Matilda Empress Read online

  I recline upon my throne in the castle’s great hall, built in the time of William Rufus, and the largest chamber of its kind in Europe. There, at the king’s high table, I confer honors and approve charters. I have commanded the engraving of a new Great Seal, emblazoned “Matilda, Daughter of King Henry and queen of the English,” so as not to be a foreigner among my people. For the most part, I take pleasure in the queen’s work.

  Heralds forward a message from Geoffrey that pricks at my self-satisfaction.

  Yours is the bloodline, the legacy of tyrants. Let your thirst to rule, your thirst for territory, be quenched at the deep well of wisdom, there where the princess adorned both in modesty and majesty draws her water. Suppress your self-will; purify yourself, if you would never more be ashamed.

  †

  Today, London’s foremost burghers formally approached me, in answer to my recent tax levy. I sat upon my throne, surrounded by my cohorts, Gloucester, FitzCount, and that dog, Winchester. The great hall was full of toadies and pages, baronesses and minstrels, knights and dogs, minions who had come to ask favors and simpletons who had come to see me for themselves.

  One wizened spokesman from the city stepped to the front of the assembly. Like all his compatriots, he wore a cap, which he now twisted out of shape. A gaudy brooch perched upon his green wool cloak. His tight sleeves, suitable for his business dealings, and his deep leather cuffs irritated my taste.

  He bowed to me, but with an incomplete obeisance, and neglected to touch his lips or fingers to my mantle. “Lady, we embody the commune of London, dignified by King Stephen, and given privileges by him, as its overlord. Now, we ask to be treated by you with as much respect as any other of his tenants.”

  The hairs on my neck rose. “The Count of Boulogne has never been your rightful sovereign. Any corporation that the pretender recognized is nothing to me. My traitorous cousin wrongfully escalated the status of the people above its natural limit, threatening the order of society.”

  There was silence from the old man, but a furious whispering among his companions.

  After a pause, the elder resumed his appeal. “His Majesty ascertained that freeborn Londoners are as the freeborn Romans, senators to the state.”

  “You covet the position enjoyed by my barons, the right to advise me.”

  The burgher shook his head. “We ask only to be subject to the reasonable laws of King Stephen, as opposed to the harsh edicts of King Henry.”

  The other townsfolk stuck up their middle fingers, as if to ward off my father’s evil influence.

  I bolted up from the throne. “How dare you make these obscene gestures? The Lion’s dictates will stand. His taxes will stand. I insist that you pay the large sum that you owe the crown.”

  The citizens shuffled backward, looking nervously at one another.

  Their leader, however, did not shift his stance. “The endless civil war has swallowed up our monies. We have donated generously to the church, to aid in the relief of our poor. We have gratified His Majesty, each time that he requisitioned our gold to equip his armies. Now, we are almost bankrupt.”

  The sight of him, upright before me when he should have been prostrate, increased my ire. “Where do you find the audacity to inform me that you have nothing for your true queen, because you have endowed everything upon her enemy?”

  Winchester inserted himself. “My brother’s courtesies toward you were intended to enlarge and hasten your disbursements.”

  The spokesman gravely adjusted his cloak upon his shoulders, and patted his ostentatious brooch. “Your Grace speaks true. King Stephen acted not proudly, but cheerfully, to all who kept the peace.”

  Henry nodded, then pursed his lips, waiting for the murmurs in the hall to fade away. “Those who curse she whom the Lord has elevated, this lady who is to sit above us by divine right, will be themselves accursed! But those who bless her name and person will be themselves blessed.”

  The citizen flushed at the cited threat. “We only request that Matilda, who now wishes to be queen, ask less of our limited resources and allow us a longer period of time to pay.”

  I grimaced, wrinkling my mouth and forehead, so that he should know my utter disapproval of all his presumption. “You, with your rich decorations and your love for my foe, have no right to ask for such capitulations on my part. You, who barely bow to me, will be made to bend under my demands.”

