Matilda Empress Read online

  I felt cold sweat gather at the nape of my neck. This was not what I wanted. “Brother, I cannot do what is horrible.”

  Gloucester pawed at my girdle. “A queen should dare what she wills; I will not think you base.”

  I started to struggle in earnest.

  Robert ripped the neckline of my bliaut. “You have given yourself to many men; I want my turn with you. Take me; you have not had me inside you.”

  “You insult me, Brother, when you force yourself upon me!” I could not get through to him, past his desire.

  The earl pulled my hair, so that I screeched. “Come to me, Matilda. Taste the forbidden fruit, the sweetest taboo.”

  I stamped my foot down upon his boot. “In your dementia, you are like a moth, drawn to the flame!”

  Somehow, I had broken the spell. Gloucester released me, and I dashed to the other side of my solar, pulling my garments back into place.

  Robert stood, desolate in the yellow glare. “You confound me, Empress. You are unwomanly, when you bar the gate to your garden of delights. O that my hands were sticky with your nectar!”

  I kept a trunk between us. “You have fallen out of grace. You are not worthy of my compassion.”

  The earl ran his hands through his hair. “You were pleased enough to see me bow to you. Now I lie at your feet, and you tread upon me.” He staggered to the door, unbarred it, and passed out of the chamber.

  I lowered myself slowly onto the floor, and sat, staring at nothing. After a short while, I heard the creaking of the drawbridge and the shouts of my men-at-arms, as Gloucester and his mounted company rode off.

  Now, over the shock, I am choleric at his violence, and his excuses. As if I myself am not forced to withstand solitude and hunger! My broken heart longs for what will never be, but vice cannot lessen misery, cannot be the ladder we lean against our walled keeps of grief.

  †

  Spring

  I have a message from my errant sibling, written in cipher. I decode it with very little trouble. Gloucester merely replaces each vowel with the consonant that follows it in the alphabet. He must be too disordered to invent a puzzle more fitting to our shared intellectual talents.

  For so long, I presumed upon my perseverance and strength of character. I expected to gallop through the pearly gates, while seraphim trumpeted my arrival into paradise. I have given up the idea of fanfare, but still hope to rise to heaven.

  In order to conquer my desire, and expiate my sins against you, I fast, deny myself the balm of sleep, and mortify my skin with hot irons, thick needles, and sharp thorns. My wounds drain my soul of its evil inclinations. In the midst of my pain, I float upward into bodily indifference and spiritual communion.

  But you, intolerable blackbird of temptation, still haunt my thoughts. Your claws scrape at my soul, your beak pecks at my heart; beneath my deadened flesh, you cause me further suffering. I have no net to snare you. I cannot lock you away in my dovecote.

  Nothing is left to me, but to throw myself upon burning coals, and engulf one fire with another.

  In return, I remind him of the well-known parable.

  Lucifer was best loved, among the Lord’s angels, and exalted by Him. But Lucifer, so eminent, so trusted, grew arrogant before his God, and defied His commandments. Then the Lord cast him out of the oasis of the celestial heavens, down into the deepest conflagrations of hell.

  †

  It is the season of rebirth, but a great refusal swells within me. No man’s caress can bring me spiritual ease. My dismissal of my own brother’s advances, and his self-flagellation, solidify my resolve to dispense likewise with the carnal attentions of FitzCount. I have long been addled by lust, yet at my increasing age it is high time to renounce every physical pleasure. I will not be held to account, and punished. No one shall be able to defame me.

  †

  Yesterday Brian appeared at Devizes, ostensibly to facilitate the return of the hand of St. James to the abbey of Reading, which lies very near his fortress at Wallingford. I yearn to restore it and the concomitant wealth and favor that will accrue from a steady stream of pilgrims, keen to be the first to worship the relic of the Apostle. I have ordered the fashioning of an enormous gold-plated feretory, ornamented with jewels, for the ceremonial translation to Reading. In addition, I propose to present the abbey with the royal manor of Blewbury, vast and fertile. I intend this endowment to honor FitzCount’s longstanding adherence, and hope that it shall excuse and repay his garrison’s raids and depredations in the neighborhood, perpetrated in my name.

