Matilda Empress Read online

  †

  I may have very little time to recover from my ordeal, no protracted period of recuperation. I will essay to stay here for the forty days of my pollution, until I can be churched and purified, but cannot be sure of the length of my reprise.

  My son, Gervase, is a miracle. I wrap his long, delicate fingers around my own pinky, and marvel at how they remain perfectly curled as he sleeps. Overcome with his ginger beauty, I am momentarily tempted to renounce the world and all its royal trappings, refuse my contracted marriage, brave my father’s wrath, and slink away with my child to a modest life of oblivion. I could appoint Gervase my ward, as if I had come across an orphan foundling at the convent, and taken a shine to him. And yet, I know myself incapable of such motherly sacrifice. I cannot turn my back on society, and relinquish wealth and status for the sake of this one heavenly gift.

  To avoid the scrutiny of the nuns, I pray alone in my solar. I abase myself before my lady Mary, obliged to Her for Her intercession, contrite before Her purity and glory. She has permitted me a grievous error, and endowed me with a most precious treasure. The Holy Mother is the portal through which I reenter the fray. She will not refuse me Her grace, as I go forth into the world.

  The Treasury of the Lion

  Scroll Four: 1129

  Blind to the depravity of her soul, the empress would not redress her error. She remained true to her false knight, although married to another, in obeisance to her father’s authority. Her young husband, likewise corrupt, cherished a woman without heaven’s sanction. Many rejoiced at their wedding, but neither the bride nor the groom came to the nuptial couch in chastity and grace, and their union began in bitterness and grief.

  †

  Winter

  For the last three months, I have been ensconced in Rouen, waiting aimlessly to be disposed of. No one questions my late absence or discovers my misadventure. Slim again and full of energy, I chafe at the infernal boredom of my passivity. Additions to my wardrobe long finished, Gerta and I have very little to do but speak in whispers of the infant and its imagined development. I dream of baby Gervase, his warm, milky, wrinkled little face, his shock of red hair. Yet I no longer dread the upcoming arrival of my intended, his knighting ceremony, or even my nuptials, as these rites and feasts shall herald my departure from this stultifying existence.

  We are sorely in need of continental endorsement and assistance. Clito amasses troops at one of our frontier castles in the duchy of Normandy, making his first formal claim on our imperial territories. Thus my marriage, put off for so long, is now to be rushed, so that Angevin soldiers can swell our ranks. Geoffrey’s father, Count Fulk of Anjou and Maine, sets out for the Holy Land, endowing Geoffrey with his European territories and titles, raising my betrothed to the dignity of count. Yet, despite what the troubadours declaim before the high table, it is my condescension that most honors my insignificant groom.

  †

  Geoffrey Plantagenet has arrived. Just at midday, his destrier clattered into the inner bailey, at the head of a goodly sized company of Angevin men-at-arms. I peeped at him from a slit of a window in the circular stairwell that descends from my solar. My abdomen tightened in anticipation and misgiving. To what sort of man must I give myself, body and soul?

  Removing his coif, Geoffrey ruffled his close-cropped white hair, and wiped his dusty, perspiring face. His prominent bone structure and sinewy cheeks unnerved me. Appraising him through his surcoat and chain mail, I judged his torso to be narrow, but well molded. My stomach settled. At least he is no dwarf or bear! Then he lifted his eyes, somehow aware that he was under my scrutiny. His thin mouth contorted in a mocking smile. I gritted my teeth at his presumption. Does this scamp consider himself equal to my hand?

  We met at none, in the great hall. Delivered from the dirt of the road, the Angevin’s pale skin set off his finely wrought features, so sharply conspicuous that his expressions seem etched in stone. His first words were: “Welcome, first to God and then to me.”

  I pinched my lips shut. I knew that my father waited for me to offer him the kiss of greeting. Sighing, I presented my face toward him. His mouth was rough. Fortunately, he did not linger over the embrace, nor genuflect before me, like some ass of a courtier, false compliments oozing from his lips.

  On the contrary, Geoffrey’s arrogance and critical opinion, couched in his frown and icy blue eyes, were easily legible. With dubious tact, he exhaled to indicate his aggrieved tolerance of my portion of feminine charm. He inspected me in an orderly fashion, as the philosophers advise, from the crown of head to the soles of my feet. Clearly, I pass muster, but in no way approach the required excellence.

