Matilda Empress Read online

  I pressed my lips together, to hold back a vindictive retort. Despite the appetizing smell of the roast, my hunger evaporated.

  I smothered my intense dislike, in an attempt to exhume the bishop’s motivations. “So, you are still Boulogne’s man?”

  “The king lends me his ear, especially when my propositions fall in with his inclinations. I counsel him to permit your safe passage to your brother, thereby containing your revolution in one place. It does not suit us to allow Arundel to function as a second center of disaffection.” His Grace took a deep swallow of wine from an excessively ornate goblet.

  Verily, his intelligence was to my rival’s credit. “Sussex is loyal to the pretender.”

  The bishop slowly lowered his cup. “I caution His Majesty to push all the rebels as far as possible from London.” He slid the vessel toward me, presumably so that I should sample his fine vintage.

  I wished to refuse; I would not soil my mouth with his spittle. But the queen cannot dispense with courtesies such as these. I wafted the drink under my nose; the alcohol was heavily spiced. Sipping as small a drop as I could, I tasted celery seed, cumin, mint, clove, cardamom, and ginger. I smothered back a laugh; this recipe was the usual remedy for flatulence. “Conferring freely with Gloucester, I will be at liberty to ferment trouble.”

  Henry inclined his face toward me, and lowered his tone. “Backed by the earl’s battalions, Empress Matilda might launch a serious challenge to Stephen’s royal authority. New recruits will surely flock to her party.”

  Did he speak of himself? “Many such are already making themselves known to Robert.”

  His Grace snorted softly. “I myself recently waylaid Gloucester on a little known road, a mere footpath, in a tiny hamlet outside Bristol. We had much talk together.”

  I made no response to the usurper’s old watchdog, consumed with my own dilemma. Could I ever trust such a schemer? Did the bishop consider that it might be to his greater profit to incarcerate or to assassinate me?

  Drenched with a cold fear, I rose to return to my chamber. Gerta and Amabel also stood up, so that we could pass back together to our solars, in the far reaches of the palace. None of us would wander alone in the dark, among so many who wished us ill.

  Winchester made no remark upon our departure, for his attention had turned to a kitchen servant, a young, pretty boy only a few years older than the Plantagenet. The page’s arm trembled under the heavy weight of a carved silver flagon, molded in the shape of toad. The bishop leered, undoubtedly plotting some heretical obscenity; his night would not be spent in pious supplication. No doubt, he considers his sins of the flesh, his infamous effeminacy, to be less criminal than his brother’s adulterous fornication.

  Undressing me quickly, Gerta folded herself into the bed and immediately dozed. Yet sleep would not release me. I have been awake all the night, recording my chronicle, scratching out my history.

  I embark on a pilgrimage, to my destiny! Faith, ambition, and devotion send me onward. I quest for what will complete me. The Holy Mother promises to grant me the enlightenment of paradise, but for now I gaze into the abyss of war, and plumb the well of passion. As dawn breaks over the city, I pray to the Virgin to inherit true things: a true life, a true path, a true love, and a true mercy. Will I discover them to be irreconcilable?

  The Matter of

  the Crown

  Scroll Eleven: 1140

  The empress’s stealthy reappearance convulsed Britain, impelling further chaos, savagery, and treachery. Matilda sat on a throne in the heart of her realm, and received the devotion of worthy subjects, yet the civil war did not subside. Englishmen persisted in their designs against their neighbors, and contested the imposition of royal authority. Calculating the cost of so much ungodliness, the new queen made overtures to her most despised rival. But he refused to seek tranquility, for he could not comprehend that the crown they disputed was the crown of woe.

  †

  Winter

  I hold court at Gloucester Castle, the favored stronghold of the first Norman kings, my grandfather, William I Conqueror, and my uncle, William II Rufus. Gloucester befits me more than Bristol keep, the seat of my brother’s earldom. Here, the village elders remember with respect the sovereign solemnities and royal display. This is all to the good, but I assume my throne without waiting for permission from any man, old or young, archbishop or burgher, brother or cousin.

