Matilda Empress Read online

  The Earl of Gloucester urges me to consider providing for Eustace, so that Henry Plantagenet’s eventual succession will have one less adversary. But my antipathy to the scheme persists, implacable; Boulogne and Mortain would make fine reward for Brian FitzCount or for other of the hungry barons who surround me. The usurpers thieve from my heir; I will do no right by theirs.

  †

  If my prestige suffered a setback in London, my numerous battalions here belie my disappointment. This royal castle swarms with lackeys and adherents, lesser vassals and greater earls, among them Brian, Robert, and David of Scotland. Only Ranulf of Chester absents himself.

  As in Westminster, I fill the hours dictating and signing charters. However, I grieve to find that my new Great Seal has been lost in the chaos of our hurried flight from London. Each evening, Gerta draws an eye on the wall of my solar, and drives one copper nail into its center. Still, we do not dream of the stamp’s whereabouts, nor see any one of our retinue suffer some diminution of vision. With relief, we understand that the thief is not among our circle. In any event, I retain my other two insignia, and resume using the one emblazoned “Matilda Empress.” For good measure, I always append my son’s name, “as rightful scion of England and Normandy.”

  I do struggle to discriminate among the candidates for my notice and favor. Whose landholdings should I forfeit? On whom should I confer them? It is not enough, and sometimes too much, to arbitrarily disavow each of my beloved’s decrees, to bankrupt every knight whom he enriched. It disquiets me to transfer to Henry Plantagenet an empire riddled with contested manors and fiefs.

  With great complacence, I annul the vexatious Maud’s right to the Queen Consort’s property of Waltham in Essex, regranting the rich land to Adeliza.

  My former friend acknowledges my gift with affectionate indifference.

  I humbly acknowledge your continued favor, despite my unbreakable tie to your cousin’s vassal. I pray that the Virgin’s mercy shall be a blessing unto you, and shall enable you to redress your own transgressions and to fortify your own virtues.

  †

  The Countess of Boulogne, that she-witch, marched upon Winchester and besieges our stronghold. For the last six weeks, we have been well encircled by her malevolent army, a motley crew of Flemish mercenaries, awkwardly equipped London folk, and those barons partial to the House of Boulogne.

  By the grace of God, and unanticipated by the villainous Maud, our fortress seethes with many brave warriors and numerous talented archers. In our daily skirmishes, entrenched as we are by our position, we inflict almost as much damage as we sustain. Indeed, my garrison thrives, gleeful at the many opportunities to prove its courage.

  Every man at arms, on either side, dreams of burnishing his reputation.The soldiers of Matilda and Maud are full of one another’s exploits. This extended blockade of Winchester, and the temperate season, permits the perpetration and publication of many acts of knightly daring and skill.

  To my glee, Winchester’s burghers turn in disgust from the countess, her rapacious foreigners, and her greedy Londoners, and now flock to my cause. I hear tell that the sisters of the neighboring convent, whose chapel butts up against up our outer wall, the same women who witnessed Bishop Henry’s invocation in the town square, pray and sing for my triumph. The regular hail of stones and firebrands over our battlements and into our baileys prohibits me from spending many moments outside, but I sometimes make out fragments of their chants. Exasperated by the constant clanging din, my ears strain to decipher the murmur of their melodies.

  †

  Not content with stasis, the loathsome Maud razes the city, to liberate it from my influence. From the narrow windows of my solar, I count almost forty steeples on fire. Robert and Brian forbid me to walk the ramparts during the heightened crisis.

  Just now, Gerta returned to my chamber, covered in soot from the billowing smoke. “The wretched bitch commits all of the seven deadly sins. In envy and avarice, she desecrates Winchester’s churches; her impious band strips their priceless trappings. In gluttony, she lays waste to the convent; in lust, her scoundrels rape the brides of Christ. In anger, she licenses the slaughter of the women they have defiled. Full of pride, she has the audacity to wipe out all that is before her.”

  I stared at my maid, a dark incubus, a harbinger of devastation. “You neglect the seventh sin, moroseness.”

  “We shall mourn on her behalf, then, and on behalf of the holy sisters. Some of them mutilated their own faces, in an attempt to repel their attackers. We shall drain the cup of gloom and sorrow. It will take some care, Empress, not to cut our lips on its cracked rim.”

