Matilda Empress Page 3

  I am the Holy Roman empress, but my greatness tumbles overboard, into the abyss of the ocean. To the world, I am no one, a child, a head without a crown. I must remember that I am stripped of my honors. It will serve me no purpose to cling to my former status, to remember with pride that I was divine. This will be a hard lesson, that of renunciation. How swiftly shall I learn it?

  †

  The royal court gathers at Windsor Castle. The stairways, wards, and ramparts of the keep bustle with servants and soldiers. Its great halls and elegant chambers clog with nobles, whiling away the days. In keeping with my formerly imperial dignity, I am accorded two rooms, a bedchamber and a solar, as many as the king reserves for his own use. They are a great respite to Gerta, still lonely among a foreign people, and to me, also a bit uneasy among the English.

  There was ample spectacle to mark my arrival. Swarms of knights, fully armed, had lined the last portion of our route, stimulating my optimism, and I felt suitably welcomed. His Majesty himself greeted me at the castle gates. My father’s colors were everywhere, on pennants and shields, for they are mine, too. A band of gaily-dressed musicians romped through the swarms of spectators. Festive burghers pelted me with flowers. Windsor’s bells pealed out the melodies of my childhood.

  Many chevaliers complained that Henry refused to permit a celebratory tournament, or even a military parade, to mark the occasion. The Europeans among my escort were astonished to be denied their war games. But I knew that there was no insult couched in His Majesty’s distaste for martial exhibition. He is too frugal to award any trophies, and prefers to keep his Arabian stallions and purses of gold for other purposes.

  My father’s sober demeanor masks the leonine bearing that terrified me as a child. Henry I is an old man now; perhaps it will be impossible for him to beget a boy upon his young wife, Adeliza, daughter of the Duke of Lorraine. The queen is most kind to me. She is one year my junior and an ideal beauty, with tight braids of golden hair and straight, small features. The tips of her ears, nose, and lips blush pink against the ivory of her skin. Her lithe figure swells round where it should. The versemakers call her the “Fair Maid of Brabant.” For once, they do not pander, and some of their songs even rise to Her Majesty’s dignity and grace. However, in their cups, the idiots cannot be trusted to remember the respect due to their sovereign consort, and a number of their odes are little more than insulting presumptions upon her choice proportions and symmetrical countenance.

  The gentle Adeliza presumes that I equal her in charm. Does she judge me too gullible or too vain to understand that I lack what men clamor for? I have neither yellow locks, nor light, sparkling eyes, nor a modest serenity that promises the rewards of Elysium. I have grown into a woman too much of this world. My black hair hangs thick, and my shadowy gaze flashes without restraint. I often sulk intemperately or argue without caution. My piety and wisdom are often a surprise to shallow courtiers who judge from first impressions.

  Laughing at my self-appraisal, Adeliza calls it nonsense. She claims that my allure is regal, that I am dark as the sapphire is dark, perhaps cold, but still glowing from within. She insists that my lips curve like rose petals, and that my skin is perfection: pale, clear, and radiant. I suppose I am well enough. My hair is long enough to be worn proudly; my over-large teeth stand out, whiter than snow against the darkness of my tresses.

  I have reason to hope that Adeliza judges fairly of my personal appeal. Among my father’s principle lords here at Windsor, I discover my cousin, Stephen of Blois—now, through marriage, the Count of Boulogne. He is reputed to be the handsomest man in Europe; many admire his russet locks and gray eyes. Indeed, the feelings that I had in my youth are as nothing to the unexpectedly intense emotion that overcomes me in the presence of his elegant face and copper hair. His countenance makes my insides ache, as if I have eaten something that upsets the balance of my humors. My head buzzes, as if I have indulged in too much wine. I speak phrases empty of meaning or wit. I move without purpose or grace. When he gives me a kiss of greeting, I feel at once better and worse.

  His wife is a woman whom I cannot abide. The Countess of Boulogne, also a blonde, carries herself with none of Adeliza’s poise. She exudes the musty scent of matted fur. Her lips are engorged, as are her voluptuous breasts, and her very nose flares out. Her hair curls around her like a snake. Her name is Maud, the vulgar version of my own, so close to my own, but not my own.

