Читать книгу The Conquerors: The Pageant of England - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 34

Table of Contents

Two explanations for the sudden withdrawal of the Empress found most favor. The first was the obvious one, that she had been so taken with Stephen that the King had resolved on this step to prevent a scandal; and in this, of course, there was a large measure of truth. The second, and most widely favored, was an absurd story about Matilda’s first husband, the deceased Emperor Henry V. It was based on the well-known fact that the Emperor had passed his last days in vain regrets for the sins of his youth, which had included the despoiling and deposing of his own father. One of the chronicles has this to say about it: “One night he rose up from the side of the Empress and, taking his staff in his hand, he wandered forth with naked feet into the blackness of the night, clad only in a woolen garment, and never again did mortal eyes rest on him.” Another record went even further and had the repentant pilgrim wander as far as England, where he settled down as a hermit and was still, perhaps, alive. This was the worst nonsense, of course. There had been plenty of witnesses at the deathbed of the Emperor, and there could be no doubt that he had been well and deeply buried at Spires. If it was his ghost which was at large it would be brooding over the scenes of his unfilial crimes in Germany and not flitting about the unfamiliar walls and corridors of Westminster and driving his young widow into seclusion.

The real reason was that the Empress was refusing, emphatically and passionately, to concur in the marriage with Geoffrey of Anjou on which Henry had decided. She had many good reasons for objecting to this match. She had been an empress and for eleven years had outranked all the queens of Europe. Must she now marry a mere count, a descendant, moreover, of some wild creature of the woods called Tortulf? Geoffrey, apart from his comparatively humble station, was thoroughly unsuitable in her eyes. He was a youth of fifteen years, and it could be assumed that his interests had not yet risen much above the horse and dog and brawling stage. What kind of husband would this adolescent ignoramus make for an accomplished woman of twenty-five? Finally, and this reason was the real one and the hardest to combat, the passionate heart of the King’s daughter had been bestowed elsewhere.

She remained in seclusion for several months, and during that time there were many violent discussions between father and daughter, and much raising of voices and protesting of vows and stamping of feet. The Empress seems to have continued, however, on the friendliest of terms with Adelicia, although it would have been hard to find two natures more diverse. The beautiful and gentle Queen entertained a real affection for her dark and willful stepdaughter, who was practically her own age. How the Empress occupied herself during the long days and interminable weeks is difficult to guess. Adelicia was given to fine needlework, and it was the custom of her ladies to gather about her each day in the sunniest apartment of Cotton-Hall and assist her in this work. This was an activity in which the restless Empress could not have played much part. One thing is certain, the Queen had enough realization of her responsibilities to refuse her brooding charge any opportunity of seeing Stephen. They heard of him and his exploits: of his prowess in the tilting yards, of his untiring addiction to the chase, of his curious habit of strolling about the streets of London, where all hats were doffed to him, and of dropping in at countinghouses and shops for friendly chats. But they did not see him.

How the artful King succeeded in winning her over is not known. Behind the gloomy eye an agile and crafty mind was still at work. He was hard to resist long, this devious tactician who had found means of getting his own way all the years of his life. Somehow the daughter was persuaded to consent. Perhaps the fact that Stephen’s wife was soon to bring another child into the world had something to do with it, as it would make her realize the hopelessness of that situation. Certainly her father employed the argument that she was to be Queen of England and that they were selecting nothing but a consort. At any rate, give in she did, emerging from her retirement with a smoldering air of resignation. Henry went to Normandy himself and saw to it that the nuptials were solemnized by the Archbishop of Rouen on August 26 in the year 1127.

That the marriage had been a mistake was apparent from the first. Even Henry, the matchmaker, must have realized it. Three times the Empress left her husband and her dark eyes flamed mutinously as she explained her reasons to her rapidly aging father, and three times the smooth tongue of the consummate diplomat encouraged her to go back to Geoffrey. Finally, after more than five years without issue, she raged back to England and declared that this time the separation was final. She was able to convince Henry of the iniquities of her still adolescent spouse, and he allowed her a long stay before exerting any pressure on her to return.

She made the most of her visit, seeing a great deal of Stephen and starting the old rumors to flying and tongues to clacking. Stephen had thickened a little about the waist and there were small rolls of flesh under his jowls, but his color was as fresh as ever and his spirit as buoyant. He had another son now to take the place of Baldwin, who had died, and the new heir, who had been named Eustace after his fine old grandfather, seemed perfectly strong and happy. Stephen was still, quite obviously, the most popular man in England.

When Henry finally told the Empress she must return to Anjou, she seems to have agreed without much protest. England was at peace after that, and there was little for the King to do but sign the writs which Roger the Treasurer laid before him. A disastrous fire swept London, cutting black swathes on both sides of the Thames. Henry thought of going to his new palace at Woodstock, where he had collected a menagerie and which he liked to visit, but the pleasure to be anticipated did not seem to justify the rigors of the journey. Time, of which he had never had enough, seemed at last to be standing still; waiting, perhaps, for younger and more active participants. And then one day he received news which sent him skurrying to the Cotton-Hall, his feet recapturing some of the spring of youth. His eyes had lighted up and the message they conveyed to Adelicia was easy to interpret: “At last, sweet child, it can be forgiven you that I have no son.”

Matilda’s son Henry had been born. Historians say that the nation rejoiced, but that statement has a spurious ring. The arrival of an heir made it certain that one day a scion of the much-feared Angevin family would sit on the throne. Certainly there could not have been any rejoicing in London, where English opinion was cradled. It is impossible to conceive of these independent thinking burghers throwing their hats in the air because a man-child had come into the world who might someday try to trample on their hard-earned rights.

Events followed rapidly thereafter. The King went to Normandy to see his grandson, his cook put too much oil in a dish of lampreys, and the end came to a long and in some respects a memorable reign. And back in England all men paused in dire apprehension and wondered what would happen now.