Matilda Empress Read online

  The pretender’s expression grew hooded. “Whom else do you have in mind for the nubile Eleanor?”

  My husband considered the case. “Unfortunately, I cannot lay claim to her.” He motioned to our little Henry, wandering among the lower tables, and then to me. “Empress, is our first born too juvenile to be wed?”

  The young Plantagenet hustled over and stood before us, gingerly admiring the sugar castle. His reddish hair, a paler version of my beloved’s, told the truth of his paternity for all to see. Stephen, Geoffrey, Denise—not one of them could possibly miss the indisputable resemblance between the boy and his true parent.

  My stomach cramped. “He is five, but I would approve of such a marriage.”

  Henry, oblivious, hopped on one foot. “May I have a piece of the candy fortress?”

  My cousin arched his brows, up onto his gleaming forehead. “And who might you be, young warrior, with your eye on the prize?”

  The Plantagenet swaggered. “I am Henry, son of the daughter of King Henry, rightful heir of England and Normandy.”

  A silence fell over the dais.

  The usurper drummed his fingers on the high table.

  The Plantagenet frowned, worried that he had said the wrong thing, and added, “My mother teaches me always to pray for my father’s love.”

  My beloved smiled with his lips, but his glance remained cold. “Do you have a foot, you imp?”

  The Plantagenet looked puzzled. “Yes, sire.”

  “Do you have two feet?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “What are one and two?”

  “Three, sire.”

  “Do you thus have three feet?”

  The boy, proud of his intelligence, was clearly crushed to have been bested before the adults, and shown to be deficient in logic. He raised brimming eyes to the Count of Anjou, who clucked his tongue in disapproval, and dismissed him from our presence.

  Just at that moment, dancers began to form rings and cacophonous music filled the hall.

  Wincing at the clash of cymbals and the clapping of the crowd, Stephen gestured to my mantle. “Ah, Matilda, your cloak boasts a rich dye.”

  How I yearned to hear my name on his lips! “Its wool has been stained with the blood of the murex, a rough, spiny creature common to the warm seas.”

  Boulogne murmured low, and shook his russet curls, but I could not decipher his words underneath the drums and shouts.

  I dared a hint. “What say you to my red-crested hoopoe?” In every bestiary, the hoopoe bird represents the loving child.

  My rival sighed. “I judge the Angevin’s son to be a fine, hale young man. Of course, I dote on Eustace, my first-born, the legitimate successor to my English and Norman empire.”

  The Matter of

  the Crown

  Scroll Nine: 1138

  Again in this year there were brutal upheavals, raging fire and uplifted swords. The empress wooed calamity, as she might have seduced her beloved, and rejoiced that territories should be ravaged for her own sake. Following her exalted example, all her noble vassals courted violence, in order to thrust themselves up above their fellows. Matilda’s supporters had minor victories and major defeats, yet she continued to pin her hopes on the utility of war. Her adored foe also put his trust in mayhem and confusion. Doom came first to barbarians and thieves, but ruin soon spread to all the Christian souls in the realm.

  †

  Spring

  Geoffrey backtracks to Anjou, in accordance with his treaty with the enemy, but I remain in Normandy. In this citadel, bequeathed to me by my father, I recover my birthright. In Argentan, I am Normandy’s overlord; I do not retreat from my honors, nor entrust them to anyone else’s care. I do not permit the usurper’s regents to be masters here. Peace persists under my firm authority.

  From this side of the Channel, I exult in the various rebellions against my rival that sprout all over the island of Britain, so many insurrections that my cousin does not know where to fight back first. Does he repress an uprising here, or reinforce a front there? He apparently progresses from one scene of carnage to the next, but is unable to combat every incursion. I imagine his frustration, and gloat. Thief, rascal, blackguard! None of it is his: not one stone tower, not one blossoming meadow, not one bustling village, not one barn bursting with seed.

  But England’s glories, my glory, is devastated; the countryside has been stripped of provisions. Populous counties, rich with resources, fall prey to his battalions, and those of barons either loyal to me or fighting on their own behalf. What is left to revel over, among the smoldering wreckage?

