Matilda Empress Read online

  †

  My friendship with Adeliza and dependence on Gerta grow apace. We three often fritter away the cold autumn hours in my solar, plying our needles within while the men hunt for game without.

  Today, we debated who among us was the Sanguine Woman, artful and cunning, inclined to fleshiness, with a healthy womb. We easily settled upon Maud, that warm and wet creature of the air. I was named the Phlegmatic Woman, cold and wet, belonging to the water, recognized by my severe physiognomy, unbridled vigor, masculine manners, and charismatic allure. The queen we labeled the Choleric Woman, warm and dry, born from fire, in keeping with her delicate pallor and her benevolent, prudent, chaste, and loyal nature. Gerta could be none other than the Melancholic Woman, cold and dry as the earth, gaunt of figure, gray, moody, impulsive, sterile.

  At some point, I steered the conversation to the Count of Boulogne. Her Majesty does not encourage my infatuation. The queen’s youth and beauty ill reflect her opinions, which are those of an old woman, long past the days of romance. Her petite, rosy mouth puckered in concentration, as she stitched slowly at a complex pattern that she embroiders on the decorative bands of one of my father’s tunics. “Only after many an hour do two people gently meld their wills and minds as one. It was not a few months before I properly understood your father. Now I can truly offer him my heart.”

  I regarded her seraphic coloring. “Your Majesty, you feel the reverence and affection due a husband, as I did for the emperor. In Germany, the duties of the conjugal bed seemed no especial burden to me, but I did not experience any of the incitements that the jongleurs ascribe to passion. Yet, when I dwell on the image of my cousin, I fall victim to irrefutable temptation.”

  Adeliza chose her words as carefully as she drew out her silken threads. “Empress, forego this madness. Do you respect the man whom you covet? You cannot adore truly where you cannot admire fully. Only an irreproachable man deserves your acclaim and your attentions.”

  I shrugged, as if to ward off embarrassment. “I must have inherited such a hazardous propensity, and it blinds my inner eye. I am incapable of measuring the true worth of my chosen hero, for all I feel is my need for him.”

  “The minstrels’ sing of a bond that is pure and coupled with honorable service. Count Stephen cannot be both your knight and Maud’s.” My friend reached into her sleeve and brought forth a lustrous pearl, which she balanced precisely between two fingers.

  The jewel glinted at me in the waning light. “The attraction is both carnal and spiritual. It is the union of both sorts of desire, the sacred and the profane. The versemakers depict a devotion that uplifts us; looking at the Count of Boulogne, I soar upon the clouds. The priests vilify a connection that debases us; I know that my sordid lusts are unworthy in the eyes of God.”

  †

  Winter

  Christmas was the day chosen for the ceremonial vows. The great hall at Windsor was strewn with fresh rushes and hung with King Henry’s most valuable tapestries. At his most imperious, my father compelled obedience, thundering at length to his assembled archbishops, bishops, abbots, earls, and lesser nobles. He expounded upon my claims to the throne: first, my birth to a reigning king and queen; second, my mother’s ancestors, fourteen kings in the times of the Anglo-Saxons; third, my father’s line—his father, his brother, and himself, all three Norman kings; fourth, my unification of Norman and Saxon blood, guaranteeing a future reign of civil unity and peace. His Majesty demanded an oath from all the men present. In front of the assembly and without delay or hesitation, they must swear to accept me and my legitimate sons as his heirs to England and Normandy. Each promise was to be accompanied by the kiss of fidelity, symbolizing their deference to my will and my reciprocal good faith.

  The archbishop of Canterbury gave the first pledge to uphold my rights to the succession. The other church leaders followed, with murmured affirmations and cold lips. Some of the clerics failed to wipe the spittle from their mouths before approaching me; I struggled to mask my aversion. Henry of Blois, Stephen’s brother and bishop of Winchester, smugly delivered his assurance, but fumbled over my face. I heard several smothered giggles; His Grace is known to be lecherous, but is said to prefer the company of young men.

  Then King David, the preeminent layman, emphatically guaranteed to be my vassal. After his booming declaration of service, his buss was sturdy, not quite the lover’s, but I remembered our other embrace.

