by Hilary Green
Spring arrived at last and for the first time she began to appreciate the country, with its rich pasture and fertile fields, but the sunshine was uncertain and she was always cold. They were in Henry’s castle in Winchester when she was summoned to his presence. He was in one of his famous rages.
‘God damn him! The treacherous villain!’
‘Who, my lord?’
‘Clito! My misbegotten nephew! He has married the daughter of Rainer of Montferrat. She’s kin to Louis of France. He’s my brother’s son! Why does he try to thwart me at every turn?’
‘You have had his father imprisoned for years, since you defeated him at Tinchebrai,’ she pointed out. ‘It isn’t surprising that Clito hates you.’
Henry merely growled. ‘Traitors, both of them. And now Clito is Count of Flanders – right on the borders of Normandy and just a day’s sail from the English coast.’
‘And his father is being kept at Devizes,’ she mused. ‘Too close to the south coast. Clito might be tempted to invade to release him.’
‘Good point.’
‘Why don’t you send him to Robert of Gloucester’s stronghold at Cardiff? Robert can be trusted to keep him safe.’
Henry gave her a sharp glance. ‘You’re quick to grasp strategic necessities. That’s good. You’ll understand what I am going to say next. It’s time we arranged a new marriage for you.’
She felt a physical jolt, as if the air in front of her had suddenly become solid. She had known since her husband’s death that this was likely to be her fate. A young widow with royal blood was too great an asset to be wasted, but until today Henry had not mentioned it and she had begun to hope that he had other plans for her, or at least that she might be given some choice in the matter.
‘Marriage?’ she said cautiously. ‘Who did you have in mind?’
‘I have had embassies from Lotharingia and Lombardy asking for you, but I have told them I have other plans. You will marry Geoffrey of Anjou.’
‘Geoffrey?’ For a moment she could not think who he meant. Then the realization hit her like a drench of icy water. ‘Fulk’s son? He’s only a child, surely!’
‘He’s fifteen, soon to be sixteen. Old enough to father children.’
She stared at him in unbelief. ‘You expect me to lie with a boy of sixteen?’
‘I expect you to do your duty as a daughter, and as a wife. I’ve spoken to the boy. He’s intelligent, answered my questions with wisdom beyond his years. And he is comely enough, if that matters to you. They call him “le bel”.’
‘In that case he is probably vain and spoilt.’
‘He’s a splendid horseman and adept with arms of every kind. He will make an excellent knight.’
‘He is not even a knight yet?’
‘That can be remedied very quickly.’
‘But he has no title, no lands.’
‘That, too, will be changed very soon. His father, Fulk, has been offered the hand of Melisande, the heiress of Baldwin of Jerusalem. He will be King of Jerusalem and he will leave Anjou to Geoffrey.’
‘He may hope that.’ In her mind’s turmoil she seized upon any negative point that offered itself. ‘But will the lords who hold Jerusalem accept him?’
‘Whether they do or not does not matter to us. Geoffrey will be Count of Anjou.’
‘A count!’ She drew herself up and fixed her father with a haughty stare. ‘I am an empress! I will not lower myself to marry a mere count.’
‘You were an empress,’ Henry responded dryly. ‘Now you are just a widow and my daughter – and as such you will do as I bid you.’
‘Never! You will have to drag me to the altar in fetters – and even then I will refuse to speak the vows.’
He did not fly into a rage, as she expected. Instead he said grimly, ‘So be it. This marriage will take place. Until then you may keep to your chambers.’
He called for one of the men-at-arms who guarded the door and bade him conduct her to her room. She recognized that a refusal would only result in a humiliating defeat, so she went without another word.
It was tantamount to a prison sentence. She was not allowed to leave her rooms for any reason. Her ladies-in-waiting and her servants were dismissed and replaced with others she did not know, so there was no one she could confide in, no one to carry a message for her. Not that she could think of anyone who might help. She was painfully aware that she had no real friends in Henry’s court.
After some days her half-brother, Robert of Gloucester, came to see her.
‘Sister, I beg you to yield to our father’s wishes. You know as well as I do that people of our rank and position are not free to marry where our fancy takes us. We have a duty to consider the wellbeing of the realm.’
