The Lion of Justice (24 page)

‘But with consolations. I refer of course to your mistress. Nesta, I believe, is her name.'

He stared at her in dismay. ‘By God, who has told you this?'

‘It is unimportant. Suffice it that I now know what has been common knowledge to everyone else – for how long? How long is it?'

‘Listen. I will explain.'

‘What explanation is there? You must go to this trouble spot. It is not the first time since our marriage that it has been necessary to visit it. And there resides the irresistible Nesta, your ever attractive bedfellow and the mother of your children.'

‘Matilda,' he said, ‘there is much you have to learn of life.'

She said, ‘I am quickly learning that it can be very bitter.'

‘You must not take it so. You must be wise, my dear. You must understand that life cannot be seen clearly through convent eyes.'

‘I did not wish to learn. I have been happy. I know I shall never be so again.'

‘What nonsense is this? Have I not made you Queen of England?'

‘I bear that title being married to a faithless husband.'

‘You have a loving husband, my dear.'

‘Loving to other women, I agree.'

‘And to you.'

‘I should be grateful to be one of a number, I suppose.'

‘You are the first because you are my Queen.'

‘I became your Queen because I am the sister of a King. I am Saxon and therefore it was wise to marry me.'

‘That's so.'

‘It is a pity that you had to perform the painful duty of marrying me because of my position.'

‘Let us not be foolish. It was no painful duty but one of pleasure. You know that is so.'

‘Not as pleasurable as it would have been with this . . . Nesta.'

He hesitated and thought of marriage with Nesta. One thing was certain, he would never be having this conversation with her. She was a worldly woman; for all her experience of marriage and the bearing of a child, Matilda still retained a nun-like innocence.

He shrugged his shoulders. This revelation had to come to her sooner or later. A King who had illegitimate children scattered over the country, and who was determined to remember them in due course, could not keep his many indiscretions secret for ever.

He had always been aware that she would have to know sooner or later and this was as good a time as any.

‘I see that you would have preferred her.' With that, Matilda threw herself down on the bed and gave way to tears.

He let her weep passionately for some minutes, while he sat beside her stroking her hair.

He was fond of her. She was a good woman. She' loved him sincerely. He almost wished that he could have been all she desired of him. That was folly. He was himself. He must try to explain to her. Once she grew up, once she understood
the ways of the world, he would have no trouble with her.

‘Matilda,' he said gently, ‘I have known this revelation would come sooner or later. I want you to listen to me. Of course I would not wish to marry anyone but you. We have been happy, have we not? Answer me.'

‘Until now,' she said. ‘Now I know I shall never be happy again.'

‘You are talking like a child, thinking like a child. When I came to the throne I was thirty-two years of age. Could you expect a man such as I am to have lived without women until that time?'

‘I did,' she answered. ‘You were not married.'

‘Oh, you are so innocent of the world. I have desires like most men, only in me they are more intense. It is nature's way. Some men need physical satisfaction more than others. Some need it so intensely that it cannot be repressed.'

‘If they prayed for help . . .'

‘There speaks Aunt Christina. Nay, Matilda, you have much to learn.'

‘And this Nesta . . . she was your mistress before our marriage?'

‘Yes.'

‘And after?'

‘Yes.'

‘Because you preferred her to me?'

‘Because you were not there and she was.'

‘But you went to Wales to see her.'

‘You will never understand.'

‘I understand that you go to her when I am here. She is beautiful, I suppose?'

‘She has an appeal that is rare.'

‘I understand. And she has borne you children?'

‘I have two sons by her.'

‘And you go to see them . . . as well as her.'

‘I naturally see them.'

‘She should marry. Then she would have legitimate children and a husband of her own.'

‘She is married.'

‘And still . . .'

‘And still. Matilda, you must grow up . . . quickly. You
must understand what goes on in the world. You are my Queen. I respect your intelligence. If I had to leave the country I could without fear leave you as regent. You are educated as few people are. That is book learning. In the ways of the world you are completely ignorant.'

‘Does knowledge of the world mean that I must happily pass my husband over to other women?'

‘With a husband such as you have, yes.'

‘Then I can never be worldly.'

‘You will be unhappy if you do not see that these matters are of scant importance.'

‘Then is my love for you unimportant?'

‘Nay. You have an affection for me as I for you. But you do not see me as I am. I am a man who needs women and a variety of them. It has always been so from my earliest days. I am as I am. I have fathered many children. It is said in the Court – and you will hear it said – that I am the father of more children than anyone in my kingdom.'

‘So my daughter is one of many.'

‘Our daughter is certainly not that. Our children are the most important in the land – in a class by themselves. They are the children of England, for our son will inherit the crown after me. That is why I may have children wherever I fancy, but you, my dear Matilda, must never have a child that is not mine. If you were unfaithful to your marriage vows that would be treason, for by so doing you could foist on the nation a child who was not of the royal blood.'

‘I would not wish to. Nor shall I ever wish to bear a child again. It is not what I thought. Nothing is what I thought. Perhaps if I had known I might have taken the veil after all.'

He laughed at her then and seizing her in his arms kissed her violently in an effort to arouse a passion in her.

She was surprised at her reaction. It was different. It was profane whereas before she had considered it sacred.

And afterwards she knew that she had changed. She knew that she would accept her fate and that her first violent disappointment was over.

Very soon after that she was pregnant once more.

She prayed for a boy.

Her marriage had turned out to be not what she had thought it. But Henry was right. She must grow up. She must
understand the ways of the world. She had her dear little daughter Matilda – that demanding child who was already making her forceful personality felt – and when she gave birth to a boy, she could be content.

The child was called William.

