Lady of the English (57 page)

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abandoned everything to go on crusade. She knew Robert had been deeply upset by his son’s actions, and his health and his temper had suffered as a result.

“Do you think his father had a hand in this?”

Matilda gave a vehement shake of her head. “Geoffrey would never allow Henry to do something so foolhardy.” She felt slightly sick as she thought that at Henry’s age, Geoffrey had been preparing for his betrothal to her. Where did the child end and the man begin?

“He has to be reined in and shown that we will not tolerate such recklessness. He cannot stay here in England. We do not have enough resources to support ourselves, let alone provide him with protection and a household.” Robert’s voice rose a notch. “Who is paying for the soldiers he has brought with him, if you say Geoffrey has no notion?”

“He is bound to come to Devizes,” she said, “and we will speak to him then.”

ttt

The next morning she sat in the window embrasure in her chamber, reading various pieces of correspondence. As yet there was no more news of Henry’s exploits. A letter had come from Adeliza saying she had been safely delivered of a son named Henry in memory of a glorious king and in salute to another who would surely follow in his grandfather’s footsteps.

That made Matilda smile but saddened her too. It was eight years since she had seen Adeliza, and of the six children, only the first had been born. Letters, while they warmed the soul, only served to point up the long separation.

She was pondering what to send as a christening gift when her chamberlain, Humphrey de Bohun, interrupted her.

“Domina, the lord Henry and his men have ridden in with the marshal.”

She was immediately filled with relief and apprehension.

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What was Henry doing in the company of her marshal?

“Very well,” she said in a neutral tone. “Put him in the solar and tell him I will be with him soon, but bring the marshal to me first.”

While she straightened her gown and added a few rings to her fingers, she considered what she was going to say.

Her marshal John FitzGilbert was swift to arrive, rapping briskly on the door with his rod of office and entering with a decisive tread. As always his manner was controlled and courtly, but she could sense an atmosphere around him—a simmer of anger like a heat haze on a hot day.

“I am told you rode in with my son,” she said.

He fixed her with a hard stare from his undamaged eye.

“Domina, I discovered him fleeing an unsuccessful attempt to take the castle at Cricklade, using my equipment and horses, purloined from my keep at Marlborough in my absence.” He spoke with clipped control. “I thought it best to escort him here where he would be less of a danger to all, including himself.”

Matilda could now understand the reason for her marshal’s anger if Henry had been helping himself to his equipment behind his back.

“Cricklade,” she said.

“Apparently Purton was a similar disaster.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she said sharply. “I am aware.”

“His mercenaries are mostly untried youths and men down on their luck. I am astonished they have come so far with so few injuries.”

The word “injuries” made her recoil. “The lord Henry?”

“Domina, he is well and in good spirits.” There was an irritated edge to her marshal’s voice. He shook his head. “He is courageous but foolhardy.”

“You are a man of similar traits yourself,” she said.

“Ah no, domina.” He gave her an astute look. “I always 454

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know the odds and I wager accordingly. What may look foolhardy to others has only been my road when I have had no alternative. I always weigh the odds.”

“Sometimes you have to take a road even when the odds are against you.”

“Indeed, but never without being aware of where you might tread.”

“My son knows his destiny,” she snapped. “He will be king.”

He bowed to her, the hint of a dour smile on his lips.

“Indeed,” he said. “I believe he will.”

Her marshal dismissed, Matilda heaved a sigh and went to talk to her scapegrace golden son. Entering the solar attached to the hall she found him pacing the room like a caged lion and stopped in shock. In her mind’s eye, she had been seeing the image of the toothy eleven-year-old to whom she had bidden farewell three years ago, but here was an adolescent on the cusp of manhood. He had a fledgling coppery beard and his limbs had lengthened and grown strong. He was as tall as her and he had his grandfather’s eyes, clear grey with a flash of Geoffrey’s aquamarine in their depths. She could feel the energy whirling around him like a fresh breeze. His cloak was pinned high on his shoulder with a round gold brooch and he wore a sword at his hip, even though he was not yet knighted.

“Henry,” she said as she came towards him, and the word held pride, censure, and affection all at once.

“My lady mother.” He knelt to her and bowed his head.

The copper-gold tangle of his hair filled her with a surge of tenderness. She stooped to give him a formal kiss of peace, then drew him to his feet and embraced him with joy. She knew she should be furious, but that was not the emotion uppermost.

Taking his arm she led him to the embrasure so she could see him properly. “You are almost a man.”

Henry’s chest expanded. “I am a man,” he replied with a 455

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spark of indignation that he should be thought anything else.

“And I am here to fight for my kingdom.”

“So I am told.”

He eyed her through his thick sandy lashes. “I would have taken Purton and Cricklade if I had had the resources. With the right men and money, I could make a big difference.”

“Men and money.” She gave a bitter laugh. “So could I, so could your uncle Robert, but we struggle for every penny.

What does your father say about this?”

His complexion darkened. “He refused to give me aid and said I was not to go, so I raised everything myself.”

“So you disobeyed him? Do you not have responsibilities in Normandy and Anjou?”

“They do not need help as England does,” he said tersely.

“My father will understand when I tell him.”

She raised her brows at that. She suspected Geoffrey would be less than sanguine. “And Cricklade and Purton are your notion of helping?”

He bunched his fists. “If I had been properly equipped, I could have taken them easily.”

The conversation had gone round in a circle. She was elated to see him but he could not stay, and in truth what he had done was rash and dangerous. “If the only money you have is that which you raised yourself, how are you going to pay your men?”

“I have brought them to you so you can use them under my command.” He set his shoulders defensively. “I did not need the marshal’s safe conduct here.”