  Meeting me in my solar to discuss the details of this transaction, he would not talk business, without first slobbering all over my palm.

  He repelled me; I could not bear his touch. “My wretchedness must be called wantonness, nothing more. Praise is due the Virgin, for my depraved craving has diminished now, into nothing. We remain tied by the bonds of fealty and deep affection, but nothing more.”

  Brian’s sensual features, throbbing one moment ago, paled and went flaccid. “Empress, I have not begun to drink my fill of you!”

  I foretold that it would not be a simple matter to divest myself of his attentions. “Whenever we fornicated, I knew that I defiled myself, and would bring you only sorrow.” How could I soften the blow? “I lay with you, under some compulsion, but it was not love.”

  FitzCount paced away from me, pulling at the dark hair at his temples. “Matilda, have I not been true to you?”

  The sound of my name, so familiar on his lips, so inappropriate coming from one of my vassals, was a dead weight in my stomach. I was nervous, lest he persuade me or entice me to restore his rights. “You must return to modest Basilia, who suffers on your behalf. Her delicate heart freely chooses you. Make a present to her of your dedication. Show her you regret your perversion, and take solace in her embrace.”

  Sir Brian walked about my chamber, denying my logic, opposing my dictate. “Why do you speak of her, who never did you a good deed? My distaste for her is just; her lumpen pallet is laid upon broken stones. Her flanks are rough with grit, and her spit tastes of sawdust.”

  I was full of impatience now, and went to warm my hands by my fire. The day was chilly, despite the budding foliage. “You are besotted, but it is better to be righteous! Today I deliver unto you the Holy Mother’s mercy.”

  FitzCount followed me to the hearth and wrapped his arms around my back. His words were harsh. “I zealously fought for my queen, and took only this little reward. I never thought to experience such distress, when I pledged her my muscle and cunning.” Resting his head upon my shoulder, he began to cry. “I never dreamt of sharing your throne, but only your bed. You are most unjust to me.”

  His tears moistened my neck. I was glad that I could not meet his eyes. “Indeed noble sir, I beg your pardon. You are a worthy knight, of great renown. In courtesy, you must find it possible to admire your wife, or conceal your apathy or disdain for her.”

  Brian’s voice took on a deeper timber. “I have already given myself to you. There is no other warrior who has a more single-minded determination to bend his knee before you. Your name is inscribed in the pommel of my sword. You will be my idol until the end of my life.”

  How well I empathize with his fate.

  †

  There is no citadel or hamlet in Normandy that does not belong to the Angevin. My husband has reached a détente with the French king; even Louis VII recognizes him as the duke. The sycophants who surround me profess their congratulations. They sense that my continued presence among them, combined with my husband’s undisputed control over the Channel, gives our party the momentum needed to win the civil war. It is unfortunate that we have no money to prosecute our cause here with any sort of concerted effort. And so we sit and wait for heaven to accord us what we deserve.

  †

  Summer

  Unbearably torrid weather roils tempers all over my realm, on this island and on the Continent. The peasants and burghers are subject to reli
gious frenzies, perceiving in every passing cloud and gust of wind some hint of the Lord’s dissatisfaction with the state of our affairs.

  I have had a message from Marie, similarly disturbed by vivid hallucinations, thought by her to pertain to me.

  A comely lady, of the highest rank, sank into adultery, seduced by a nefarious demon, disguised as a crimson falcon. Outraged, and bereft, the upright husband ran the whore through with his lance. Publicly, he blamed her death on the depredations of a band of marauding brigands.

  At the ceremony of her entombment, when the man was surrounded by all his vassals and family, a horrible lamentation arose from the errant wife’s corpse. A huge scarlet raptor had alit upon her body, straddling her torso, and was devouring her heart, all the while spreading wide its enormous tail feathers. Those present were terrified and distraught.

  The man was a pure Christian, so he stood battle with the red fiend. Yet the harlot arose from her coffin, dripping blood and gore, and began to toss sweetmeats to her falcon, caressing it around its neck.