  †

  Geoffrey’s education has been more thorough than is to be expected. His conversational and rhetorical talents, in French and in Latin, delight the king. The two hold wide-ranging discussions of history and the arts. Gerta is all smiles to see what Mother Mary blesses me with, in return for my sacrifices. Yet the Angevin is no hero to challenge Stephen’s sway over the fief of my heart. My fiancé is indisputably beautiful, intelligent, and charismatic, yet I find the youth repellent.

  †

  Yesterday, in the chapel of Rouen castle, my father bestowed the arms of war upon Geoffrey, with all the ritual appropriate to such a sacrament. Acting as his military patron, the king became his second sire. Accepting his honors from the English crown, the Angevin vowed to use his weapons to serve it in fealty.

  Geoffrey wore a golden tunic under a purple mantle. His stockings were silk. My intended seemed somewhat ill at ease in such colorful, majestic finery, and I noticed that he frowned whenever he adjusted the folds of his bright cloak.

  At the proscribed moment, the Angevin fell to his knees. His Majesty dubbed him a knight, calling upon the Holy Spirit to guide Geoffrey’s might in accordance with the principles of chivalry, and to channel his thoughts in accordance with the rules of wisdom. Henry presented him with a golden sword from our royal treasury, with a white enamel pommel and a mother of pearl handle. My father blessed the blade, and he who would wield it. The king concluded with a benediction: “May you be distinguished among us, unto preeminence, and may your reputation for faith and courage surpass all others whose names fall from our lips.”

  Then Henry lifted the Angevin up, kissed both his cheeks and hung around his neck a shield displaying his new coat of arms. The heraldic device is an azure field, emblazoned with many small lions, the beasts common to the charges of our family. The blue background signifies an allegiance to the ideal of purity.

  Receiving his accolade, Sir Geoffrey arose, elevated, reborn as the Count of Anjou and Maine. To me, it was a bitter moment, as I reflected that my rank would soon sink, to that of his countess.

  Our party exited the cathedral, and stood in the public square. A sizable gathering of townspeople, farmers, serfs and prelates cheered the day. My groom’s expression lightened when he was presented with an enormous Spanish stallion, hung with golden trappings. My father’s squires attached golden spurs to his boots, and fitted him with a gem-encrusted helmet. Without stepping into the stirrups, the Count of Anjou vaulted astride his mount, to the pleasure of the crowd. He exhibited complete control over the animal, although he had never ridden it before. Even the meanest paupers and pickpockets roared their approval of his skill. Their palpable enthusiasm and my father’s evident good humor were infectious.

  Even I must try to open my heart to this capable boy, worthy of the world’s admiration. If his fate equals his merit, perhaps together we shall bend the king’s empire to our pleasure, and write history according to our will.

  †

  This morning, my second wedding took place in Le Mans, at the open door of its St Julian Cathedral. In the presence of His Majesty, two bishops consecrated the sacrament. A throng of local barons crowded the porch on which we stood. Swarms of curious burghers massed in the plaza before us.

  Numb with cold, I wore a silver bliaut of the thinnest, pleated silk. M
y corsage, richly embellished with cabochon opals and moonstones, lacked sleeves. I had foresworn a mantle, preferring to parade myself draped in the color of chastity. I did not shiver, but stood rigidly to Geoffrey’s left side, as Eve was formed out of Adam’s left rib.

  During the ceremony, the priests lectured me at length about my wifely duties, hardly mentioning the mysteries of heaven. “Empress, be subject to your spouse; lose Your Imperial Highness in his marital supremacy. He will value you, but you must revere him, just as you stand awe struck before the altar of the church. Count, foster your wife for the sake of her weaknesses, as Christ loves humanity, in spite of its sins.”

  This was the blessing that was to sanctify my union! During the Mass that followed, I found it difficult to remain composed and humble before the prating officiants. How can I stand it, to lose what gives me glory and grace? If I am not Empress Matilda, I am no one.

