Lady of the English (8 page)

Matilda nodded. Such a move would cause severe unrest because without work, the weavers starved. Her father would then enrich his own candidates from England’s bulging coffers, supporting their rebellions with his silver, because he could not allow William le Clito to become the entrenched lord of Flanders. Given that political decision to make, she would have done the same.

Brian bowed and excused himself to other duties while Adeliza and Matilda went from the palace to the cathedral, there to pray for the soul of Charles of Flanders. As Matilda knelt before the altar, she could not help thinking of a young man murdered at his devotions and that their own bent necks were in just such a vulnerable position, waiting for the blow to strike.

ttt

Brian sat before the fire in the king’s private chamber, fondling the silky ears of a sleek gazehound. Robert of Gloucester was also present, standing by the hearth, gazing into the soft yellow 54

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flames of a well-seasoned fire. They had been summoned by Henry for an unspecified reason, although Brian suspected it was concerned with the news about the young Count of Flanders, because the king now had to deal with a situation that had turned an ally into an enemy.

Henry entered the chamber with his usual vigour, his cloak an energetic swirl at his shoulders. He joined Robert at the hearth, rubbing his hands briskly, and waved aside their obeisance. Then he patted the dog and took the cup of wine that Brian poured for him.

“Curiosity is written on your faces as big as an incompetent clerk’s scrawl,” he said with scornful amusement before taking a hearty swallow.

“Are you not surprised, my lord father?” Robert replied.

“I scarcely think you have summoned us here to talk of the weather, or hunting.”

Henry grunted. “I wish that was indeed the nature of it.”

He sat down on a cushioned bench and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankle. “Let us say that the weather has changed and so has the manner of the hunting. I want to talk to you about my daughter’s marriage. I have been observing her conduct over the past months and she pleases me greatly. But for her sex, she would be entirely fit to rule when I am gone.”

Brian felt the heat of the flames on his face. He knew a decision had to be taken, but each time her father rejected a suitor, Brian was relieved to have a few more moments of borrowed time to enjoy her presence.

“But you had us all swear an oath to uphold her as your heir?”

Robert’s statement was a question. “Is she not then to rule?”

Henry raised one bushy silver eyebrow. “Indeed I did have you swear, but how many will keep their word? I am not so fond a father that I have lost my wits. It seems probable that the queen and I are not going to be blessed with heirs. Matilda bore 55

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a child to her first husband, so I know she is capable, and I hope that with a different spouse she will be fruitful. My intention is to raise my grandsons to follow in my footsteps. Should I die before they are grown, they will have their mother as a regent, and she in turn will have the backing of her close family.

Robert, I am looking to you to be an adviser and protector to your sister and her children, should it be necessary, and I expect Brian to back you to the hilt.”

Brian swallowed. The tension in the chamber was palpable.

“And my sister’s husband?” Robert asked, his complexion red with pleasure. “Will he not desire to play his part?”

Henry shook his head. “His part will be to provide her with children and military support. He will not have a say in ruling my lands.” He clenched his fist on his knee and his voice developed a harsh note as his gaze shifted between the younger men, calculating, watching narrowly for their response. “I have decided she will marry Geoffrey, heir to Anjou.”

For a moment Brian forgot to breathe, then sucked a swift gulp of air over his larynx and turned his shock into a cough.

“But he is only a boy,” Robert said with widening eyes. “It’s scarcely a moment since he was taking suck!”

“That is the point,” Henry replied. “He can be moulded and as such he can grow accustomed to the notion that he will not wear a crown.”

Brian steadied himself. “What of your daughter? What will she say about marrying a raw youth, the son of a count, when she was once empress of Germany?”

“She will do as she is told,” Henry said curtly. “I am her father and she will obey my will. She will not be disparaged. Geoffrey’s sire is to take the throne of Jerusalem through marriage to King Baldwin’s daughter, and there is no higher kingdom on earth than to rule over God’s own city. When Fulke of Anjou goes to his marriage, then Geoffrey will take the title of count.”

