Matilda Empress Read online

  Some vassals owing military service to the Angevin send unfit underlings in their stead. My husband willingly accepts gold, horses, or equipment as his due, but, most of all, he needs able-bodied fighters. He rants against the weak condition in which many men have arrived, the incongruity between their iron suits of armor and their soft bodies. The Count of Anjou forbids his troops to wear surcoats of silk over their coats of mail. All their long manes are to be shorn for the coming campaign. Geoffrey despises all the modern warrior’s effeminacies, out of place in violent engagement.

  Much to his disgust, some of the heedless newcomers would overlook the religious aspects of their calling, and are ignorant of the word of God. This will not do in Angers. Our bishop blesses our men-at-arms, who are expected to pray daily for the success of our offensive. They must swear to be sons of the Church, wielding their foils first and foremost for the honor of the Lord.

  I am to gallop at the head of our battalions. My husband gifts me with a magnificent destrier of Oriental lineage. Despite the arduous journey ahead, I am keen on the coming adventure. Eager to see my enemies trampled, I do not quail at the thought of battle. The count perceives that my presence among his men imbues his territorial aggression with respectability. Although I know that the Angevin fights for himself, he needs it to be said that he fights for me. I intend that he shall.

  †

  The night before we commenced our great enterprise, the highest ranking among our forces gathered for a sacred ceremony in the great hall of Angers Castle. The room was packed full, over warm from the burning tapers and the press of so many bodies. All three of my sons peered wide-eyed at the bustle and din of the knights amassed before them.

  Geoffrey lifted a silver sword, ornamented with garnets and rubies, above his blond head. An expectant hush filled the chamber. “Behold the symbol of the highest order, the Order of Chivalry. Let the two edges of the blade remind you that you serve two masters, on Earth as it is in heaven. When you face your foe, do not disgrace the suffering of Christ, nor my cause.” These stirring phrases brought forth a murmur of approval.

  Then, unexpectedly, I was the subject of the Angevin’s rousing speech. “Our great glory will be shared by my royal wife, Empress Matilda. Before she leads us into eternal renown, she must be prepared for combat.”

  Concealing my shock, I held my head level.

  The count waved a bishop to come forward for the ritual cleansing, the baptism that must precede my dubbing.

  His Grace carried a water basin and a swatch of linen, used to soak the cloth and bedaub me in the shape of a cross. “Go forth, with God’s blessing upon you!”

  Geoffrey approached me, bearing a carmine wool mantle, embroidered with a profusion of golden roods, and lined in white ermine. It had a sable collar, tied with silk tassels. He placed it over my shoulders and then knelt before me, to fasten golden spurs onto my boots. Forthwith, he arose, and indicated that I should sink down in his place.

  Shuddering, I knelt before him, but stared resolutely ahead, so as to appear righteous and bold.

  “The empress is washed in linen, so that she is bright like the flower of the lily; she is covered in red, like a rose. In honor and piety, she is pure and white, but she will shed scarlet blood. As each man carries arms appropriate to him, so I entrust my wife with shining spurs and a consecrated sword. I dub her a knight in spirit.” My husband placed the flat of the blade on one of my shoulders and then hoisted me up, to a roar of cheers.

  Relieved, I sensed that our vassals did not rebel against such an unorthodox investiture. My sons sauntered about on the dais, proud that their mother had been metamorphosed into a soldier. This was not my coronation, elevating me to sovereign status, but I was honored to be lifted into the noble estate of knighthood.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Denise’s mouth twisted downward, out of its usual bow. I pity her the lonely months that she will endure, as her lover and I preoccupy ourselves with civil war. My boys are left in her keeping, far from the lawlessness of Normandy. Although disconsolate, she will not abuse them, lest she run the risk of Geoffrey’s displeasure and Gerta’s malevolence.

  †

  The enclave of Exmes spouts a river of blood, a sordid gash slit across its fortified pretensions. Yesterday, we successfully assaulted its tower and outbuildings. Our sabers, spears, and maces struck down the Normans; our thundering hooves mangled their corpses. Now the Count of Anjou and his troops rampage outside the walls, plundering livestock from peaceful fields and torching swards of healthy crops. A demon atop his foaming warhorse, Geoffrey eggs his soldiers on to further ruthlessness whenever their zeal flags.