  Some intrepid warriors, fermenting havoc in my name, are guilty of impious atrocities. My gut clenches to hear the jongleurs broadcast the terror of my people, the shrieks of the women, the laments of the old men, the groans of the dying and the acrimony of the living. Mother Mary, I do not condone gratuitous brutality. I bow my head in shame at their misdeeds, but I cannot do without these evil agents. There are beautiful sunsets suffused with the color of blood. To sit again upon the throne that heaven intends for me, I must foray out into the darkness, heaving a sword.

  I hear lately that my rival mourns the passing of his mother, the Countess of Blois, who died a nun, at the Cluniac priory of Marcigny-sur-Loire, here on the Continent. Although beset by trouble, Stephen’s anguish cannot equal my own.

  †

  Summer

  Civil disorder escalates in England. Seeking advantage, my husband transplants Denise and our boys to Argentan, to my safekeeping, and begins to trespass in Normandy, breaking his truce with our antagonist. By the grace of God, he captures several important towns in the duchy, including Bayeux and Caen. The Count of Boulogne, busy at home, delegates, to his subordinates, the task of resisting the Angevin abroad.

  From the heralds and troubadours, we hear much of Geoffrey’s investitures. Every meal is accompanied by a narration of recent developments, whether inconsequential or more crucial. Denise is full of her brave warrior. At great expense, the leman commissions a Parisian monk to compose a paean to him, and transcribe it. As much as I hope that my husband trods upon my beloved’s pretensions, I cannot abide her mooning.

  Last night, just after vespers, the harlot came to my solar, to quiz me on the details of her idol’s many glorious exploits.

  Although dusk had settled upon the keep, the heat was intense, and I wore only a pleated bliaut, worn thin with age. I lingered by the window, hoping to catch any small breeze that might waft into my chamber. “You can recite better than I can the towns that Geoffrey has conquered. He is a competent soldier.”

  Without waiting for my leave, the strumpet sat down, fanning herself. “He is the ideal knight. His skin gleams as if it were sculpted from polished ivory, his legs stand sentry like pillars of marble, his poise is that of a majestic cedar tree.”

  My impatience festered in the warm air. “Slut! Must you presume to flaunt your passion before me, and rely so heavily upon King Solomon’s metaphors?”

  She did not even blush. “Surely, I am blameless. All the Christian world praises my sweetheart, verily engulfs him with acclaim. In every category, he is beyond censure.”

  I felt the moisture on my neck. “I see him with more clarity than you do.”

  There was a bead of sweat on the girl’s upper lip, but she did not wipe it away. “The Count of Anjou enslaves my body and my spirit. I want only to be where he is, and to present him with sons. I look for no reward beyond our bond; I do not seek to satisfy my desires, but his. To be a wife may be more respectable, but I prefer to be called his whore. The more that I am debased on his account, the more that my life has been touched by him.”

  I sniffed. “I see that you have been reading Abelard’s calamitous history, without drawing the proper conclusions. Do not model your amours on Heloise’s.” I stood up and moved toward her, reaching out to brush off the perspiration from her pink mouth. I rubbed the warm liquid between my fingers.

  Denise winced,
shrugging off my grazing touch. “Abelard’s romance circulates among the noble courts of Europe!”

  I was offended on my husband’s behalf. “Do you compare the Count of Anjou to that castrato?”

  The girl reddened. “No, no. Geoffrey’s story will be magnificent, a radiant manuscript, glittering with gold, sparkling with jewel tones, rightly the centerpiece of the library at the castle of Angers. It shall be a bible for all of Anjou, read aloud at our annual festivals, and my personal treasure, inspiring my intimate devotion.”

  I felt all the allure of her bright hair. I took one copper lock in my hand, to examine its hue. “Abelard’s extravagant avowals annoy many whose merit has not inspired such an outpouring of song.”

  The wench regarded me suspiciously.

  I dropped her red curl. “It will be some consolation to hail the Frankish monk’s achievement. Beauty is scarce enough.”

  †

  I receive word of a significant triumph. My brother of Gloucester finally decides to embrace my insurgence and serve as the mainstay of my party. With all proper form, the earl throws Stephen over, sending him a formal defiance according to ancient customs. He no longer recognizes the false king as his overlord, and will no longer carry out his feudal duties to him.

