Matilda Empress Read online

  I watched a hooded Hamelin chase my three sons and Marie through the grass. The five children ran in wide circles, sometimes tumbling to the ground. Their yelps echoed over the clearing. “May the usurper’s troubles be like the many heads of Hercules’ hydra.”

  “They are so, Empress. His Majesty is always on the move, always overwhelmed by a general’s anxieties. Whenever he crushes a revolt, or quells an insurrection, another looms.”

  I saw young Henry stoop to help Marie where she had fallen. “Stephen’s nature is unsuited to such a life. He will not be able to fortify himself to withstand each new adversity.”

  Brian dared to touch to my sleeve, which hung down between us. “For this, too, the king turns to the queen. He must take pleasure from a woman if he is to gird himself for what is to come.”

  †

  FitzCount strikes up a relationship with my sons and Denise’s Hamelin. In the exercise yard, he narrates battle histories and educates them in the arts of war. Brian wields his arms with agility, and wears his mail with insouciance, as if it weighed nothing and stretched fluidly to accommodate all his motions. The boys can feel how naturally he comes to the life of a soldier. He was born to lift his sword up over his head, born to fell his foes.

  Today I came upon the children, entranced as my vassal explained the importance of a knight’s armor of proof, the suit of metal that can withstand an arrow. In deference, FitzCount lowered his head to me, but continued his lecture.

  Seven-year-old Hamelin modeled a chain coif. Henry wore an enormous, pointed, steel helmet with a nose guard, entirely covering his six-year-old face. How could he breathe?

  I strode over to lift its weight from his red head. “Can you hear under there?”

  “I listen through the slits!”

  Brian picked up a long, kite-shaped shield, held it in front of his chest, and demonstrated the proper ways to balance it. Slowly, he swung it to and fro.

  The eyes of his young troops were alight with martial zest. I looked carefully at my sons’ expressions. Geoffrey, now four, was just as enthralled as his elder siblings.

  FitzCount took a defensive stance. I picked up a lance from the ground and clung to it like staff. I wiggled my fingers at the children. William, the toddler, laughed at my antics. I croaked, in the voice of a crone: “Where is the warrior powerful enough to engage me?”

  Hamelin spoke up. “Sir Brian, vanquish this intruder!”

  FitzCount lowered the shield. With my lance, I poked him in the chest. “I have insulted your honor, and you neglect to challenge me.”

  Ignoring my sally, he addressed the boys. “A well-trained warrior aims his lance between the four nails of the shield, or right where the lacings hold the helmet tight upon the head. These spots are the two most vulnerable targets.”

  The Plantagenet wondered aloud. “Is it possible to manage several weapons at once?”

  “If the sword is held in the right hand, the dagger may be wielded by the left.”

  Hamelin thirsted for something to happen, even to me. “Repel the invader!”

  Brian laughed. “Do you, young lord, absolve me from all burden of vice?” The knight took up a long pole with a crescent shaped blade at its end. The boys grimaced to imagine its power, as he waved over their heads.

  Hamelin chortled.

  I peered at Denise’s son, and then at FitzCount. “Familiarity with bloodshed should not breed disdain for it.”

  Brian inclined himself to me, and took a different tone. “Take heed!”

  Hamelin sulked. “Why are we denied any excitement?”

  The Plantagenet tossed his amber head. “We will be men someday soon.”

  FitzCount waved at an adolescent squire, who shot over to collect the weapons and carry them away. In his haste, he stumbled over the ground.

  With interest, Henry and Hamelin inspected the clumsy attendant, clearly new to his formal training. Inspired, the two scamps began pushing at each other.

  I had not relinquished my lance, and now jabbed at the wrestlers. The Plantagenet stopped scuffling, but Hamelin moped to be kept from his own little war.

  †

  Fall

  My husband and his diminished battalion retreat to Argentan Castle. Our Norman campaign halts once more.

  While recuperating his strength, the Count of Anjou mollifies his temper by planning for the town fair. He spends untold hours with his leman and his stewards, while I am relegated to Gerta’s company.

