Better stubborn than a libertine, I thought. I remembered why I had come back—for a dynasty and not Count Geoffrey—but I nevertheless struggled to contain my anger.
“They sent me back because we have to make this marriage work, but I truly doubt whether you are willing to do so!” I cried.
“Oh really?!” he shouted in response. “See what I am willing to do!”
With a great flourish, he ripped off his hat, flowers and all, and threw it upon the fire.
I screamed and ran toward the fire to recover it, but he grabbed me by the waist and held me back. I watched as the flames began to consume it, turning it black. He then released me and I moved to the far side of the room, hoping to put as much distance between him and myself as possible.
“There was no need for that!” I protested. “I seek moderation, not destruction. I am not hateful.”
“Oh no! Don’t be so shy, wife,” he mocked. “I will give you what you demand!”
He then began removing his outer clothes, pulling on each lace in turn.
“Are you mad?” I asked. “Truly, have you lost your mind since I left? Those must have cost a fortune!”
He made no reply, but continued taking off his clothes. I threw up my hands and laughed.
“Well, don’t think I’m going to try to stop you again, because I won’t!” I cried, though in truth I had no idea where things would end or what I would do.
“For you, my dear!” he replied, then threw them into the flames as well.
“You know very well this is not what I meant for you to do. Now stop it already!” I yelled.
Again, he made no reply, but walked across the room to the desk, clothed in nothing but his pants. He opened one of the boxes and began looking through it.
“Wait! What are you doing?” I asked, for his bold actions had filled me with concern.
“Exactly what you want,” he replied.
He turned and held up some scissors that he had retrieved, and I guessed what he was about to do, though I could hardly believe it.
“No! Stop! I didn’t mean it!” I cried, running across the room to stop him.
I attempted to move around the bed so quickly that I hit my big toe upon one of the wood legs and cried out in pain. Indeed, it was so bad that I fell to my knees and grabbed my foot, wincing and groaning. The pain continued to come in waves. About the time I was able to open my eyes again, I was lifted up from behind by Count Geoffrey and heard him ask, “Should I call the physician?”
I turned to look at him and saw that his hair no longer fell down the length of his back but ceased somewhere near his shoulders. I was in such a state of shock that all I could utter was, “Good Lord!”
“I hope you see now that, as you say, I am willing to do anything to make this work,” he declared.
“I can see that you are a great fool! Honestly, who does something like that?!”
“Fool or no,” he replied, “I hope my actions prove that I am serious.”
“What you have done doesn’t matter,” I said. “Do you have any idea the kind of sacrifice that is required to truly honor someone? The price you have paid is a pittance in comparison with that. No, it doesn’t matter. I know you will be back to whoring tomorrow.”
He laughed. “Lady England forget about tomorrow. This is today.”
He grabbed my face and pressed his lips on mine with such force that I could hardly breathe. I suppose some women might have loved it, but a kiss without real affection or even respect meant nothing to me. He pulled back and looked into my eyes.
“Tell me you didn’t enjoy that,” he dared.
“Even so the traitor Judas kissed his Lord,” I whispered, “and I will say to you what Christ said to him: do what you must, and do it quickly.”
It would hardly be proper for me to tell you what happened next, but suffice it to say, our marriage was thoroughly renewed. His vanity demanded that I heap praise upon him, yet he had no idea how to win me. I may have let him into my person for the sake of a child, but I would never let him into my heart.
The worst part of returning to Anjou, apart from having to spend time with Count Geoffrey, was having to eat the Angevin food. I was not sure why, but it often sent me into an ill humor. However, it seemed to get worse a few weeks after my return. For several days in a row, my stomach became sick and I was forced to spend hours in bed, and after about a week my bowels settled into a permanent knot. When this continued for most of a month without relief, I was filled with concern. This condition was plain to the women around me, and one day in late summer, Lady Agnes decided to ask me about it as she tended to me in bed.
“This has gone on so long, my lady. Have you come any closer to discovering which foods upset you?”
“Actually, my entire body has been ill at ease,” I replied. “Not only is my appetite all but gone, but I also feel constantly tired—so very, very tired.”
“That’s it! I’ll get the physician for you,” she declared.
“Why? He will just tell me the meat has gone bad again.”
My experience with the Angevin physicians had not been good. That was perhaps the third thing I hated most about the county.
“Have you been eating much meat?” Agnes asked, pressing her hand on my forehead to check for fever.
“No, come to think of it, and especially not any fish. Last time I tried fish, I couldn’t keep it down.”
She stepped back and continued examining me with her eyes. “Perhaps you have a worm.”
“Wouldn’t that make me more hungry and not less?”
“Who knows how these things work? My cousin had a worm for God only knows how long, and we only found out when it came out the other end.”
“Lovely,” I groaned, fearing that this story would only make my stomach feel worse.
