My thoughts were occupied with my plans for a new life ... without Henry.

The Turbulent Priest

I WAS IN NO HURRY to leave England. I was feeling in limbo after the birth of John. I could not completely repress the revulsion the child aroused in me. Poor mite, it was unfortunate that he should have come at a time when I felt such an aversion to his father, and I was filled with a sense of shame every time I looked at him to remember how at one time I had enjoyed my relationship with Henry.

Moreover, it would soon be time for my daughter Matilda to leave England for her marriage. She clung to me. She was apprehensive of the future, as well she might be. But I was of the opinion that Henry the Lion would be indulgent as some men can be when they are so much older than their wives. I prayed this would be so.

I tried to make her excited about our preparations. We discussed her trousseau and the jewels she would have. And while I planned what Matilda would need, I was thinking of my own freedom, which could not be far away.

I wanted desperately to see Henry so that I could pour scorn on him. I wanted to tell him that I had discovered Rosamund’s bower and how I wished him well of her, for he should never be a husband to me again. But that could wait. I had many plans to make and I did not want to be rash.

I would not lose my children. They were mine more than Henry’s. I was the one to whom they gave their love. It always had been so. Henry would discover that in time.

So while I waited I planned, and the months passed.

Henry was occupied in Normandy and the Vexin. He had no plans as yet to return home. Trouble there must be rife. It could even keep him away from the fair Rosamund.

I saw little of the new baby and left him to his nurses. I tried to overcome my dislike of him, but in vain. My anger against Henry was so great that I was angry with myself, I supposed, for allowing him to get this child on me.

Henry was bent on using our children to extend his domain, and after leaving the Vexin he was in Brittany.

He had supported Count Conan, whom he intended to use to further his designs, for he wanted Conan’s daughter, Constance, for Geoffrey. This would need a cautious approach as, although Conan might agree, the people of Brittany, like those of Aquitaine, were not eager to accept Henry as their overlord. In due course Henry was successful. Conan gave his promise and Geoffrey, aged nine, was betrothed to Constance, aged five. Henry was doing well: Saxony and Bavaria through Matilda, Castile for Eleanor, and even baby Joanna was given her part, with Sicily. And now Brittany. He was stretching out all over France. I wondered what Louis was thinking; still giving thanks to God, I presumed, for the God-Given, Philip Augustus.

Sad news came from Rouen. I knew that the Empress Matilda had been ailing for some time. Ever since she had caught a virulent fever some seven years ago there had been occasional recurrences of it. Early in the morning of September 10 she died.

Matilda’s character had changed a great deal as she aged. In youth she had been fiery, ambitious, imperious and very reckless, antagonizing so many people with whom she came into contact. How she had mellowed! She had become very wise; she had always been clever but, losing her recklessness, she had given quiet thought to her problems and those of her family and had acquired a shrewd wisdom. If only Henry had listened to her over Becket ... But one could not go on saying “If only ...”

On her deathbed, so pious had she become that she took the veil as a nun of the Abbey of Fontevrault.

I should have liked to be with her at the end. She and I had a great deal in common. We had admired each other, and that is always a reason for mutual regard. She had made a very careful will and had given a great deal to the poor. She had founded many religious houses and supported many more. She had set aside a large sum for the completion of the bridge over the Seine at Rouen—an object which she had started some years before her death. So she died full of good works.

I mourned her and I knew Henry would.

Now my great task was to see that young Matilda left the country for her future home in a fitting manner, and to do my best to make her believe that she could be happy in her new life.

We were to go to Dover and there embark for Normandy. Robert, Sheriff of Kent, was in charge of our passage and three vessels from Shoreham had been engaged to carry our small party and all Matilda’s belongings. We were going to Argentan, where the King would be waiting for us. There we were to celebrate Christmas, after which Matilda would begin her journey to Saxony.

I was looking forward to my meeting with Henry. I had been thinking of it for a year, and many times had I rehearsed what I would say to him. I wanted to see his face when he knew he had lost Aquitaine.

