Infidelity

by Markland, Anna

  Massive ornate wooden chests sat against the walls. An enormous carved armoire five times the size of Peri’s chamber took up part of one wall. Extravagantly detailed wall sconces of wrought iron held thick beeswax candles, snuffed now in the light of day. Arabian carpets warmed the floor. Peri itched to tear off her shoes and stockings so she could wiggle her toes in the rugs, but Ermintrude warned them off with an imperious wag of a gnarled finger.

  Pride filled Peri’s heart that she, a person of no significance from Anjou, had been chosen to serve here amid this opulence. No matter how hard a taskmistress the empress might turn out to be, Peri would bear anything to work in such splendor. She vowed to write to her parents this very night to tell them of her good fortune and the favor she had found.

  Ermintrude’s harsh voice jerked her attention back to the other newcomer. They stood by one of the chests, now open. “When the empress disrobes, her ladies place her clothing in this chest. You, Philippa de Grosmont, will have the honor of taking it to Francine in the laundry.”

  Philippa frowned. Peri struggled not to let pride become smugness. What did it matter now that the girl had spurned her quiet offer of friendship? She resisted the urge to pin a gloating smile on her face.

  “Come with me, Angevin,” Lady Ermintrude commanded.

  Sticking out her chin, Peri spun around to follow, her skirts swishing against her legs. Ermintrude stood by a heavy curtain that she thrust aside with a flourish. An acrid smell emanated from the cubicle behind the curtain.

  “The royal garderobe,” Ermintrude declared.

  Peri suddenly felt dizzy.

  “Kneel to reach beneath the privy,” Ermintrude ordered.

  Surely not.

  Peri slowly lifted her skirts to kneel by the wooden privy. Holding her breath, she felt beneath it for the chamber pot. Disbelief pecked at her that a palace as grand as Westminster had no privy shafts. Even her parents’ modest house had the convenience. Her fingers closed on the handle of a receptacle. The cold stone of the flooring dug into her knees as she drew out the pot, gagging when she saw the contents.

  She closed her eyes as dizziness tilted the cubicle to a peculiar angle. Ermintrude towered above her. “Get to your feet. You must carry it out to the yard behind the kitchens where slopboys will dispose of it. Then you wash out the chamber pot and return it here quickly.”

  Peri recognized then the full weight of Lady Ermintrude’s disdain. She was required to carry the royal excrement through the palace. Everyone would turn away in disgust at the lowliness of her station.

  She held her breath and came to her feet, fearing the pot might slip from her trembling hands. Lady Ermintrude produced a linen cloth which she unfurled with a snap then draped over the chamber pot with great flourish. “Be off.”

  Peri lifted her chin and walked out of the chamber, past a snickering Philippa de Grosmont. She resolved to carry out this odious duty with dignity. None of these arrogant Normans would see her heart was breaking, and she would hate them until her dying day.

  If Only William Had Lived

  “We must harass France,” King Henry declared, exasperated with his daughter’s apparent lack of interest in the deliberations. She seemed intent on some discussion with that harridan Ermintrude. He snapped his fingers. “Can you not see that, Maud?”

  Ermintrude de Calumette pouted at the interruption, infuriating him further. When had the crone become so impertinent? His widowed daughter shot him an annoyed glance, fidgeting with the sleeve of her gown. “I mislike talk of politics.”

  Henry rolled his eyes and thanked the saints only his most trusted advisors were present in the private solar at Westminster to hear his daughter’s feeble protests. He brought his fist down hard on the arm of his massive chair. “If you wish to be Queen of England, you must make these decisions. Did you learn nothing as the wife of the Holy Roman Emperor? Most of my English barons are loath to support a woman. If they deem you incapable of leadership, they will rebel.”

  Maud pouted. “Heinrich shared none of his power with me. He was a hateful man. He did not speak my language, and I had to learn to speak German—a guttural tongue I hate. I never expected to be queen. My brother was to be your heir.”

