Текст книги "The Lion of Justice"
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
Like the rest of his family he delighted in fine buildings and admired the best architecture, so it was always a great pleasure to visit castles which either he, his brother Rufus or his father had built. They were indeed becoming part of the English countryside and it was impossible to go far without coming upon the formidable looking piles with their turrets and arches. The latest to be built was Woodstock, a palace to be proud of, and the park was delightful.
Also like his father and Rufus, Henry loved wild animals. Not only did he wish to hunt them, he liked to observe them. He discussed with Matilda the possibility of filling the park with wild animals. These of course would have to be kept in enclosures; and he believed a great deal of pleasure would be derived from sauntering through the park and watching the animals from as close quarters as was possible.
Matilda thought it an excellent idea and together they set about obtaining animals to fill the Woodstock Zoo.
Harry did not look for deer and wild boar and such other animals as were familiar in the English forests for he decided Woodstock should be famous for the animals which did not normally live in England.
How would he come by such animals? Matilda wanted to know.
‘In their travels to the Holy Land, men have passed through countries in which wild animals flourish. I would wish some of these to be brought to England.’
‘Is it possible?’
‘They could be caged and brought. I should like to see lions and the strange animal which my brother Robert told us of when he was with us. He saw it in the desert and it will carry a man on its back through sand and heat. It is called a camel. I should like one or more of that type.’
Henry recovered from the strain of the Normandy battles in his enthusiasm for his zoo and the day finally came when he had gathered together lions and leopards; he even had his camel. These animals were put into enclosures that they might be watched from afar and keepers were engaged to care for them. Everyone was talking of the wonders of Woodstock Park—a change from the continual talk of war.
Henry and Matilda presided over the opening of the Zoo; and rarely had Henry been in better humour. Many of the leading nobles were lodged at the New Palace and Henry explained to them how he had managed to procure the animals.
A special favourite was a porcupine which provided a great deal of amusement when its prickles shot out.
The Queen was happy on that day. She felt a little better than usual, although far from well; but she was at least able to disguise her weakness from the King.
Just before the opening of the Zoo messengers arrived from Germany. The Queen was very eager to hear news of her daughter and was delighted to receive letters from Matilda implying that she was content with her lot. The Emperor was very old but very kind. She was taking German lessons, and there had been a splendid ceremony at Mentz.
The Queen questioned the messengers. Had they seen the Empress?
Oh, yes, they had seen her. She had made a progress through the streets of Mentz in her bridal gown, the Emperor beside her in the carriage.
‘Did she seem happy?’ the Queen asked.
‘None happier. She seemed very pleased to be among the German people and they expressed their liking for her in loud cheers. They called her ‘the little Empress’ and they had thought her very handsome. She had spoken to them in German and told them that she loved their country already and would do her best to serve them. The people had been delighted.’
‘And her husband?’ asked Matilda.
‘He could not be better pleased. He finds her handsome and amusing. He is pleased with his marriage.’
She might have known that Matilda would be all right. All Matilda needed to make her happy was homage.
She took the messengers to Henry who listened with approval and when they were alone he said: ‘You see how useful these marriages can be in families such as ours. Now I have secured the Emperor’s friendship. He cannot take up arms against his father-in-law. Would I had more daughters to place strategically throughout Europe.’
And because of the sudden pain she felt which was often followed by periods of lethargy she said: ‘I doubt not you are surprised that honours cannot be picked up so easily for those children you have got on other women. It is only my children who are of use to you.’
‘It seems unnecessary to call attention to the fact that my legitimate children can marry in higher places than my others.’ He turned on her, with the temper beginning to flare up in his eyes. ‘But let me tell you this, any child of mine will be well looked after to the best of my power and you, Madam, will add your help to mine in this matter.’
‘You ask a great deal, Henry.’
‘I have given you a great deal. But for your marriage to me you would be in a convent in your hair shirt and veil.’
‘Our marriage brought advantage to you, Henry. You forget that I am the daughter of the royal Saxon house.’
‘You would not allow me to forget it and I would.’
She felt ill suddenly and had no heart for the quarrel. ‘Oh, Henry,’ she said, ‘you are here in England and that rejoices me. Let us not spoil the pleasure of this by harsh words.’