  The old burgher spit into the rushes. Inclining himself as little as possible, he and his cohorts withdrew from the vast chamber.

  Many of my aristocratic courtiers jeered with disdain at the citizens’ arrogance. Brian FitzCount swung his fist at their retreating backs.

  But Robert’s small mouth twisted right and left. He sighed. “Sister, you must sometimes court the favor of those beneath you.”

  Why did my brother not defend my dignity? “The Count of Boulogne found these townsmen eager to serve him.”

  The earl took my elbow. “You forget that Stephen trusted to his gifts to foster their devotion. Before your accession, you must bribe, not threaten. The Londoners have a certain power that cannot be contravened by a mere contestant to the throne. If you are to be anointed, you need their adherence and their patronage.”

  †

  This afternoon, at none, Winchester came to my solar.

  I had retreated from the court’s scrutiny, eager to have Gerta’s strong fingers massage out the kinks in my neck and the aches in my lower back. The throne is uncomfortable, and I sit continually erect, never willing to relax my posture.

  His Grace did not have the tact to withdraw, despite my evident bodily fatigue. He wiggled his wrist at my maid, who scrambled out the door, without waiting for my leave.

  “My queen, I come upon important business.” Remembering himself, the bishop gave me a slight bow, but did not remove his head covering, as was customary.

  “If you interrupt me without invitation, you must be bursting with news of the utmost interest.”

  Henry smiled thinly. “I am not come to broadcast some novelty. I speak of what is always true. You are required, at a minimum of once a year, to catalogue your sins to a priest. It has come to my attention that you have neglected this sacred duty. I will, of course, take on the duty of your confessor.”

  Was this what I had guaranteed him? Did Winchester have the audacity to assign me hours of public prayers or a stringent, debilitating fast? Surely, he scheme to dictate my almsgiving. Would he snicker as he lashed my flesh with a knotted cord, or force me to parade my welts before my barons?

  The bishop pressed his palms together, and placed the tips of his long fingers against his lips. “I shall grant you absolution, once you have admitted all of your misdeeds, and made a credible show of atonement.”

  How little he believed in me. “What will be the form of this interrogation? I presume that you will begin with the common vices, and if I allude to these, you will push me to describe the more deviant ones.”

  His Grace flushed. “Those who are susceptible, and who affirm it, need not be ashamed. Your penance will be in keeping with the gravity of your error. Ultimately, you will be redeemed. You would not wish to suffer the consequences of your trespasses in purgatory.”

  “How often do you confess, Henry of Blois? None of us are free of peccadilloes.” I remembered the young boy at Wolvesey Palace. Had Winchester made amends for his lechery? I have read that fornication by a father of the church requires ten years of penitence.

  His Grace met my eyes, but his voice was cold. “Each and every person, having reached the age of reason, must avow their misconduct. If I permit myself some breach, my interior sorrow is enormous. I hunger for the temporal privations that scrub me clean before the Lord. I often pray to fortify the strength of my arm, to buttress my bishop’s crook, so that when I plunge it into the neck of the dragon of enticement, I am victorious.”

  Surprised, my voice was not completely steady. “I cannot undertake to make you my confessor without further t
hought.”

  “If you refuse my pious counsel, you defer your entrance into the society of the holy. I am your invitation, your navigational chart, your key to the gates of heaven. Cannot you hear the blast of God’s trumpets? Cannot you see the banners of Christ that wave from atop His tower?”

  †

  This afternoon, another supplicant sours the atmosphere at Westminster.

  Maud, bedecked in a chartreuse gown verily wreathed with netted pearls, strode through the great hall, coming to a halt directly before my throne. She began to speak without curtsying. “The archbishop of Canterbury…”

  I refused to allow her to address me so boldly, or even to stand before me. “I will not hear the Countess of Boulogne until she debases herself, according to precedent.”

  The wench snorted, but slowly lowered herself to her knees. Then, in a charade of compliance, she painstakingly arranged the pleats of her extravagant bliaut, shaking out the few sheaves of straw that clung to it.