  Unfortunately, squabbles marred the holy day. Robert and Stephen disagreed over who should be the next to give me his vow and kiss. The earl stepped forward as the king’s son, but my cousin’s supporters grumbled against an illegitimate coming first among the royal kin.

  My brother interjected, “My grandfather, William the Conqueror, was once known as William the Bastard.”

  The Count of Boulogne flushed. “Our grandfather battled his way to the throne. Do you scheme to do the same?”

  His Majesty put an end to this ugliness. “I hope and intend that neither of you will put on armor to usurp what is to be Matilda’s by your oath. You are to be allies, in her defense and in her sons’.”

  Well-mannered Gloucester backed down, courteously waiving the argument that threatened to spoil the proceedings. So it was Stephen who next swore his fealty to me, offering an indifferent peck. Maud, whose smiles had greeted her husband’s precedence over Robert, now seemed less gratified that he should be among the first to worship me as his sovereign. My brother offered his testimony and embrace with an air of affection.

  All the court magnates followed, some honoring me with zeal and others with thinly concealed uncertainty. Perhaps they reassure themselves that an unsatisfactory queen may be deposed more easily than a troublesome king. Yet they gave their word in my favor, as my father ordains.

  †

  Last night, Gerta and I lay abed, huddled together for warmth, with the ornately stitched hangings drawn closed against the chill of my chamber. The muslin sheets were pulled taut to our jaws, under a coverlet lined in sable, but still we suffered from the cold.

  Despite our apparent solitude, my maid whispered, for fear of prying ears. “Maud of Boulogne hires a jongleur to recite her bloodline, and that of your cousin, reminding the court that her mother is your mother’s sister and that Stephen’s mother is your father’s sister; their sons will also unite Anglo-Saxon and Norman blood.”

  I murmured, “Go to sleep.”

  “Hear the worst! Her poet does not venture to discount your lineage, but calls you to account for your barren womb, and paints you as a forlorn and calamitous offshoot of the family tree, dissipating its nobility.”

  I shivered, but my breath was hot with frustration. “Their son Baldwin was too sickly to thrive, dying in his cradle. That harlot wastes my cousin’s seed.”

  Gerta slapped my shoulder. “You are addled by jealousy. Maud threatens more than the satisfaction of your lusts! If you let her, that fox may come between you and your political destiny.” My maid rested her cool hands on my back, to warm them.

  I squirmed against her icy palms. “Yes, Gerta the Wise. Yesterday, I was Empress of Germany, Italy, Hungary, Poland, Denmark, Holland, and Belgium. Tomorrow, I am queen of England and Normandy. Today, I control nothing and possess no one, certainly not the man whose face saps me of my grit.”

  “Extinguish this mistaken flame before it is too late, my lady.”

  “I am the lady of naught but sorrow. Oh yes, I rule a faithful waiting woman who desecrates cathedrals to gather sacred relics for my keeping, but disapproves of my passion for another woman’s husband. Gerta, let me be.”

  The Treasury of the Lion

  Scroll Two: 1127

  Hear ye, hear ye: the angels blessed Matilda with a shining allure. Her loveliness reassured many of her loyal friends, for comely charm reflects the Almighty’s glory. Indeed, the knight who would have withstood the enticements of an empress found that he was unable to defend himself against a face and form made irresistible by heaven. Cel
estial beauty may bewilder demons, but it likewise confounds mortal men.

  †

  Spring

  I am my father’s daughter. Now that the barons pledge themselves to my inheritance, I can do without the boy chosen for my husband. I stood as Henry V’s regent in Italy and in Germany; I might rule singly or choose my own consort. Geoffrey Plantagenet, still fourteen years of age, cannot possibly lead armies for me, or give me a son. I seek supporters for myself alone.

  Since the oaths of succession have reestablished my divine authority, I feel almost reborn, confident enough to bequeath the hand of Saint James. I have donated the silver filigree feretory, toadstone and all, to the abbey of Reading, whose felicity at this piece of good fortune has been gratifying. The monks celebrate its coming translation to their keeping, and foresee that their hostel will overflow with eager pilgrims, ready to admire the prestigious fragment, and disperse their coins into the collection box. They promise to pray for the success of all my endeavors.