  Yesterday, in this keep’s great hall, generously draped with banners and flooded with tapers, noblemen, freemen, and priests paid homage to me as their Lady of the English, rightful heir to my father’s kingdom. Every knight present pledged his fealty and swore to be my liegeman, against all others. I clasped each vassal to my breast, demanding his obedience and extending my protection in return for his service. Likewise, the local citizenry and clerics knelt to me, offering up their fidelity. From the highest to the lowest, all persons present kissed my hand. Greedy for such ceremonies, I no longer wince at unwashed bodies and stinking mouths.

  After the vows, I addressed the assembled, jostling throng of magnates, petty landholders, townsfolk, and divines. “The district of Gloucester, as far west as Wales, is the first to belong to me. I shall not soon forget such friendship.” Disdaining female grace, I loudly regaled the crowd, adopting Henry I’s imposing demeanor.

  Flushed with gratification, I summoned a minstrel, who recited a poem to the Lion’s memory. But, in the silence that followed the oration, my ears picked out some grumbling.

  One voice called out. “Have you come among us to revive the spirit of a tyrant?” The faces surrounding me registered surprise and confusion at this challenge.

  Robert stepped forward, but it was my place to suppress such insolence. I shouted my reply, not attempting to hide my anger. “With purpose, I abandon my womanly modesty. It is not fitting that your queen should quail. In these dangerous times, my valor and strength will avail you well.”

  The earl interjected. “Do not be amazed at her majestic grandeur! Do not think of her as a wife, daughter, sister, or mother. She is our right, our might, and our salvation.”

  The murmuring in the hall quieted. Many persons turned their attention to the pages bearing carafes of hot, seasoned cider.

  †

  I liberally distribute whatever honors I can reasonably be thought to control. But there are not yet enough spoils to endow my entire entourage. I have naught to reward FitzCount’s early good faith and his most recent feats on my behalf.

  Currently, Brian serves as castellan of Wallingford Castle, strategically important on the route from London to Oxford and the West Country. With his loyal garrison, he has already rebuffed one ill-managed assault from the Count of Boulogne, safeguarding the tower, and wounding, killing, or imprisoning every one of the usurper’s soldiers. My cousin will never subdue the west while Wallingford remains outside his dominion.

  Other, less appealing knights swagger around my baileys and ramparts, boasting, spitting, and spouting obscenities, drunk on the very idea of rebellion. To my shame, I overlook their audacity and vice. In this great enterprise, I cannot dispense with these sinners; they eat heartily of my suppers and swear to despoil in my name.

  I pray to the Virgin that the good deeds of my most able warriors will atone for the evil handiwork of the others. I rely upon my men of Christian spirit, by whose activities I need never be disgraced.

  †

  Spring

  Gloucester Castle possesses a lovely, walled garden, situated next to its chapel. The warming sun sprinkles it with pale primroses and showy bloodroot, sturdy purple hyacinths and large, pink peonies, airy as clouds. It is a great pleasure to recline upon a stone bench between the flowerbeds, breathing in their fresh aroma. Cloistered, saturated with beauty, my spirit convalesces. I garner strength from the earth’s blessings.

  I permit my mind to wander, mesmerized by the sprouting colewort and ragwort, the greens that excite passion. Hypnotized by the erupting, blooming flora, I am n
othing but a simple girl, dreaming of carnal oblivion. Perhaps Gerta should sow psyllium, whose seeds bring on frigidity, the remedy for my affliction.

  Yesterday, FitzCount disturbed my private meditations. “Empress, despite the boldness of my interruption, the esteem in which I hold you makes me timid, so great is your distinction.” Brian sounded winded, as if he had run a great distance.

  “What boon do you seek, sir? I wish that I had manors and abbeys aplenty, to testify to duty such as yours.” I balanced the heavy head of a peony in my hand, offering it to him, but misjudged the distance between us. Its delicate mass fell on the ground.

  FitzCount gathered it up, then buried his nose in the wisps of its petals. He raised steady eyes to mine. “None shall mow you down. Dishonor to you or to me is an impossibility.”

  Could I discourage him from some rash avowal? “You are one of my most valued allies. The jongleur’s epics will burst with your faithful triumphs.”

  “Will my deeds herald my message?” Brian’s boyish face, strong and pure, crippled with distress.