  The familiar ache that had lain like a stone in Henry’s heart for seven years resurfaced. Grief had aged him. No wonder his second wife had not conceived. Her youth made him feel ancient. The robes that once emphasized his regal bearing now clung to his body like a shroud. The handsome brown mustache of earlier years had become a wispy grey beard that fluttered from his chin.

  He was heartily sick of the never-ending plots and conspiracies that swirled around him, weary of twenty years of sporadic war with France. Louis the Fat had to be dealt with once and for all.

  If only William had lived to help shoulder the burdens—but such hopeless longing led to despair if dwelt on too long. How he had loved his bright boy. “To dwell on your brother’s death does us no good. We must look to the future. The nobles of Flandres have chosen Clito as their new comte after the grisly murder of Charles of Flandres. It’s plain they have acted on behalf of my upstart nephew at the urging of Louis of France.”

  Henry’s chancellor, standing nearby, cleared his throat, drawing attention to himself, which Henry knew had been his intent. The man’s high pitched voice never failed to grate on everyone’s nerves, but he had proven himself trustworthy and capable. Henry’s fingernails bit into his palms as he clenched his fists. “You wish to add something?”

  “Oui, Majesté, let us not forget that Clito spent much of his childhood in Flandres when we drove him out of Normandie. He is known there, and speaks the language.”

  Henry stared at him for several long minutes, before resuming. “Nevertheless, Clito has made too many promises to the Flemish towns. Depriving his vassals of tolls and ground rents and giving the revenues to the burghers will cost him dearly.”

  The Chancellor interrupted again. “He has indeed broken the law; the tolls are not his to impose or change.”

  Henry counted to ten. Did the man deem him incapable of the narrative? Maud seemed to pay more attention to the functionary than to her own father.

  He looked directly at his daughter. “I intend to make trade between this country and Flandres suffer as a result. The Flemish merchants will resent that. The people will perceive he has sold Flandres to the King of France.

  “If we do nothing, Clito will turn his greedy gaze once more on Normandie. He dreams of restoring his misbegotten father to the duchy. I vow he will never oust me as Duke of Normandie. How he thinks he will free my cursed brother from his imprisonment is beyond me.”

  “Indeed, Cardiff Castle is impregnable,” the Chancellor declared, wagging his finger. “Curthose will rot there until his dying day.”

  Henry shifted his weight, gripping the arm of his chair. “We must weaken Clito. The king of France fancies himself a folk-hero—reckless in the charge as on the march, plunging into swollen rivers, rushing into burning castles. With any luck, he will be killed by one of the barons he is bent on bringing to heel. He thinks he has been clever, claiming Clito’s nomination follows feudal law, but we shall see. I can manipulate the law as well as he.”

  Maud wrinkled her nose, Henry suspected to stifle a yawn. “What of my cousin?” she asked.

  Henry flicked a hand towards his Chancellor. “Tell her.”

  The official cleared his throat again. Must the man do so every time he wished to speak? “Stephen secretly builds support among the English nobility.”

  Maud frowned. “Who is for him?”

  The Chancellor glanced at the king, then continued. “None have openly declared their support. After all, our glorious king still lives, and long may he rule.” He steepled his fingers and tapped his mouth. “But we have our suspicions.”

  Maud’s lips tightened into a sneer. “Why can we not confiscate their lands?”

  Henry sighed. “To take lands from loyal families that have supported my
reign and those of my father and brother before me would cause a revolt. I have no wish to be fighting the likes of the Montbryces in England while I am embroiled in war with France. Families such as theirs with power here and in Normandie must not be alienated. I will need the Norman barons to aid me in my campaign against Louis.”

  Maud’s mouth fell open. “The Earl of Ellesmere opposes my succession?”

  Henry glanced at his Chancellor. “Not the current earl, his son, Gallien.”

  Maud thrust out her chin. “Then we must pay them a visit, impress them with my suitability.”

  Henry narrowed his eyes. Perhaps Maud was not a lost cause. She might feign disinterest in succeeding him, but she wanted to be queen. He turned to his Master Marshal. “See to the arrangements. Maud will travel to Ellesmere. Her betrothed will accompany her. Send the directive to him in Anjou.”

  The Marshal bowed.