  On my last evening as the relic’s private guardian, I was ensconced in my solar, burning down three fat candles in the Apostle’s honor, and offering up my own pleas for his continued protection and blessing. “First martyr of the Saints! Your enemies had assassinated our Lord, Jesus Christ, and you lost hope in his eternal flame, even as you preached his Gospel, fanned the fire of his teachings and redoubled its strength. The Virgin Mary appeared before you, to encourage you when you doubted, entrusted you with a pillar of jasper and instructed you to build her a temple. So let it be, that I entrust you to a House of God, that shall enshrine you likewise in a sanctuary for the faithful. So let it be, that you shall be my pillar. Let me dominate over mine own antagonists and prevail, even onto my own throne, which they would deny me, against all of the laws of the land and of heaven.”

  Unfortunately, my standing with the king is not what it was at Christmas. He is angry that I withstand the arranged Angevin marriage. My arguments with him gain me nothing; my imprecations chafe against his authority.

  This morning, in my chamber, I was brooding in a warm patch of sunlight. My father entered, wearing a mantle of deep red, the color of empire, festooned all over with lions, his heraldic symbols. He donned such a garment to cow me, as he often awed petty magnates, fresh to court. It ill befits His Majesty to think me as impressionable as a rustic.

  “It is necessary, daughter, that you bow to my will.”

  “To you, I will kneel, but not to a scrap of a child ten years my junior!” I bent my legs under my heavy gown, glad that its thick material buffered my knees from the sharp rushes and hard stone floor underneath them.

  The king shook his head, exasperated. “He is on the cusp of manhood. The minstrels name him Geoffrey the Fair, because he is handsome and all that a fastidious woman might find pleasing.”

  “Sire, he is no match for an empress.” I straightened up to my full height, untucking the points of my sleeves so that they extended to their regal length.

  His Majesty rolled his eyes, lucid and clear in his leathery face. “He is a descendant of Charlemagne. I acknowledge that Your Imperial Highness cannot wed where there is no title; I shall dub him myself.”

  I shuffled in place, sending up a small cloud of dust. “I love another, a full-grown, noble lord, ready and able to protect and defend your realm.”

  The king set his moth in a straight line, wide across his jaw. “That is enough, Matilda. Your wanton whimsy is nothing to me. My nephew, whom I trust to serve me, could not inspire accord and fidelity throughout England and Normandy. He riles up many other men besides your brother Gloucester. Mischievous lewdness between a man and a woman is naught in comparison with the security of the empire that your grandfather united. You will marry where I see fit.”

  I am shut up in my rooms until I agree to be disposed of according to his dictate.

  †

  Our entire retinue hears tell that I refuse to espouse Geoffrey Plantagenet, but not why. Those who wish to comfort me, advise me, or shame me visit my solar.

  Stephen’s unpleasant brother, the bishop of Winchester, brought his sour face and frigid exhortations to my chamber, and urged me to submit to my father in all things.

  I measured him more a slavish crown courtier than a bishop. “You preach worldly advice, Your Grace. Have you no wish for me to rest abstinent, the better to dedicate myself to Christ?”

  “Ah, Empress, seasoned widows do not usually find celibacy to be possible. In that case, as the Scriptures say, ‘let them wed, for it is better to marry than to burn.’” His eyes, hooded by their heavy lids, flashed at the mention of diabolical fire.

  I folded my arms in front of my chest, to keep myself from slapping him. “Do you foretell that I shall be cast out of paradise?”

  Sneering, Winchester rumbled on. “Let the Lord doff you with the mantle of humility. If you disavow this offering, if you refuse His munificence, you make Him your enemy. Allow Him to adorn you with the robe of meekness and you will also be encircled with His love.” Bowing, he swept out of my room. I could see the flush on his cheeks.

  Oddly curious, I pressed my ear against the wooden thickness of my door. His Grace was mumbling about St. Paul, but it was no benediction. “Who transposed the Lord’s truth into a falsehood, and idolized the creature, forgetting his Creator?”

  Despite such admonitions as these, my soul resists compulsion. My mind wanders often to Count Stephen. I almost swoon when I conjure up my cousin’s face and amber tresses or imagine his long, slender fingers touching my cheeks. Indeed, I ruminate so much upon him that perhaps I will be denied salvation.