  We waste the lush autumn days, walking outdoors among the farmers who are harvesting grapes and sowing wheat.

  Today, we meandered for three hours. Replete with political talk, I digressed. “I cannot take heart from events. My mind drifts into bittersweet daydreams of what was and what may never be.”

  My wise woman would have none of it. “What is most reckless, but that which negates our virtue?”

  I rolled my eyes, then considered an outcropping planted in Roman times. Outlined against the horizon, the crab apple trees boasted gnarled boughs heavy with misshapen fruit. I would have gathered some, but knew from experience that they would be sour and full of worms.

  It seemed to me that the rough branches, delineated against the bright sky, were human arms, writhing in supplication. I shut my eyes against such a picture, a reflection in the devil’s mirror, to be sure.

  †

  The seasonal labors cease, and the weeklong festival market commences outside the castle gates. Merchants from all over the duchy man over a hundred stalls, peddling an enormous variety of goods to entice the steady flow of visitors. The tavern in Argentan is swept superficially clean. Peasant women from the surrounding countryside pour into the town to prostitute themselves. The count appoints thirty sergeants, to patrol against the forces of misrule and keep our peace.

  No better than a rustic simpleton or vulgar burghess, I indulge my every whim. I purchase ornate ribbons, modish flared headbands, pointed leather slippers from Spain, and a copper mirror. I buy elegant cloths, wools and silks of scarlet, so that I might more often wear the English color. Gerta scrutinizes the bolts of fabric unrolled before me, checking for defects of workmanship and dye. Bargaining with the vendors, she saves me many coins. I heap my solar with my new, superfluous treasures. Geoffrey does not say a word against my profligacy, for he loads his mistress with countless presents.

  The fair means much money, to my husband and to me. We collect stall rents, highway tolls, sales taxes, and a percentage of all fees levied during the carnival by inspectors and notaries. The Angevin is in high humor over the state of his coffers.

  †

  Of late, I give much thought to my appearance. Thirty-six years old, I have lost both my lover and my husband to the beguilements of other women. My beauty must be completely faded, but I would be sure before despairing. The copper mirror is my new companion. I look into it each morning when I arise and each evening when I pull the hangings shut across my empty bed.

  My hair rests dense and dark, long and straight. It is not to be compared with Denise’s flaming ringlets or Maud’s yellow curls. Yet, their countenances lack my distinction. Mine is a refined, handsome face, even without the attractions of a crown. If only I could lie beside my beloved for one more night, and bring him joy, perhaps I could regain his affection.

  When my reflection does not satisfy my vanity, I fall to my knees before the mirror of eternity. I abase myself; I wash my soul in the brilliance and glory of heaven. I look upon myself, until my whole being disintegrates and reassembles as the mirror image of the Virgin. All at once, I feel what Mother Mary feels when she comes to know her love has been taken from her; I taste what She tastes as She swallows the hidden, honeyed syrup, which the Lord Himself has steeped, and poured into the throats of those who praise Him.

  The Matter of the Crown

  Scroll Ten: 1139

  It followed that the empress’s rival disappointed the expectations of his associates, just as he had played her hopes false. When the us
urper neglected to pay tribute to his collaborators, Matilda’s partisans multiplied. Soon the doors of her homeland were open to her, and she returned to the sovereignty that she had inherited. Old friends welcomed her and even her foes smoothed her way.

  †

  Winter

  Dissatisfaction flowers in Britain, brewing among my cousin’s votaries as well as his enemies. Stephen does not fulfill his promises, even those made to his brother. The bishop of Winchester assumed that he would be elevated to the archbishopric of Canterbury, yet the pretender supports the election of another. The disloyal Boulogne undermines the partiality of his most able crony, his closest associate. My count is a rogue, yet so prone to make mistakes!

  As the cold days fade to colder dusks, our household at Argentan gathers near the fire in the hall. It is difficult to remember that my husband is the youngest among us. Tonight his thoughtful discourse was entirely given over to English affairs, rather than Norman ones.