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“But he will still not be of equal status with her, or her first husband.”

Henry sent Brian a dark look. “Were you when you married Maude of Wallingford?”

Brian recoiled from Henry’s unsubtle reminder that he had raised him from the dust and that a major part of that raising had been to wed him to Maude when he was a youngster—although he had still been several years older than Geoffrey of Anjou.

“My daughter will understand the necessity,” Henry said.

“This match will secure my southern border and prevent Anjou from uniting with France. Instead, it will be woven into my sphere. When Matilda bears a son, he will be heir to England, Anjou, and Normandy. This is for the greater good. It is not about Geoffrey of Anjou’s status, and, as I have said, his sire is to become king of the holiest city in Christendom.”

Robert tugged on his upper lip. Brian could see the advantages in terms of cold strategy, not least that Anjou would no longer be an ally of France. But serving Henry’s requirements was going to be hard for Matilda with all her pride.

Robert said casually, “I thought at one time you were considering my cousin Stephen as your successor.”

Henry gave him a measuring look. “A prudent man keeps more than one horse in the stable, but there is always one he prefers to ride.” He extended his hand and his voice softened.

“You are the son I would have chosen to wear England’s crown if circumstances had been different. This is the nearest I can give to you.”

Robert reddened. “I do not ask for a crown, my father.”

“I know that, and it is one of the reasons I have confidence in you to hold fast for your sister and her heirs. There are very few I can trust so wholeheartedly.”

Robert’s flush darkened. “The Blois faction will not approve of the match. Relations between them and Anjou are unsettled.

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If they have to choose between paying homage to France or to Anjou, they may well choose France.”

Henry’s extended hand closed into a fist and he drew it in against his body. “There is time to work on all of that, but I must lay the foundations now, and for that, I must have Anjou in my camp.”

“What of the bishop of Salisbury, sire?” Brian asked. “He took the oath to the empress, but he said it was on condition that everyone be consulted on the matter of her marriage, and that she should not wed outside your lands.”

Henry said frostily, “The bishop of Salisbury may be my adviser and chancellor, but he is also my servant and he will know his place. I will deal with him.”

“Will you at least summon a council to debate the matter?”

Robert asked.

Henry shook his head. “I will open the matter to wider debate when I deem it is time, and not before. Besides, I require a response from Anjou before I act on anything.”

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Eight

Chinon, Anjou, April 1127

G eoffrey, son of Fulke, Count of Anjou, stroked the soft, mottled breast feathers of the young peregrine falcon on his gauntleted fist. “You summoned me, sire?” His voice was light. It had broken almost a year ago, but still grated like a cracked millstone if pressure was put upon it. He would far rather be out training his bird to the lure, but knew better than to disobey a paternal summons.

His father had been standing before the hearth contemplating the fire, but now he turned. His red hair was dusty at the temples and silver striped his beard, but he was a strong man, still in his full prime. “I have news.” He gestured to the empty hawk perch near the window. Geoffrey took the peregrine and settled her there. For a moment she bated on the perch and the sound of her beating wings filled the space where no words fell. Geoffrey soothed her with a gentle forefinger until she settled and in that time he settled himself too. He knew what the news was going to be. Producing a gobbet of venison from the pouch at his belt, he fed it to her. “Are you going to accept King Baldwin’s offer for the Princess Melisande?”

His father clasped his hands behind his back. “That depends on whether I can leave Anjou in safe hands.”

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Geoffrey sauntered over to the sideboard to pour himself a goblet of wine, then adopted a manly pose, one foot thrust out.

His father gave him a frosty look. “It is not the clothes or the stance that make the man, but his words and deeds. I need to know that you are capable of ruling Anjou as an adult when I am gone.”

