Matilda Empress Read online

  The count lay back down. “O most puissant conqueror, in shedding blood, you have spilt the essence of the lamb.”

  I sucked in my breath. “My magnificence is my blessed reward. My slain subjects forfeit their earthly life, as Christ did, and are hallowed by the comparison.”

  Gloucester entered the loge, pulling off his gauntlets, discarding them upon the ground. His face was streaked with ashes, his green eyes haggard. His wrinkles had deepened; blood caked within their folds. “I have come to formally demand your submission, cousin, and to relieve you of your arms.”

  Stephen blushed. “My humiliation is complete. I need no longer be filled with dread, for I have come among you to scourge myself. My sins are not greater than the crimes of those fallen ones who rebel against me, their liege lord.”

  I could not abide his pride. “You are no longer the sire of England.”

  Robert sighed. “We cannot permit our kinsman to be harassed, even with words. In his person, in the body of the king, many of our people see the crown; its stateliness must not be sullied. Though I have vigorously assailed him as a usurper, I will preserve my noble prisoner from indignity.”

  †

  The false monarch is deposed! I am England. Each morning, I rise jubilant, suffused with spirit. I walk with more assurance and speak with more freedom, now that there is no authority above me but heaven.

  The whole of the realm quivers with astonishment at the sudden change in the political reality. The jongleurs, those sycophants, herald and welcome the news of the pretender’s downfall, a complete military conquest that promises the end of our civil strife. Little caring which one of us sits upon the throne, the farmers and villagers prefer whoever will stop the warring. Although most of the kingdom had been inclined to support Boulogne, now the majority surrenders to my rule. My cousin’s more slavish barons transfer their allegiance without waiting for my invitation.

  We sequester the scoundrel in Bristol Castle, the strongest fortification in our possession, and gather an enormous party of adherents under its roof. Herewith, my brother’s lady deigns to approve of me, and I receive her polite attentions. All smiles to be reunited with her daughter, Amabel is suddenly willing to acknowledge my status.

  In accordance with Robert’s wish to be hospitable, his wife exerts all of her domestic charms to coddle her prestigious captive. His accommodations are garnished with a roaring blaze and sweet smelling floor rushes. The walls of his solar are festooned with rich arras tapestries, depicting the ars amatoria, the arts of love. The guards posted outside his chamber are not vigilant, allowing him to wander about at will, or entertain as many visitors as he pleases. Restrictions are tightened only at night, when Stephen is held under lock and key.

  Still, after dark, it is not difficult to gain entrance to my beloved’s room. Our castellan, fatherly and grizzled, sits each evening upon a bench outside the solar, but has the tact to stretch his legs in the inner bailey when I make an appearance.

  Last night, I entered my cousin’s chamber, pulled shut its heavy wooden door, and made it fast. Seated by the fire, washed all over in amber light, Boulogne looked more beautiful than ever. His thin fingers, his slender chin, his great forehead: I took in every detail. My innards melted. Straightaway, I sat down on his lap.

  He wrapped one arm around my waist, and with the other gestured to the tapestry portraying the secrets of passion. He ran his thumb across a couple engaged in the act of intercourse. “Can the pleasures of the flesh indemnify us for the distress we have caused the kingdom?”

  I clasped him to my breast. My head spun. “Tonight, do not think on ugly things, on all the venom unleashed in the land. Forget your anger in my eyes, in my hair, in my womanhood.”

  He nuzzled my neck and licked my collarbone. “I wish that I could refuse your delights, Empress. I will not be able to rinse my mouth of the acrid taste that taints your skin. When I take you, I take my sins to me. But I cannot do otherwise, avid as I am to keep despondency in abeyance.”

  My blood churned, in bitterness. I am no vicious siren, singing at the gates of hell. I am an angel of the Lord, come to console a weak fool and deliver him from error. But I could not find the will to remove myself from his mistaken embrace. Instead, all compliance, I joined him on his bed, lifted my skirt and burnished his ego. The tears that clouded my vision went unnoticed.