And so we came to Argentan. It was to be a family Christmas. Henry greeted me warmly. He was always attentive after long separations. I received his embrace coolly in the presence of others.

He had the effrontery to come to my bedchamber, smiling confidently, certain that we were going to resume marital relations. I looked at him coldly. I said: “Henry, there is something I have to tell you. I have decided I am going to leave you.” He stared at me uncomprehendingly.

I went on: “I shall return to Aquitaine. It will be as though I never married you ... except for the children, of course. They are mine and I do not forget it.”

“By God’s eyes,” he said, “you strike a dramatic pose. Does aught ail you?”

“I am well, thanks be to God. I have made a few discoveries. I went through your maze at Woodstock one day. I think a piece of embroidering silk must have become attached to your spur. It led me to her pretty little home. I must say it is very charming. Did you design it, or did she? You seem as though you have not understood. I am talking of Rosamund Clifford.”

His eyes narrowed and I saw the smile curve his lips.

“You were at one time extremely fond of her,” I went on. “Don’t tell me you were guilty of that weakness of some women ... and men even now and then. Were you in love?”

“With Rosamund,” he said. “Yes. She is a delightful woman.”

“The mother of your two sons?”

“I admit the charge.”

“And you took her to live in the palace ... in my place?”

“Ah, that is what rankles, is it? That is what you could not bear. Yes, she did live in the palace. She was a more gracious queen than you ever were.”

“She had to please her master. Has it occurred to you that I do not have to please you?”

“Enough of this nonsense.”

“It is no nonsense. This did not happen yesterday. It was a whole year ago when I found my way through the maze to that charming abode of love. I have had ample time to think and I have made up my mind ...”

“Made up to what, may I ask?”

“You may indeed. Made up my mind that I have finished with you.”

He threw back his head and laughed. He came to me and took me by the shoulders. He was ready, I knew, for a little love play. He was going to placate me, tell me that no other woman—not even Rosamund—was of importance to him. I was the Queen, was I not?

I threw him off.

“You could not tear yourself away from her. All those months at Woodstock ... and all that was happening to the dominions overseas ... it mattered not. You could not leave your mistress. Very well, you are free now to set her up in the palace, to live openly with her, for I shall not be there. Never ... never ... Our marriage is over.”

“I did not think you would be so jealous.”

“Jealous? I? Do you think I envy your whores? No, I pity them. That poor creature at Woodstock ... awaiting your summons ... You want to own the world ... but most of all, womankind, I do believe.”

“It is a dazzling prospect.”

“Laugh if you will. My mind is made up. I am not sure about divorce. I don’t think it is necessary. There are children enough. I shall go back to my home. I shall go to Poitou. And I hope I never have to see your face again.”

“Are you not being a little rash ... just because you have discovered I have had a beautiful mistress? What are you envious of ... her beauty? Her youth? You are eleven years older than I, you know.”

“Eleven years older in wisdom, I hope. But I have been foolish. I should have done this before. I have no need of you, Henry. I can go home to my own estates.”

“You will forget all this ...”

“I have been thinking of it for over a year and I have made my plans.”

“What a fuss to make!”

“I have had enough. As soon as I saw your mistress and knew that you had set her up in the palace while I was absent, I knew that that was the end. Oh, she is pretty enough and the boys are fine ones. What a man you are for getting sons on harlots. We have your bastard Geoffrey in the nursery as proof of that.”

“A very pleasant boy he is.”

“He has been brought up in my nurseries, that is why.”

“You accepted him.”

“It was different. His mother was a camp-follower. I wonder you did not set her up as a queen. Your conduct is a constant scandal.”

“And your past is not free from it. You should not be surprised. Were you not brought up in a Court where it was the order of the day? I am tired of this nonsense. I will not be called to book for my misdeeds. I will do as I will.”

“With your low-born loose-living women, perhaps, but not with the Duchess of Aquitaine and Queen of England.”