Geoffrey’s resentment was tempered by pleasure at the notion of having power, and of being a count. He stood taller and jutted his chin, where the first coppery beard hairs had begun to sprout. “I am a man,” he said proudly.

“In word and deed, my son?”

“Yes, sire. You can trust me.”

His father’s expression did not lighten. He left the fire to pace the room, his tread heavy and deliberate. “I am pleased to hear it, because I have a task for you beyond the wisdom of ruling Anjou.” He stopped at the hawk perch, watched the bird preen, then went to Geoffrey and tilted his son’s face towards the window to study his features in full light. The youth’s hair was a rich, ruddy gold with a healthy gleam like layered feathers. His eyes were sea-blue with a flash of green in their depths and Fulke could see the intelligence in them as well as the arrogance and fire. He was slim with youth and his skin was fine-grained and clear, without the rash of adolescent spots that frequently bedevilled the passage into manhood. A son to be proud of. Whether he was a son to bear the weight of leadership only time would tell. “Can you do this task for me?

I wonder…” Fulke stepped back and considered him further.

“I have had an offer from the king of England.”

“What kind of offer?” Geoffrey eyed him warily and drank his wine.

“A former empress and future queen to wife, and the opportunity to sire on her the next king of England, Duke of Normandy, and Count of Anjou.”

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Geoffrey stared. The words glittered on the surface of his mind before sinking into it, like small, sharp shards.

“Yes,” said his father. “And that is why I asked if you were a man, because it will take one to deal with this.”

Geoffrey’s stomach lurched and he thought he might be sick.

He drank again, forcing himself to swallow rather than retch, and walked away from his father to Pertelot on her perch. He stroked the bird’s feathers, soft as the breasts of the village dairy maids. “She is old,” he said, his throat working. “She has been the wife of an old man.” His nostrils filled with the imagined sour, musty smell of the elderly as he spoke. Of the crypt and the tomb.

“Her husband was younger than me when he died,” his father growled. “Are you saying that I am old?”

Geoffrey looked round, a flush mounting his cheeks. “No, sire.”

“When you are a grown man, she will yet still be a young woman.”

“But she has been used,” Geoffrey said, feeling sick disappointment, and still the musty smell was in his nostrils. “She is not a virgin.”

“So much the better. She will know what to expect. Henry of England wants to secure his boundaries by allying with us, but he also wants a swift young stag in his daughter’s bed. If she is older than you, then time is on your side, and there are always other women. She bore a child to the emperor, so she is not barren, but the infant died. Her husband’s seed was not strong enough, but I have faith in yours, and so, it seems, does the king of England.”

Geoffrey said nothing because he was still clenched up inside with disappointment. Even if there was prestige at wedding a woman of so great a rank, her age and the fact that she was not a virgin and a shy young girl made him recoil. Frowning, he 61

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went to the window and leaned against the embrasure wall. He was not fourteen until August but he had had his first woman last year at harvest time in a barn, under a great, golden moon, and he had repeated the experience many times since then.

He had discovered wonderful pleasure in matters of the flesh and already considered himself a skilled practitioner. His father did not know the half of it. He pursed his lips and considered.

Perhaps if he used the woman well and got her with child regularly, sooner or later she would die and he could take a second wife more to his taste. And there was nothing to stop him having mistresses alongside a wife. “Will I be a king as you will be a king?” he turned to ask.

“Not while Henry sits upon the throne because he would not countenance such a notion, but he will not be there forever.

It is preposterous that a woman should rule on her own. If your sons are under age when Henry goes to his grave, then who can say?” Fulke lifted a warning forefinger. “I hope I have raised you well in the matter of politics. Never let your heart or your loins rule your head. It may be that you will never be a king, but your children will be royal and Normandy will be yours for the taking. Think of our family. You will be grafted into the house of England and Normandy. I will sit on the throne of Jerusalem. Any children borne of my match will be your half-brothers and -sisters. Anjou will be mighty indeed.”