by Hilary Green
‘I am glad of it. You ask what has happened to me. You know, of course, that on that expedition your husband took His Holiness prisoner at Ponte Mammolo. That was a cause of grave distress to me. I could not reconcile myself to the idea that God’s appointed could be so shamefully treated. It was then that I began to consider leaving the emperor’s service. A few months later I was riding alone through the forest when a terrible thunderstorm broke. My horse was frightened by the noise and threw me. I must have lain unconscious for a long time, for when I woke my clothes were completely soaked through, but I knew that God had spoken to me. I was like St Paul on the road to Damascus and I knew God had a purpose for me. I returned to my home in Xanten and placed myself under the authority of Abbot Cono. By the grace of God I was ordained to the priesthood soon after. Since then I have travelled the world preaching His word.’
‘But you look so thin and your clothes are so worn. Won’t you let me help you? At least I could see that you had a new habit, and some shoes.’
He shook his head again. ‘The Bible tell us that we should take no thought for our life, what we should eat, nor for our bodies, what we should put on. I thank you for your offer but that is not why I came. I have a message for you.’
‘A message? From whom?’
‘From Drogo, who was once your knight.’
‘Drogo?’ For a moment she could not speak. For more than a year she had been making cautious enquiries about his whereabouts, but to no avail. She saw that her ladies were listening, though they pretended to be absorbed in their work. She stood up. ‘Come with me. We will talk privately.’
She led him to her private chapel. There she turned to him. ‘What message have you for me?’
‘That Drogo is well and has turned to God. He is one of my followers and plans to take his vows and enter a monastery.’
She turned away, clasping her hands together to still them. ‘What has he told you of what passed between us?’
‘Nothing. But he told me that he thought it might ease your mind to speak of it.’
For a moment she said nothing. Then she dropped to her knees before him. ‘Father, will you hear my confession?’
The abbot of the monastery of St Quentin received her with due respect and she was shown to a room in the guest house. It was well furnished. The bed curtains were brocade and there were tapestries on the walls depicting biblical scenes; a fire burnt in the hearth and a servant brought warm water for her to wash her hands and face and then served a meal which had nothing to do with monastic austerity. Her ladies murmured among themselves as they ate, but she was restless and too much on edge to enjoy the food. Her father had sent messages promising to meet her but she knew only too well how easily he could be distracted by some dissension among his vassals, or even, she suspected, the prospect of good hunting. She had no real memory of him, except as a distant and slightly frightening presence. He had been given the nickname of Henry Beauclerc, because he had been educated by churchmen and could read and write and understand Latin, but the letters they had exchanged had been formal and gave no indication of his feelings. She knew him only by reputation as a brave leader in battle and a wily negotiator in the council chamber.
Dusk was falling when she heard the clatter of hoofs in the courtyard below. Looking down, she saw him ride in with a small escort of knights. He dismounted but from this height she could not see him clearly. She had only an impression of a thickset figure of medium height, who nevertheless moved with energy and agility. Henry disappeared into the building and she was left to wait for a summons. It was possible that, after his journey, he might not wish to meet her until the next day. She could only try to school herself to patience.
The bells rang to call the monks to vespers and she heard the muffled sound of their voices singing the holy office. Then the lay brother who brought their dinner tapped at the door.
‘Madam, the lord abbot asks that you will attend him in his solar.’
She bade her ladies remain where they were, wrapped a cloak round her shoulders and followed the man along the cloister to the abbot’s house. He knocked on a door, then bowed and moved away. From inside a voice louder and gruffer than the abbot’s instructed her to enter. She hesitated, straightening her shoulders and adjusting her veil, which the breeze had disordered. In the brief pause she reminded herself that she was a queen and an empress. Then she pushed open the door and went in.
Henry was standing in front of the fireplace. He was wearing a knee-length woollen tunic dyed a deep blue and his travelling cloak of Italian red lined with squirrel fur was thrown across the back of a chair. She saw that his dark hair was streaked with grey and his face was weathered to the colour of leather. For a moment they looked at each other in silence. Then it occurred to her that the character of a dutiful daughter was likely to serve her better than that of the Queen Empress. She curtsied and lowered her eyes.
‘My lord father.’
He crossed to her and raised her. ‘Daughter, welcome. I trust you are in good health?’
‘I am, sir. I hope the same is true for you.’
‘Well enough, I thank you. Pray, be seated. Will you take some wine?’
She sat and thanked him and he poured wine for them both from a flagon on a side table.
He said, ‘I hear good reports of your conduct. You have proved yourself a worthy wife to the emperor.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Is your husband well?’
‘He suffers from a disorder of the stomach. His doctors diagnose an excess of choler.’
‘He should be bled.’
‘He has been, much against his will. But it seems to have given little relief. He is greatly troubled in mind by this continuing dissension over the matter of investiture.’
‘Ah!’ Henry nodded and stretched his legs to the fire. ‘I can sympathize with him there.’
‘But you have reached an agreement with your own bishops, have you not?’
‘I thought I had, until the Pope held this last council in Rheims. Then he had the gall to consecrate Thurstan as Archbishop of York without any reference to me and without any requirement to pay homage.’
