Matilda Empress Read online

  †

  The shadow of peace reigns over England. Despite the mild weather, there is no fighting, for so many are killed or exiled from their proper places that there are too few to stand the field. Our position in Gloucestershire and Wiltshire is now reputed to be invincible. Our court at Bristol begins to rival the false king’s in magnitude and grandeur. It is commonly accepted that I am the master of half of England and that my laws hold sway in the southwest.

  Bernard de Ventadour, the naysayer, does not see the good fortune in this stasis, but rather the reverse. “My lady empress, the sun must set on the day of doom before we awaken to the dawn of a new age. The conflagration to come will purify the nation, to be sure, but will surely be hot and uncomfortable to witness.”

  I consider evicting the lout from my keep. Why should he drink my mead and shelter his mule in my stable, if he is unwilling to sing me a song of resurrection?

  †

  FitzCount hovers about me; I have been unable to hold myself aloof from his repeated advances.

  Disapproving Gerta castrates a weasel, and sews its testicles into a goose skin pouch. When I lie with Brian, I am to keep this small sack between our abdomens so as to prevent the conception of a child.

  Today, he came to my solar at prime.

  My long-suffering maid shuffled off to the kitchens.

  In the light of daybreak, I could see that he was wearing knitted umber hose, the color of Stephen’s hair. “Take off your braies, sir.”

  He complied, awkwardly untying the garters and peeling off the leggings. Then he stood up, unsure but aroused.

  “Come here, man.” Apparently, I had to direct his campaign against my virtue.

  “Empress, I am in the thrall of my mania for you.” Brian walked over to me and tried to pull his tunic off, but it had not been properly unlaced and stuck upon his head.

  I sniggered. “Your ignoble lust demeans your noble grace.” I entwined my fingers in the ties and freed them, then dragged off his robe and plucked at his chainse. The undertunic was of a very fine linen, embroidered all over with delicate foliage. This was Basilia’s handiwork, I was sure.

  In his eagerness to be naked, FitzCount almost ripped off his wife’s souvenir. “I am only your servant. I have no other rank, no other name, no other center, no other purpose but to love you.”

  I began to discard my own clothes. “Before we succumb to our passions, we suppose that we will find happiness in physical pleasure; afterward, whatever the raptures of amorous sport, great is our consternation.”

  “My darling, for you I will gladly be ensnared by despondency!” Brian fumbled with the fabric of my pleated skirts.

  I guided him to what he searched for. Why must I always have a man gasping for breath in my ear?

  In his delirium, my vassal shouted out, “Oh! For this I willingly contaminate my flesh in wantonness and vice!”

  I closed my eyes against my own memories.

  FitzCount exhaled, and pressed his sweaty torso against me. “We recline in a wide meadow, under the boughs of an ancient elm. How tenderly a nightingale warbles out his song above us.”

  I adjusted the contraceptive pouch, which tickled my belly, and sighed at his earnestness. “You might kiss me again, sir, and see how warm my mouth is.”

  Brian looked toward the ceiling, but seemed to see the sky. His smile faded into an expression of deep seriousness. “I fear no more to die, for I have known true jubilation of the soul.”

  †

  Summer

  More territory falls to the Count of Anjou, still fighting his own battles on the continent. Rouen is Geoffrey’s next objective, and his last one, although the city has rebuffed him before. But he already controls all of the duchy south and west of the Seine. Now, the Angevin is generally referred to as the Duke of Normandy. Just as my perfidious lover snatched one half of my inheritance away from me, my ruffian of a husband steals the rest.

  I have a message from Geoffrey, ebullient to have won the title to which he has long aspired.

  I have put my trust in courage, mail, axes, and battlements, but not only in these. I give my most precious thanks to the Holy Virgin on high, my helpmeet, who interceded for me, and who saw that justice was served. Normandy has bled a red sea: Ave Maria. My Glorious Lady has done this, so I set my bell towers to peal the Te Deums.

  You, Matilda, are the Duchess of Normandy, as the Lion of England intended. Our son must return to my side. I will append him to all my grants and charters. He shall receive homage, as my heir.