  I thought of my own sleepless nights and troubled dreams. I sighed. “You have my permission to speak, if you will.”

  FitzCount shuffled side to side, trampling a few blossoms. “I worship a perfect specimen of heaven’s creation.”

  Must the sap make such an ado? I tried to head him off. “Your wife is a saintly creature.”

  Brian stood still. “She is not the flower that blooms in paradise.”

  I shook my head, dislodging my veil. “I am a dark lady, lacking a sweet heart.”

  “Do you despise me because I am illegitimate?”

  Did he not consider my royal majesty to be a bar between us? Did he have no inkling of my relationship with the Count of Boulogne? “You are the complete lover, obtuse to everything but your own torments.”

  Disordered, the knight sank down, crushing more plants under his knees. “I intrude upon you only to throw myself at your feet, to offer my soul unto you. Strife storms around us, yet no adversity can divide me from you.”

  I paused, discomfited. “I admire your courtliness, but I cannot return your noble sentiments. I know that my rejection is abuse to you, who has been one of my most loyal acolytes.”

  Rising upright, Brian dashed off my headdress, uncovering my hair. Grief gutted his expression. “God is my witness, the sight of you is my only happiness. I ask nothing of you, or of your possessions, but that you retain me as your minion. I would be in bondage to you, all of my life.”

  †

  Summer

  Despite the season, the English landscape displays no new vegetation or signs of domestication. Crops and flocks, systematically eradicated by castle garrisons so that enemy marauders will not be able to sustain themselves, are ravaged a second time by besiegers ensuring that blockaded communities cannot forage for new supplies. Roving bands of outlaws strip away any thing that remains. Our once proud wheat and corn, our sweet milk and honey—all are deflowered.

  The grand keeps of the kingdom now serve merely as focal points of intemperate violence, from within and without. The good peace that England enjoyed under my father is vanquished. Britain, formerly the bed of tranquility and holiness, becomes the couch of misery and blasphemy.

  Even our money is no longer sacred. Bandits pass counterfeit coins. The Count of Boulogne debases the currency to extend the life of his dwindling treasury, ordering the weight of the penny reduced from the standard of King Henry’s time. My treasonous cousin liquidates the royal regalia, bequeathed to history by my predecessors. He openly puts property from the royal demesne up for sale, including churches and abbeys. It is everywhere known that the pretender scrounges for funds to wage his war in defense of his unlawful coup.

  In retaliation, money is struck in my name, both at new mints that we establish at Cardiff, Wareham, and Oxford, and at the contested royal mint in Bristol. I have ordered that the silver used for my pennies be only of the best quality and unvarying in thickness. My image, in profile, fills up one side of each coin. The obverse is a Holy Cross, and reads “Empress.”

  My faith runs strong now, for heaven conspires to punish my beloved foe. Last night, a miraculous eclipse foretold the imminent collapse of his impious ambitions. The darkened sky portended my rival’s damnation. May the Lord preserve the worthy, and hold us back from the apocalypse.

  †

  We endure unremitting civil strife. My friends supposed that six months of insurrection would see me anointed in Westminster Abbey. Instead, it has been a year of anarchy. Our military strategy, to hurry Stephen here and there in response to our various uprisings, siphons his strength, but does not crush him. His traveling battalions are usually superior to any local gathering of rebel forces. If he sometimes, through stupidity or slothfulness, does not triumph over our schemes, I have very little to show for his failures.

  Winchester writes to me in the name of peace, eager to shape events. Will I consider coming to terms with my cousin, and free England from oppression? Robert and I agree to meet with the insufferable Maud, under Henry’s aegis.

  †

  Yesterday, I found myself face to face with the Countess of Boulogne, just returned from France for the betrothal of her twelve-year-old Eustace to Constance, sister of the king of the French. Maud’s blonde hair is grayer than it was nine years ago, but her lips turn down as much as they ever did. I found it difficult not to stare at her presumptuous pearl diadem, fastening her veil in place. I wore a circlet of rubies, more valuable than her pearls, but fewer in number. It matched my bliaut of red silk, worn under a white silk jacket embroidered all over with my father’s golden lions. Maud’s garish yellow bliaut was in keeping with her usual ostentation, and her irksome preference for England’s second royal color.