  †

  Fall

  Today, the court mingled in the castle orchard to savor one of the last fine days outdoors before the onset of the cold season. The fruit trees have already been harvested, and most of their gnarled branches are bare, but the grass underfoot is a blessed respite from the mud-covered wards and the crisp air smells free of smoke and dung.

  The group wandering in the naked rows included the Count and Countess of Boulogne and my uncle, now himself king of Scotland, at Windsor to welcome me back to my native land. Guiding me apart from the rest of the entourage, His Majesty flattered me. “Your attractions are all that we predicted. You shimmer, luminous in the firmament of the English court. You are well placed at the head of an assembly that boasts so many comely men and women.” David’s own features are irregular, but his tanned, bony face suggests fortitude, his blue eyes flash with common sense, and his smile testifies to his mild manner.

  I lingered beside him. “Your chivalry and wit are much appreciated, Uncle. After all this time, I find you unchanged. Your hair curls upon your shoulders in much the same jaunty style. You are still able to wear the refined, form-fitting tunics preferred by young, noble knights. How right it is that the Lord has blessed you with a throne.”

  Stephen slipped through the depleted branches of the tree before us, breaking off one of its boughs. He bowed to me with proper deference. “My lady, God give you health and glory.”

  Looking at his smooth face and his uncreased brow, my mouth filled with saliva. I bent down to retrieve the twist of wood, swallowing with what I hoped was discretion. I arose with as much elegance as I could muster. “God give you peace and prosperity, cousin.”

  Stephen held out his arm, inspecting his crystalline fingernails, but then glanced at my face. “I hope that you have rid yourself of sadness. When we were playmates, yours was a bonny, blithe presence.”

  Clasping the branch behind my back, I resisted the urge to examine my own hands. Although I massage my palms every evening with an ointment concocted of sour sorrel, pork grease, and butter, certain calluses linger. I would not have him notice them. “Flowers fade and bloom once more. My pain is past, though my sorrow lingers.”

  Maud, stepping up to us, did not seem content that I should monopolize her husband. She cleared her throat. “I hear from my people in Boulogne that you may well cease your lamenting. There is talk that your lord lives, wandering the Continent as a hermit, in penance for his sins.” Her plump cheeks moved up and down as she chewed out her phrases.

  I had a strange urge to set them in motion once more. “What sins might those be, madame?”

  Maud spoke loudly, apparently eager to debate. “Patricide and excommunication.”

  My fascination evaporated, in my annoyance at the cheek of her conjecture. “The Holy Roman emperor died in my arms, shriven by the church. His Imperial Majesty was buried beside his father, in the cathedral at Speyer.”

  Maud pursed her overabundant lips. “He feigned death and is now a monk at Cluny.”

  Here, Stephen interjected. “Now, now, my love, it cannot be right that you should sully the empress’s ears with such talk.”

  At this, Maud’s nostrils widened.

  My own face was no model of decorum. That she should brazenly dishonor Henry V in my presence—that a mere countess should dare to be discourteous to me! Her provocation was almost too much for me to endure quietly.

  King David gave her a look of royal displeasure, and helped me to my revenge by dismissing her from the barren orchard. I watched her sashay away from us,
in a parti-colored fur mantle of quite dubious taste. The pattern of white and black pelts resembled a checkerboard, and did her curvaceous figure no favors.

  As the rest of the court and our various retainers meandered back to the keep, I loitered with Stephen. “I would speak with my cousin alone. Do tarry with me in the grove. The mellow air shall keep us in health.”

  The Count of Boulogne paused before me.

  I considered his sumptuous garments. “I was relieved to hear that we did not lose you on the White Ship, my lord. I heard with joy of His Majesty’s further gifts to you, fiefs rich in manors and vassals. After my father, you are perhaps the grandest magnate in the land.” Now I flung the stick to the ground and extended my hands.

  Negligently, Stephen appropriated them. “Of all the things that heaven has spread before me, there are none better than my buxom wife and her plenteous county of Boulogne.” He squeezed my fingers, as if to emphasize his affection for her.