“There is a new physician here in Angers: a student of the schools in Italy,” she said. “Please let me fetch him for you.”
I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply. “Very well. Send for him.”
So Agnes went to retrieve our physician, Master Odo. This gave me a few minutes to worry in equal measures about what my condition could be and how this Odo might attempt to treat me. I never did decide which was more fearful. When he arrived and Agnes left the two of us alone, I sat up on the side of the bed, bringing on more discomfort.
“I am very sorry to hear you have been in ill health,” the physician said.
“Let’s just get this over with,” I muttered.
He began by conducting a simple physical examination, poking me here and there, then pulled up a chair by the bed. He set his hands in his lap and looked at me directly. It seemed to me that he showed too little fear for someone of his age. He was a thin young man with short light hair, and his clothing was very simple, but he bore himself as one with authority.
“You said you have been tired. Are you sleeping through the night?” he asked.
“Some nights yes, some nights no. It depends on how loud the feasting is below.”
“Is it possible that you could have suffered an injury in your abdomen?”
“No. At least, nothing that I can remember.”
He smiled and nodded. “And you say your appetite has changed.”
“Yes, though I suppose that could be due to the different food in this part of the world. It has always disagreed with me.”
“To the point of sending you to bed?” he asked, raising his brows.
“No, I suppose not.”
“Are there any foods in particular that seem to trouble you?”
“It depends on the day, but I can hardly stand the sight of fish.”
“I see.”
He closed his eyes as if deep in thought. This left me feeling rather awkward just sitting there, but it did at least give me a chance to observe that I was feeling slightly better—almost as if I could eat some sop and bread.
“Forgive me, my lady, but are you sore anywhere?” he said, opening his eyes and interrupt
ing my thoughts.
The multitude of questions proceeding from his lips started to concern me. What on earth does he think is wrong with me? Is it something deadly? Or could it be—no, surely not. I have wondered that before, but it has never been the case. The blood always returns. No, I must have some disease.
“Sore?” I asked, breaking out of my thoughts. “Yes, my belly is quite sore from all the times I’ve been ill, and then … well …”
“Well what? Is there somewhere else that is hurting?” he inquired.
“If you must know, my breasts have also been … tender.”
I would have felt more comfortable discussing this subject with another female, but there was nothing for it. I simply had to trust in the physician’s discretion. Fortunately, it did not seem to concern him. Indeed, he pressed into even more dangerous territory.
“How often have you and your husband had intimate relations?” he asked.
This was such a strange question to receive, even from a physician, and I could not help but laugh for just a moment. “You don’t hesitate, do you?”
“You may tell me. There is no need to be afraid.”
“I am not exactly afraid,” I explained. “We were together several nights a week, until a few weeks ago when I began feeling more sick.”
“And when was the last time you passed any blood?”
“That’s rather personal, is it not?” I said, growing offended.
“It could be pertinent,” he maintained.
I let out a sigh. “Very well. I suppose it was about two or three months ago now. That is not so strange, is it? I have had such things happen in the past when I was under stress, and returning here has certainly been a cause of stress.”
“It is not so very strange on its own, no, but along with your other symptoms, I think I can say with some degree of certainty that you are with child.”
I stared forward at the physician, blinking quickly. His words were so odd, almost as if he was speaking in another tongue.
“Forgive me. I’m not sure I heard you correctly,” I said.
He leaned forward and patted my hand, a smile on his face. “Empress Mathilda, countess of Anjou, in about seven or eight months’ time, you are going to give birth to a child.”
This was such strange news. Of course, his questions had led me to hope, but I had hoped before. Ever since I was fifteen, whenever I noticed that my blood was late, I had hoped, but it never came to anything. As odd as it may seem, the doctor could not have surprised me more if he had told me I was sprouting cabbage from my ears. Simple reason proved his words to be true, but fear had long held me back.
“What? Me—with child? How?” I stammered.
“Surely a woman of your standing knows how babes are made!” he said, laughing.
“Yes, I know that, thank you! What I meant is, I have been doing that thing that makes babes for a long time, but it has never produced a result. Of course, I have hoped ever since I returned, but I hoped as one wandering in the dark. Everyone thought I was barren! Are you quite sure?”
He leaned back in his chair, his overall manner far more casual than mine, which was quickly reaching a state of complete excitement. “Well, there is nothing certain about these things, but from what I can tell, it appears that you are going to be a mother. Indeed, you already are, in a manner of speaking. Yes, I think I would bet my right hand that you will have a child.”
I was so overwhelmed by this news that I began to weep openly, even with the doctor sitting right there. It was as if many years of longing were suddenly released in a torrent. I placed a hand on the bed post for support as I gasped for breath.
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” he said, reaching out to brace me himself. “Have I made you cry? You are not unhappy, are you?”
I wiped the tears from my eyes and looked into his. “No, not at all! I just, I was not sure if this would happen for me. Now that it has, I feel … I feel …”
“What do you feel, my lady?”