She frowned. This was not what she hoped to hear. ‘Does that mean the compromise has broken down?’
‘Not permanently. Sooner or later this whole matter has to be resolved, but in this respect I believe your husband the emperor and I can help each other.’
‘That is good news! It is what my husband desires also. That is why I am here.’
‘You can tell him that he has my support. If we show a united front, Calixtus may be more willing to come to the negotiating table. But tell him this also. The only way to find a resolution is by compromise. We shall both have to put aside our pride.’
‘I will tell him.’
They were silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘I was greatly distressed to hear of my mother’s death.’
‘Indeed. It is a great loss. She was a woman as close to sainthood as it is possible for a mortal to be. It pained me deeply that I was so hard pressed in Normandy that I was unable to attend her funeral.’
‘I know how difficult it must have been for you. But since your great victory at Brèmule you must be in a stronger position.’
‘I am, thanks be to God. But there are still enemies who would be yapping at my heels if they saw any sign of weakness. Louis of France is always ready to support anyone who challenges me. That is why I must seek to strengthen alliances wherever I can. I have it in mind to marry again.’
‘Marry!’ This came as a shock. ‘To whom?’
‘I am in discussions with Count Godfrey of Louvain to wed his daughter Adeliza.’
‘Adeliza!’ The image of a young girl, distraught and tearful, rose in her memory. ‘But … she is so young. She is hardly older than I am.’
‘Quite. Young enough to bear children.’
‘Children? But you already have – ‘ She stopped herself. Henry’s many illegitimate children we
re an open secret, but not relevant here. ‘You already have an heir. How does my brother William Adelin?’
‘Well, thank God. I have arranged a marriage for him too. He is to wed Fulk of Anjou’s daughter.’
‘Fulk! But I thought he was a sworn enemy.’
‘He was, but a substantial sum of money convinced him to change sides. He plans to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and he needed the cash. Louis has finally accepted William as my heir and he has done homage for our territories in France, so the succession is secure.’
‘So, what need is there for you to re-marry?’ She could not prevent herself from speaking, though she did not understand why the idea should distress her.
Henry chuckled. ‘A king must have a consort, and the girl is comely. And a man cannot have too many sons.’ His expression became serious again. ‘On the subject of children – you have not given your husband an heir yet.’ He fixed her with sharp, dark eyes. ‘Are you barren?’
She felt the colour rise in her face and forced herself to answer calmly. ‘No, I am not. There was a child, a few months after Henry left me in Italy as his regent. It did not live.’
‘Ah.’ Her father looked relieved. ‘These things happen and we must bend to the will of God. But if there has been one child there can be more. Yet this must have been some time ago – two years at least.’
‘But for most of that time I have been in Italy and Henry has been in Germany. I returned less than a month ago.’
‘Of course. There is time yet, then.’
She decided not to mention Henry’s surprising decision with regard to the succession. That was a problem that could be put off for years.
Her father stood up and yawned. ‘It is getting late and I’m sure we are both tired. I will wish you good night, daughter.’
She rose too and he took her hand and kissed it, then kissed her on both cheeks. ‘I am glad we have had this meeting. I have left it too long. Perhaps soon you can visit me in England.’
‘I should like that.’
‘Then we must arrange it. Good night.’
She dipped a curtsey. ‘Good night, Father.’
Messengers rode backwards and forwards between the two Henries and the Pope and slowly the outlines of a compromise began to emerge. Matilda was glad to find her husband more amenable to reason, but she was also concerned. He seemed to tire quickly and the pains in his stomach were getting worse.
A year passed and at the beginning of Advent another messenger rode into Henry’s castle at Goslar. Matilda was standing by a window, watching the last autumn leaves drifting to earth, when her husband’s steward came into the room.
‘Madam, the King your husband desires your presence in the solar.’
One look at Henry’s face told her that something bad had happened.
‘I have grave news from England,’ he said. ‘Your brother William is dead.’
‘Dead? How?’
‘Drowned. It seems he was returning from Normandy with your father after receiving the homage of the barons there. A sea captain, the son of the very man who captained your grandfather’s ship when he conquered the English, begged the King to travel in his new ship, which he boasted was the fastest yet built. Your father refused since he had already embarked many of his people on a different vessel, but he gave permission for William and his friends to sail in the White Ship – that was the name of the new one. No one seems to know exactly what happened, but the ship struck a rock and capsized. There were only two survivors.’
‘And my brother was not one of them.’ She found her way to a chair and sat. She had not seen her brother since they were babies, so there was no sense of personal loss, but the implications of the news were too many to take in at once. As an afterthought, she crossed herself and murmured, ‘God rest his soul.’
Henry supplied an automatic ‘Amen’.
‘My poor father! It will be a terrible blow to him.’
‘The letter speaks of his unassuagable grief. He refuses all comfort. And William was not the only one lost. His half-brother Richard and his half-sister were also drowned.’
‘What comfort could there be? The death of Richard and the girl will sadden him, but they were not legitimate. William was his only heir.’
‘That is the crucial point, as far as we are concerned. Who is next in line for the succession?’