  Seated upon a high backed bench, Geoffrey stretched his feet toward the great stone hearth, nudging one of his lazy hounds out of the way. “His Majesty defrauds his own blood. The snake of Winchester has the competence to lead the church, and the king owes him that mark of prestige! Henry already acts as his chief advisor, the prerogative of the See of Canterbury.”

  Denise, perched beside him on a small stool, placed her delicate hand on his well-turned forearm. Her face swelled in the heat of the blaze. Together, they gleamed like a miniature in an illuminated romance.

  I shifted about on my wooden chair, adjusting the tapestry that cushioned its angles. “He must fear to further embellish his brother’s pernicious influence. The bishop is cruel and unchristian. He thieves many of the holy church’s treasures, going so far as to appropriate the hand of St. James, which I myself presented to the abbey of Reading. Wolvesey, his palace at Winchester, overflows with his ill-gotten spoils.”

  The leman looked up into her lover’s chiseled face. “A great rood stands in His Grace’s cathedral. It contains a fragment of the True Cross, a piece of wood from the manger, a wisp of Mother Mary’s hair, and the ankle bone of Abraham.”

  I chuckled at her simplicity. “From me, the rogue steals an authentic relic.”

  The girl smoothed her curls. “Henry of Blois gives many alms to the poor.”

  I flipped one of my long braids over my shoulder. “He does not pray for them, but for himself.”

  The Angevin snorted at our quarreling. “Winchester ought to appeal to the Heavenly Host. What of the ecclesiastical liberties, which the crown engaged to uphold?”

  I exhaled. “Boulogne is not as great a nonentity as you judge him.”

  A page materialized, presenting a dish of stag testicles. Had Denise orchestrated the menu, to stimulate my husband’s libido? As the count popped one of the dainties into his mouth, a drip of its sweet and sour sauce splashed onto his mistress’ wrist. Would the hussy wipe it away with her silken sleeve?

  Clever Denise lapped it up with small darts of her tongue. “The pope favored Henry of Blois.”

  I could not recline on my stiff seat. “The prize goes to another man.”

  “The new archbishop is a cipher, without fame or learning.” The count waved another sticky morsel in front of his harlot. Denise squealed.

  “Therefore, Stephen will manipulate him without effort.” I had a yen for the delicacy, but would not entreat one.

  The young Plantagenet dashed into the hall, over to the warm corner where we huddled. He lingered near the fire, listening in on the adults’ discussion.

  I rifled his amber hair, although he is too old now for such foolery. “It is amusing how my cousin’s accomplices wrangle among themselves.” Belatedly, I snatched up one of the last testicles, careful not to stain my garments. I tasted smoke and honey.

  The Angevin nodded. “They compete for his patronage, but His Majesty permits himself be controlled. You may find yourself queen yet.”

  My son brightened, but Denise’s expression blackened.

  †

  Summer

  My sturdy Henry, now a hardy seven years old, proves likely to live to adulthood. At last, Geoffrey invests more care in the development of his supposed first-born. My husband presents the delighted youth with a full complement of equipment: a horse, a light chain link overcoat, a quilted tunic and leggings, a helmet, a lance, and a shield. Every afternoon, the Plantagenet gallops to and fro below the castle walls while the Angevin shouts instruction. Despite the daily training, the boy still handles his weighty gear with awkwardness. He regularly flounders, and is thrown to the ground.

  Today, from under the shade of a large tree, I watched the count dust him off after one particularly rough tumble. A morose Hamelin stood beside me, toying sullenly with Henry’s lance, sometimes dashing it at his feet, sometimes throwing it like a javelin, all the while muttering insults at imaginary Infidels.

  Geoffrey removed Henry’s metal headgear. “At the same time, you must learn to be aware of both your own physical dexterity and the potential of your animal. With practice, you will become more facile and comfortable in the saddle, even underneath all these trappings.”

  Exhausted, the sweaty child nodded glumly.