I shook my head in wonder. “Proud. Afraid. Overjoyed—everything! I feel it all. I feel as if I will burst!”
“As well you should. Now, let us pray that you may be safely delivered of this child.”
He stood up and made to leave the room, but I reached out and grabbed on to his robe.
“Please! What must I do now?” I asked, rather foolishly.
“Eat what you can, get plenty of rest, and wait for the winter,” he answered.
“Is there any way of knowing if it is a boy or a girl?” I asked again, equally foolishly. Even as the words escaped my lips, I knew they were worthless.
“Apart from seeing an astrologer, I should think not. I have heard that you set no store by superstitions, so I will not trouble you with those. If it is a girl, you can take comfort in the knowledge that the ability to have one child means you are likely to have more.”
“Yes, I suppose you are right. Thank you.”
The doctor packed up his things and left me there in the room alone. I began to cry again, mostly out of joy, but also because I was so afraid that I hardly knew what to do. I placed my hands on my belly. Could there really be a child growing in there? Would it survive to enter this world? Would it survive its first year of life? I knew not what to do. I had been so eager to reach that point for so long—to simply become pregnant—that I had given little thought to the potential dangers that lay beyond. Uncertain of what else to do, I knelt beside the bed and pressed the crucifix I wore around my neck between my folded hands.
“Thank you, Lord God. Thank you for hearing my prayers. You are truly most merciful, most gracious,” I prayed. “Please, I beg you, let this child be strong. Let him live … or her. Let them live, whoever they may be.”
I continued to rub my belly, as if by doing so I could transfer some form of maternal defense.
“My child, we do not even know each other yet, but everything depends on you,” I whispered. “We are on a journey now, you and me. We must make it safely to the end. God be with us.”
XVIII
February 1166
Rouen, Normandy
I awake daily to the sound of two choirs: the monks singing their morning hymns, and the birds chanting the praise of their creator. More than once, I have mistaken this for heaven itself, being half in a dream. Recovering my senses, I am sad to find myself still trapped within this helpless frame, growing weaker by the day, for there can be no heaven on earth. Even so, I woke today to clear evidence of my mortal state when Adela burst through the door of my bed chamber carrying a basket full of rosemary.
“Do you know what today is?” she asked me, in her ever cheerful voice.
I blinked a few times, my eyes still adjusting to the light, then raised myself up with my right arm until I was sitting upright.
“Five days after the feast of Candlemas,” I muttered in reply, rubbing my eyes.
“Yes, but also—”
“The seventh before the Ides of February.”
“Which means?”
“It is time for this snow to melt!” I offered, wishing to avoid the answer she desired.
She laughed softly as she began scattering the herb on the floor, the better to improve the smell. “Yes, that too, but of far greater import, you have now been on this earth four and sixty years!”
Four and sixty years? That hardly seemed like cause for rejoicing.
“Lord have mercy! Has it really been that long?” I asked, or rather groaned.
“Were you not born in the year of our Lord 1102?” she asked, setting the empty basket on the floor and removing her outer cloak.
“So they tell me. I have no memory of the day.”
“That is quite an accomplishment. I have known a good many people who never made it to sixty-four.”
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and allowed her to sit beside me.
“An inability to die is not necessarily an accomplishment, Adela, especially when one feels half dead already.”
I suddenly had a rather wicked thought and gave a sly smile.
“What is it?” she asked, leaning in slightly.
“Perhaps we can roast the archbishop of Canterbury on a spit.”
“My lady!” she objected, rising to her feet.
“Oh, calm down, Adela! You know I don’t mean it. But why can we not celebrate something better? Let us celebrate our friendship!” I motioned for her to sit beside me again. “How long have we known each other?”
She smiled and perched beside me, fixing the folds in her skirt. “Well, I was about seventeen when we met. What is that? Thirty some years?”
“A good long time,” I agreed. “We have seen each other through many hardships. Let us celebrate that instead. I’ll have none of this getting old.”
“Shall I tell Lawrence to cancel the feast tonight then? The brothers have a special song ready, and the cook is making that food you love most.”
“And what, pray tell, is the food that I love most?” I asked, hoping to test her.
“Venison stew?” she asked more than stated. Indeed, she seemed about as certain as a young man attempting to behead a criminal for the first time.
“I think you will find that is not the food I love most, but if the cook has already made it, and the monks have been practicing as long as I suspect they have, then it would be best not to disappoint them. I can pretend as well as anyone.”
“Very good, my lady,” she concluded. With this, she rose and walked over to the hearth to start the fire. “I was wondering, have you heard anything from the king of late?” she inquired.
“He writes that he will come over by next month, but not to Rouen. He has business in the South.”
“Oh, pity that!” she said, ceasing from her work long enough to give me a sorrowful glance. “I know you would have loved to see him.”
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