  I relish our victory, but the battle fatigued me. As it wound down, I loitered at the base of a broken outer work. I slumped on my destrier, leaning against the saddle cantle for support. My silver sword, glinting with rubies, hung heavy at my side. I could feel the mass of its blade, etched with my name, hard against my thigh. I perspired under my padded leather tunic, trimmed with metal links. Exhausted, careless, I dawdled, admiring my bright spurs.

  An arrow whizzed by my ear, clattering against the stone behind me. Instinctively, I ducked down, and just in time, for another bolt whistled over my prone form. My escort shouted and gave chase to the archer. He evaded them, but my guards had foiled the assassination.

  Hearing of my narrow escape, my husband exploded with wrath. As of today, a gauntlet of knights narrowly surrounds me at all times.

  †

  We have advanced to a spot deeper within Normandy, ten miles from Caen Castle, where my brother has lately settled. On my arrival, I sent word to the earl, entreating him to throw over Stephen and declare his fidelity to me. Today, I received a return message from Robert, who regrets to inform me that he still chooses to respect his vows to the pretender. His garrison here remains faithful to the usurper, who raises an army at Lisieux, in an effort to drive back the Angevins. To swell its ranks, my cousin engages Flemish mercenaries, disorderly ruffians known for their barbarity, and unwelcome to Stephen’s Norman barons. My enemy presumes that his various battalions will be able to overcome their mutual antipathy in his service.

  I cannot fathom why Gloucester still bides his time. It is unlikely that he dreads or reveres the Count of Boulogne. Does he no longer support my claim to the contested throne? Why else does he refuse to join the royal circle?

  And yet, disarmingly, Gloucester does not himself advance to meet Stephen at Lisieux, rebuffing my foe’s entreaties as well as my own. Geoffrey stintingly acknowledges my brother’s cleverness, his stalling, his absence from the field in this civil war for Normandy. Robert avoids the necessity of fighting either for me or against me, just managing to sustain the good will of both camps. Beyond my own anger and hurt, I try to comprehend his strategy. Is keeping faith with a father and a sister no longer enough for him?

  †

  Yesterday, the Angevin divisions approached the citadel of Lisieux. By afternoon, they were arrayed for an engagement, and ensconced only a few hills away from my cousin’s units. Watching from a nearby hillside, I strained to hear the shouts and chants of the pretender’s men-at-arms and the neighs and snorts of their horses. Drums from both sides beat their shrill, staccato rhythms. Tense, I pretended that my nerves signaled excitement rather than fear.

  Among the ranks of our knights, my husband paced, rallying his supporters with the exploits of Saint George. I could only make out a few phrases. He concluded at a higher pitch: “Your patron slew a dragon to serve the cross and to save a kingdom from terror. So too will your valorous acts eradicate evil from the land. May Jesus Christ be your shield!”

  Immediately, there was a loud thundering, as thousands of mounted warriors charged toward us. In that moment, amidst the noise, I envisioned all the wives who prayed for the safety of these rabid creatures, all the children that these men had sired in love. Their ties of amity and devotion mattered nothing. Their gallant endeavor commenced; all alike would ki
ll or be killed.

  My guard enveloped me, urging my destrier further up on the rise, beneath a large, misshapen oak. Here I was safe, but could still witness the hostilities. One or two of my escort, indolent men, seemed relieved to be exempt from danger. The pugnacious ones appeared frustrated to be so far from the center of the action.

  The air resounded with turmoil; metal clashed against metal. I fingered the silver filigree hilt of my sword and silently entreated the Virgin that I would not have to swing it in my own defense. Geoffrey’s gift is so ponderous that I am unable to handle it with agility.

  I scanned the scene, but could not pick my husband out of the martial crowd, contorted in combat. The sunlight winked, reflecting off a helmet topped with a golden crown. My heart lurched. It was Stephen, whom I had not looked upon in six years.