‘I am his only other legitimate child – but the English barons will never accept a woman as ruler. The only other claimant will be the other William, William Clito, the son of my Uncle Robert, whom they call Curthose.’
Henry grunted. ‘That won’t please your father. He and Robert were at each other’s throats for years until your father overcame him at Tinchbrai. He still has him in prison There can’t be any love lost between him and Clito.’
‘And Louis of France has always preferred Clito. This is going to make the situation in Normandy very unstable again.’
‘Best we can hope for is your father goes ahead with his marriage to Adeliza and gets himself another son as soon as possible.’
‘Perhaps.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. An infant son could never rival Clito for the throne.’
‘Then pray that your father lives long enough to see him grow up.’
Her father was obviously thinking along the same lines. Early in the new year a letter arrived from him.
‘My father has married Adeliza,’ she reported to her husband.
‘Good! Best thing he could do,’ Henry responded. ‘Godfrey of Louvain has been loyal to me ever since I released him from prison.’
‘At my intercession,’ she could not resist pointing out.
‘As you say. The point is, the marriage strengthens the alliance between our two countries.’
She sighed and shook her head. ‘Perhaps. But I feel sorry for Adeliza. Poor girl. I fancy she will have little joy in the match.’
Negotiations with the Pope dragged on but the need for a settlement was becoming ever more urgent. Henry’s status as an excommunicate allowed any dissatisfied baron or prelate to promote rebellion. He was still troubled by recurrent pains in his abdomen and was less combative than before. With wry humour, Matilda reflected that he had no stomach for fighting.
They had not long returned to Goslar when an embassy arrived from Henry of England. He wished Matilda to visit him.
‘Do you want to go?’ her husband asked.
She considered. ‘It is not an attractive prospect. I have no happy memories of my childhood there, and no friends that I can remember. And I do not look forward to meeting my father again in his present frame of mind. I hear he is still inconsolable and given to violent changes of mood. But I am curious. England is the land of my birth, after all.’
‘And you are Henry’s only legitimate child. So far there seems to be no sign that Adeliza has conceived.’ He sat forward in his chair. ‘Do you suppose he might be considering appointing you as his heir?’ His eyes brightened. ‘That would unite the two kingdoms. Imagine! We would rule an empire greater even than Caesar’s.’
She neglected to point out that the Roman empire stretched into eastern lands far beyond their control. Instead she said, ‘And who would rule after us, since you have decided that God has turned his face away from your line?’
Henry slumped back. ‘True, true. But all the same I think you should go. You owe your father that much.’
She made her preparations with mixed feelings. There was no question of crossing French territory to reach Normandy. King Louis’ hostility meant that she would never be granted safe conduct through his realm. Instead she must go through Flanders; then at Barfleur her father would have a ship waiting to take her across the narrow sea. Her only experience of a sea crossing was when she came to Germany as a child of eight and her memories were not reassuring. Those, combined with the disaster of the White Ship, meant that she looked forward to the voyage with considerable trepidation. It was a relief when word came from Flanders. Count Charles would not
permit her to pass through his territory. As a vassal of the King of France he did not wish to offend his overlord. The visit had to be abandoned.
Finally, the prolonged negotiations with Rome looked like bearing fruit. A meeting was arranged at the city of Worms between Henry and three representatives of the Pope: Lambert, Cardinal Bishop of Ostia, and two other cardinals, Saxo and Gregory. After long deliberations an agreement was reached. Henry would have the right to invest the new bishops with their temporal authority, symbolized by the giving of a sceptre, and they would then receive the tokens of their spiritual authority, the ring and the crozier, from a papal legate. Henry’s excommunication was rescinded.
Afterwards, Henry grudgingly admitted to relief but he was far from happy. ‘My great ancestor Charlemagne would never have given in. ‘
‘At least you have the right to be present when new bishops are elected,’ she pointed out. ‘That way you will still have great influence. It is the same compromise that was arrived at in England and it seems to have worked well enough for my father. And now that you are in communion with the Church again we can concentrate on bringing those rebellious barons to heel.’
Over the ensuing months Henry criss-crossed his domains, suppressing rebellions, calming dissent, restoring order, and Matilda was at his side constantly. Meanwhile her father’s difficulties in Normandy proliferated. Fulk of Anjou decided that his interests were best served by allying himself with the opposition and married his other daughter, Sybilla, to William Clito. Pressed on both sides by Anjou and Louis of France, Henry of England invoked his alliance with Germany and the emperor responded by sending troops to Metz, on the French border. While Louis’ attention was distracted, a small force of English knights achieved a victory at Bourgthéroulde which finally ended the Norman rebellion. Her father capitalized on the situation by persuading Calixtus to annul Clito’s marriage.
They celebrated the Christmas of 1124 in Strasbourg, but it was obvious to Matilda that her husband’s health was failing. The physicians prescribed bleeding and cupping and purging, but the remedies only served to weaken him. He was relying more and more on a concoction of poppy juice to ease the pain, but he refused to remain in one place. As travel became easier with the arrival of spring, the court moved to Mainz and stayed briefly in Henry’s castle of Trifels. There, one night, he called her to his bedside.