shall not suffer for your devotion to me. You see a man bowed down with sorrow.’
‘But a great King, sir.’
‘I have done what I thought best for my people.’
‘And will for many years to come, please God.’
‘There is life in me yet, Stephen.’
‘It is clear to all who behold you, sir.’
‘I have suffered much tragedy of late. I lost my wife, my good Matilda, and I was hoping for more sons from her until the last. And then my son and heir, the future King. It seems God would punish me for all my sins. I lost two other children on that ship, Stephen – my daughter the Countess Matilda, my son Richard. Three children with their lives before them went down with that accursed White Ship. You see a man bowed down with misery.’
Stephen said, ‘I see a great King, sir, who will rise above his adversity.’
Stephen had always had a golden tongue. The King smiled at him affectionately. ‘You are a comfort to me, nephew. I’ve told your mother that I shall do well by you.’
‘Thank you, sir. You have been so good to me. I would ask nothing more but to serve you to the end of my days.’
‘Talk to me Stephen. Tell me what the butcher told you. Tell me of William’s last hours. The butcher saw him go back for his sister. He was a saint, Stephen.’
Stephen thought: And so do we all become in death. But he said: ‘A saint, sir.’
‘I sometimes thought that he would have had too gentle a nature to be a king. For we have to be harsh, often, Stephen, to do what is best.’
‘You have always done what is best for your subjects, sir.’
Oh yes, there was great comfort in Stephen.
When Stephen left the King he could not help feeling exultant.
Who is there? he asked himself. Why should I not be the next? The King loves me. If he does not get himself an heir . . . why should the next ruler not be King Stephen?
Henry had come out of his stupor. A king cannot mourn forever. We should have had more sons, he thought. Better too many than not enough.
He went to the window and looked out.
Across the courtyard walked a comely young lady of the Court. He felt the familiar stirrings which invariably assailed him at the sight of a nubile girl.
I am not old, he thought. I am not as old as the Emperor of Germany – yet he took a young wife.
Why should I not get sons, a prince who will follow me? I have the time; I have the vitality.
It was the answer.
Then he would stop grieving. He had loved Matilda; he had loved his sons; but they were lost.
He was not old; he was full of vigour. His desire for women had not yet begun to fail.
The King had made up his mind. He would take a young wife, and that without delay.
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First published in Great Britain 1975 by Robert Hale & Company
© Jean Plaidy 1975
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