  I dismissed her, for even Gerta’s presence is unwelcome to me when I need to convince myself that I am not to blame.

  †

  Sulky and dejected, cramped and bored, I am eager to accomplish even the smallest of tasks. Today, despite our declining rations, Gerta and I stirred up a vat of mead. The vast kitchens are quiet, for there are few stores left to prepare for each meal.

  From our meager cache of honey, I poured out half, combining it with a crushed knuckle of precious ginger root, before infusing them both in a barrel of boiling water.

  As the mixture steeped, I sighed. “Perhaps Robert will find me too liberal with our dwindling supply of water.”

  “Your brother and the others are in sore need of some pleasure to reduce their tensions.”

  When the confection cooled, Gerta added the yeast, and we watched the drink leaven.

  I shook out my arms and legs, unused to exertion after so many days of inactivity. “There are herbs that we might brew, if our suffering grows unendurable. In her last letter to me, Geoffrey’s daughter Marie remits efficacious powders along with her greetings.”

  My maid looked over her shoulder, at a few idling pages who guarded the pantries. “Surely the girl did not urge such a sacrilege?”

  I laughed. “She exhorts me to follow the commands of my heart! I am at some pains to decode her meaning. I think that she intends me to poison my cousin with a tisane. Of this idea you must approve.”

  Sealing the wooden container of mead, Gerta engaged the servants to transport it to a cool cellar. As they disappeared, she continued. “Marie, at ten, rates passion very highly. I do not imagine that she would have you serve the toxic brew to the ogre Boulogne, but rather to his countess. Widowing your captive, Marie fosters your romance, thereby encouraging the liaison between her own parents. She would legitimate herself if she could.”

  The boldness of the plan rattled me. “Dare I test the integrity of my beloved’s devotion, by submitting it to the world?”

  “Love is like mead, Your Majesty. In times of peace, the competent cook lets it ferment for the space of six months; in times of war, a week must suffice.”

  †

  Maud’s investment of Winchester continues. During this unending bombardment, the members of my court struggle as much with ennui as with hunger. Brian’s eyes track my movements. Robert studies FitzCount, as if his own scrutiny could undermine the knight’s romantic obsession. Uncle David turns his charm upon one of the baronesses entrapped here; she seems willing enough to dally away the empty hours in his royal arms. Vice runs rampant, unfettered by concern for the morrow. When the household is sated with gambling, having only bones or kisses as tokens, they tell each other bawdy stories. One of the Scottish squires juggles quite proficiently. Brian, ever physically adept, easily picks up the skill.

  Gerta’s fortune telling is popular, although I worry that she broadcasts her abilities too widely. She swears to me that she will not invoke the help of spirits, or utter any incantation whatsoever, beyond the Lord’s Prayer. Desperate for entertainment or solace, my people crowd about her when she takes out her polished basin, clamoring to see the future in its midst, and do not think to accuse her of heresy.

  I am full of waiting: waiting to fight, waiting to die, waiting to be reunited with my adored one, waiting to punish him. I would live f
or my bliss, but it unravels, rolling ahead of me, nearly out of sight. The tender memories fade. I can no longer clearly envision Stephen’s face.

  †

  At dusk, eluding Gerta’s companionship and Robert’s authority, I swathed myself in a rude cloak and mounted the battlements of the fortress. In the low light, the ruined city still smoldered. I heard the swish of an arrow, but it jangled against the stone wall below me.

  I willed something to occur, even a catastrophe. I was ready to take my leave of my beloved, my throne, and all the world. My anguish is already the agony of a spear through the heart. Death would resolve my political troubles and personal dilemmas. When will my destiny reveal itself to me?

  When I returned to my solar, unscathed from my forbidden tour, Brian and Gerta awaited me. The knight’s eyes shone, and my maid looked as if she had just popped a cube of sugar into her mouth.

  I unwound myself from my coarse outer garment. “What excites you, FitzCount?”

  He knelt before me, in obeisance. “I ask Your Majesty’s permission to perform a worthy deed. I would defy every difficulty to serve you.”