  For a long while my eyes clung, fascinated, to his form. Like me, the pretender waited safely on the fringes, tightly enclosed by an armed entourage. He caressed the neck of his steed, jumpy from the screams of men cut down before him. The hairs on the back of my neck rose. Here was the miscreant whose unlawful act was responsible for all this havoc. Gore coated everything spread out before us: men, animals, banners, pennants, devices, axes, hammers, ground. How can the Count of Boulogne suffer such a stain on his soul? I kept the usurper in my sights, forgetting to identify Geoffrey among the living and the fallen.

  I was distracted from my fixation by the exclamations of my retinue. A large battalion of my cousin’s Norman knights, shields descended, retired from the battle. It was later ascertained that these barons abruptly refused to continue to fight alongside Flemish bandits, against other, even Angevin, noblemen; they withdrew their support from the conflict. Boulogne’s vassals disbanded without his permission, signaling their open rebellion from their overlord. Too late, the usurper set off in pursuit of the traitors, and his enfeebled army disintegrated.

  Finally, my rival’s herald sounded a horn. The remnants of the combatants separated and the field cleared. Our forces streamed toward the fortress of Lisieux. My escort nudged my mount out from under the safety of the tree. Prancing its way through the sea of the dead, my steed stumbled over a headless torso, almost throwing me down. We had to move slowly, until we were clear of the detritus.

  Now I picked out the Angevin, bloody and belligerent, shouting at his troops to follow him to the citadel. By the time we caught up to him, fire engulfed the redoubt. Soot coated Geoffrey’s face, but his chain mail, soaked red, had kept him from harm.

  I stroked the sweating, smeared flank of his horse. “Is victory ours, my lord?”

  The count grimaced, truculent. “The bastards set their own tower aflame. The blaze burns too hot to defy. We add only a pile of charred stones to our possessions.”

  The fog of smoke clogged my lungs. I pounded my chest.

  Geoffrey’s pale eyes simmered in the hot air. “I ride now to lay siege to the neighboring town. My Angevins will not be thwarted! My warriors shall burn and loot. We will rip their treasures from the walls of their dwellings. We will ravish their women in the aisles of their churches. We shall devour their flocks raw, without bread. No able-bodied foe will be left standing.”

  Despite all that I had seen, or because of it, I was shocked to hear of the greater desecration to come. “Lisieux falls to us; that is what matters. Such savagery is no longer required. Your assault will leave much bitterness behind us.”

  “My power must be unquestioned.” With a vociferous bellow, my husband cantered away, rounding up the massing men to surge.

  †

  Fall

  We reside in central Normandy, at the Castle of Argentan, one of my father’s favorite hunting palaces. Argentan has long been an administrative center for the collection of taxes in the duchy. Henry I enjoyed his sojourns here, gathering revenue and stalking game. His castellan has faithfully protected the keep’s vaults and storerooms. I am at leisure to enjoy a citadel and inventory a treasury that has never been out of our custody.

  Recovering from a wound, Geoffrey tarries, cared for by Denise. To my displeasure, his final, gratuitous attack floundered. The townsfolk defended their property and families with more spirit than common people usually exhibit. One of them laid hold of a crossbow and managed to shoot my husband’s foot. Injured, carried away from the scene in a litter, his moans destroyed the morale of his rampaging band. After many casualties, our troops abandoned the half-destroyed buildings and retreated. The Counts of Anjou and Boulogne finished the day equally content to regroup.

  At Argentan, I preside as liege lady, promoting the illusion that I am mistress of all my inheritance. As His Majesty did before me, I issue charters from the castle’s great chamber. One flustered notary scribbles them out, as fast as I draft them. I affix a seal to my dictates, “Matilda, empress, daughter of the king of the English.”

  Is it done, then? Have I come again to where I was? Am I reborn the queen, risen from the dead?

  †

  To my shame, the resumption of my political power proves a delusion. In league against my interest, my husband and my beloved conclude a two-year truce in Normandy. Once again, Geoffrey puts off the achievement of my ambition. Revolts brew in Anjou; he hurries his return to the land of his fathers. He sacrifices my patrimony for the security of his own legacy.

