Matilda Empress Read online

  Robert massaged his feminine chin. “Geoffrey’s seed inherits everything, including the duchy that he has always coveted.”

  I nestled further into my garments. “My husband will not be easy to appease. I am concerned that he will interfere with my regulation of Normandy. And he does not love Henry so very greatly.”

  The earl placed his arm around my shoulders, to warm me. “Why should the Angevin not rejoice in the future magnificence of his line?”

  I raised my face, reddening. “He suspects that the Plantagenet is not his own son.”

  Gloucester exposed his small, white teeth. “How dare he…” His voice trailed off. “Do you mean to say…?” He glanced about him, but we were entirely alone upon a long stretch of parapet.

  Flushing deeply, I admitted it. “Henry is Stephen’s child, our second boy. The first has been raised as an orphan, within the Church.”

  My brother ceased to embrace me, and moved some distance away. “Ah. Then it is certain that the pretender will submit to the bishop’s instructions, which now appear none too severe. At His Majesty’s death, the crown reverts to his own son, whose blood unites every claim to the realm. There is a logic to it, greater than any objection that I might raise.”

  “The logic must rest a secret.”

  †

  This evening, in the great hall of the fortress, the itinerant players put on their poem, supposedly the lost manuscript of a hermitic sage, found recently on the Cornish coast, and purportedly his prophetic vision of our civil war. Draining my liquor, I tried to suspend disbelief, but it was not so simple to look beyond the greasy skin, open sores, and hobbled gait of some of the troubadours.

  The man in the role of the king of the Britons had only one eye, but his voice boomed out his verse.

  I crouched upon the misty shore of an evaporated lake, and two dragons, one of which was white, the other red, appeared, stumbling from their cliffside caves. Staggering toward one another, they began to claw and bite and expel fire from their snouts. The red dragon had the greater strength, and the other took flight above my head. Then, roaring out its confusion and ire, the white dragon descended to recommence the terrible strife, this time forcing the red dragon to retreat.

  This narrative caught my attention. At first blush, I thought myself the royal red dragon, but I must be the white, and my amber-haired cousin the red.

  The king’s monologue unspooled.

  In its ascendancy, the wings of the white dragon beat so furiously that the jagged cliffs convulsed, tumbling down into the dry lakebed. Quaking thunder cracked open the sky, and scarlet drops of blood showered down so furiously that the lake began to refill itself crimson.

  The red dragon, spent, slept through these plagues, but now awakened and began to terrorize the kingdom, razing what man had built and what the Lord had given, maiming himself in the process. And so, let us give Praise, for the kingdom of the white dragon shall be resurrected, and the red dragon shall soon be bound in chains.

  The actor is no dimwit of a jester. If the red dragon had subdued the white, I would have commanded Brian to smash the troupe’s dilapidated cart with his battle-axe. Given the white dragon’s victory, I overload the performers with presents.

  †

  This morning, the drawbridge of Gloucester Castle was let down to admit a monk who claimed that he had urgent, private words for the empress’s ears alone. In Gerta’s presence, I welcomed the man to my solar, but he refused to deliver his message with my maid in attendance. I looked at his tonsure, a white and pasty crown atop his bushy head. It did not seem to have been recently shorn.

  Dismissing the curious woman, I stood before him, holding my breath.

  “I have memorized a letter, my lady, which I beg leave to recite to you.” Holding himself erect, he commenced:

  Still cherished one, what is the point of trying to keep dry in a tempestuous storm? I must refuse the terms to which you have given your accord. Those from whom I take advice continue to believe that war assures my eventual and complete subjugation of your forces and aspirations. Certainly, they speak to their own ends; my earls all have fiefs and honors to gain and my queen has her son’s patrimony to protect.

  But I cannot abandon her love; she cleaves to me in faith. My amorous desires are annihilated before her constancy, blessed by the Church. She is no fool, understanding well enough her husband’s failings. She finds me changed from the chivalrous hero I once was. I must struggle now to charm her again. I must empty my mind of other distractions. I need her beauty, her virtue, and, above all, her intelligence. I need her mercy, whatever it costs England.