  Gerta grinned, and put her hand to her heart. “He burns to carry out Marie’s instructions.”

  Brian could not have understood my motivations. If he hoped to assassinate Maud, he did not do it to promote my affair. I noticed that his breath came fast and shallow. I peered at his ruddy cheeks and raised my eyebrows. “You seem alight with the fire of intention, sir. Do you so readily consign a woman to eternity?”

  “Put my devotion to the proof.”

  From my blue casket, I removed the packet of deadly herbs and gingerly handed it over to him. Marie’s spidery writing covered the small parcel, and she had drawn, with some talent, the picture of a hazel tree wound about with honeysuckle. “Your instrument is rather tame, ill-suited to a warrior’s arsenal. But its power is nonetheless mortal.”

  FitzCount placed the small sack within his sleeve. “I do not scruple at poison. If you prefer, I will suffocate the countess with my bare hands, and hang for it. It will be an honor to give my life for you, as I have sworn.”

  “Sir Brian, sacred friend!” I bent over his head and kissed him, allowing him to taste me.

  “The flavor of your lips is the hothouse citrus of the Orient and the wild berry of the Occident; the zest of both has been steeped in celestial steam.”

  Despite the gravity of the situation, I winced in irritation. Had he prepared his metaphors in advance?

  Gerta, provoked, shooed FitzCount out of my chamber.

  †

  Fall

  Brian has had to bide his time. Finally, last evening, our antagonists permitted the entrance of a monk, supposedly come to shrive one of my noble ladies-in-waiting, likely to perish from undernourishment. After he had taken her last confession, Gerta directed him to an ill-frequented cellar, where FitzCount did away with him. My maid assisted the assassin as he costumed himself in the victim’s clerical robes; it was she who razored a tonsure into his thick locks. Thus disguised, and aided by the night, Brian disappeared into Winchester.

  My sly maid shaved the entire head of the corpse, before sewing it up into a coarse linen sack. She assures me that the body was disposed of in such a way that no one need be the wiser. Diligent Gerta! I would not exchange her for a lustrous pearl.

  †

  Tonight, cloistered in my solar, we enjoyed the last dregs of the mead.

  Uncle David, pared down, is all nose and cheekbones, giving him a haughty expression that his noblesse little merits. Gloucester’s face, likewise thinner now, appears drawn. He is dirtier than I have ever seen him, for we waste no water on hygiene.

  The earl swished the honied broth in his mouth, savoring its sweetness for as long as he might. “We have lost enough men to severely limit our capacity to thwart Maud’s offensive. Our food supplies are completely exhausted, and in several days will be exactly nothing. Empress, it seems increasingly unlikely that our endurance will discourage the countess. I believe it to be expedient for us to escape, if we can.”

  His Majesty agreed with this assessment. “Although Winchester’s citizens side with us, all of their resources have been stolen or burned. They starve, as surely as we do. Our enemies have completely cut off the route to the west. Neither Gloucester nor Bristol can afford us any relief.”

  Robert winced, at this mention of his own embattled keeps. “If we manage to leave here alive, our garrison might regroup, somewhere to the north. It is rumored that there they have food.”

  I sniffed, aware of my musky scent. “There is no shame in a shrewd flight.”

  Alone now, I examine myself in my mirror. My face has not sunk into itself, the way David’s has, or resolved itself into a map of lines, like my brother’s. I remain Matilda, pale and clear, surrounded by a halo of darkness.

  †

  On the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, we were not to be found at our empty table. As plotted, we mounted the few horses still left alive in the stable, sitting two or three astride. I rode behind Robert on a once magnificent destrier, now little more than a skeletal hack. Under the black sky, we slunk out of the royal castle of Winchester, and through Maud’s sleeping encampment.

  Shame upon us, for we were unable to outwit our foes, and were immediately surrounded by a pandemonium of shouts and clanging weapons. We abandoned our tight line, and scattered, away from the tents, but large numbers of well-fed knights perched upon strong, able steeds charged after us.

  Galloping through the darkness, into the neighboring meadows, my brother and I soon discovered Gerta, standing unhorsed.

  Winded from running, she panted, “Our plan has been betrayed.”

  A horseman appeared and spurred his animal toward us.