‘But a boy of fifteen!’ she exclaimed. ‘Surely our father could have chosen a more suitable candidate.’
‘It is a strategic necessity. Anjou borders Normandy. It must be under the control of someone who has ties to us, not someone who might choose to help the rebellious barons, or form an alliance with Louis of France against us.’
She clamped her jaw shut. ‘There has to be another way. Does not our father have a bastard daughter he can farm out to this boy count?’
Robert gave up, shaking his head. Her next visitor was her confessor.
‘Daughter, you are committing a mortal sin by defying your father. Be advised by me. Make yourself conformable to his will.’
Then a letter arrived from Bishop Hildebert of Lavardin. She had met him in Rouen and developed an affection for him. He was a gentle and wise teacher and reminded her of Bruno, who was her tutor as a child. In the letter he chided her for causing her father so much distress by her disobedience and begged her to abide by his wishes. She sat with the letter in her lap and, for the first time since the confrontation with Henry, she wept. It was an admission of defeat.
She was escorted to Rouen to be betrothed to Geoffrey by Robert and Brian fitz Count. As they rode south from Winchester she maintained a stony silence, repulsing all attempts at conversation. That night they were entertained in Southampton Castle by William, Count of Aumale, nicknamed ‘le gros’ for his huge girth. He set out a magnificent feast for them but she hardly touched her food and as soon as possible she retired to the solar. Her ladies, cowed by her mood, grouped together and whispered, while she sat apart. After a little while, Robert and Brian came in. Robert drew a stool close to her chair and looked earnestly into her face.
‘My dear sister, it saddens us both to see you so downcast. I understand that this match is not one you would choose, but it is the King’s decree and we have no choice but to obey.’
Brian brought a stool to her other side. He was a good-looking man, with golden brown hair that curled onto his forehead and hazel eyes which normally held a glint of mischief; but tonight he was solemn.
‘Madam, please believe me, I favour this marriage no more than you do. There are many men I could name more deserving of your hand. But it is as Robert said. We must obey the King. But I beg you, do not turn your face away from those who would be your friends and would offer what comfort they can.’
She looked at him and remembered that he himself was married to a much older woman. It was a marriage arranged for him by Henry and had brought him the lordship of Wallingford, giving him, a landless boy, a castle and an income. It had made his fortune, but it could not be a love match. From his expression she guessed that he understood her distress and she realized how churlish her behaviour must seem.
‘Forgive me, sir. I did not intend to inflict my evil mood on my companions. I know that you mean me nothing but good. As you say, we are all the King’s subjects and must do as he commands.’
He took her hand and kissed it and she felt a shiver of pleasure, such as she had not known since the loss of Drogo. ‘I ask only to be allowed to lighten your burden on this journey. It is little enough, but all I can offer.’
The next day, on board ship, he sat beside her and entertained her
with accounts of adventures in Henry’s service. He was a well-educated man with a lively wit and before long she found herself first smiling and then laughing aloud. That night, in Henry’s castle at Barfleur, he revealed a new talent. He had a fine light baritone voice and sang to his own accompaniment on the lute. He sat by her and sang softly, as if for her ears alone. It was a ballad, on a theme much loved by minstrels everywhere: the sad plaint of a knight in love with lady far above his station.
When he finished she said, ‘That is a lovely air, and one I have not heard before. Is it new?’
He smiled. ‘Very new, my lady. It was only written last night.’
‘Last night? By whom … you mean you …’ She understood abruptly what dangerous waters she had ventured into. She looked down at him. ‘You understand I am to be betrothed. Whether I like it or not, I will never betray my future husband.’
He sighed and nodded. ‘I understand, my lady. Neither of us is free to fulfil their own desires.’
As they rode towards Rouen, he was always at her side, while Robert rode ahead with the vanguard of her escort. But next morning she saw him from her window in conversation with her brother. It was obvious from their manner that they were engaged in a vigorous argument. Finally Robert made a sharp gesture of command and Brian turned away angrily, but from then on he kept a distance between them.