  I waited for her to finish the performance. “You are none too humble, Countess.”

  Maud’s face tightened, pronouncing its plumpness. “You are none too gracious, Empress.”

  I gloried to see her sunk upon the hard floor. “I am the queen of England. I need not extend any politeness to you.”

  The bitch shuffled her weight from leg to leg. “I do not wish to be pampered while my husband undergoes your torments. I come here to denounce His Majesty’s imprisonment and to demand his release from the nasty oubliette into which you have plunged him.” Again, she ruffled her skirts. “I come also to broadcast the archbishop of Canterbury’s proposal, that you restore Stephen’s territories and possessions. In return, we will abdicate the throne.”

  I scoffed. Did she think me an idiot? “The pretender stole what was rightly mine. Once released, he will surely plot to deprive me of my patrimony.”

  Maud crossed herself, then turned her lips up, in a little smirk. “The king shall become a hermit, or a pilgrim. I shall part ways with him, and retire to a nunnery.”

  I laughed aloud, imagining the sultry countess burying her ambition in a cloister and my randy cousin transfigured into a wandering ascetic, indifferent to pleasure. “It will be difficult for you to bamboozle your husband into agreement.”

  The harlot flushed. “His Majesty pays much heed to my advice.”

  I stamped my boot against the ground. My voice resonated throughout the hall. “Damn the usurper!”

  The countess seemed sure of herself. “As the king has disinherited some of your noble vassals, making enemies of them, so you will strip the honors from our allies, engendering their hatred. If you have not the stomach to enfeeble our friends, you will embellish their influence, only to wonder where lies their real faith. You will never be sure of them, nor they you.”

  With a stony stare, I dismissed the slut from my royal presence.

  It is clear to me that my throne here is a Chair Perilous, merely the first stage in my hazardous quest for what is mine by right.

  †

  Although I have long criticized my cousin’s errors of policy, I made his mistake, and treated my enemy too leniently. To my shame, I underestimated Maud’s prowess; instead of confining her to Westminster, I permitted her to depart. Immediately, the aggrandized whore began to ferment trouble.

  Maud retreated to Kent, to connive with continental mercenaries employed by her friends in Boulogne. She gathered together an army, and, in order to pay them, bargained with moneylenders, sold off jewels, and mortgaged landed assets. The countess marched her hired warriors back here, drawing up on the south side of the Thames. From Southwark, her regiments raid the city, burning, looting, and slaying each night. The jongleurs conjecture that this villainy is Maud’s vengeance against London, in return for its apparent acceptance of her nemesis.

  From the safety of Westminster, I can see an orange haze in the black sky and hear the dull roar of screams. If only the citizens had paid homage to me; if only the burghers had sworn themselves my partisans! Then I would deploy my own troops to protect them from the ravages of my antagonist.

  The townsmen named my father a despot, but it is their “Good Queen Maud” who attacks them now.

  †

  Last evening, we banqueted, in celebration of my upcoming coronation. The palace servants had adorned Westminster’s great hall with flowers and foliage, enough to mask its usual odor. For the first course, the chefs outdid themselves, presenting us with boar’s heads stuffed with eggs and chestnuts, swans baked with turnips, and eagles smothered with currants.

  Needled by Gerta’s paranoia, and enslaved by my appetite, I abjured her advice, and did not sprinkle salt upon my portions, so as to detect any pernicious tampering. Muttering at my insubordination, my maid presented me with a spoon fashioned from rosemary wood, another tool to protect me from any enemy interference.

  Once the first tempting dishes were cleared, servants brought forth almond pies containing live songbirds. When the tarts were cut, the creatures escaped, and the chamber filled with their warbling. Finally, a page rode into the room on horseback, bearing onto the dais a masterpiece in aspic, a huge map of my empire.

  At the high table, to my right, that parasite, Henry of Winchester, greedily partook of the confection. He dug his finger into the richly spiced jelly, and shoveled in a large trembling mound of it.