  My husband allowed the sheepish boy a short respite by my side, though haranguing him all the while. “These skills are critical to a warrior earl. When blame is spread, it is always the loser who is named the culprit.” The Angevin rasped in the heat.

  I handed my lord a flagon of water to soothe his parched throat. “My son, perk up your ears. Athleticism and soldierly prowess are means to very great ends.”

  Geoffrey relinquished the drink to the Plantagenet.

  Hamelin sidled up to his half-brother and yanked at his mail, so that he choked up a mouthful of liquid.

  The count punched Henry’s shoulder. “Are you revived? Shall you try your lance?”

  My precious boy, still drained and battered, stepped forward.

  I intervened. “The prince has had enough for one hot day. Perhaps Hamelin might try the weapon.”

  Denise’s son immediately lost his scowl, and looked up breathlessly for his father’s assent. Then he helped Henry peel off his protective coverings, before donning them himself.

  My husband settled his illegitimate brat upon the destrier, arranging the spear under the crook of his arm. “Hold the heavy ram steady, while you charge forward. Add the force of your mount to your own vigor. Hit your target stiffly, without cowardice or dread!”

  Hamelin rode away from the tree, onto the open field. The Angevin sauntered after him.

  With relief and some shame, my heir watched. “I am sorry that I lacked perseverance. Someday, I will be a gallant knight.”

  My chest contracted, as I gazed upon him, the dream of my beloved made flesh. “You will repulse treason and glorify your grandfather’s throne, both for me and for yourself. I can guess by your proud bearing and your noble manner that you will be brave in battle. You cannot help but be our champion.”

  Henry’s eyes shone. “When I go back to Angers, I shall study the siege techniques of the Romans, in Father’s great library.”

  I disliked our coming separation. “The Count of Anjou has collected tomes of warfare aplenty. Indeed, while we are apart, I hope that you will make great strides in your education. When you grow up to be the king, you will need to best others in disputation as often as in battle. I have hired a tutor for you, to teach you grammar, logic, rhetoric and dialectic, mathematics, and languages. You will have your own confessor, to catechize you. All this shall leaven your day with letters, so that your time is not spent merely riding and wrestling.”

  My mind wandered to Gervase, now age ten and a budding scholar. Perhaps he shall be our archbishop of Canterbury, when the See is mine to ordain.

  The Plantagenet turned around to scrutinize Hamelin’s performance as he struggled to make passes at a quintain. Aiming for the center of a hanging shield, the boy managed to strike his lance
against the target, but tumbled off the saddle when a rotating sack of straw pounded against his back. Henry howled his encouragement.

  I took in the boy’s scarlet cheeks. “I am glad to see that you root for his success. An honorable warrior stands faithfully behind his fellows, his Church, and his realm, serving all these in truth.”

  I settled down on the grass, taking the son of my love onto my lap. I caressed his copper locks so that he dozed. For those few moments, my troubles evaporated.

  †

  Last night, shortly after I had fallen asleep by Gerta’s side, Geoffrey appeared in my solar. Nudging me awake, he pointed at my maid’s prone form. “Your waiting woman must search for another mattress.”

  I shook Gerta, who complained at the disturbance, but did not arise. I slapped her with more energy so that she sat up, grumbling. Discovering the Count of Anjou, she bundled herself out of bed, then hurried out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her with a bang.

  Still half conscious, I did not censure myself. “Does Denise rebuff you?” I could see my husband’s face by the light of the moon.

  He grimaced at my sarcasm. “Why has heaven burdened me with a harpy for a wife?”

  I sighed, remembering my nakedness. “Husband, is the castle under attack? Do you need to mount the battlements with your deadly crossbow?”

  The Angevin stripped off his fine linen undershirt. “Shall I treat you as you deserve, and starve or imprison you into a better humor?” Geoffrey lay down atop me, so that I felt all of his weight.

  It was not worth the effort to dissuade or repel his advances, and it had been too long since I last enjoyed a man’s embrace. I wrapped my arms around his muscular torso.

  Despite our proximity, the count’s mind was on politics. “Wily dame! I am not the pretender, easily softened by a woman.”