Twice Royal Lady

by Hilary Green

  ‘I fear, wife, that my time on this earth is short. God has ordained that I shall have no successor of my blood. When the time comes, much will rest on your shoulders.’

  She felt an icy chill settle somewhere in the centre of her body. ‘You must not speak like that. You are yet a young man. You will recover. I pray every night to the Holy Virgin to restore you to health.’ She was speaking the truth. Over the years she had come to love him. It was not the love of a wife for a husband, but for a friend and companion and a safe stronghold in time of trouble. She could not bring herself to consider what might happen to her if he died.

  He shook his head. ‘I think not. I believe the time has come for me to lay down the burdens of the flesh. You must be prepared. To that end, I wish you to take into your safekeeping the imperial regalia, the symbol of my authority.’

  ‘But to what end? What do you wish me to do with them?’ He had drunk poppy and she could see that he was on the edge of sleep. She grasped his hand. ‘Henry! Speak to me. Who do you wish to name as your successor?’

  ‘You must do as you think fit. Listen to good advice and God will guide you.’

  It was useless to pursue the matter. He was already asleep. But he had given his orders. The locked chest containing the imperial crown and sceptre were brought to her chamber within the hour. Sleepless, she forced herself to consider the possibility of his imminent death and the question of the succession. She knew that by tradition the rulers of Germany were elected by the great landowners, lay and clerical. But Henry inherited the throne from his father and the Salian dynasty had ruled for several generations. How much importance would that have in choosing his successor? She went over in her mind the possible candidates. There was his nephew Frederick of Swabia, eldest son of his sister Agnes, and Frederick’s brother Conrad – but Conrad had just left on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Frederick rebelled once, but he had been reinstated and was travelling with the court. He seemed to be the only candidate, but she was unsure whether the barons would accept him. Should she proclaim him as Henry’s heir? But he had made no such choice. ‘Take advice and God will guide you.’ It seemed he was as undecided as she was. On that thought she eventually fell asleep.

  Next day Henry seemed stronger and insisted on continuing his progress. They took a ship down the Rhine, heading for Utrecht. When she asked why he responded, ‘As long as I control Utrecht we have a port from which ships can sail to England. I cannot allow the likes of the Count of Flanders to come between me and my main ally.’

  Much work was in progress in Utrecht. Wharves and warehouses were being constructed along the newly canalized river. Henry insisted on inspecting them, but he was clearly in great pain. They were standing in a loading bay, watching a cargo of wool being unloaded, when he suddenly sagged to his knees. His face was deadly white and his lips were blue.

  ‘Help me, someone!’ she cried. ‘Send for the King’s physician.’

  Some of his courtiers lifted the King and laid him on a sack of wool. She fell on her knees beside him, chafing his hands, pierced by a sudden terrible fear.

  ‘Fetch the King’s chaplain! Quickly!’

  Frederick pushed through the throng and knelt on his other side.

  ‘Uncle, I am here. Speak to us. Name your successor!’

  Henry’s eyes flickered open. He looked from her to his nephew and his lips moved. She bent closer to hear him. He seemed to summon strength from somewhere and whispered, ‘Frederick, I commend my wife into your care. You are my heir.’

  There was a stir in the crowd surrounding them and a young priest shouldered his way to her side. To Matilda’s immense relief he carried a small box, which she knew must contain a phial of holy oil.

  ‘I was called for. I was told that there is someone who needs—’ He broke off, overwhelmed by the sudden realization of the identity of the man lying before him.

  ‘I thank God who sent you. My husband is in sore need of grace.’

  She stood up and the priest took her place. Leaning over Henry, he urged him to make confession of his sins, but the King did not appear to hear him.

  ‘I urge you, for the saving of your soul, to make the act of contrition. Do you truly repent of all your sins?’

  She watched, holding her breath. Henry’s eyes flickered and his lips moved. It was impossible to tell what he was trying to say, but the priest took it as assent and pronounced the words of absolution. Then he took the oil from its container, unstoppered the bottle and anointed Henry’s eyes, nose, mouth and ears, murmuring ‘Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit.’ He had hardly finished when she saw an indefinable but unmistakable change in her husband’s features. The priest saw it, too. He bent his head close to Henry’s, listening for any sign of breath, then laid his ear against his chest. He looked up and shook his head and began to recite the prayer for the dead.

  When he ceased there was a silence, as if all present were holding their breath. With a shock Matilda realized that they were waiting for someone to take control. Practical necessity came to her aid. She gave orders for Henry’s body to be removed to the nearby church; the necessary messages were sent to his household; necessary formalities were put in train. The same cold practicality got her through the ensuing days. The King’s body was prepared for burial. His heart and entrails were interred with due ceremony in the cathedral of St Martin in Utrecht. Then the cortege proceeded up the River Rhine to Speyer, where he was to be buried in the cathedral beside his father. Messengers galloped throughout the realm and beyond, carrying the news, and the great men of the land assembled for the funeral. It was the greatest gathering of nobles and prelates the country had seen since their wedding over ten years ago.