  I dropped his hands. Certainly this conversation coursed in the wrong direction. “She leaves a sour taste in my mouth.”

  “She is an astute woman, a bit drawn to gossip, but I need not tell you how indispensable scandal is to a courtier. My helpmeet, she discerns every intrigue, well before I do.” Stephen’s gray eyes grew distant.

  What would it take to set them alight? “You are unwisely tied to a frivolous, troublemaking chatterbox. I pity you.”

  “No, you are mistaken. The countess is an enticing mistress. I hope that you discover as much corporeal delight in your next match.”

  “To what do you refer, cousin?” My tone appeared harsh to my own ears.

  “I pass on only what Maud ferrets out. She gathers that His Majesty plans for you to wed and bear sons, so that the succession might be assured according to his authority, and in defiance of Clito’s.”

  “And whom does Maud think that I shall espouse?” My fists were clenched; I released them.

  The count nodded. “My lady, it behooves you to know as early as possible what is being said. Forgive her indiscretion today, and make her your ally.”

  “Which prince?” I made no promise to overlook that cat’s faults, but I would lief know what she tattled.

  “Geoffrey of Anjou, Count Fulk’s son.”

  “Count Fulk? He who created the fashion for long, pointed toes, curled like scorpions, on a man’s boots, so as to hide his own bunions?”

  “The very same. His son is not reputed to be as frivolous or as vain.”

  “An empress to marry a count’s son? The countess surely intends to insult me.” I looked down at my elaborate gown, fine wool in a rich umber shade, embroidered at the hems with golden cornucopias.

  My cousin soldiered on, oblivious to my splendor. “Maud thought me a suitable mate; I am sure she had no thought of affront.”

  “I am your wife’s superior! You are a nephew of King Henry and a grandson of William the Conqueror, besides being a count in your own right. You stand very high, my lord. It would not be amiss for you to annul your alliance with Maud, and rise even higher.” I held my breath, somewhat surprised by my own forwardness. My heart thumped in my chest. Goosebumps rose up along my arms.

  The Count of Boulogne’s mouth twitched, and I understood that he inferred the offer I made him, the boon that I would bestow upon him. But he did not bow down to me, and instead stepped away. “Surely, you jest. I could not give up Maud. Our exquisite sexual congress enslaves my manhood. And I am proud to have wed her, a descendant of Charlemagne. Two of her uncles were Kings of Jerusalem!”

  I waved him back to the palace, so that I stood alone among the naked trees. Although the wind was mild, my humiliation was a cold draft, whipping against my hot cheeks and lapping against the lump in my throat.

  †

  Disappointment stirs my competitive nature. Suddenly awash in fantasies of what could be, I pay more heed to my appearance. Yesterday, feeling itchy at the top of my neck, under my heavy tresses, I insisted that Gerta delouse me. Her medicinal remedies were in high demand at all the German courts, but her fame as an herbalist has not preceded her to England. Her pharmacia remains at my sole disposal.

  For most of the afternoon, I had to rise above my prickling impatience, for my maid disappeared for quite a long spell of time, gathering her ingredients, the aloe, lead, bacon grease, and ashes necessary to a strong ointment. At her return, she thickly slathered my head, and had me sit before the fire, verily stinking up the room.

  Eventually, she began to comb out the preparation, making long strokes from my scalp to my roots. As she found each egg, she sliced it between her fingernails, before dropping its pulp into the rushes. “My lady, if you would cease to entertain absurd and impure fancies, then you would rid yourself of these vermin.”

  “Of what unclean delusions do you accuse me?”

  Gerta pinched one especially large nit, pulling it along a shaft of my hair. “Forgive my impertinence, but these larvae are certain proof that you are polluting yourself with an unworthy infatuation.”

  I tried not to scratch. “Nothing is beneath an empress that she elevates with her notice.”

  My maid snorted. “He plays a deep game. Do not let him tame you, as he would a newly purchased falcon, the better to chain you to his wrist and pull a hood over your eyes. To what use will he put you, once you are his pet? Who knows what he hunts for?”

  “No more prattle! There has been nothing between my cousin and me but a kiss of greeting.”