  The Matter of

  the Crown

  Scroll Twelve: 1141

  Wrongly supposing herself to be the Lord’s anointed, the wretched princess charged into battle, commandeering the four horsemen of the apocalypse: conquest, war, famine, and death. Overrun, the empress’s antagonist was deposed from his throne, but their contested kingdom sank further into perdition. In celebration, Matilda trusted her ardor to revive a golden age, and call forth the adulation of her people. Adorning herself in the soiled magnificence of her bliss, she was deaf to the voices of complaint and the spirit of contradiction.

  †

  Winter

  Cold drifts of snow and opalescent icicles shroud the landscape. We are shut up in Gloucester Castle, where the smoke and ashes of perpetual hearth fires and the excess disorder perpetrated by boredom pollute our solars.

  Yet the news of another blow to the pretender gladdens our hearts. Our ally, Ranulf Earl of Chester, seizes Lincoln Castle, held for the crown. Ranulf, wed to my brother’s daughter, had so far declined to unite his cause with ours; Geoffrey’s territorial ambitions continually threaten his Norman holdings. But the ill-defended fortress tempted him to rebellion against the usurper.

  Chester sent my niece to call upon the wife of the castellan of Lincoln keep. When its garrison filed outside to exercise the horses, he approached, as if to safeguard his lady’s departure. Wearing no armor, and accompanied by only a small entourage of four men-at-arms, the earl did not excite suspicion. Once inside the castle, he and his band snatched up pieces of wood, bars of metal, anything that might be used as a weapon, and attacked what knights remained in the tower, driving them out of its gates. Supplementary troops faithful to him soon poured into the stronghold from the neighboring vicinity, and Lincoln was his.

  Local bishops and burghers appealed to the Count of Boulogne. Mustering a regiment from London, my cousin surrounded the citadel. With sly dispatch, Ranulf fled back to Chesire, where he raises another battalion from among his Welsh allies. This newly assembled unit shall besiege the besiegers.

  Chester urges Robert to be a part of the scheme to rescue my niece, left behind in Lincoln keep. In return, Ranulf agrees to pay me homage.

  Gloucester and I rejoice, determined to make the liberation of his daughter the catalyst for an intensified military offensive. Stephen’s callous refusal to cede his throne to the Plantagenet leaves me little choice but to escalate the hostilities, bringing matters to a conclusion on the field. Our righteousness guarantees us victory by ordeal.

  †

  Through the bitter weather, we march north to Lincoln, to combine our forces with Chester’s. Waging war, I don a soldier’s trappings. A padded wool gambeson, fashioned to fit my frame, keeps me warm. However, the constant weight of my chain mail hauberk, although cut down to my size, gives me an ache in my neck and shoulders that will not subside. My gauntlets are my brother’s; his hands are so small that they fit properly without any alteration. I wear my golden spurs and the red and silver sword with which Geoffrey dubbed me a knight. Altogether, I no longer resemble my lover’s pliant mistress, but the rival who denies and thwarts his ambition.

  †

  Today marks the festival of the Purification of the Virgin. Our battalions are mustered near the city of Lincoln; in a short while we will likely clash with the pretender’s army, and, at long la
st, overthrow his pretensions. I see in this coincidence such an omen of the Holy Mother’s beneficence and grace! At our dawn Mass, brightly burning consecrated candles symbolized the eternal transcendence of Her son, and the future marvel of mine. I pray equally for the strength to uphold Her celestial dignity and my own worldly honor.

  †

  We approached the River Witham. Our troops massed on its bank, awaiting the signal to charge. The narrow bridge was of no use to us, for Stephen’s archers, posted on the far side, would have wiped us out as we funneled through it. We needed to ford the swollen waters.

  I did not despair at the roaring current that coursed between us and our fate. Hoarsely, I shouted. “Once across the barrier, there will be no returning! We conquer the traitors, or die in the attempt!”

  Inspired by my cry, Robert and Ranulf plunged their destriers into the churning river. Without pause, all of our mounted knights followed them across. Those in the forefront, already emerged, began to engage the enemy, and handily dispensed with their relatively sparse numbers.

