The Prince of Darkness (44 page)

But he would not think of Arthur now. The years were passing and it was long since the day the boy had died. Who would have thought the scandal could have survived so long? But now he was interested in that tasty morsel, the virgin Matilda.

She stood up as he entered. By God’s teeth, he thought, she is a beautiful creature. Her eyes were wide, dilated with terror. She would have heard stories no doubt of the monster he was reputed to be. She clasped her hands together in front of her, as though to guard her body from him, or perhaps to try to hide the fact that they were trembling. Silly, frightened creature! She was so graceful. Like a deer startled by the approach of the huntsmen, poised for flight. But where to, my pretty? Out of the window? Down, down to the ground below, that exquisite body bruised and torn by the rough stone walls as she fell? No, I have other plans for it.

‘You must not be afraid, Matilda,’ he said, smiling.

To her it was an evil smile although he had meant it to be reassuring.

‘You must not be in awe of me because I am your King.’

She continued to gaze at him, speechless with fear.

‘You must speak to me when I address you, Matilda. It is not good manners to do otherwise – particularly when you are confronted by your King.’

She swallowed and stammered: ‘I … have nothing to say except to beg you to let me go home.’

‘All in good time,’ he said. ‘But I’ll tell you this, Matilda, there will come a day when you will beg me not to send you away. You will ask me not to send you back to the dull home of your father where your mother stands continual guard over you. You will say: I love my King. I wish to serve my King in all ways. I wish to be a joy and comfort to him.’

He put his hands on her shoulders and felt the tremor run through her.

Foolish child! he thought. It was a pity she was so pretty. He would have liked to have shouted: Go home to your mother, you silly little thing. There are women a thousand times more attractive than you are who welcome me.

It was her youth that appealed to him. She was about the age Isabella had been when she had first come to him. How different she had been! This child knew nothing of the passion of men like himself except to distrust and fear it; how different from his gay adventurous Isabella who had longed to experiment with everything that was new.

A great yearning for the days when he had first known Isabella came to him. To be young with Isabella. To start again. Oh, he would have acted just the same. When the
Marshal and the barons warned him that he was losing his dominions he would still have stayed in bed with Isabella.

There would never be anyone to replace Isabella. This foolish shrinking virgin, what had she? She had been nurtured by that strict woman whose main desire had been to protect her. What pleasure could there be in this child – except the rape of innocence? He had had plenty of that.

He wanted Isabella. He wanted to be young with her again. What was she doing now? Had she taken lovers? She was not the sort of woman to live without them. And that slyness about her … that acceptance of his infidelities which had angered her in the first place?

But why was he thinking of Isabella here with this lovely young girl before him?

It was not that he wanted the child so much as to score over the mother.

‘Now, Matilda,’ he said, ‘you and I are going to be friends. I will show you how to get the utmost pleasure out of life. You would like that would you not, my dear?’

She had closed her eyes and he thought she was going to faint.

‘Please …’ she began. ‘Please let me go.’

He put his arms about her and kissed her roughly on the lips. She gave out a cry of anguish.

The impulse came to rape the girl and get it over, send her back to her mother and hope he had not got her with child, for a weak creature it would be with such a mother.

He shook her roughly.

‘You silly girl,’ he said. ‘You are afraid of what you do not know.’

Her frightened eyes were staring at the door. There was no one there; she was thinking of escape.

He said softly: ‘No use, Matilda, there is no way out. There is a guard at the door and others on the stairs.’

She showed a spark of spirit then. ‘Would they not be doing you better service guarding your possessions?’

‘You are my possession, little Matilda,’ he said. ‘As all my subjects are. Subjects, remember! That means they are subject to my will.’

‘My father …’

‘Your father, oh, he is a very powerful baron but he and your mother will learn that there is none more powerful than the King.’

Her eyes appealed to him to release her. Oddly enough, beautiful as she was with her large eyes like a doe’s, she did not arouse him. How different from Isabella’s long, languorous eyes. She was unformed – attractive in a way. How was it Isabella had managed to be voluptuous in her immaturity?

Why did he not take the girl and have done with it? Because he did not want to. He wanted to revenge himself on her mother. That woman’s defiance of him could rouse more passion in him than this child’s obvious charms.

He would woo her; then he would make the mother aware of her daughter’s depravity.

‘You should not be afraid, Matilda,’ he said. ‘I have a fancy for you, ’tis true. But you have been listening to evil tales of me. It is a sad fact that a king is often maligned. There are rumours about him, his deeds are exaggerated. You fear me because you have heard whispers, have you not? Confess it, little one.’