  My maid screeched. “O heaven, protect me!”

  The Virgin must have had us in Her sights, for it was Brian, still robed as a monk, who had materialized.

  “FitzCount! This is well met. Guard the empress; deliver her to safety. I will loiter here, blocking your retreat. Waylaid by my barricade, our adversaries will lose time.”

  I shook my head, and did not unwrap my arms from around his waist. “Brother, I cannot leave you to such a fate.” Remembering his gentle touch and his wise advice, I forgot that he had ever kissed the mantle of my cousin.

  He spun to face me.

  Although there was no light beyond that of a wan moon, I could sense his green eyes on mine.

  “Be off with you! I do not quail before the abyss. You will reign and elevate your son to reign after you.”

  Brian pulled me and my bundled valuables from Gloucester’s saddle onto his own, so that I rode before him. Gerta was placed behind him, quite taxing the resilience of his destrier, who stumbled and whinnied at the weight of three. FitzCount smacked its rump with the flat of his sword, and it began to canter away.

  Over my shoulder, I noted that the earl remained astride, while his stallion dangled its neck down into the grass.

  Pieces of armor littered the ground over which we traveled. Racing past, FitzCount swiped a shield, which he added to his small store of gear.

  After some miles, FitzCount vaulted off his steed and spoke urgently. “We are in danger both from Maud’s battalions and from the local peasants, who will assail us for our belongings, or to ransom us to our opponents. Empress, toss aside your ornamental garments, anything that suggests your majesty.”

  Off came my fur-trimmed cloak, my ornate girdle, my gold-stitched corsage. I shivered in my white bliaut, while Gerta disentangled my braids, stripping them of their yellow ribbons. She wrapped me in her blue mantle, of less quality than my own, but Brian rejected it, as alike too fine. He insisted that we rend our remaining clothes to disguise their rich materials and sumptuous designs.

  At last, we stood scantily clad. We made a lamentable sight: a warrior monk and two practically naked women.

  I flinched, as my vassal put his hand on my shoulder.

  �
�We must pass through yonder forest on foot, as commoners.”

  My maid groaned, but I was ready in a moment.

  It was a hard journey to Bristol Castle. Here, I am confined to my bed, verily worn out. The excruciating pace, set by an anxious Brian, blistered my feet, until they bled through my thin leather boots. Twice, racked with fatigue and trembling, I collapsed and vomited onto my muddy skirts. Each time, FitzCount hauled me upright and urged me onward, as a mule driver does a recalcitrant beast.

  My beloved lies beneath me, in the dungeon of this keep. My exhaustion is such that even his looming presence does not light my soul afire. I begin to consider him an abstraction, a courtly image, a knight who once equaled my whole world. I have loved him and hated him, with all my heart, but neither love nor hate can bring him near to me. My spirit yearns for equanimity, in the place of wretchedness.

  Today, my copper mirror reflects pasty flesh and a deadened expression. Rumor has it that I was smuggled out of Winchester in a coffin, but I would, in that case, look somewhat more rested.

  Indeed, the fortress stirs with gossip. From my chamber, I can hear the walls whispering. Gerta relates every bit of news. Maud’s mercenaries thrice abducted Uncle David, but he thrice ransomed his own freedom. Ultimately, the Scottish king vanished back over the border, managing to evade the countess’s regiments. The minstrels claim that he discarded all the emblems of his status, every royal accouterment, and sallied forth a beggar, until he reached safe haven.

  Robert, captured, is the countess’s prisoner. Those avid, sniveling jongleurs report that Gloucester, in good spirits, withstands tribulation as less chivalrous knights bear prosperity. To account for his sanguine temper, they describe in excruciating detail the kindnesses that Maud lavishes upon him. Unfettered, my brother is completely at liberty to navigate castle and town, and to see and speak with any one of his choosing. He has even been furnished with monies, a stallion, and extravagant clothing.

  The bitch embellishes her reputation for gentle femininity, differentiating herself from my masculine ill treatment of the pretender. But if she thinks that her benignity will prompt the earl to throw me over, she is much mistaken. Robert’s good humor is mere good manners. The countess’s seductive mildness will not avail her of my vassal’s faith.