  In the rear, I traversed the channel. My horse’s courage steadied my nerves. I did not draw my legs up, out of the frigid waves.

  Wet through, but otherwise unimpaired, our regiments regrouped and surveyed the scene. Southwest of the walled town, downhill from Lincoln Castle, the usurper’s forces littered the plain. The minstrels had overstated the size of Boulogne’s legions. My noble retinue began to murmur among themselves, gladdened by the sight of so few foes. The barons started to smile and preen.

  As I prepared to rouse them to even greater assurance, the Earl of Chester smoothed his overgrown moustaches and rumbled his thanks. “I am grateful to you, Empress, for abetting me in my private quarrel with the king. You must allow me to be the first to hack a route through the center of his squadrons. Follow my lead! I feel it strong within me that His Majesty will be routed. Success will be mine!”

  I opened my lips, but Gloucester responded to Ranulf’s pretension. “I understand that you should desire the honor of being foremost among us. We do not question your valor, which is justly praised. But I am also awash in personal bile, anxious to free my daughter, ready to risk any hurt. If it were merely a question of rank, I should be at the head of our militia. But, at this moment of momentous endeavor, let us think of more than our own hatreds and our own reputations. As we emancipate one castle, we deliver all of the empire from the cretinous snake who stole my father’s crown and broke his holy oaths to my family. I lay at Stephen’s feet the death of thousands of our subjects and the destruction of the tranquility that once bathed England and Normandy.”

  I could finally assert myself among my barons. “When I am restored to my throne, I shall redress both of your grievances. For today, we will have two lines on the vanguard, one conducted by each of my daring earls.”

  I swiveled in my saddle. I could see the empty faces of my common soldiers. I maneuvered my steed atop a small outcropping, and projected my voice, so that my words rang out above their heads. “Be led by your swords! Depend upon your stout hearts and upon the protection of the Virgin. She will transform us into the harbingers of Her justice, the bringers of Her punishment. Lincoln will not be able to withstand Mother Mary! Fighting my battle, you may each take for yourselves a piece of holy glory. If you are united now, and wish to execute the divine will that I reign as your sovereign, lift up your weapons to heaven!”

  A thunderous cheer rang over me. My men thrust their lances, bows, and axes into the air. Some swore that they would never succumb. Others commenced a chant: “Long live the queen!”

  Robert grinned, and turned his destrier to guide the mounted line of attack. Ranulf, grim, vaulted off his horse, to command the infantry line; Brian FitzCount stood ready to follow him. Chester’s rough Welsh pagans arranged themselves to one side, to operate as our flank.

  I thrilled to the blast of our trumpets. Suddenly, we were all on the move, rushing to meet my cousin’s battalions upon the plain. We gathered speed, but our formation remained orderly. The pounding of hooves overwhelmed me; the earth quaked beneath our rampage. Dislodged clumps of snow and mud flew up into the air. I rode in a position of safety, toward the back of my brother’s troops, and closely hemmed in by my personal entourage. Yet I felt in the thick of it. Drenched with sweat, my heart thumping, I concentrated my energy on maintaining my balance as I galloped down the inclined ground.

  Approaching our destination, I glimpsed my beloved, my despised knight-errant. He was swathed in armor, but his copper hair was exposed beneath his golden crown. He stood beside the royal standard, surrounded by guards, also on foot. He did not wince at the sight of my invading horde. The English flag flapped over him, sometimes obscuring him, sometimes unfurling behind him.

  My escort drove me away from the Count of Boulogne, and likewise held me off from the clash between Robert’s unit and the enemy cavalry. Gloucester soon dispersed them; they retreated rapidly, almost at the sight of our greater might. At the same time, our Welshmen careened into the fray, scattering many of our foes, who then began to retreat, turning their backs on the false king. Ranulf’s line, running behind, swept through Stephen’s infantry, and smashed its way toward the usurper.

  My cousin made no attempt to evade the encounter. My entourage, forgetting my safety, or drawn in by bloodlust, closed in on him as well. Amazed, I perceived that my rival was surrounded only by lesser barons and common persons, armed haphazardly.