  I cherish Robert’s missive. It renews my hope that someday soon I will come to possess what is mine by right.

  I renounce the friendship between Stephen and myself because he unlawfully claims the throne, defying all the homage that he himself swore to you, and thus leads me to betray my own oaths to my family. Indeed, for all his protestations of fidelity to me, our cousin plots against my life. With my priest’s blessings, I determine to follow my conscience, so as not to risk my happiness in the hereafter and my reputation in the here and now.

  The news of my insubordination disseminates; sedition flourishes in all of my territories. My vassals immediately begin to provision Bristol castle, reinforce its defenses, and commence hostilities against our enemy’s supporters. Bristol shall be our party’s central outpost in England, for it is an impenetrable stone structure, surrounded on three sides by a wide waterway that flows into the sea. It basks in a strong tide and forms a good port, safe haven for a thousand ships.

  Indeed, Bristol keep becomes a meeting place for all the disaffected who wish to join us. Men from numerous districts attach themselves to our cause. Some of these, unfortunately, are no better than brigands, perpetrating hateful crimes for their own gain, stealing or destroying yokes of oxen, flocks of sheep, fields of grain, and gardens of vegetation. But garrison soldiers are being recruited and trained, and the king does not yet arrive to assert himself in the city.

  As I am your brother, I promise now to undertake to be the life and soul of your rebellion. I vow to support Geoffrey’s endeavors in Normandy and will join your husband’s army.

  Regrettably, Gloucester does not act entirely as I might wish. Despite his renewed adherence, and for all his talk of Bristol, he does not depart the continent. It is clear to me that until we cross the Channel, we can never regain what has been stolen. The earl is needed in southern and western England. He must return home, to secure me a port of entry. There will be no true peace on my native soil until it is liberated from the grasp of a villain.

  †

  I whoop with delight! The Count of Boulogne marched on Bristol, but when he surveyed my brother’s citadel, he was dismayed by the difficulties before him. How could he starve out the resisters when they could be reprovisioned by boat?

  Ever unsure, my cousin consulted his barons. One group advised him to take drastic measures. They suggested that he build a damn across the narrowest part of river, filling in the waterway with rocks, timber, beams, and earth. This obstruction would block the castle’s access to the town, prohibiting its burghers from aiding the rebels and perhaps flooding Bristol itself.

  Stephen did not listen to these sage counselors, but to another cabal, secretly partial to me. They spoke of the impossibility of thwarting ocean currents. They insisted that any man-made impediment would sink in the mud, or below the waves, or be swept away in the powerful undertow. They encouraged the pretender to give up the idea of redeeming Robert’s stronghold, in favor of capturing less well-defended fortresses.

  So the usurper slunk off, leaving Bristol city and citadel to be our headquarters. The dolt does not foresee their geographical significance. An incompetent military strategist, he again neglects to forfeit the property of a treasonous vassal, even the mightiest one of all, the Earl of Gloucester.

  †

  Following Robert’s lead, Brian FitzCount resigns his supposed allegiance to the false king and travels to Argentan to abase himself before his true queen. Formally repledging himself to my cause, he presents me with a marvelous gift, a superb silk canopy in which I can enjoy the outdoors without sacrificing any domestic comforts. The grandiose red and gold pavilion, decorated with my father’s coat of arms, well suits a royal retinue. But it is not of more value to me than his homage.

  Today dawned hot and bright, a perfect opportunity to inaugurate the tent. At sext, my servants erected it outside the walls of the keep, spreading carpets upon the ground underneath. Pages carried out tables and chairs, heaping platters, and brimming goblets.

  The household picnicked, and then lingered, bellies full, in the scorched atmosphere. Soon, we all set to yawning. Gerta and Denise advised exertion, and set off to stretch their legs upon the meadow. The children chased after them, screeching like cats, and began a game of Hoodman Blind.

  I flicked my wrist to dispense with the attendance of the rest of our contingent. Brian and I remained within. The sunlight streaming through the crimson fabric cast a glow upon the table and pink shadows upon our cheeks.