  Immediately after our coupling, the pretender fell asleep. As I arranged the bedding to make him more comfortable in slumber, I considered how easy it would be to suffocate him with the silken coverlet. I hunger to punish his impudence and cripple his power over me. Why was I unable to bring myself to stop his breath?

  †

  The castle gossips get wind of the usurper’s furtive night visitor, supposedly endeavoring to plot his escape. Robert feels that he cannot ignore, or be thought to ignore, the rumors of this insidious intrigue. Thus the count is no longer permitted to exit his quarters. His hearth is no longer swept, nor is he delivered daily washing water. After dark, he is loosely fettered in chains.

  However, in the late hours, the old castellan remains posted at Stephen’s door. Tonight, he averted his gaze when I entered the makeshift gaol, but did not quit the corridor.

  My adored one sat upon his pallet, and greeted me with a smile. “Ah, Empress, you are here to assuage my loneliness.”

  I thought of all the years that I have spent in desolate solitude, years in which my cousin enjoyed his wife’s company, instead of my own. I felt grievous rage billowing up in me, alongside my wondrous rapture. “Do not complain to me. I do not come here to limit your discomfort, but to pander to my own.”

  His grin collapsed. He started to toss two pairs of dice upon his blankets, rattling his irons. “These manacles are nothing new. Ever since my coronation, I have been imprisoned by the greed of the barons. My throne was secure only as long as I kept purchasing their noble affections, for your rebellion stimulated their insubordination. Every magnate demanded more than he deserved.”

  I tried to hoist one of Stephen’s chains, but could not. “As my subject, you would have been freed of so much heavy responsibility.”

  My cousin cast his dice, and I studied the numbers as they came up: a four, for the Evangelists; another four, for the letters in Adam; a five, for the wounds of Christ; and a ten, for our holy commandments.

  Boulogne shook his head. “Even you insisted on more than I could spare. Why could you not adore me as Maud does, as a king out of legend? If you had abdicated your own claim, so that I might have reigned unmolested, I would have believed in your devotion.”

  “The countess’s infatuations are nothing to me. The queen does not model her intimacies upon another’s.” I swept his ivories into the far corner of the room, where he could not get to them. I noticed that three came up sixes, alongside a two. I laughed, recalling a childhood ditty. “She who throws three sixes clear, will sate her fancy in this year.”

  The count demurred. “The two, my darling, means that adversity shall plague your plans.” Stephen jerked at his restraints and succeeded in stretching himself out lengthwise. He reached toward me. “Let us come together without antipathy. Those who love well do not repine with chagrin.”

  I sat down upon the bedstead, permitting the pretender to run his hand along my thigh. “I am unable to allay my vexations. If your affections were true, you would have served me as my vassal, as you vowed to do. You might have married me, and found in our union all the preeminence that you lusted after. Even now, if you would designate our son as your successor, I could forgive you all that has come before.”

  The usurper ceased his caress. Then he lurched toward me, burying his face in my belly. “It is too late for any of it, Matilda, except for our bodily joy in one another.” His expression was hidden in the folds of my bliaut.

  Still he blocked me from my deepest desire. I could not touch him. “You radiate the light. I see in you an ideal that is still achievable. Accede to my dreams for us. If you dare
d to believe in our tie, we might undo the great wrong that we have done my father’s empire.”

  The Count of Boulogne uncovered his gray eyes, which refuse to see the world as I do. “You are chafing against the will of God. If He curses me now, He will acquit me later. I do not need you to return me to my grandeur.”

  “Choose me, Stephen, or rot in purgatory for the rest of your life.”

  †

  The troubadours, those bootlickers, aver that my husband has conquered Normandy, and is now titled its duke. In truth, hearing of my success over the Channel, many in the duchy immediately relinquished their fortresses and abbeys to Geoffrey. His control is almost absolute; his supremacy extends all the way to France.

  As my wedded lord’s influence grows, so my disloyal cousin’s decreases. Lately, fearing that my nocturnal adventures compromise my restoration, Robert orders the usurper installed in the castle’s dank dungeon. There, his fetters are affixed to iron rings on the stone walls. The only light to his small cell descends from above.