  Chester’s troops essayed to breach the circle protecting Boulogne. One of our warriors penetrated the ring, but Stephen himself fought back viciously, felling him. Under our onslaught, he never shirked. Lifting his glittering sword, he defended himself again and again, littering the ground with bodies. Entrails coated his mail; his upturned arm appeared to me to be a great red bolt of lightning.

  Ranulf made for the false king, easily piercing his band of supporters. Chester and the usurper engaged one another.

  My insides lurched as the earl’s sturdier blade shattered his bejeweled rapier. In that moment, I thought that my darling would be eviscerated before my eyes. I would never be free of him; he was enormous to me in the moment of his death.

  Then, before Ranulf could benefit from his deadly advantage, someone tossed a two-headed battle-axe to the pretender, who roared and pounded it down upon his antagonist’s helmet. Chester sank to the mud, but was not killed.

  I breathed again, full of loathing. My eyes were moist. I hated Stephen with all my soul.

  I had a mace, tied to my saddle pommel. The Virgin invigorated my arm and my aim. I rotated the awful thing in the air, and flung it forward. The studded round glanced off the ground, at my cousin’s feet, distracting him and causing him to stumble.

  Brian FitzCount grabbed at Boulogne, wresting off his crown. He shouted: “Here, everyone, here! I have taken the king!”

  †

  Within a tent hastily erected between the castle and the river, I dismissed the squires and apothecaries, and tended in private to the wounded usurper. I removed his gory metal casings, which had swathed him in violence. Bathing his head, I had an excuse to comb out his matted hair. Dressing his injuries and soothing his hurts, I assumed the role of a nurse, but acted no better than a camp whore. Dazed and in pain, prone on a litter, he could not fend off my touch.

  After some time, Stephen’s focus returned. He did not seem astonished to be in my care. “It is too easy to surrender to a lady fair.”

  I flushed. “You have not yet heard my terms. I serve the Holy Mother, who has delivered unto me this great triumph.” I adjusted one of his auburn locks, tucking it behind his ear.

  Grimacing to shift position, he brushed the curl back onto his shoulder. “Somehow, I have offended the Virgin. At dawn, I held a mass for Her in the cathedral of Lincoln, but when I handed my sacred taper to the bishop, it dropped, splitting in two upon the stone floor. Such a mishap much disheartened my army. They put their faith in this bad omen and mislaid their courage.�
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  “Before the Lord’s altar, spurious kings cannot be as polished, nor as blithe, as true ones.” Roughly, I wiped off a streak of blood from his cheek.

  My cousin nudged me off. “I did not stand upon ceremony. I stooped to the ground to retrieve the damaged candle, mended its seam, and relit it. The renewed flame proved that, in the end, I will not lose my throne. I may have sinned, but after I atone for my errors, I will regain heaven’s favor. Christ’s glory will restore my realm to me.”

  I stared at the man who had ruined all my hopes. His beauty was poison to me. “You are my prisoner.”

  The pretender shook his head. “Although I am kept captive, I am your sovereign. As I was anointed, royal majesty clings to me, eternal.”

  I silenced him with my lips. For all his bluster, he kissed me back. In my passion, I found my power over him. “In my mind, you are called “Beloved.” Put amour higher than hatred.”

  Just then, a sickening smell of burning flesh wafted over us. Leaving his side, I pulled open the flap of the pavilion and saw the city of Lincoln, aflame.

  With difficulty, my rival raised himself up on his pallet, so that he too could view the conflagration. “Churches burn the most brilliantly. Their devastation is the most to be pitied.”

  “Treason immolates the innocent alongside the guilty.” I held my breath, so as not to imbibe the aroma of hell.

  Boulogne pointed at my armored chest. “It is your men who butcher yonder.”

  How I adored it when he regarded me! “We plunder Lincoln according to the laws of war. My battalions, serving their rightful queen, are justly rewarded for risking life and limb, and are not obligated to commiserate with their victims.”

  In the other direction, hundreds of burghers rushed pell-mell to the swollen Witham, crowding wildly onto small boats or attempting to swim, clawing at each other, clambering atop one another. Overborne crafts sank in the rapid current, drowning both those who clung to them and those who floundered in the waves.