  Gerta set aside her task, and sat still, with an almost exaggerated gravity. “I fear you enter Venus’s army, as her newest, most witless recruit.”

  I averted my eyes and admitted it. “Despite my widowed status, I am unused to the hardships and cruelties that await me.”

  †

  I often resort to the library or the chapel, retreats only of those in a contemplative mood, congenial to my dissatisfied, distracted humor. Some days ago, in the otherwise empty reading room, I came across my brother, the Earl of Gloucester, hunched over a wooden lectern, studying a copy of the Aeneid.

  Virgil! Some consider him the devil’s servant. It is said that he once freed twelve demons from a bottle; grateful, they taught him their occult arts. What did my brother hope to learn from the ancient sorcerer?

  Disturbing him, I touched his shoulder. Would he talk to the king, on my behalf?

  Chuckling, he pointed at the first passage, and read out: “For what transgression did the Queen of Heaven begin to molest so valorous, so righteous a man?”

  I smiled back. “It is not your offense, Robert. My ears ring with talk of my impending doom, some marriage to a mere boy on the continent. Such comments are most displeasing to me. Privately, I had been considering the Count of Boulogne. He would suffice for a husband.”

  Gloucester’s face grew blank. “I will suggest the match to our father.”

  I was grateful, for if he did me such a favor, it was purely out of amity. I know that the earl dislikes my proposal, for he has long been jealous of Stephen’s prominence. If our cousin were to share my throne, it would be an affront to my brother’s royal blood.

  A few days later, again in the same place, I interrupted Gloucester, immersed at a reading table.

  In a hushed voice, Robert verified Maud’s chatter. “His Majesty insists that you wed. He will not hear of Stephen’s separation from the Lady of Boulogne. Boulogne must belong to a loyal man, a faithful vassal such as our cousin. Through its ports, the town controls most of the traffic on the English Channel, and he trusts Count Stephen to safeguard our economic interests. All the English wool passes through Boulogne, the gateway to the Flemish cloth towns. Our father can depend on his nephew not to levy steep tolls.”

  I had no tolerance for the king’s priorities. “He guarantees the safety of his trade routes, but impairs his daughter’s consequence.” My fervid tone was most unfeminine, and certainly unbecoming.

  The earl maintained a mild expression. “He justly weighs your importan
ce. You are to be espoused to Geoffrey, the son of Count Fulk of Anjou. The late Prince William’s wife, the heiress of Maine, was one of Fulk’s daughters. Our father is preoccupied with the idea of an Angevin alliance, for the province of Anjou conjoins Normandy. At His Majesty’s death, you and Geoffrey shall rule an even more enormous empire than we presently compose. A few years ago, Clito plighted his troth to another daughter of Fulk, with an eye to the Angevin inheritance, but English diplomacy persuaded the pope to annul the match. You are to be the means through which we will assemble a colossal realm.”

  Dismayed, I stamped my foot. “I know my geography! Geoffrey is untitled and a mere boy. Apparently, the Angevin counts plume their battle helmets with flowering twigs, genista, and are thus nicknamed the Plantagenets. Quite ridiculous and unmanly.”

  Ignoring my objections, Robert continued in quiet tones. “You are ill-informed. I hear that the youth is most severe and masculine. A groom has been chosen who will be able to buffer your throne with continental military prowess. A foreign match will better stem the rivalries between the English noble houses than a marriage made from among them. Of course, Geoffrey is young; the engagement will be long. But, for now, the king commands that the English and Norman magnates swear allegiance to you, as his heir.”

  I pounded the smooth surface of the wooden table. “The fishwives tattle about foreign policy and my father thinks it unnecessary to inform me?”

  The earl started at the sound. “If the gossip is widely bandied about, the barons surely understand that they shall pledge an oath to you, your intended husband, and your unborn children.”

  Three traveling monks entered the library, so our private conversation was at an end. Gloucester withdrew, but I dawdled, curious to see what book had engrossed him this time. The text was the Book of Job; the illumination on the page portrayed a dragon, the “King of Pride.” The monstrous beast wore a crown of vice, and the knots and coils of its tail wound around a poor soul, naked and twisted.