  Despite his confinement, I allow my rival to receive and bless those who arrive here to renounce their allegiance to him. He absolves the visiting clerics and laymen from their previous oaths. The archbishop of Canterbury conscientiously consults his former king, and Stephen accepts his apologies. Although he squats in a shadowy and odiferous cage, Boulogne does not dispense with courtesy.

  I had anticipated that Gerta would cease to chide, now that I no longer slip away in the frigid dark, but she continues to rebuke me. “How shall you gird yourself against the devil’s blandishments, whilst he abides in your house, as your familiar?” She exults that Gloucester impounds the cad to the bowels of the keep, but insists that I hang him or behead him.

  Yet, I cannot ruthlessly execute my rival. I cannot withdraw my adoration of my foe. He has never truly cherished me, but I cannot change my fate. My heart belongs to him.

  †

  Spring

  I wish to inherit my father’s throne, and rise to greatness, just as he did: first elected by a church council convened at Winchester, where the royal treasury and regalia are housed, then anointed in London’s Westminster Abbey. To this end, Robert facilitates a rapprochement between Bishop Henry and our camp. His Grace proposes the terms of my succession. In exchange for my acquiescence to his demands, he hands over the keys to the royal coffers and encourages other important prelates to support my elevation.

  This morning, the bishop and I met at Wherwell, near to Winchester, upon a level and open meadow, at the foot of a slope that rises above the river Test. The day was gloomy, damp and cold, overhung with the sort of black clouds that presage bad fortune. I refused to interpret the inky sky as an ill omen, and conducted myself as if the sun were shining all over Britain.

  Eager to cow him, to impress upon him that I am England, I wore full state dress, including a saffron, pleated bliaut, embroidered at the sleeves, hem, and neck with thick, golden rope. An ornate girdle draped its tassels to my feet. My scarlet velvet mantle, scattered with Saxon knots and trimmed with needlepoint medallions—each the portrait of an individual saint—hung heavily across my shoulders. A short, white veil covered my hair, with the exception of two extensive, false double plaits, twisted with golden ribbons, which brushed the ground. Atop my veil, I balanced an enormous, heavy diadem emblazoned with topazes and striped jasper, the opaque red mineral that forestalls harm.

  Henry, remembering his manners, did not refer to the unfortunate weather. “I greet you, Empress, as King Henry’s daughter and England’s queen.”

  I did not forget that the bishop’s bloated eyes were shuttered windows. “You have sworn for me in the past, then seemingly regretted it.”

  His Grace did not lose his composure. “You loitered long in Normandy, Your Majesty, and the delay endangered the well-being of the realm. The monarchy decays into anarchy when the throne is vacant. And so my brother was permitted to transform himself into a king. Now that he languishes in your brother’s dungeon, and you reside among us, I support your claim. It is futile to swim against the tide. Many a man has drowned trying.”

  As we parleyed, large raindrops splattered the ground and my skirts. “It was you, Winchester, who negotiated the pretender’s unlawful transfiguration.”

  Henry fussed over the water sprinkling his own robes. “Indeed, I am ashamed. Forgive me, Your Majesty, for I thought too much of the needs of the holy church, which the Count of Boulogne undertook to protect. A weak liege, he failed to safeguard the ecclesiastical liberties or the security of the nation. He surrounded himself with evil agents, and threw off sage and honest associates.”

  I thought of Stephen, filthy now from his cramped quarters and harsh treatment, but still comely beyond measure. “You do not consider it your sacred duty to cherish your kin?”

  His Grace rustled his garments, and smiled sourly. “My most pious obligations are to God, my immortal Father, who has seen fit to cast the king down from on high.”

  I rather enjoyed the glistening rain. If it soiled my gown, it washed my spirit clean. “The Holy Mother delivers unto you the true heir to England and Normandy.”

  Winchester knelt before me, despite the downpour, and the mud underfoot. “I am ready to vow fidelity to you, and to hand over your dominion. England’s throne cannot rest empty, to rot and erode.”

  I remembered Robert’s instructions and made the bargain. “I am prepared to agree that the Church retains its prerogatives, provided that they do not countermand customary crown powers.” I paused, wondering if such a bribe might be enough.