  They had not come primarily to pay their respects to the old king, but to ensure that their interests were served by the choice of the new one. It was time for alliances to be made, for factions to coalesce, bargains to be struck. It was generally accepted that Henry’s dying words appointing Frederick as his heir referred only to his own lands and possessions, not to the crown itself. No one asked for her opinion.

  When the ceremony was over she retreated to Trifels and for the first time she had a chance to think about the consequences of what had happened. All through a long night she struggled with the question of what part she should play in the coming debate. Henry had placed the royal regalia in her charge. Did he mean that she should be the one to choose his successor, or had he just given them to her for safekeeping? Did he intend Frederick to take his place? Should she try to impose him on the assembled nobles as the new king, and if she did would they accept him? She was not even sure that he would be the right choice. He had shown himself capable of vacillation when it came to the important matters of the realm. She twisted and turned on her pillow, but when sleep eventually came it brought no solution to her problems.

  Next day Archbishop Adalbert rode out to the castle and begged audience. She had never felt the same animosity towards him as her husband. Indeed, she had secretly been of the opinion that he had much right on his side in his struggle to reform the practices of the Church. Since she petitioned Henry for his release he had always treated her with kindness and respect; in fact she had sensed an almost fatherly affection. She received him gladly.

  That same fatherly concern was manifested in his behaviour now. He offered his condolences for her loss, asked after her health and promised that he would do whatever he could do to help in any way. His kindness broke down her last barriers of reserve.

  ‘I am greatly troubled,’ she confessed and told him about her conversation with Henry and the consignment of the regalia into her keeping. ‘I do not know what I should do now. Did he mean me to choose the next king? If so, who should it be?’

  Adalbert smiled gently. ‘Let me lift that burden from your shoulders. It is clear to me that the King gave you the royal regalia for safekeeping, to be handed over when the time came. It is not for yo
u to choose who should succeed him. By long tradition the ruler is elected by the chief men of the realm. Give the insignia to me. I will keep it safe and when the election is over I will bestow it on the new king at his coronation. You need have no further anxiety.’

  For a moment she hesitated. Then she recalled Henry’s words: ‘Listen to good advice and God will guide you.’ Adalbert was a man of God. This must be the guidance she had been waiting for. She handed over the chest containing the regalia and he set off back to Mainz, where the election would take place.

  It was not until much later that she understood how relinquishing the symbols of kingship had weakened her own position. Under the guidance of Adalbert, the nobles chose three of their number as electors: Leopold, margarve of Austria, Frederick of Swabia and Lothar of Supplinberg, one of Henry’s most turbulent subjects. It was Lothar, no friend to her, who was chosen as king.

  Alone in Trifels Castle she contemplated her future. Would the lands she was endowed with on her betrothal to Henry still be hers now he was dead? Even if they were, would she be able to protect them from the rapacity of the barons? Bitterly she recognized how much stronger her position would have been had she not accepted Henry’s belief that God did not intend him to have children. It had served her own inclinations at the time, but now she saw how much she had lost by it. In the cold early morning hours it began to dawn on her that she was now dependent on Lothar’s goodwill and her fate was in his hands. As long as she retained her position as the dowager empress, she presented a threat to him and a focus for opposition. He would have to dispose of her somehow. He might decide to give her in marriage to one of his adherents, as a reward for support or to ensure his loyalty; or she might be given the option of taking the veil. Either choice revolted her. To be married again to a man she could not love was insupportable; but she could not reconcile herself to the life of a cloistered nun. From the age of eight she had been the cosseted and spoilt bride of a great king; for the last ten years she had been a queen and an empress, and the trusted consort of the ruler. Now she was alone and vulnerable. She was twenty-five years old, and the future seemed to hold neither hope nor comfort.

  6

  WINDSOR, JANUARY 1127

  ‘I, David, King of Scotland, do swear by Almighty God and on this Holy Relic, that should King Henry die without further issue, I will faithfully defend and support his daughter, the Lady Matilda.’

  Enthroned beside her father in the great hall of Windsor Castle, Matilda surveyed the assembled nobility of England. The Archbishop of Canterbury had already taken the oath, as had all the bishops. Now it was the turn of the great secular lords, led by David, her mother’s brother. King of Scotland in his own right, he also owed fealty to Henry for his English lands and attended his court. She smiled down at him as he knelt, his hands placed between her own. Since she returned to England he, of all the nobles at her father’s court, had shown her the greatest sympathy and kindness.

  As the next man stepped forward there was a disturbance.

  ‘My liege, I protest!’ Anselm, the abbot of Bury St Edmunds, thrust himself in front of the King. ‘As lords spiritual, we should be next to take the oath.’

  Matilda suppressed an exclamation of irritation. The order of precedence had been agreed after much discussion, and it infuriated her that these overweening clerics were constantly attempting to claim superiority over the men of noble birth who ran the kingdom. She had had enough of the constant war between Church and state in Germany.

  Henry glowered at Anselm. ‘It has been decided. No more argument! Stand aside and let Earl Robert make his vow.’