  I caught his eye. “I welcome Your Grace to the pleasures of my court.”

  The bishop frowned, and waved over a laverer. He dipped his hand into the washbowl.

  I could smell that its cool liquid was redolent of the sage and rosemary that had been boiled in it. I pointed to a heaping platter of candied fruit.

  His Grace refused to sample it, and stood up from his chair. “I must attend to other business, church business. I cannot wait upon you further.”

  I guffawed. “It is difficult to please two masters. You will always be looking over your shoulder.”

  The words had hardly left my lips when, suddenly, all the bells of London were tolling the tocsin, the call to arms. One knight of my garrison dashed into the hall, from his post upon the battlements. “A tremendous crowd runs out of the city gates, converging toward Westminster. They stampede like a herd of beasts!”

  I jumped up and hastened out of the room, as the bishop scurried away, intent on his own welfare. I clambered up the curved stone staircase to my private apartment, where I snatched my blue enamel casket and my satchel of manuscript rolls. I would not, I could not, forfeit Stephen’s lock of hair, my copper mirror and jewels, my letters and writings.

  Suddenly, FitzCount entered my solar and pulled me to him. “Empress, abandon your chattel. Salvage your life.”

  I shook my head vehemently, clutching my treasures.

  My vassal whisked us both back down the steps, through the keep to the stables.

  Very few horses remained, but Gerta held onto two noble destriers. “I forbade any to touch them, in Your Majesty’s name.”

  Brian settled me in front of him, on one steed; my maid mounted the other. Galloping out of the bailey, we heard a wild howling, as a hostile throng of our adversaries cavorted in the palace’s hall, setting fire to the decorations and wolfing down the leavings from our feast.

  We careened along the major thoroughfare, as fast as we thought our animals could bear. The many barons who had been present at the coronation banquet were nowhere to be seen. FitzCount guessed that they had sagaciously branched off onto various rural byways, the better to melt away into the night. To my relief, the Earl of Gloucester and several of his men waited for me at the crossroads to Oxford.

  My brother pushed back his hair. “Our retreat has not been orderly. Many of our fawning followers have scrambled to their own safety, revealing their commitment to you to be shallow and canting. Without hesitation, they abandoned you to the mob. We will make our own escape, and outwit them all another day. Ride onward!”

  The Matter of

  the Crown
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  And so I ask you, you who have been so courtly as to absorb yourself in my story: Who abhorred the empress most? Of course, it was not her falsehearted lover, but his tenacious wife, for the rancor of women is insatiable. The warriors in the service of the two rival queens relished their conflict, perpetrating much wickedness in their names. Now it came to pass that Matilda sank beneath the waves of trouble, and struggled to surface. In her panic, she relinquished her idol.Once again, her history resumed its perverse course, its unending cycle of requited violence and unrequited desire. It is well to remember that God our Father fashioned the night as well as the day.

  †

  Summer

  My brother and I ensconce ourselves in the royal castle of Winchester, hoping to conspire with Henry of Blois to regain the ground that we have lost. But the bishop barricades himself in his decadent palace of Wolvesey, on the other side of the city, refusing to grant us his company. As my political prospects stymie, His Grace apparently regrets my presence in his diocesan capitol.

  The bishop begins to hire soldiers and fortify his sumptuous edifice, built more for pleasure than for war. He executes several infamous criminals in the market square, bolstering city business and swelling his tax receipts. How can we not suspect that Winchester worked against us in London? Each day that passes without his appearance before me indicates a reversal of his allegiance.

  At the very least, I am now at liberty to ignore his interests.

  †

  Our spies inform us that Winchester meets in secret with Maud, at Guilford. Reversing course, His Grace now pledges to staunchly support his brother. The sentence of excommunication lowered upon Stephen is lifted, falling instead upon me. While the pretender’s fate rests unsure, the bishop and the countess agree that Prince Eustace shall be endowed immediately with his mother’s personal fief, the County of Boulogne, and his father’s hereditary territory, the County of Mortain.