  Without any formal preliminaries, the false queen began to prate. “My son forms a wise alliance with the Franks, securing our empire in Normandy against the Angevins. In this regard, Louis VII is our natural friend; he also seeks to quell your husband’s mutiny on the Continent.”

  I rarely thought of Geoffrey. “The Count of Boulogne’s power on this side of the Channel is quite tenuous.”

  The harlot sucked in her breath. “Louis stands in favor of King Stephen’s reign and of Eustace’s future majesty. Once again, he confers the duchy of Normandy upon our boy, receiving homage for it. He does not measure the Countess of Anjou to be a serious threat to our royal position.”

  How dare that ninny boost herself above me! Sighing, I essayed to scrub my aggravation from my tone. “The Lord debases those who exalt themselves above their proper sphere, casting down many who felt sure of His love.”

  Maud smirked, adjusting her tiara. She rotated her neck right and left, to stretch out some kink, and smoothed her costume over her bosom. “His Majesty’s right to the throne is not in doubt. We have proved it in combat. With the exception of the Earl of Gloucester, your military leaders are all barons of the second rank.”

  I itched to slap the strumpet, but held my arms stiffly at my side. “I appeal to the judgment of heaven. Christ’s harmony will ring out, on England and Normandy both.”

  Here the bishop clapped his beringed hands. “His Holiness the pope prays for nothing more and nothing less than a cessation of the hostilities between your two camps.”

  Maud cast a disparaging glance over His Grace. Despite his decadent vestments, he appeared shriveled next to his sensual sister-in-law. “What are your motives, Winchester?” Henry stood silent, but the countess would have an answer. “Before which one of us do you prefer to humble yourself?”

  The bishop smiled thinly. “Two queens must not palaver here in vain.”

  The bitch grimaced at his diplomacy; I frowned at the equation of our status. Neither one of us was gratified to be the other’s double.

  Maud kicked at her skirts, poised for attack. “There shall be no concord until you and yours are expelled from our realm.”

  I clamped my lips shut and strode
from the room, refusing to acknowledge her gall.

  †

  Fall

  Unresigned, Winchester sailed to France, to discuss with King Louis conditions in Normandy under which Stephen and I might reach some agreement. Returning to Britain, His Grace journeyed back to my court at Gloucester to present the possible terms of a détente.

  After much prayer, I give my sanction to these proposals in which the usurper remains on the throne for his lifetime, to be succeeded by Henry Plantagenet, grandson of King Henry I. In the meantime, I am to rule Normandy, as regent for my son. The pretender is to be compensated for the duchy. The wedding of Eustace and Constance is to be called off. In all this, there is enough for me, for my heir, and for the Count of Boulogne. Can I persuade my brother of the validity of my decision?

  I surmise that Maud and Geoffrey will find this plan unpalatable. But who are they to turn the tide of history?

  †

  I found Robert in the outer ward of Gloucester keep, welcoming a clutch of actors and settling upon the fees that would be paid for the presentation of The Prophecy of Merlin. The assorted performers, oddly dressed in cast-off theatrical garments, gestured grandly to their tattered wagon. The earl turned over a small pile of copper, before escorting me out of the public courtyard.

  We climbed a narrow stone staircase to the battlements that overlook the main gate to the castle. All was secure. The drawbridge had been lowered to admit the troupe and once again raised safely. The moat appeared tranquil, although it admitted a sharp aroma of household waste. I noticed a rusty shield floating past, most likely dropped by a careless knave tussling in jest with his fellows along the crenellated walkway.

  “Brother, I have consulted my heart and the Virgin. I accept what is tendered.”

  Gloucester’s expression did not change, but his eyes lost some of their gentleness. “Why do you so willingly abdicate what we have fought and died for?”

  I clutched at my mantle in the chilly air. “We have struggled, not only for me, but for my son. This proposition guarantees that the Plantagenet shall rule our father’s empire entire, as well as Anjou. And I shall reign over Normandy in the meantime. To have wrested some control away from the traitors will be sufficient to sate my revenge. Indeed, retribution is not my primary motivation.”