  Robert stepped forward and knelt. Matilda welcomed his oath of fealty as she had David’s. One of Henry’s bastards, he had been brought up at court and had proved himself one of the ablest and most loyal of their father’s knights. As a result, he was now one of Henry’s most trusted councillors and had been rewarded with the earldom of Gloucester. Tall and broad shouldered, he had his father’s sharp dark eyes. He had the reputation of being invincible in battle and in the tourney, and he had also inherited Henry’s astute intelligence and tactical sense. Some years older than herself, he was another who had welcomed her and shown her affection when she arrived.

  One by one, some with better grace than others, the rest came forward, knelt, and spoke the words of the oath. She watched the faces. Some of them were already familiar, others were strangers to her. She was under no illusion that they were swearing of their own free will. Henry had summoned them from all over England and Normandy to attend his Christmas court and had refused to let any of them depart until they had taken the oath.

  It was almost a year since a message reached her at Trifels that the King her father wished her to join him in Normandy. She had not hesitated but had gathered together all the valuables she could carry: the resplendent jewels given to her over the years by her husband the emperor, together with two crowns worn by him on various occasions, and most treasured of all, a reliquary containing the hand of St James. They had not been in the chest containing the royal regalia and so had not been handed over to Aadalbert. With these and a small escort of loyal knights, she had slipped out of Trifels and ridden for the border. Henry had sent an escort to meet her and take her to him at Rouen, where she had been greeted with cheers and flowers. It had felt then as if her troubles were over.

  In the months that followed she had realized that her father’s court was not the peaceful harbour she had imagined. Adeliza had not produced the longed-for heir and Henry’s temper was becoming more and more uncertain. Normandy was constantly harassed by threats of invasion from neighbouring dukedoms, with the support of Louis of France, and the victory at Bourgetheroulde had bought only a temporary respite. The death of William in the White Ship had put an end to his marriage to the daughter of Fulk of Anjou, and lost Henry a valuable alliance. With the succession still in doubt, only the King’s prowess in battle and cunning in keeping his unruly vassals under control prevented the kingdom from disintegrating.

  During the course of the year she had got to know her father for the first time. He was not an easy man to get close to, but she had come to respect his many abilities. First and foremost, of course, he was a warrior and a great commander, but it was away from the battlefield that he showed his real talent. He controlled the mighty barons of England and Normandy by promising rewards of land and honours but never actually handing them over. His anger was a force to be feared and a man could lose his favour with an unwise word, and between that danger and the promise of preferment he kept them in a state of constant uncertainty. To those whom he trusted he was generous and they served him with unshakable loyalty. Besides Robert, one of the most favoured was Brian fitz Count, another bastard, fathered by Count Alain of Brittany, who was once married to Henry’s sister Constance. He too had been brought up at the English court and readily admitted that he owed everything to Henry.

  Henry was not called ‘Beauclerc’ for nothing. He was well educated and understood the value of education in others. For this reason he had surrounded himself with a number of clever men from humble backgrounds and promoted them to high office, much to the fury of his nobles, many of whom could neither read nor write. As a result, the administration of the affairs of both England and Normandy was far more efficient than before, to the benefit of the King’s treasury.

  There seemed, however, to be no solution in sight to the problem of the succession. Adeliza welcomed her with delight when she first arrived, recalling fond memories of how she had interceded on behalf of her father all those years ago, but her joy had quickly given way to tears.

  ‘I am so afraid! The King so longs for a child. I fear he will put me away because I am barren and find some pretext to divorce me. And then what will become of me?’

  ‘He cannot do that,’ Matilda had responded, but without much certainty. ‘The Church would not allow it. Tell me, does he … come to you frequently?’

  ‘Oh yes! Almost every n
ight when he is not away on campaign. But … but …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t like to say it. It seems disloyal.’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘Sometimes he … he cannot … he said it is my fault, that I do not do enough to excite him, but I do try to please him in every way I can. I am not one of those women who … who has learned to do things …’

  She broke off and Matilda put her arms round her. ‘I understand what you mean. It is not your fault. You are not a whore. If Henry can only perform the act with such a one, then he must do without legitimate children. God knows, he has plenty of bastards! He has squandered his seed and perhaps this is God’s way of punishing him.’

  In spite of all this, she enjoyed her time in Rouen. Henry’s court was sophisticated. There were musicians and minstrels, and learned men to talk to, and she had been free from the constant need to plan and scheme to thwart her husband’s enemies and to travel around the kingdom to quell rebellion. Then, in September, Henry had brought her to England. She had heard rumours about the climate and the food, and they were all true. It seemed to her that it had rained constantly since their arrival. The food was monotonous and the wine all but undrinkable – though that did not seem to deter most of Henry’s courtiers. More importantly, she had the impression that they did not regard her with the respect due to her rank. To them, she was no more than the King’s widowed daughter. The title of Empress and Queen of the Romans meant nothing to them. She had found it hard to accept their unceremonious manner towards her and as a result she was aware that they thought her proud and lacking womanly modesty.

  Now, at last, that was being changed. As she sat beside her father and listened to nobleman after noblemen pledging their loyalty and support, she felt that her proper position was being recognized.