  For his part, Stephen loses heart at the defection of his Norman barons. I scorn his shortsightedness! Despite the recent fracas over the Fleming mercenaries, the Norman lords much prefer to kneel to him than to the Angevin, their rival in Europe. My husband cannot guarantee their English rights. The pretender departs the Continent, without decisively subduing Normandy and without repelling the Angevin threat.

  In addition, my ass of a cousin pays Geoffrey two thousand marks of silver a year, in exchange for a promise not to invade the duchy. Wisely, my husband demands the first year’s ransom in advance. The usurper’s word means nothing; his royal fortune ebbs. The Angevin takes the money offered, and delays his onslaught for another time. Boulogne appoints two deputies to administer Normandy in his absence, but they cannot reestablish the rule of English law. King Henry’s sovereignty here is no more. His two regents will be no match for Geoffrey when he forays north once again.

  Yet, there is no denying or dampening my absurd fancy for the scoundrel. Since espying Stephen at the battle of Lisieux, my incorrigible passion for him sparks to light. My hatred does not subside, but coexists alongside my desire, each burning me up, in opposition.

  †

  Last night, my husband and my cousin signed their treaty and gave each other the kiss of peace. Afterward, we celebrated with a feast. I had dressed carefully, first bathing in scalding water seeped with dried orange blossoms and aromatic lavender. Eager to inhabit my own majesty, I wore a shimmering bliaut, a silvery corsage, and the carmine and ermine mantle presented to me before our military campaign.

  Throughout the evening’s festivities, I seemed to float, as if I were still in my bath, enveloped in an intoxicating steam. I chattered, with a voice muffled to my own ears. My vision swam; the Count of Boulogne’s face dissolved before me. I had to concentrate on the wall tapestries, or the flickering firelight, in order to rein in my confusion. I hope that my demeanor at the banquet acquitted me of innuendo, but, within my breast, all was anarchy, as my outraged ambition tussled with my romantic yearning.

  At the high table, I was installed between Stephen and Geoffrey, each the father of two of my boys. A silk canopy sheltered the three of us. Outside the baldachin, on the Angevin’s other side, Denise lowered at us.

  The court gorged itself on peacock, heron, blackbirds, rabbit, pheasant, and boar. In my besotted state, I overate and could not differentiate between the dishes that I sampled. At the conclusion of the meat courses, several pages bore a sugar carving into the hall and up onto the dais. The troubadours struck up a jaunty melody to accompany the passage of the elegant sculpture, which depicted a castle with four concentric towers.

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sp; The usurper admired the confection. “Here is a fortification that we might besiege together.”

  My husband stroked his chin in agreement. “On this day of rejoicing, we merely sharpen our words.”

  The two, both masters of repartee, flaunted their wit. There followed a long bout of verbal sparring, abetted by large quantities of alcohol. Neither my lawful spouse nor my knight errant deigned to notice me.

  At some point, Stephen began to narrate the intrigues of the fat king of France to marry his second son, Louis Capet, to Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine and Poitou. “The duchess is a woman of prodigious learning, capable of the most beguiling conversation.”

  The Angevin straightened his back. “She inherits two great duchies, stretching from the Loire to the Pyrenees, from the Rhône to the Western Ocean. Her goodly territory is more enormous and more beautiful than Normandy, and richer in resources than either the realms of France or England.”

  The Count of Boulogne drowned his goblet of wine, then smacked his hand upon the board. “I do not know whether young Louis appreciates anything but his imperial gain. He is insensitive to the value of the lady herself. Eleanor’s loveliness is fabled, but he was raised in the cloister of Notre Dame. The king’s second boy, he was destined to be a pope, and has the quiet demeanor of a priest. He is no god for such a goddess.” Cataloging the perfections of a woman he had never met, my cousin glowed with lust.

  Denise giggled, amused by the Dauphin’s fate. “Louis Capet will soon find out how to beget sons on his duchess.”

  Geoffrey’s agitation surfaced. “The consolidation of France, Aquitaine, and Poitou brings me no pleasure, Your Majesty. Blois and Anjou are both less secure now that France’s power magnifies. The Duke of Aquitaine must renege on this alliance for his daughter and entrust his vast holdings to another.”