Why had I married him?

Physically he was still exciting. It was, I suppose, that immense strength, that arrogance, that power. But I was beginning to think that I had been unlucky in both my husbands.

Events being as they were, he must stay on the Continent, but I must return to England. Both of us could not be away too long. I was nothing loath. I wanted no more children and I feared that if Henry and I remained together the inevitable would happen.

I enjoyed being in England with my children—particularly Richard, although I loved them all. I fancied they were all fonder of me than they were of Henry who had no idea how to behave with children. He overawed them. They were suspicious of him when he tried to be jocular with them. I was the one to whom they rushed for comfort.

My little Richard grew more beautiful every day. He was a true Plantagenet and did not resemble my side of the family at all. He was golden-haired and blue-eyed, with a beautifully clear skin. He was going to be taller than the others.

I heard news from France, from Henry, who wished me to pack up and join him without delay.

Louis had been married to Constance for six years and had managed to produce one daughter, Marguerite, now betrothed to our Henry. But news had seeped out that at last Constance was pregnant again. I laughed to contemplate it, imagining all the efforts Louis must have undertaken to achieve this result. I pictured those nights on his knees beside the royal bed before he took the plunge and managed after an effort to perform his duty for France.

Now his efforts were crowned with success.

Henry was far from pleased. What if the child should be a boy? Young Henry would be cheated of the crown of France. There was only one thing we could do. We could betroth our little Matilda to the boy as soon as he was born, thus making sure that, if our son could not be King of France, our daughter should be Queen.

I laughed aloud. The man’s mind was so devious. One had to admire him. He let no opportunity pass.

I prepared to travel with the children.

When I joined Henry in Rouen, he was in a mood of great excitement. The birth was imminent.

“Becket will have to persuade the King once more,” he said. “We shall have to find some way of making the project agreeable to him.”

“It will not be easy,” I told him. “Do you think he will want two of our children married to two of his?”

“He has to want it. We managed with one. We will with the other, and if it is a boy, it will be imperative.”

We were all in a state of nervous tension when Queen Constance was brought to bed. She produced another girl and, poor lady, died in the attempt.

The immediate threat was lifted. There was no boy to displace Marguerite. The throne of France was safe for Henry’s son.

Then there was more cause for alarm. Louis proposed, with indecent haste, to marry again. It was for France, of course. He had not given up hope of producing that boy. There was no difficulty in finding a bride for the King of France. Adela of Blois and Champagne was chosen.

Now Henry was in a ferment of apprehension. A new marriage! A young woman! Even Louis might succeed.

Louis’s daughter was named Alais. Henry told me that he thought as a precaution a marriage should be arranged between her and Richard; but that could hardly have been suggested at this stage.

His thoughts turned in another direction.

“Until Marguerite and young Henry are married,” he said, “our position is very uncertain. You know how often these intended marriages are brushed aside. Trouble has only to blow up between Louis and me and all our efforts will come to nothing.”

“We must hope for peace between you. Toulouse has made no difference to the proposed marriage.”

“That was settled amicably.”

“Were you thinking of that when you did not take the city?”

He lifted his shoulders. “What I plan is to get the young pair married.”

“They are little more than babies.”

“That is of no account. They can go back to their nurseries afterward. I did not intend that the marriage should be consummated in their cradles.”

“Louis will not agree.”

“Louis will not know until after the ceremony.”

“You would do that?”

He grinned at me. “Robert of Newburg has the girl. He could not withhold her from me. You know there is a little trouble in papal quarters. I don’t think anyone there would want to offend me. Any consent we needed from them would be freely given. Everything will be done as it should be, and Louis will be presented with a fait accompli.” I could not help admiring him. “And,” he went on, “I shall get my hands on the Vexin, for once the marriage is performed the dowry must be paid.”

“Do you think all this is possible?”

“It will be if I decide it shall.”

Henry had decided, as he said, so it should be. Marguerite, aged three, was married to Henry, aged six. Poor bewildered children, they did not know what was happening to them.

Henry took possession of the Vexin and the rest of the dowry and was very pleased with himself.

Louis was less pleased, but he was as bewildered as our young bride and groom. He had just married and had to face those fearful bedroom ordeals once more. His one thought must have been, Let me get a son quickly, oh Lord—and nothing else matters.

We spent Christmas at Le Mans, and during that time, to my intense irritation, I became pregnant again.

We remained in France. It seemed necessary. Henry had acquired new possessions and he was very watchful of the King of France, fearful that at any moment he would hear that Adela had given birth to a son.

During that year, while we were so involved with the birth of the child who turned out to be little Alais, the Archbishop, our good friend Theobald, had died.

This was a blow to us. Theobald could be completely trusted. He was that rare creature—a truly good man. He had been deeply religious, generous to the poor, ever ready to help those in trouble. He had been learned and liked to surround himself with men of his own caliber but that did not mean that he had not had sympathy and attention to give to those less gifted than himself. He had remained faithful to Stephen throughout that King’s troublous reign and had on Stephen’s death given that loyalty to Henry, whom he considered the rightful heir. Henry was wise enough to know a good subject when he found one and Theobald had certainly been that.

During the last year he had been very ill, and it was known that death was not far away. He had written several times to Henry, begging him to return to England that he might behold “his son, the Lord’s anointed, before he died.” Henry could not, of course, allow sentimental attachments to defer him from protecting his lands overseas, so Theobald’s request went unanswered. Theobald also asked that Thomas Becket, his archdeacon, might be spared to visit him. But Henry would not send Thomas either.

They had patched up their quarrel over the action at Toulouse, but I imagined Thomas had learned a lesson. He could go so far and no farther—although that was a great deal farther than most men would dare go.

Theobald expressed the hope that the King would consider Thomas Becket to fill the post of Archbishop of Canterbury which would fall vacant on his death.

Theobald died that April. Henry was upset that he had lost such a good man, but he said he was in no hurry to fill his post. He could very well do without an Archbishop of Canterbury.

I was surprised that Theobald had suggested Becket. That worldly man—whose vanity was clearly a part of his nature, for otherwise why should he always appear in such exquisite garments and surround himself with beautiful possessions and revel in the life of luxury—Archbishop of Canterbury! It must have been a joke.

“Of course,” said Henry, “if he were my Archbishop I could expect to be on better terms with the Church than I and my ancestors have sometimes been.”

“Thomas is a man who has his own opinions. Remember what he felt about Toulouse.”

“Thomas comes around to my way of thinking when it is necessary to do so.”

“Have you broached the subject with him?”

Henry shook his head. “Not yet. I am unsure ... so far. There is another matter I have to discuss with you. It concerns young Henry.”

“What of him?”

“He is now a married man.”

“He is six years old.”

“Too old for a future king to be in his mother’s nursery.”

“I have always watched over the care of my children.”

“Which you must admit is not quite expected for a royal brood.”

“I care not what is expected. These are my children.”

“But listen to me. Henry has to be brought up in the household of a nobleman where he can learn the manly arts ... where he is not able to run to his mother when he hurts his little finger.”

“That is not how the nurseries are run. The children are taught to be strong and resolute.”

“I know your feelings for them and I applaud them ... in a measure. But Henry has to get out into the world. It has always been thus.”

I pondered this. It was true. Henry was getting to an age when he must leave the family nest for a while. I should not lose him altogether. Like all my children he was especially devoted to me. Henry’s relationship with his children was perhaps the one part of his life in which he failed. His attempts to show affection were often clumsy. They respected and admired me; they liked my beautiful gowns; they would stroke the material and I would explain to them what it was and how I had designed my gown myself. They were my children more than his.