The Passionate Enemies Read Online Free PDF Page A

after mistress – and doing so, did he ever give a thought to his cousin Matilda?
    Matilda lay in her ornate bed – the Imperial bed – and thought of her husband – poor doddering Henry! What could one expect from a man nearly sixty years of age, although her father was in his fifties and by all accounts as virile as ever. How unfortunate that she, Matilda, should have been given a husband teetering on the edge of senility.
    There had been no child of the marriage. That did not surprise anyone. If her father had known that the White Ship was going to founder would he have given her to Stephen? From all accounts St Stephen was ingratiating himself with all those who could bring good to him. Clever Stephen! Handsome Stephen! How flattered he would be if he knew how often she remembered him!
    â€˜It is only because, Master Stephen, I am married to this impotent old man and as the Empress I am not allowed to take lovers,’ she murmured. ‘It would be treason I believe and I have no desire to be done away with. If I had had other lovers I would have forgotten you, as you, libertine that you are, have no doubt forgotten me in your numerous love adventures.’
    To speak to him as though he were there was a great comfort. In spite of the fact that it was nearly seven years since she had seen him, she could picture him clearly.
    Heaven help me, she thought, I must have truly loved that man.
    Why? she asked herself. It was because they were so different. She had criticized him, argued with him and would often have liked to fight him physically wounding him, so greatly did he irritate her. But fighting with Stephen would have been more stimulating than being affectionate with anyone else. She had often wondered what it would have been like to make love with Stephen.
    So near they had come to that . . . dangerously near. But always it was Stephen who held off. That was another difference in their natures. Stephen was cautious as she never would be. Stephen thought before he acted; she never did. When her fury was raging she never stopped to think of consequences. Stephen’s temper was always in control – or almost always. That smooth tongue of his continued saying charming, soothing things which he did not mean. Deceiver, she thought. And yet people loved him for it.
    She had loved him for it. She remembered the clever manner in which he had brought peace in the schoolroom, simply because he did not want to be involved in strife. Stephen wanted people to love him, to find him charming; he could not bear to have even one person dislike him, whereas she, imperious, demanding, cared not whether people loved or hated her as long as she had her way. ‘I am strong,’ she used to argue, ‘you are weak, Stephen. You want to rely on the friendship of others. I can stand by myself.’ ‘You will see, when you are older, who is right and who is wrong,’ Stephen had retorted. ‘You will learn that it is never wise to make enemies.’
    How she longed for those verbal battles, which had given such spice to the old life. She could see herself with flashing eyes and Stephen lolling elegantly on a faldestol laughing at her with veiled desire in his eyes.
    She wanted to go home. She wanted to see Stephen again.
    She looked up at the frame of the bedstead which was elegantly carved and inlaid with metal and enamel. It was very grand, this bed in which it had been hoped that she would bear the Emperor a son.
    She was pleased that this had never come to pass. It neverwould now. She had often wondered what would happen to her if her father died, for now that William was dead she, Matilda, was the heiress of England, or would have been had they not married her into Germany.
    As the wife of the Emperor she would never be accepted as Queen of England. She could imagine the barons and bishops putting their heads together and deciding that to bring Matilda back to England and make her Queen would