The Lion of Justice (37 page)

‘Why, you are ill!' 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 if 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!

‘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! 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.

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.