He did not wish to quarrel either. He said: ‘I am content, Matilda. I love you well. I am only sad that we cannot get more children. If we could but have another son...and if you would cease to harp on these others I have had, I should know complete happiness.’
‘The first I cannot help for that is in God’s hands, for the second I will do my best not to refer to the matter again.’
‘I bless you, my dear,’ he said; and they went out to the opening ceremony of the Zoo.
While Henry talked merrily of the habits of the animals, Matilda was aware of the nagging pain within her. The terrible notion that she would never have another child could not be dismissed.
The ceremony over, the feasting in the great hall of the palace began; and it was while this was in progress that a messenger arrived from Bermondsey.
Mary had very suddenly been taken ill and within a few hours was dead.
* * * * *
Matilda was shocked into illness. For several days she did not leave her bed. Mary, who had seemed so very much alive but a short time before...dead! It was inconceivable.
The messenger had told her that the Countess has risen from the table and fallen in a faint. She had been alive when they carried her to her bed. She had spoken of her sister and how happy she was that her daughter was safely married. She had asked that her dear sister Matilda be asked always to look after her namesake. Then within an hour she had passed away. As she had always expressed a desire to be buried in the Abbey of Bermondsey her wishes were respected. That Abbey to which she had entrusted her daughter had benefited greatly from her generosity and it seemed fitting that she should be laid to rest in a spot where she had found peace during her lifetime.
The young bride wept for her mother but she had her handsome young husband and the novelty of marriage to comfort her. It was Matilda, her sister, who felt her death more keenly.
‘It happened so suddenly.’ she said to Gunilda. ‘It could happen to anyone. One day one is well and the next dead. I had thought to go long before she did.’
‘We can never tell when our time has come.’ replied Gunilda, ‘and often those of us who seem most likely to live for a long time go first.’
All the same Matilda was becoming increasingly aware of her failing health and she often wondered how long was left to her.
It was shortly after the death of Mary that rebellion broke out once more in Normandy. The King left for that troubled country and he took with him his son William and his nephew Stephen. Matilda hated parting with her son, particularly to the wars; she was apprehensive for his welfare and wished as she had on so many occasions that Henry had been content with England and had left Normandy to his brother Robert, who was still languishing in Cardiff Castle. But she gave her time up to comforting Stephen’s young wife and as they sat together over their embroidery she shared with the young girl confidences of her life in the Abbey under her harsh Aunt Christina and she told of her joy when Henry had come courting her.
* * * * *
When the King had left there was no longer the necessity to keep up appearances. Matilda could spend days in her apartment with only her women about her.
Gunilda and Emma were growing more and more worried about the state of her health because it was becoming clear that she was very ill indeed. Often she lay on her bed asking nothing but to be left in peace. There she liked to think over the past and most of all those days when Henry had first come to court her. She had loved him deeply and believed that she could have gone on loving him had she not made too perfect an image of him in the first place. Often she believed that had she been brought up in a court instead of an abbey, she might have been accustomed to the ways of men. But because she had led such a sequestered existence she had believed in romantic knights who remained faithful till death.
A pity! Her daughter Matilda had been different. Matilda was knowledgeable of the world and this would doubtless help her in her relationship with her husband.
She wondered whether the marriage had been consummated or whether the Emperor had taken pity on his young bride and delayed that part of the marriage. He could not delay too long, for he was growing old.
Life was strange. One must needs learn all one could of it and adjust oneself to its demands.
She tried to impress this on her special friends, the two women who had been with her all her married life, and the other, Christina, who had joined them a little later.
‘When I am gone, what will you do?’ she asked them.
‘Gone, my lady!’ cried Emma in bewilderment.
‘I mean when God has called me from this earth.’
‘You mean...dead,' said Gunilda shocked. ‘Oh, my lady, do not speak of such things.’
‘Come and sit beside me.’ said Matilda, ‘and you too, Christina. You must know that I am going to die.’
‘No, my lady.’ said Emma firmly, ‘except that one day that is something we must all come to.’
‘My time is not far off.’
‘No, my lady. What will the King say?’
‘Life and death is something the King himself cannot control.’
‘He will be desolate.’