  Did I look as rosy as he did? “This demonstration of your faith gratifies me greatly.”

  Brian bowed low before me. I held out my hand, and he kissed my knuckles with warm, fervent lips. “I thank you for your notice, Empress. A virtuous knight cannot suffer to make false promises. Whatever my nominal status at the pretender’s court, I was degraded by my lies and posturing. My very nobility was eroded by my groveling duplicity.”

  Basking in the warmth of the sun, sated with a stomach full of meat and mead, I found it easy to be forgiving. “I acknowledge the difficulty that you must have faced. I see that you are pure of heart.” Scrutinizing FitzCount, I appraised his appeal, perhaps greater than I had bothered to notice.

  He shot me an open, genuine smile. “You reared me as your falcon. You stained my feathers with gold leaf, and entwined red silk straps around my legs. I was tied down, and weighted down, but I felt free. My spirit still soared and my heart still pounded wild. I flew, perhaps higher than had I been let loose.”

  I nodded. “Charming verse.”

  “Now you purse your lips and whistle, and this music from your mouth expands throughout the heavens. I plunge back down through the clouds to settle upon your raised gauntlet.”

  For a moment, I shut my eyes. Would that I could call for my lover, as I would a dog, and command him to heel. I looked at Brian, but his attractions were no longer uppermost in my mind. “Indeed, I need your succor. God forsakes the usurper, who reigns without sagacity or decency. The sins of that rogue are legion.”

  “As you know, His Majesty relinquished Bristol, without eradicating your force there. I was one of the barons in his army who encouraged him to forgo his attack. Although he left Gloucester’s keep intact, to dispense with the necessity of a long and fatiguing siege, he needlessly laid waste to the area surrounding the city, merely to assuage his sense of boredom and antipathy. The king’s compensations have been in short supply since his coronation.”

  I chafed to recall how our affair had been one of those enjoyments. “The Count of Boulogne regrets stealing my throne then, finding the role overly taxing and wearisome?”

  FitzCount spoke in measured tones. “He does not shirk every duty. On one rampage to the south, he fo
und himself at Castle Cary, loyal to your brother. Stephen starved it to surrender, while the residents of the embattled tower prayed for help that never came.”

  I was not entirely ill pleased to hear that my beloved could master a citadel. “For once, he had more wit than his opponents?”

  “His Majesty did not pine over the loss of Bristol when he had subdued Cary.”

  “If he had taken Bristol, small fortresses tied to Gloucester would have come to him without bloodshed.”

  FitzCount looked at me soberly. “You were born to ride at the head of an army, my lady.” His arm jerked, almost touching me.

  Immobile, I gazed away from him, so that he would not to attempt to encroach upon my eminence. “I shall best the illegitimate king, in everything.”

  With tact, Brian nipped his hands behind his back. “The usurper values himself highly enough.”

  I sighed. “Rebellion erupts everywhere; the pretender cannot resist us.”

  For all his fervid devotion to me, the baron did not avoid unpleasant truths. “Firm friends of yours fall, and not just in the south.”

  I snorted. “The Count of Boulogne pardons our allies as is his wont?”

  FitzCount did not waver. “Queen Maud forbids her husband to be too lenient, for she recognizes that the magnates despise him for his gentleness. She begs her husband to treat every rebel as a dangerous foe; she warns him that every man he releases will have to be conquered a second time.”

  My voice was shrill. “Does my cousin continue to pander to the insolent caprices of his witch?” Suddenly, the tent’s scarlet haze felt confining. Did Brian gauge my venom, and presume that it conveyed only political fury? “The plague of the house of Boulogne! Do they truly believe that they shall reign untroubled, as if Stephen were my father’s rightful heir?” In disgust, I rose to walk toward the entrance of the pavilion. I paused in the opening, with the ruby light behind me and the white light before me, and did not venture out onto the plain.

  FitzCount approached the threshold. “Several times, the king confided to me his dismay that these civil disturbances mushroom out of control. He grieves that treachery grows commonplace. He mourns the loss of confidence in the safety of the crown highways. He is concerned by the distrust that arises between neighbors. There is no baron who does not rebuild and resupply his keeps, to ward off the greed of the others.”