  The bishop stayed put, awaiting the rest of his payment.

  There was nothing for it, but to swear to enrich and embellish the corrupt priest. “And I pledge that you, Henry of Blois, Dominus and Pater, shall be my chief counselor, advising me on all clerical affairs. Specifically, you shall oversee the appointment of prelates and the disposal of abbeys.”

  Smug, His Grace clucked his tongue. I held out my hand, to lift him up from his knees. We kissed each other’s cheeks, in an embrace that warranted very little.

  †

  The skies cleared. At terce, the bishop admitted me and my entourage of barons and knights to Winchester. We progressed through the streets, cheered by his parishioners. I saw one woman faint away at the sight of me; my chest swelled with the hope that I was rising again to my former estate. A few buildings were draped with silk in my colors. Some locals carried swaying branches of palm; others held flickering tapers. I made out the jaunty scratch of a few fiddles, underneath the louder, raucous singing of a band of inebriates. How much had Henry paid for this display of fervor?

  His Grace led me to the portals of his magnificent house of worship, in order to publicly acknowledge his change of party. We composed ourselves upon the steps of the fine cathedral. The watermarks and discolorations upon my mantle and bliaut were so faint as to be noticeable only to me. I doffed my precious coronet, and entrusted it to His Grace’s keeping.

  A crowd of ecclesiastics and laymen gathered in the square in front of us. Observing the plaza fill with exuberant burghers and men of the cloth, Gloucester relaxed his stance. The furrows around his eyes diminished. Although the bishop disputed and slighted my brother’s precedence, the archbishop of Canterbury had joined us, and treated the earl with suitable deference, as son to the late king. Brian FitzCount stood among the group; his raw devotion reassured me. Hearing some lovely chanting, I took note of a clutch of nuns from the local convent. I nodded my head in their direction, to thank them for their song.

  Before the great throng, Winchester raised his arm, for silence. He brandished my crown aloft, then placed it in my grasp.

  I lifted the richly jeweled circlet high above me, then lowered it back into place upon my brow. I relished the weight of it, and extended my neck to balance it properly. I exulted to be recognized as their mainstay and their Mother.

  Henry expounded: “All hail Her Majesty, Queen Matilda! Salute her!”

&
nbsp; My subjects whooped and clapped, in approval. Across the square, the bells tolled the news. On the porch, the din was infernal.

  As the peals receded, I proclaimed: “Let all those present, and all those with whom you speak, know that the daughter of King Henry is the Lady of the English.” A satisfied roar rolled over me.

  The bishop addressed his loyal flock. “As the pope’s representative, I call upon the assembled divines to heed the sanction of heaven. Promise your fealty where the Church places its faith, or be hereby exiled from the community of Christians on earth. Any man who curses Her Majesty is accursed himself; any man who blesses Her is himself blessed.”

  †

  Prolonging my visit, I remain behind in Winchester for its fair, while Robert advances to London. His letter apprises me of his doings on my behalf.

  London grows like a weed, and is now a hydra of a metropolis, where I am jostled in the streets by a continual parade of philosophers, harlots, sailors, sheriffs, monks, dairymaids, urchins, barons, and guildsmen. After dark, the city’s decadent, luxurious conviviality sometimes disintegrates into drunkenness, but not always into disorder.

  Sister, I make headway with both the city’s leading commoners and its aristocratic grandees. I commit to reinstating lost titles and treasures, and to reinstituting the rule of law. But travel in slow stages, so that I have opportunities enough to increase the number of your friends.

  I remain your faithful vassal, in town as in all of your empire.

  Gerta mumbles under her breath, dissatisfied with this missive. “An austere, upright man is often no match for the feckless citizens who clog the towns, like the refuse that obstructs its gutters.”

  †

  The palace of Westminster sits just outside the gates to the English capitol. Its vastness inspires awe, although its stolidity cannot mask a sewage stench, which seeps into every corner. Despite the various enticements of the stinking city, I prefer to remain within this keep that I remember from my childhood. Here, I shape the plans for my coronation in Westminster Abbey, which I would commemorate with high solemnity.