  Your crown may never be his, and the English vassals who have sworn to him may pledge fealty to your cousin anther day. Whatever his crimes, the Count of Boulogne remains the lawful sovereign.

  No! I shall prove that a daughter can transmit the right of succession. I never struck out against my sire. A mere child, I crossed the sea and passed over mountains, to dispose of myself according to his command. After a spotless marriage, I again obeyed his summons. I tied myself to a man of his choosing, even though I was the Holy Roman empress.

  My son, the legitimate recipient of Henry I’s imperial realm, will reunite our two provinces, so that English and Norman magnates can hold property on either side of the Channel. The Plantagenet shall rid this empire of the plague of divided allegiance.

  †

  Fall

  All of the plains surrounding Bristol keep gleam gold and white; a fulsome wheat harvest awaits the farmers’ scythes. And yet the days pass without any cultivation of the grain, for the local peasants lie dead from famine and violence. In order to save some of nature’s abundance from waste, the great families and the once prosperous burghers of Bristol come out in force, to labor in the fields. All this week, my brother, young Henry, FitzCount, and others of our noble retinue toil among the stalks, sewing our own crops.

  Today, from the saddle, I watched my ill-conditioned courtiers struggle to cut down the sturdy sheaves. The Plantagenet’s red head regularly bobbed up and down, as he did more than his share. Brian felled the wheat quickly and efficiently; he was lathered all over with sweat. Robert exerted himself turgidly, capable of less physical effort in the heat. The others, generally, had difficulty keeping pace even with the Earl of Gloucester. Unused to grinding away like serfs, their pride interfered with their ability to do what was needed.

  Finally, tired of my passivity, I condescended to join them. Dismounting, I walked with the other women, gathering up the broken fronds that the scything had left behind. There was a buzz at my appearance, for my hair was completely uncovered and hung in one loose braid down my back. Feeling overly warm after only a few minutes of drudgery, I tied up the sleeves of my bliaut, then hiked my skirts up, into my girdle, exposing my legs in the blazing sun. Stooping again to participate, I noticed a greater resolve and industry on the part of my subjects.

  †

  Autumn has been pruned of the glories usually associated with the gleaning and the hunt. I tarry at Bristol, sitting out my husband’s continental preoccupations, my cousin’s stalemate, and the provocations of Amabel’s stilted hospitality.

  Last night, in defiance of shortage and foreboding, I organized a feast to mark Henry’s departure for the continent. Its centerpiece was a gleaming platter of lampreys, of the right sort, the variety with small heads and large bodies, white bellies and lustrous, sparkling skin. In my son’s honor, I had spent several hours down in the kitchens, watching the scullions skin the serpents, remove their innards, and drain their blood. I supervised the roasting, and the careful reserving of the oil drippings. Under my tutelage, one of the cooks made the sauce, grinding together raisins, ginger root, and dried rose petals, combining them with breadcrumbs and vinegar, then the blood and the grease.To my delight, the galatyne recipe found much favor with my boy.

  We sat long at the board, stuffing ourselves with more food than we needed. Alongside the lampreys, we devoured a blackmanger—a sweet chicken potpie flavored with licorice, lemon rice with almonds, and fritter
s of parsnip and apple. All the gluttonous freeloaders present complimented my opulence, but I cared only to gratify the Plantagenet.

  Gleeful at the sight of so many delicacies, he chewed with gusto. “How eager I am to be off, Mother.”

  I savored the tart citrus of the rice pudding. “Go with my blessing. Recruit an army for the second Norman invasion of England!”

  Brian sighed. “And none too soon. One can journey a whole day in Britain, without finding an inhabited churchyard or a tilled field. In every town, vagabonds swear that they were once men of substance.”

  The feeling at the high table grew somber. Our food turned to ashes in our mouths.

  Sensing that I resented his remark, FitzCount drank deeply from his own goblet. “At Bristol, we do not repine. Your comeliness, Empress, creates its own utopia.”