  Geoffrey’s face was smug as he took my hand for the rites of the ring. He slid the nuptial band upon my thumb, in the name of the Father, upon my second finger, in the name of the Son, upon my third, in the name of the Holy Ghost, and finally upon my fourth, as an Amen.

  I turned my head, so that I could look inside the vast interior of the cathedral. Wan light streamed in through its windows, illuminating motes of dust in the air. My dissatisfaction must surely be as dirt in the eyes of Mother Mary. My anger dissipated, and I found it easier to bear myself with decorum. As proscribed, I sank down before Geoffrey Plantagenet, lying on the frigid stone floor at his feet, prostrating myself before my earthly authority.

  I presume that this charade will serve to gladden my husband’s spirit, and incline him to soften his demeanor toward me. Perhaps, in our sexual congress, ill feelings will be swept away by carnal pleasures.

  †

  Yesterday’s lengthy festivities, at a palace belonging to the house of Anjou, far outlasted my resigned humor. After the feasting, the wedding night was decidedly inauspicious.

  I was uneasy in the unfamiliar bedchamber. By the light of the hearth, Gerta helped me to undress, tugging off my sumptuous jacket and under gown, then removing the braids and gems from my elaborate coiffure. I lifted my arms; over my head she placed a perfumed linen smock, long stored in a satchel of dried violets and lavender. She began to brush my hair, and her firm strokes tingled my scalp, mitigating some of my tension. With silk ribbons, we tied a small leather pouch around my upper left thigh, containing a yellow flower of henbane. My maid had done the same before I laid down with the emperor, and I had successfully conceived of a boy.

  One of the bishops and several drunken earls ushered Geoffrey into the room. His Grace mumbled a traditional prayer: “Watch over these Thy servants, keeping guard over their slumber, shielding them from the manipulations of the devil. Defend them, protect them, as they live forever after by Thy commandments. Amen.”

  Throughout, the inebriated, mocking courtiers snickered and made bawdy gestures. One of them invited my maid to see to his pleasure.

  Geoffrey gave them a look, which did not manage to turn them to stone, but which I would not have wanted to see pointed in my direction.

  At long last, the priest sprinkled holy water upon the bed and backed out of the solar. Too soon, they all bustled out, Gerta included. I bolted the door after them.

  Wearing only a nightshirt, with his short, white hair slightly tousled, my handsome husband stood before me. In the firelight, his youthful face flickered, sometimes up lit, then plunged into shadow. Just then, I noticed that he carried a small bundle. I imagined it a gift, some bauble to endear himself to me.

  The Angevin held out what appeared to be a garment. “We will fulfill our duties to one another, but we will comport ourselves without voluptuousness.”

  I registered the weight and stiff texture of the cloth. “As you see, my lord, I am already suitably attired.”

  The boy huffed. “Wear this instead. It is a chemise cajoule, which I am surprised is unexpected to you, a princess educated at a convent, and just returned from a holy retreat. Our fornication must not include wanton delights. While the consummation of our marriage is a political necessity, I will not dally with you in an unseemly or impious manner.” He turned his back to me.

  I wriggled out of my scented nightgown. Eager to cover my nakedness, I slipped on the copious tunic. It had a small rent in the lower front, through which he could penetrate me. I hesitated, repelled by the obligation to copulate without enjoyment. Such a thing was possible for a woman, but certainly pitiable. “I am ready, Geoffrey.”

  The Angevin spun on his heel and peered at me through narrowed eyes. He patrolled the chamber, snuffing out candles. Finally, he gestured me toward our pallet.

  Without any preliminary embraces, he lowered himself down, directly on top of me, and began to shove himself through the aperture in the cloth. “It is unfortunate that your dark locks smell so sweet.”

  “I readied myself to entice you, husband. Men generally appreciate such seductions.”

  Geoffrey grunted and pushed more roughly. “The arts of witchcraft! The nuptial couch is not the place for romance. We exert ourselves solely to beget an heir.”

  I whimpered. The wounds of childbirth had healed, but my body had been long untouched, although not as long he might estimate. “Cannot you be more gentle?”

  The fireplace embers glowed, unextinguished, so I could see that he stared resolutely at the wall behind our bed. “The wave of history does not unfurl without force. I besiege a citadel that rightfully belongs to me, storming its walls with a battering ram. I take no immoderate pleasure in the destruction of my own tower.” Explicating his principles of war, Geoffrey slid methodically inside me.