“He seems to think you owe him horses and equipment.”

His eyes flashed with anger and irritation. “I want to help.

Doesn’t anyone understand?”

Matilda drew herself up. “You bring a rag-tag band of mercenaries here and make two abortive attempts to take a couple of small castles? How amused Stephen must be to hear 456

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of this. I cannot afford to pay for your men, or to set you up here, because you will have to be protected and given the means to live, and I do not have those means. You are creating difficulties for all of us. When you went back to Normandy, it was to finish your education and training and to be kept safe until the time was right.”

“I did not think I would have a kingdom left to claim by then,”

he retorted. “I had to do something. By the time I am old enough by years of reckoning, it will be too late. I am old enough now.”

Matilda reined in her anger and, sighing, went to sit down on a window seat. “I am glad to see you,” she said, rubbing her forehead, “even if I am angry too. You fill my heart with joy, but you cannot stay; you must see that. I have no money to pay for your men, and whether you think you are old enough or not, you are not ready.”

He gave her a long look and it jolted her to see the temper in his eyes; but beyond that temper lay a shrewd and determined mind. He might not have the maturity of experience yet, he might have made mistakes in his eagerness and impatience, but he was right. He was no child. “If I do return to Normandy,”

he said, “that would be expensive as well.”

She rubbed her brow “How much?”

“I owe each man a shilling a day for following me, and their provender and expenses. We’d have to hire the ships to take us back too.”

She made the calculations in her head. It was far more than she could afford without compromising her own people; it would be a huge drain on her resources and a total waste. “I cannot afford that kind of sum,” she said.

He set his jaw. “My uncle Robert could.”

“And he would have to take money out of another pot to do so. Ask him if you wish, but I can tell you what his answer will be. He is already heartsick over the defiance of his own 457

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son and he has no time for young men’s rebellions.” She took his slender young hands in hers, unmarked by years, not yet toughened by fighting. His narrow wrists were dappled with freckles and gilded with fine hairs. “Take your men home and ask your father to pay, and while you are about it, ask him to send me more money too, because I am in sore need.”

His expression became set and still.

Geoffrey was going to be furious with him, she thought, but that was the price paid for disobedience. “Every action has consequences,” she said, “and you must learn to deal with them and think everything through.”

“Did you do that at Westminster, Mama?” he challenged.

“I am giving you the benefit of my wisdom in hindsight.

Learn from your own mistakes and those of others. Sometimes the lessons are harsh indeed—as I have cause to know, and you are finding out.”

He narrowed his eyes. Then he fixed her again with that knowing, calculating look. “I have been rash,” he admitted. “I have some thinking to do.”

Matilda received the impression that Henry had indeed absorbed a lesson from their conversation, but she was not entirely sure it was the one she intended. The look on his face was determined and wilful rather than contrite.

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Fifty-three

March 1147

W ill was playing dice with Stephen, Robert de Beaumont, Earl of Leicester, and William Martel the steward. Outside a dark March day was drawing towards dusk and servants were lighting fresh candles and refilling the oil lamps. The shutters were latched against the bitter weather and the old man who tended the fire for a wage of four pence a day was keeping it well stoked with logs and charcoal. The venison stew and force-meats, the fruits in honey and spices, had left everyone feeling warm and befuddled. Stephen was in a genial, expansive mood.

The threat from Normandy had proven to be so much piss in the wind, and there had been no sign of the Angevin lordling or his rabble since they had been put to flight at Purton and Cricklade.

Will threw a pair of sixes and, with a triumphant laugh, scooped up the pile of silver in the middle of the table.

“Will that be enough to build some more fancy latrines?”

jibed Leicester. Everyone had been highly amused by the refinements Will was building at Rising.

“You are just jealous,” Will said equably. “Or your wife is.”

Leicester rolled his eyes. “I dare not tell her, or else we would be inundated with the things. Thank Christ you have built your little folly off the beaten track, D’Albini. At least she won’t come visiting and covet everything she sees.”

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Will shrugged. “It is my haven,” he said. “Somewhere I can create a thing of beauty to honour my wife, and not be disturbed.”

“How is your lady?” Stephen asked.

Will was silent for a moment and Stephen’s look sharpened.

“She is but recently out of confinement,” he said. He was worried about Adeliza because she had still been very fragile when he left to come to court.

“You have named the boy Henry have you not?”

Will reddened. “It was my lady’s choice, for the king her first husband.”

“Of course,” Stephen said blandly and picked up the dice.

“Another game?”

An usher entered the chamber and hurried over to the gaming table. Bending to the king, he murmured in his ear.

Stephen’s gaze widened. Then he gave a short bark of laughter. “Bring him,” he said. As the usher departed, Stephen looked round at his companions. “Well, when I said another game, I did not quite have this in mind, but it seems that my nephew of Anjou is here to pay his respects.”

They all stared at him in shocked surprise, but Stephen was still chuckling. “I will say this for him, the lad has nerve, even if he is a fool.”

Moments later the usher returned, leading a handsome red-haired youth. He was not as tall as the usher, but his physique was robust and he had presence. He wore serviceable travel clothes without embellishment: a thick winter cloak and a quilted gambeson over the top of a fine but plain tunic, and stout hunting boots rising to mid-calf. To look at him, Will would have guessed he was well to do, but there was nothing regal about him. His expression was open, with a slight curve to his lips, and there was not an iota of tension in the language of his body or the set of his jaw.

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“Dear God, he looks like the Angevin but without the gilding,” William Martel muttered into his chest.

“He also resembles his grandsire, the empress’s father,” Will said. Despite Stephen’s remark, he did not think this young man was a fool at all. Indeed, he thought it might just be the other way around.