  I can explicate Marie’s perverse dream well enough. Her father, the Angevin, is the hero, pure and brave; the incubus is Stephen, with his inflated and erect tail feathers; I am the slut, accused of cajoling sin and entertaining evil. Pretending to inform me, does she taunt me? Does she not consider that the Mother of the Redeemer comes first among all the saints?

  †

  Fall

  Gerta, attempting to comfort me now that I have “opened my eyes, closed my legs, and seen reason” stirs up a vat of Flemish broth. It would be a miracle if egg yolks and white wine, boiled with salt, were enough to make everything right.

  In this time of civil sorrow, I too hang upon a cross, interred between my striving and my resignation. I discard lasciviousness, and affection, courting despair, yet still struggle to abandon my idol. My nostalgic heart reclaims him everywhere. I give him up, but my diseased mind still serves him. Without any hope of superficial joy, I cannot find the will to sever, conclusively, my ties to true love.

  The Matter of

  the Crown

  Scroll Seventeen: 1145

  All you who would live to be worthy of salvation, attend closely to the empress’s example. Answering the tearful supplication of her innocent subjects, Christ shone his light upon Matilda. Small shoots of virtue sprouted within the garden of her soul. Yet, in acknowledgment of her first bursts of repentance, she commanded a magnificent favor. She pledged to ignore the blandishments of her beloved’s courtly invention, if she might be once more at his side. Heaven made the bargain, for the sake of her atonement, a sacrifice of more value than gold.

  †

  Winter

  I linger at elegant Devizes, while, once more, my partisans take up their weapons in the northeast. Adroitly besieging a fortress loyal to Boulogne, but becalmed in a protracted stalemate, the earl forward me these lines of repentance.

  Most precious lady, defender of all those who bend their knees you, condescend to look gently upon me! Help me evade any suspicion of wrongdoing. Let no one have the right or the power to forbid me your fellowship. I depend upon you; you may depend upon me. Receive my soul into your blessed trust, and into the presence of your glorious son.

  Praise be to heaven! In my brother’s eyes, I am reborn the Holy Virgin, an unseemly object of improper desire. In relief, I transmit to him a gift, a hare’s foot to be bound to his left arm. It shall protect him from hazard, from the dangers posed by men. Will it solidify his remorse, and prevent his obligation to me from faltering?

  †

  Despite the freezing temperatures, I pace the palace battlements, looking through its crenellations upon a sodden, muddy landscape. I gaze upon a river and its stone bridge, much traversed by persons of little consequence. They would be confounded that their empress has them in her sights, and envies their common lot, their ordinary cheer. My splendid birth assures me no concomitant bliss. Round and round the walls I go, considering the heavy ache in my chest, measuring it equal parts acquiescence and persistence.

  My romantic liaison has been a farce, undeserving of me. I was a ninny of a girl, luckless, who gave her heart away without cause or effect. But yet amour abides, coursing, constant. I would, I have, withdrawn from the carnal life. I would entrust my soul to the Virgin’s keeping, but my sinful obsession is tenacious.

  The gusts of wind are cold, but when they blow over me I perspire underneath my furlined cloak. The frigid breeze sets me alight, for I imagine it originating in the northeast, where he marches out, on the offensive. I inhale the air he breathes, opening my mouth to take it in. How far I have strayed from ecstasy, how near to desperation! I have ploughed the way to a cold peace, yet the thought of my audacious hero still warms me. How can I lament my fondness, when it is, it was, sincere?

  I stand agape, incapable of any solace, save my imaginary one. And this false dream must evaporate before the almighty truth, that the knight whom I adore is not to be mine. The boy born of our passion must destroy him, to recover that which he stole from us. We may make ourselves mighty only by feeding upon the hate that consumes love.

  I have received the blessings of face and figure, mind and spirit, coffer and scepter. My thoughts have all been noble; my abdication from the seat of love is princely. But none of it has been enough to avert my punishment. Why, among kings, am I alone reproved? Are endurance and loss to be my only prize?