  My arrogance falters. In faith, I do appeal to Mother Mary, for guidance and for self-abasement. I am a dry patch of garden, parched, thirsting for renewal. May the gentle Virgin rain down Her sweet tears upon me, as fresh as dewdrops, and bring forth my refreshment. As I blossom, so shall I rejoice and praise Her.

  †

  To Gerta’s vexation, Stephen also called upon me. Seeing him step across my threshold, I tingled; my very nature thrilled to his presence.

  The Count of Boulogne hesitated, ill at ease among my domestic belongings. As he spoke, his gray eyes avoided my gaze. “Fare thee well, Empress?”

  I tried to catch his glance. “No, my lord, not when an alliance is formulated against my wishes.”

  Resolutely, my cousin evaded my regard. “Our fates are not always to our liking. When my son Baldwin was snatched from me, I railed against heaven, until I saw that I was as a stalk of wheat ranting against the harvest. Now that I have accepted the power and the glory of the Lord, he has given me the hope of another boy.”

  I inhaled a short breath. “Do you mean to say that Maud is pregnant?”

  Such a direct question brought his eyes to mine. “She is. If you accept Geoffrey, in time you too will know the joy of an heir.”

  “I might marry where I like and bear many children.” I held his look. Surely such a hint was within Stephen’s understanding.

  But again he averted his face. His eyes darted about my room, searching for some object on which to settle his attention, finally choosing my blue enamel casket. He strode across the floor to study it, then ran his fingers over its patchwork surface. “My mother, the Countess of Blois and Chartres, always surrounds herself with objects of stupendous beauty and value. The walls of her castle are covered with precious tapestries, woven under her personal supervision and to her design. Each boasts threads of gold, and trim of opals and pearls. Her ceilings are elegantly painted with all the signs of the zodiac. Her marble floors depict enormous maps of the known world.”

  The blue box seemed dearer to me, now that he had handled it. I hankered to cradle it. I felt sure that he admired it; I wished to compliment him in return. “Her refined taste does her credit. And to think she bore your father five sons!”

  The count traced the outline of a large sapphire, affixed to its lock. “You are generous, Empress. Some measure her worldly, and speak of her valuable ar
t with disdain.”

  “I have heard that she is an unfeeling woman, who set aside her feminine charm after the death of your father.” I blushed, to my great annoyance. “Why did the Countess of Blois disinherit your eldest brother, and endow the second son of your house with what should have been the patrimony of the first?”

  The count massaged his delicate jaw. “The first-born is disfigured, a heretic and a fool. She, as regent, was right to disavow him, promoting Theobald, austere and capable, to be protector of the county in his stead.”

  I focused on his tunic, made of a fine, gray wool, festooned with stitched sunflowers and columbines. Did he not know that columbines represent folly and sunflowers arrogance?

  Stephen continued his tale. “The men of the House of Blois must distinguish ourselves to earn my mother’s respect. The countess compares us to her illustrious father, William the Conqueror, and the sort of courage that captures a throne. Maud shares her shrewdness and her charisma, but she lavishes affection on me in a way that my mother never does.”

  I would not permit him to discourse upon the virtues of that witch. “Any noble lady would admire such a man as you, unless she were unwomanly. Be sustained by an empress’s approval.”

  The Count of Boulogne bent his knee to me, but spoke of her. “I would be great and daring, my grandfather’s seed. Maud charitably overlooks the limits of my ability. Indeed, she stokes my ambition. Just so, Geoffrey Plantagenet will serve as your backbone. Let him bring England, Normandy, and Anjou to you, and help you keep them.”

  Now my cousin arose and inched toward my hearth, though its dying embers offered little interest. I walked toward the fire, putting myself in his way. “Am I so soon to be another man’s chattel, without ever knowing the joys of love?” Would he judge me a lascivious strumpet?

  Stephen made for the door, scattering the floor rushes, dirty with the soil of so many extra visitors. “Your husband will take you in his arms with gladness. Despite the grandeur of your position among us, your dark grace haunts many at Windsor castle. You must excuse me, my lady.”