Lady of the English - By Elizabeth Chadwick Page 0,174

knew he was planning.

Think ahead. Always think ahead. His tutoring at Bristol under Master Adelard was intensive and all bent towards moulding him into a king capable of ruling England and Normandy as her father had done. She had come to the bitter but inevitable realisation she would never be queen of England, no matter what men had sworn to her, because, in the end, it was beyond their capabilities to follow a woman. But a woman could still rule and advise from behind a throne. She moved her queen to block Henry’s bishop. That would give him food for thought.

Strange how queens had so much power in chess, yet kings had none.

The year had been one of advances and retreats, successes and failures. Her resources were thin on the ground but at LadyofEnglish.indd 430

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least she knew the core of men around her were dedicated and unlikely to desert. Her cause had been aided by the death of Pope Innocent in September, which meant that the bishop of Winchester no longer held the position of legate. And with a new, more sympathetic pope, the way was open for fresh negotiations on the matter of who had the right to England’s crown.

Henry had spent longer this time pondering the board, his eyes narrow and his hand cupping his chin. She was pleased with his progress. When he had come from his father, he had had difficulty in sitting still for even a moment, but these days he could focus if he was given a task that demanded concentra-tion and thought—for the time it took, at least.

He made his move, sweeping decisively down the flank with his rook, and expending some of his cooped-up energy.

Matilda made her own reply swiftly. Henry had obviously anticipated what she would do, for he immediately struck with his knight, his grey eyes shining. Once again, she saw the trap, but it was now double-edged and she was only a few moves away from defeat whatever she did.

“Oh, very clever,” she laughed. “I concede you the victory—

but you had to think hard, didn’t you?” Henry grinned. “Yes, but I like thinking,” he said, “and I like winning.”

“Indeed!” The competitive urge in her son was as bright as his hair, and had been deliberately fostered, together with the ability to focus on the goal while keeping an eye on peripheral dangers. “But you must learn to weather the times you do not win and be prepared to endure.”

“Papa says that too.”

“Well, your papa is wise,” she said neutrally. Rising from the board she went to look out of the window on the stark winter landscape. She often had occasion to deal with Geoffrey through formal letters and discussions about their sons and 431

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the state of Normandy, but she no longer felt any emotional attachment, and the long separation had weaned her off the corrosive but compelling physical desire she had felt for him.

And with the waning of that dark need, other volatile feelings had died. She no longer hated him; she could be detached and impartial, because he meant nothing to her beyond the need for his soldierly qualities and his diplomatic skills. She saw him every day in Henry, but more strongly still did she see the royal blood of Normandy and England. Henry was the son of an empress and the grandson of a great king. Beside that, the blood of his father was a thing of no consequence—in that, at least, her father had been right.

Henry left the chessboard and came to stand at her side, stepping up to the embrasure so that he could see out of the open window and sniff the cold, damp air.

“One day all of this will be yours.” She set her arm around his narrow shoulders. “You must rule it wisely, like your namesake, your grandfather and his father before him, who was brought here by God. God has ordained that you should rule this country in honesty and humility, tending always to its needs and administering with justice. That is a big lesson to learn and a great responsibility.”

“I know, Mother.” He jutted his jaw. “I will govern as king, and I will do it until I die and nothing will hold me back.” The earnest tone of his voice made her look at him fondly and smile and ruffle his hair because he was a child, and yet he spoke like a man and she was proud of