She nodded.

‘I have to convince you that you have been misled, do I not? I shall have to show you how different I am from the man they
led you to believe me to be. Let us talk now of your home and your family. You shall tell me what you best like to do.’

‘I best like to be with my mother.’

‘Ho, that is baby’s talk. We are at our mother’s knee when we are children, but as we grow older we realise we cannot spend the rest of our lives there. You will find interests away from your mother and I am going to teach you.’

He took her hand and led her to a bench. He sat there beside her and put his arms about her. He felt her whole body shrink and it made him want to shout at her not to be a fool or he would give her something to be frightened about. But he restrained himself by thinking of the insolence of her mother in snatching her away from him as she had done. Nobody was going to treat him like that. Did she think that because Philip of France had humiliated him, that his subjects could?

Be calm, he admonished himself. You are going to revenge yourself in full on that woman.

He talked to Matilda quietly, of his journeys through England. He was not sure that she was listening and when he rose to go he believed she had ceased to fear him as much as she had when he arrived.

It was a difficult task he had set himself, but having embarked on it he decided to go on. He stayed in the castle to be near her, expecting that in a short time he would have beguiled her into accepting him of her free will as a lover. That was what he wanted. He would say to her mother: Here is your daughter. My willing mistress. Is it not so, my dear Matilda? And she would blush and stammer, for she had been brought up never to tell a lie – and that would be the ultimate triumph.

It had to happen that way. He had determined it should.

There were times when he lost his temper with her.

‘Matilda, you like me, don’t you?’

Her foolish answer was: ‘You are the King.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘That it would be treason not to.’

‘And you know what happens to those who commit treason, my child?’

She hung her head.

Oh, she was a foolish creature. He could imagine Isabella in such circumstances. How she would relish such a game as this.

On the day he tried to make love to her, she began to shout for help.

More folly. As if anyone would come to her aid when they knew who her assailant was. If it wasn’t for her mother he would let her go.

Fear had changed her a little. It had made her grow up. She might develop feelings, desires. She might realise that there was exciting adventure outside her quiet home. He imagined the marriage which would be planned for her. A powerful nobleman with estates, carefully chosen by the mother; someone who would bring wealth to the darling daughter and be gentle with her. It would do her no harm to be the King’s mistress first. She would go to her husband wiser and more able to enjoy her married life.

Every time he visited her she shrank from him. She was never going to come to him willingly. He had to make up his mind whether he should take her by force or give up. Give her back to that woman. Virtue triumphant. Never!

He tried to talk to her reasonably. ‘How can I be such an ogre when I am so patient?’

That made a little impression, for she was well aware of what he might have done.

‘See how I seek to woo you! I am tender and kind. I have told you how I came to your father’s castle and saw you and loved you for your beauty. You are a very beautiful girl, Matilda. I have rarely seen one as lovely as you. But you are unformed, you are a child. Your beauty needs to mature. You need a lover … a king for a lover.’

But what was the use?

She was adamant.

One day, she stood by the window and said: ‘If you come near me I will throw myself out.’

He looked at her in alarm and he knew she meant it.

It was no use. She would never give in willingly. Her family would be searching for her. He didn’t trust FitzWalter. He was too powerful; he was the sort of man who would lead the barons to revolt. All the same he was not going to allow FitzWalter’s wife to dictate to him.

And what if they discovered the whereabouts of their daughter? It wouldn’t be difficult in the present state of affairs for them to lead the barons to her rescue.

He pictured it with dismay. All those who had been murmuring against him for so long, setting out against him. There could be civil war.

He had had enough of Matilda. She would never give in willingly. He did not want just another rape. He had had enough of that, and it had ceased to appeal as it once had.

What then? Return her to her parents? Never.

But be rid of her he must.

He sent for one of the cooks, a good fellow whom he knew would do a great deal if rewarded for it; and with such a task one was comparatively safe because although he had ordered it, the act had actually been committed by someone else who was as involved as he was.

It was so easy. A hint which was immediately taken.

During the day young Matilda was taken ill. Before the night was out she was dead.

It was later said by those who attended on her that she had become affected after eating an egg.

He sent her body back to Dunmow and the young girl was laid to rest in Little Dunmow Church. Her mother wept bitter tears of anguish and could not stop herself going over and over that moment on the road when her daughter had been snatched from her.

What could I have done? she asked herself. I should have gone with her. I should have died rather than let her go.

But it was no use weeping. Matilda lay in her tomb, poor child, and no tears could bring her back.