  Why must he parade our affair? “My beauty has been of no utility.”

  Amabel grimaced. “A well-formed figure and a translucent complexion are still subject to worms and rot.”

  Brian would not cease his foolery. “A knight who woos a lovely mistress wants nothing more than the privilege of kneeling at her feet.”

  Bernard de Ventadour rudely interrupted his betters. “It would be best, sir, if you left the arts of poetry to the talents of the jongleurs. We will leave the arts of war to you.”

  And what of the arts of love? I no longer believe in them. Is there any difference between the smarting shame one feels to have encouraged an unrequited passion, and the aching nausea of falling victim to the same unsavory obsession?

  I inhaled, satisfied at least with the fruit of my unworthy love, and how it has ripened.

  The Matter of

  the Crown

  Scroll Sixteen: 1144

  The empress had long wandered in a meadow, drenched in the spirit of earthly love. But now she understood that she was lost to the Word, exiled from heaven, ignorant of celestial things. All about her, following her example, men affronted the Lord’s goodness. When would Matilda rouse herself and begin to drink from the river of wisdom? Could she slake her thirst for adventure? Would she ever discover the road to paradise, and set her feet upon it, one after the other?

  †

  Winter

  No longer willing to form one of my brother’s household, I remove to Devizes, that massive, magical palace. In my solar, I am surrounded by luxury, for it is stocked with rich embroidered hangings and inlaid ivory furniture, under a ceiling fashioned from gleaming mosaics. The fireplace never smokes. Lovely stained glass windows filter the sunlight on the short, bright afternoons of the season. I sit, bathed in glowing bands of red, green, and blue, as if I were a brittle, illuminated saint.

  Gerta grumbles at me. “Rainbows often bedeck dark and stormy skies.”

  Slothful, I neglect to regret the magnificent state of my current accommodations. Here I rest, warm and dry, while my husband busies himself on the continent. Despite the impediments of winter, the Count of Anjou completes his conquest of Normandy. In January, he crossed the Seine and marched northwest, advancing to Rouen. He pitched his camp close to the walls of the city. There followed a momentous storm; it felled many trees in the surrounding forest, and destroyed many neighboring farms. Yet this omen was interpreted in the Angevin’s favor. Under the clearing sky, the Rouenais greeted Geoffrey with cheers. The burghers flung open their gates and proceeded with him to their cathedral. There, they solemnly turned over the city to his guardianship, and to our son’s.

  †

  To enliven my day, I have a letter from Maud, delivered by a monk of lascivious expression. I imagine he consoles the Countess of Boulogne whenever her husband gambols outside the marital bed. Beads of sweat glistened on his tonsure and his hands trembled as he held out a parchment page, folded in three. I dismissed him forthwith, to read what jealousy had wrought.

  May the Holy Mother grant me retribution!

  How many hours of blissful enjoyment have you purloined from me, how many amorous embraces have you stolen from me? Why does my own husband set aside a putrid, shadowy corner of his soul, wherein he stores up his moldering dreams of you?

  May some incubus poke out those impious black eyes of yours! Even the angels would sing his praises.

  If you were murdered, I would declare a festival.

  The bitch cannot mar my calm. Her belligerence is nothing to my own sacrifice. Maud’s antipathy cannot undermine the fortifications that I have erected around the ruins of my love.

  †

  Gerta and I explore the palace, and, in a subterranean study, unearth unimaginable treasures, including my very own hand of St. James! That evil genius, Bishop Henry, had smuggled it here, from Wolvesey, the better to conceal its whereabouts, or to ensure its safety during the long weeks of warfare at Winchester. My silver reliquary, set with precious gems around a toadstone, remains in perfect condition. The bone itself glistens still with holy energy. It does not appear to have been sliced up, or ground down in any way. I weep to find it incorrupt, and restored to me.

  The underground chamber holds much of interest. We discover a Bible, annotated in the margins. Essential passages are marked. I note His Grace’s interest in the magic of the apostles, such as the power of St Peter’s shadow to cure disease.