  Maud rolled her eyes as she looked towards the grimacing Ermintrude. Henry groaned inwardly. His daughter’s disdain for her betrothed was ill concealed. She deemed Geoffrey far beneath her. It did not bode well.

  Royal Visit

  A knot of nervous apprehension twisted Gallien’s gut as he waited with his parents and siblings in the bailey of Ellesmere Castle.

  His grandfather had stood in this selfsame place to greet kings, including the great Conqueror. Baudoin de Montbryce had welcomed King Henry to Ellesmere on more than one occasion. Now they awaited the arrival of Henry’s daughter, Maud, but the mood was not festive.

  Everyone was aware of the motive for her coming. The message proclaiming her visit had sent the earl into an uncharacteristic rage. Only his mother’s calming influence had saved Gallien from permanent confinement to his chamber.

  His protestations that he would not be treated like a child had carried no weight against his father’s belief he was endangering the family and all it held dear.

  “Everyone in this castle is in a state of nervous apprehension,” Gallien whispered to his brother, “simply because Maud is coming to pay an official visit with her boy betrothed.”

  Étienne put a hand on his shoulder. “Hush. Papa will hear you. He is angry enough.”

  Gallien shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to keep his feet warm. It had been a fortnight of intense preparations during which his father had hardly spoken to him. He hazarded a glance at his sire. He had never seen his father so haggard. A pang of guilt skittered through his gut.

  Everyone in the castle seemed to sense the nature of this royal visit. The cooks had reduced the scullery maids and serving wenches to tears in their efforts to ensure everything was ready for the preparation of the finest meals ever concocted in the Ellesmere kitchens.

  An army of maids and houseboys had cleaned every last nook and cranny. Chambers had been swept, rugs and tapestries beaten, draperies and bedding aired, cobblestones scoured.

  Steward Pascal Bonhomme had made sure the stables were spotless, the horses immaculately groomed, the men-at-arms properly uniformed and equipped, new enseignes run up the flagpoles. He even had boys up in the oak beams of the Great Hall, sweeping away cobwebs.

  Gallien felt his father’s eyes on him. He dragged his thoughts back to the business at hand.

  The earl’s voice was stern. “There can be no doubt Maud is coming to speak to us specifically about the future. Remain silent. Do nothing to offend.”

  Gallien nodded his acquiescence, but his innards seethed with resentment. He clenched his fists at his sides, determined Maud would suspect nothing of his opposition to her succession.

  The autumn sun was high in the sky when Maud and her entourage rode to within sight of the castle, but it did nothing to warm Gallien. September had been unseasonably hot, but overnight the weather had changed. In the stiff breeze that bore the promise of winter’s cold embrace, the snap of green and gold gonfanons, emblazoned with Henry’s device, was deafening. The steeds of the mounted knights behind Maud pranced, snorting dragons’ breath into the chilly air. As her carriage rolled into the bailey, she was greeted by the men of the Montbryce family down on one knee, and the women of the castle in deep curtseys, their wimpled heads bowed as befitted the granddaughter of William the Conqueror.

  As Gallien raised his head at her command, he noticed a redheaded lad mounted on a gelding beside her carriage. Maud ignored her companion when she left the conveyance, but Gallien’s conviction that she should not become queen grew when it dawned on him this boy with his red nose in the air was Geoffrey Plantagenet.

  “Welcome, Empresse,” Baudoin gushed, stepping forward. “You do us great honor. Mon fils, Étienne, will show you to the chambers we’ve prepared. I trust they will meet with your approval.”

  Gallien gritted his teeth. It was his right as the eldest son to guide the royal visitors. His father had deliberately excluded him. The fact would not be lost on Maud.

  A large, matronly woman lumbered out of the carriage after Maud, issuing orders to the Montbryce servants regarding the royal baggage. Gallien fumed for his mother and her faithful Steward Bonhomme, standing with their mouths agape at this insult.

  Later, when the trunks had been taken to her chambers and Ellesmere’s hand-picked maidservants had bathed and dressed her, Maud descended the stone steps to the Great Hall on the arm of Geoffrey Plantagenet.