  †

  Spring

  Another one of my allies defects to Stephen’s court. This time it is the Earl of Chester who pledges himself to my cousin and kisses his royal mantle, admitting to encroachments upon His Majesty’s favor and an inappropriate zeal for self-promotion. Ranulf and Stephen swear mutual oaths, vowing never to do each other harm. In return for his ceremonial humility, the earl is presented with Lincoln Castle.

  I little think that the pretender welcomes him with any real trust. The usurper cannot have forgotten that Chester was the rebel who instigated the disastrous battle of Lincoln. Will one keep be compensation enough for the Norman fiefs that we will strip from him?

  Only one year ago, I was thought to have the upper hand in this perpetual civil strife! All at once, the Count of Boulogne is in the ascendant.

  The pretender and Chester launch an attack on Wallingford, perhaps cognizant of the growing distance between FitzCount and his patroness. With a newly recruited cavalry of three hundred horsemen, they approach his fortress. Finding my vassal still of a mind to stand by me, and his stronghold secure, they raid the neighboring districts.

  I wonder whether Basilia realizes that I have cut my amorous ties to her husband. Perhaps she spends her days encouraging Sir Brian to plight his troth to Stephen.

  †

  Tonight my stable overflows with the mounts of heralds, messengers, and minstrels. The mules and the stallions must split their oats, and the attention of my overtaxed squires, grown fat and lazy from underwork.

  I am presented with confidential letters from Brian and Basilia, apparently written and sent without the other’s knowledge. Did their couriers smirk at each other along the road, and share a campfire?

  Brian’s lamentations are to be expected. I would be mortified to have inspired less, given his protestations of undying faith.

  Oh, my empress, my Matilda! You are my lodestar, more resplendent than the summer sun, more brilliant than winter’s glittering icicles!

  I quail before you, in unbearable agony. I stuff my mouth with the flowers of the willow and the poplar, but my ravenous appetite for you is not diminished.

  Many moons ago, on the eve of my dubbing, I lay prostrate before a high altar. In a cold stupor, I yearned to personify the chivalric code in the service of the crown and in the pursuit of a distinguished lady. In you, I unite both claims to my fealty, and my vassalage has been whole and entire.

  Now, I am of no use to you, or to your throne; I am the unfortunate one. My sword, my shield, my mail, my stallion: I no longer have the right to boast
of them.

  Yet, according to the law of courtesy, you owe me your clemency. I beseech you, discard your cruel frigidity, which is of no profit to anyone. Though my wantonness is blameworthy, and my complaints unmanly, you must not refuse to succor me in love.

  Although I read his note with a cynicism born of my own despair, my heart flutters with remorse to have caused a fine man so much distress.

  Basilia’s scratchings and screechings, on the other hand, will make fine kindling for the fire in my solar.

  Vile, selfish bitch! Hedonist! Degenerate! Burn all the oat straw that you will, soak your rotting limbs in your steaming witch’s cauldron! Still you will be unable to rid yourself of maggots, for they are your familiars.

  I have measured myself with a thread, and coated it in wax, and burned it as a candle to the Blessed Virgin. Heaven chose me, me, to receive in Christian marriage the hand of a perfect knight. I have honored him, and his name, in word and deed. I have held him dear.

  But you, you, have spoiled and corrupted all that was true in him. He sinks into sloth of your making. He was formed to serve the Lord in joy, but now he refuses to do his duty, to me or to the world.

  †

  Many of my supporters adamantly maintain that I must sue for a decisive peace. Robert adds his voice to the general call for a truce. Surprisingly, my rake of a cousin agrees to a cease in the hostilities. Would they all cede my inheritance, the better to divide my goods and chattel among themselves?

  Everyone concurs upon the terms of a conference between the primary antagonists, empress and pretender. A propitious meeting day is chosen, by a committee of astrologers representing the interests of both parties to this civil war. Thus, after three years apart, we meet again.

  I almost wish to deny my own consent. To parley with him will be to tear open all of my wounds, hardly scabbed over. Infected, they fester, giving off a great stench.

  †

  Summer

  Yesterday, upon a wide, green meadow, an hour on horseback from Devizes, my nemesis and I reconnoitered.