  Next to his Bible, we disinter a copy of Aristotle’s Secret of Secrets. My rudimentary knowledge of astronomy is not enough to unravel its riddles and formulas, but I itch to know what they mean.

  As is to be expected, we find a notebook of diabolical arts, a Quaternio Nigromantie. Gerta and I will need to study its black spells, to see if we can improve upon our own white knowledge of the natural order of things. Winchester Magus was apparently captivated with one device, a sort of occult square. It is an anagram of the opening phrase of the Lord’s Prayer, twisted into a box. Did he think to wield the power of heaven against me?

  Finally, on our third visit below, we exhume another manuscript, a diary of vice, a penitential catalogue. Given its odor, it must have originally been written in onion juice, and been illegible, but the passage of time has darkened its text. The bishop was his own confessor.

  I blush to take on his role, but I read with avidity the details of his infamous obscenities. So much of what men learn has been hidden from me, despite my literate education. Winchester quotes Plato; is it possible that Plato said, “Those who have earned the esteem of other great men ought to be free to frolic with any winsome boy that they choose”? Henry of Blois marshals the ancients in his defense, but reaches his own guilty verdict just the same, denying himself dispensation.

  I do not forget that I am first and foremost a servant of the holy church. It is for me to set an example of chastity, and to be a stranger to all forms of unclean delight. I must keep my body unspotted for the Lord, since the Lord has granted me special nobility, the absolute privilege, with my own hand, to consecrate flesh and blood, and, with my own words, to absolve the offenses of sinners.

  And yet I plunged head first, again and again, into dark transgression, into what is clandestine, forbidden, and cannot be forgiven. To what murky depths of awful shame has my unbridled sodomy and unremitting heresy anchored me?

  I am to blame; I am profane; I will pay with my soul. I shall not inherit the kingdom of God.

  †

  Yesterday, Robert materialized at Devizes, crossing the drawbridge with his retinue.

  Under the portcullis, I stood to receive him.

  Leaping off his stallion, he took me in his arms.

  I was surprised at the earl’s warmth. “Why, brother, what brings you from Bristol and Amabel?”

  Gloucester hustled me into our spacious and clean outer courtyard. He pointed to the stables, dismissing his attendants to see to his horses. “This keep is as prodigious as I remember it.” Without delay, Robert urgently propelled me across the fortified bridge, into the inner bailey.

  I wondered what to make of his anxiety, but saw that I would get no answer until we were alone. I quickened
my own pace as we headed for the tower. Mounting the spiral staircase, I could feel him brooding upon some question of importance.

  Once we approached my solar, Gerta appeared on the stone steps, descending as we rose. My maid paused to curtsy, and made as if to turn back and join us upstairs.

  But the earl said, “No, no, do not be bothered by my presence. Go on about your business.”

  Gerta’s face was curiosity itself, but she obeyed his command and continued down.

  By this point, I was fairly bursting to know what had brought Gloucester to me. I did not hesitate to bolt my chamber door. The light in the room was yellow, jaundiced from the sun streaming in through a golden pane of the window.

  Just then, my brother roughly kissed me, muttering, “My sister, my bride! You have conquered the territory of my heart. After all these years of waiting, we can be as one.”

  Taken aback, I passively allowed his mouth to roam freely over my face. When his lips sank to my neck, I pushed him away. “What is this that you do?”

  The earl stood back, frowning, but then his aspect softened. “My dearest, how is it that a lady of your great beauty and distinction lacks a knight of her own?”

  I could not believe that Gloucester would commit incest. “Imprudence! Impudence!” I smoothed my hair and took a deep breath, to steady myself.

  Robert grabbed at my posterior, clutching himself tight against my skirts. “Do not attempt to disembowel my passion. It is your face that is to blame.”

  I twisted in his powerful grasp. Troubled, I saw that his green eyes were dimmed. “I lament that you gift yourself to me; it is not right that I accept your bequest.”

  The earl held me immobile; his hands spanned my waist. “Be audacious enough to love me, for you will do us great harm if you will not.”