  I squirmed, putting my hands on his chest to check his movement and lessen his thrust. “According to the rules of courtliness, man and wife are bound to satisfy each other. I have read of this marital debt in my father’s library.”

  “You interpret incorrectly material wisely hidden from the eyes of women. You and I are merely required to perform perfunctorily. Only lovers have license to transport themselves merrily.” The count shuddered; the deed was done.

  Splayed under his prone figure, I wondered aloud at his callousness. “How can this be a true espousal? We cannot merge into one flesh, if we remain our separate selves at the moment of sexual intercourse.”

  Gingerly, Geoffrey withdrew from me, as if he was unwilling for our skin to come into any unnecessary contact. “Joseph was the husband of Mary, without touching her in lust. You too will deliver unto me a son to inherit the earth, a son whose generation has not been undertaken in a depraved frame of mind.”

  †

  Spring

  At the Castle of Alost, on the border of Flanders, Clito’s armies confronted our divisions. We give thanks to God on high, for He decreed that victory should be ours. Most miraculously, the Lord guided the arm of a common foot soldier, who wounded Clito to the quick. Our most dangerous and despised enemy has died from the infestations of this injury!

  By the authority of the English crown and the consent of the burghers of Bruges, who are impatient for a cessation to conflict, the Flemish welcome our generous peace, and a propitious Anglo-Flemish treaty of trade and friendship. Our empire on the Continent rests, almost unassailable. With all speed, my father heads home.

  I do not participate in the general jubilation. I am irrevocably tied to the Count of Anjou, and all for nothing. My only rival for the imperial throne of England and Normandy lies interred in a stone sarcophagus, yet I am forever saddled to a man whose spirit is as impervious and inert as marble.

  †

  Traveling south from Le Mans into my husband’s territory, I heard no cheers of welcome from the laborers and villagers along the route. Despite the mellowing temperature, only a pretense of celebration marked my arrival in Angers, Anjou’s foremost city. The tocsins rang out, but no festival obstructed the narrow streets. A procession of monks, holding lit candles and singing hymn
s, heralded us into the castle, but then quickly disbanded as we dismounted. Expecting speeches, I nodded as Geoffrey’s vassals saluted us, and then was confused to see them turning their attention to tankards of ale. Overall, the atmosphere was as indifferent as the Angevin’s deportment toward me.

  †

  Within his keep, my husband assigns me a second-rate solar, located in an inner ward, downwind of the kitchens and stables. Nasty odors constantly harass my solitude. Insects swarm interminably through my window. I smoke bundles of hay in my hearth to ward off the infuriating mosquitoes. I tuck alder leaves under my pallet, to attract and eliminate its fleas. A tattered, stained tapestry adorns my wall. There are no poles or hooks for my substantial wardrobe. All of my precious chattel remains folded in trunks and caskets, so crowding my ignominious chamber that there is very little space in which to maneuver.

  Despite this and other evidence of the Angevin’s dislike, Gerta blames Stephen for my continued disenchantment. Today, as we ransacked my boxes for garments suitable to the warming weather, she refused to credit my complaints. “The count is nothing to you only because you measure him against another man. Cease to dream of your cousin, and seek to be the most contented of queens. Virile Geoffrey will soon endow you with a child.”

  I slammed shut the lid of one of my coffers. “The Angevin imp does not even provide me with proper rooms, in which to spend my leisure hours in fitting comfort. Do not reckon that he will present me with a boy.”

  Gerta unearthed a bliaut of thin blond wool, trimmed with daffodils of Queen Adeliza’s embroidery. She exhibited its cascade of sleeves. “Ah, daffodils to incite his chivalry.”

  I snorted and waved the dress away.

  My maid persisted. “Angers Castle is not a royal residence boasting innumerable private accommodations to divide among the household.” Despite my disparagement, she pulled the dress over my head, and smoothed its delicate weave over my hips.

  I stroked the creamy, crimped fabric. “If Geoffrey were to divest himself of his fatuous concubine, her very luxurious solar would revert to me.”