  Born a year before Gallien, she looked to be twice his age, despite his prematurely white hair, though he had to admit her bearing was regal. The long sleeves of the heavy maroon gown tapered to a point at her wrists. Over it she wore a black tabard, cinched at the waist with a braided grey girdle. A short grey cloak of some flimsy material flowed behind her back, fixed to the shoulders of her gown with gold brooches. A long white veil cascaded down from a jeweled crown Gallien deemed rather elaborate for such an occasion. An ostentatious gold collar girded her neck.

  From there, Gallien’s gaze travelled to her breasts. He found that amusing. A woman’s breasts were usually the first thing he noticed. Maud’s were—adequate.

  Geoffrey wore a short vermilion doublet and tight leggings that emphasized the swell of his manhood and the curve of his buttocks. What was the boy trying to prove? Red was the color of kings, and tight hose was for men with more to show off than poor Geoffrey.

  Orange and red striped fabric bloomed from the broad slashes in the sleeves of the doublet. A heavy gold chain that would have looked more at home on the broad shoulders of a Flemish burgher completed the costume.

  On his head he sported a red woolen cap with the frivolous sprig of broom.

  “Probably brought a supply of the weed with him,” Gallien muttered.

  The royal pair avoided each other’s gaze and looked more like an estranged mother and son than a betrothed couple.

  The matronly harridan, clad in a ghastly bright red gown, followed in their wake, her nose in the air as if she were the Queen of England, her purple wimple towering over her head. She reeked of aged flesh and some perfume, though a bath might have been more effective.

  Once everyone was seated and the introductory formalities of welcome observed, a feast was served that Gallien judged more sumptuous than any other meal eaten there before that he could recall, and there had been many elaborate banquets.

  The immaculately groomed servers were resplendent in their green tabards with the Ellesmere crest. The mutton meatballs were excellent and the roast chicken glazed with eggs delectable, but Gallien had no appetite.

  Dozens of multicolored boars’ heads made an appearance, the iron pans in which they reposed held aloft by brawny lads. He wondered if any boar still roamed Ellesmere’s forests. His father had forbidden his participation in the hunting he loved, as a penance.

  The Ellesmere signature dish of rainbow trout, handed down from a long-ago cook at Montbryce Castle, was the pièce de resistance, and everyone sighed as the succulent juices of the golden baked apple flesh of the pommes d’orées dripped from their mouths.

  Maud wrinkled her nose in di
staste when offered the renowned Montbryce apple brandy, brought at great expense from Robert’s cellars in Normandie. Gallien noted his father’s disgust at the insult.

  Sweat trickled into Geoffrey’s red hair under the weight of his cap. He guzzled his tumbler of brandy and promptly asked for another.

  Gallien watched with cold detachment.

  Definitely not the stuff kings are made of.

  But then what else to expect from an Angevin?

  For a sennight, Gallien struggled to hold his tongue, until Maud and Geoffrey’s entourage disappeared over the horizon. Standing on the battlements next to his father, buffeted by a chilly wind, he raked his hand through his hair, surprised it had not gone even whiter.

  “Dieu! The woman is a shrew—and Lady Ermintrude, what a battle axe. Geoffrey the Handsome is a spoiled child. His laugh is enough to wake the dead.”

  His father turned to look at him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You are absolutely right, mon fils. I tremble at the prospect of her and that boy on the throne. His disdain of Normans, especially his betrothed, was blatant. Their mutual dislike does not augur well for a peaceful reign.”

  Gallien gaped at this father. Before he could reply, Baudoin tightened his grip on his son’s shoulder. “For the moment we do nothing. Maud believes us loyal to her. I am proud of your restraint. Let us wait and see what the future holds. Henry will not live forever, but I urge you to be more discreet in future. We’ve had a narrow escape. Now I’m for the indoors, before I freeze to death.”

  Gallien was left alone to stare at his father’s retreating back.

  * * *

  Carys kneaded the tense muscles of her husband’s bare shoulders as he sat with head bowed in front of the hearty fire in their solar. “Do you feel better now you’re warm?” she asked.