Although she would never be reconciled to her husband's infidelities Matilda made up her mind that she must accept them. She spent a great deal of time with her children, who were a source of delight to her.

She was delighted to hear that her sister Mary had also given birth to a child – a little girl who, like her cousin, was called Matilda.

Mary hoped that the child would be educated in England, for, as she wrote to Matilda, their education had been of the best available and Matilda no doubt found, as she had, that the harshness of convent rule was good for the discipline of the mind: it made one able to endure the troubles of life; also the education received gave one an opportunity to be more than simply a good mother.

Matilda agreed with her sister. When she looked back on the days spent under Aunt Christina's harsh surveillance she was sure that she was happier in the outside world – in spite of cruel understanding – than she could ever have been in the abbey.

To Henry's relief she did not mention Nesta or any of his other mistresses. A dream had been shattered and perhaps she would never feel the same towards him again, but she had the children and they – at least so far – had not disappointed her. They were two healthy children, intelligent, lively, and although Matilda was more forceful than her brother, she could tell herself that no doubt that was because she was the elder.

She gave herself up to a study of state matters, so that if the intimate relationship she shared with Henry was impaired, their partnership in state affairs flourished.

He was pleased with her. He was glad she was not going to prove a hysterical jealous woman. If she would shut her eyes to his occasional amatory adventure she was indeed the perfect wife.

He could wish that she were a little less pious, but even
that was good for the country. He was rather more fastidious than most men and he did not care that she should come near him after she had washed the feet of the poor. However, his acceptance of these Lenten trips to the churches and her preoccupation with prayer, was given in return for her acceptance of his desire for other women.

The marriage had survived the rocks of discovery, he assured himself; and because of it he was relieved of the burden of pretence.

He could now bestow honours on his illegitimate children without fear of Matilda wanting to know why.

So when a difference arose with Anselm, he was able to discuss the matter with Matilda just as he would have done before the revelation.

‘These churchmen always want to interfere in state affairs,' he complained. ‘As I see it, there is beginning to grow a mighty conflict and in this the Church will be on one side, the King on the other.'

‘Rufus quarrelled with Anselm, and he was almost excommunicated.'

‘Anselm can be a maddening fellow. As head of the Church in this country he feels he is on a level with the head of the State.'

‘Surely the Church and the State should work together?'

‘They should, Matilda, but I for one shall not allow the Church to have the upper hand.'

‘Are you sure that is what Anselm wishes?'

‘He wants the Church to stand aloof from the State. He wants the power to decide matters which should be for the King to settle.'

‘What is he asking?'

‘He would deprive me of the right to appoint bishops. All Saxon kings appointed their own bishops. I insist on appointing mine.'

‘They are members of the Church . . .'

‘Powerful members of the Church, Matilda. I cannot have men of such power chosen without my sanction. They could be my enemies and work against me. If Anselm and I disagreed on some policy he would have the support of the men he had appointed. That is something I could not allow.'

‘And if Anselm insists on appointing his bishops . . .'

‘I shall insist on appointing mine.'

‘He will not agree with you.'

‘And I shall not agree with him.'

‘That is a stage which you have reached?'

‘I fear so. I and my Archbishop of Canterbury do not agree, Matilda, as Rufus did not agree with his – and his and mine are the same man . . . a stubborn fellow.'

‘What shall you do, Henry?'

‘He insists on taking the matter to Rome. That's what angers me, Matilda. Every difference between the King and the Church must be taken to Rome.'

‘But His Holiness is head of the Church.'

Henry narrowed his eyes. ‘My father would never allow him to have a say in the governing of the country. That is for the King. My father was a religious man, but he would not brook interference from the Church. Rufus had no religion, and so he stood more openly against the Church.'

‘And you, Henry?'

‘I shall govern as I will, come what may.'

She knew, of course, that the impasse between Henry and his Archbishop would persist. Neither was of a nature to give way.

She was right. Letters were sent back and forth between England and Rome. Henry stated his case; Anselm stated his.

The Pope was ready to agree with Anselm, which, said Henry to Matilda, was exactly what one would expect him to do.

‘I will not relinquish my right to invest prelates and abbots,' cried Henry. ‘I have it in my mind to banish Anselm and sever England's connection with Rome.'

‘Henry, you would never dare!' cried Matilda in terror.

‘My dear Queen, I would dare much.'

The outcome of the quarrel was that Anselm asked for permission to go to Rome and put his case before the Pope; and, as in the case of Rufus, the King was glad to give his permission and, if the sorry question could not be settled, at least to have a rest from it.

The Pope was aware of the mood of the English King and,
having no desire to lose any of his adherents, vacillated. But he could not do so for long. He must make a decision; and as Anselm was his representative in England he came down in his favour.

Henry was furious and declared that since Anselm was so well received in Rome he might stay there until his King was in the mood to recall him.

For the second time, Anselm was in exile.

ROBERT DUKE OF NORMANDY
was growing restive. Since his attempt to invade England had ended in a treaty, the advantages of which had been largely on Henry's side, he began to consider new adventures.

To his great delight, Sibyl had presented him with a son who had been christened William. He was known as the Clito, which meant the Prince; and Robert was ambitious for him.

Normandy was in a state of chaos. Robert of Bellême, having been expelled from England, was back and, in an access of rage against Henry for banishing him, practised his vile cruelties with even greater vigour than ever before from his Norman strongholds. No one was safe. He would send his band of followers – almost as cruel as himself – to bring in victims for his entertainment and that of his guests. Young girls, young men, the elderly and the infirm, were not exempt. The name of Bellême was like a plague that swept through the countryside. Robert of Bellême gave up his time to devising new and more exquisite tortures, and was in a constant fever of anticipation to try them out.