She turned her face away from them and a sad smile played about her mouth. Would he be? How much had he loved her? Never with the over-powering love which she had been ready to give him. She had believed theirs would be the greatest love story of their times, because she was young and innocent, and he had cared for her in a certain way, though not as he had cared for Nesta. Or did he care for Nesta? He had desired Nesta as he never desired any other; and he wanted Matilda for his wife. One was sensuous, able to slake his sexual thirst; the other was the daughter of a royal house who could give him the support he needed from his Saxon subjects.
We both had our uses, thought Matilda a little sadly.
And when she was dead would he mourn? A little. But not for long. He would say: ‘I will marry again. There is still time left for me to get a son.’
‘The King will recover from his grief,’ she said. ‘But I speak of you.’
Emma, the soft-hearted one, wept surreptitiously.
‘I beg of you, my lady,’ whispered Gunilda, ‘do not speak of these matters, for we should never go from here while you needed us and if you did not...’ her voice broke. ‘It could mean but one thing.’
‘It is in fact that of which we speak.’ said Matilda. ‘We must perforce look into the truth. You could not marry now.’
‘Nay.’ said Christina, ‘we would have no wish to, were it possible.’
‘Stay together then. You are good friends and will have the friendship of each other. Perhaps you would be happy in a priory or an abbey.’
Emma had started to weep so heart-brokenly that Matilda agreed not to discuss the matter further at that time. But that did not mean that it was not uppermost in their minds.
For their sake Matilda attempted to bestir herself, but it was difficult, for with each passing day she grew more feeble.
* * * * *
It was November when Henry returned.
When he saw Matilda he was horrified by her appearance.
‘Why, you are ill I’ he cried.
‘It will pass.’ she told him.
‘Why was I not told?’
‘Blame no one. It was on my orders.’
‘I would wish to know it you were unwell.’
‘You had your campaign in Normandy. I did not wish to disturb you with unpleasant news from home.’
‘I wish to know all that is going on in my kingdom.’
‘You are kept informed of all matters of importance.’
‘And you think your health is of no importance to me?’
He took her hand and kissed it. Remorse struck him. She was a good and gentle creature; and perhaps he had not always been a good husband. But she must understand that he was a king and that duties weighed heavily on him. Other women? How could he help that? They were as necessary to him as breathing and how could he ever make Matilda understand that he saw his relations with other women as something apart from marriage?
He would stay with her, he told her, and they would have merry revels at Christmas time. When he left—for alas his stay could not be extended over more than a few months for the situation in Normandy was far from secure—she would be as well as she ever was.
‘I long to see William.’ she told him.
‘Alas, William is not with me. He remains in Normandy.’
Alarm seized her. Her son in Normandy without the protection of his father I
‘It was necessary.’ said Henry. ‘If I had brought him home with me there would have been reproaches. It was necessary to leave him as a kind of hostage.’
‘A hostage!’
‘Oh, not in the usual sense. But to leave him there gives those of my men who must remain a sense of security. They know I will be back soon since my son is there.’
‘So we shall not have William for Christmas?’
‘Let us content ourselves by knowing that he is doing his duty.’
Matilda in Germany, and William in Normandy. Even Stephen no longer here.
She wondered: Shall I ever see them again?
* * * * *
It was scarcely a gay Christmas. In spite of Henry’s insistence that Matilda rouse herself and enjoy the festivities she was unable to do so. As for Henry, he was concerned most of the time with what was happening in Normandy.
He talked to Matilda about the perfidy of the Norman barons and that he could not trust them; and that immediately his back was turned he knew they would be brewing trouble.
‘We must get William married to Fulk’s girl as soon as possible.’ he said. ‘It’s the only way to ensure his loyalty. I would not trust him but for the bait of this marriage.’
‘And how is William at the prospect? Does he like well his bride?’
‘William is eager to do his duty. And when the marriage is celebrated it would be well if you could join us in Normandy.’
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 I 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 a 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 between 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 forever. 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 the Clito who a wanderer, one might say in search of his inheritance, yet spends a fortune on a horse which he could– and has—lost in battle. Your grandfather was a richer man than 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 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?
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 P cried Stephen. ‘Look at this cloth I 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.’