At Rouen Castle she saw her future husband for the first time. True to his reputation, he was a remarkably handsome youth. His russet hair shone in the sun like a bronze helmet and his eyes were the colour of summer skies; his features were regular and his figure slim and athletic. It was not hard to see why he was nicknamed ‘le bel’. Nor was it hard to see from his bearing that he delighted in the admiration he attracted. She took an instant dislike to him.
She went through the ritual solemnity of the betrothal stony-faced and with her head held high, and scarcely looked at her future husband. She had vowed to herself that, though she had been forced to go through with the match, he would have no joy of it.
In June of the following year Henry ordained a great knighting ceremony in Rouen. The cream of the nobility of Normandy and Anjou had assembled and the town was overflowing with their entourages, plus the merchants and small traders who were always attracted to such events in the hope of making a quick profit. The streets were decked out with banners and flowers and vivid with the colours of men’s cloaks and women’s gowns, as the citizens tried to ape the fashions of the nobility.
Matilda sat beside her father in the centre of the great cathedral. She was dressed in a bliaut, a style of gown in the latest fashion, which fitted closely to her upper body and then spread into a full skirt, a style that suited her slim figure. It had tight sleeves to the elbow which then opened out into a trumpet shape. The gown was in a delicate shade of green and she wore a girdle embroidered with gold round her waist. Over it she wore a mantle of darker green, richly embellished with gold stars and moons. She would have liked to wear her crown, but it had been made clear to her that it would not be appropriate. Instead a simple gold fillet held her veil in place.
In front of them, on the steps leading up to the high altar, Geoffrey knelt, clad in a simple white robe. His head was bent and in the candlelight his hair shone like polished copper. She knew that he would have been there, keeping silent vigil, all night and for a fleeting moment she felt sympathy. He must be chilled and aching in every limb, but he knelt on, unmoving. The murmur of voices from the crowd filling the nave fell silent as the archbishop and all his attendant clergy entered and the mass began. When it was over Geoffrey rose and turned to face the congregation. Henry stepped forward to face him. His two sponsors, his father and another nobleman, handed him the sword and shield, which had been lying on the altar. Geoffrey knelt again and repeated the words of the oath of knighthood, promising to be loyal to his lord, a brave defender of the weak and to treat all women with courtesy. This last provoked in Matilda a grim internal smile. Henry struck him on the shoulders with the flat of his sword.
‘I dub thee Sir Knight.’
The congregation cheered, trumpets sounded and the ceremony was over.
Next day there was a tournament to celebrate the occasion. Galleries of tiered seats had been erected in an open field outside the city gates. Matilda took her place beside her father in the centre of one of them. For that occasion she was dressed in blue and silver. All round her men and women were chatting and laughing. The sun was shining and there was an air of festival but she sat like a statue, allowing no sign of either pleasure or distress to show in her face. It was a talent she had cultivated over the past year. She knew that people were beginning to call her haughty and arrogant, but she did not care. She wanted everyone to see that this marriage was not of her choosing. Henry, meanwhile, laughed and joked with those around him.
A trumpet sounded and the knights who were to take part in the tournament rode into the arena and dismounted to bow to Henry. All eyes were on Geoffrey and she could not help but follow their gaze. He was splendidly dressed and accoutred. He was wearing a hauberk of closely woven rings of steel, shoes of iron with golden spurs, and a helmet studded with precious gems, which glittered in the sunlight. Having made his bow, he turned to his horse and vaulted into the saddle without touching the stirrups – no mean feat in full armour. The crowd cheered and he acknowledged the applause with a wave. ‘Vain, as I thought,’ she said to herself.
At either end of the field there were banks where bushes of broom were in full flower. As Geoffrey cantered back towards the lists a young woman stepped forward and held up a sprig of bloom. He reined in and leaned down to her, took the sprig and fixed it in his helmet. Matilda understood that he would fight wearing this other woman’s favour rather than asking her for one. The implications would not be lost on the watching crowd.
There was no denying that he acquitted himself well in the mélèe that climaxed the proceedings. He was fighting on the weaker side, but he succeeded in unhorsing a giant of a man from the opposing team. It went without saying that he would be awarded the prize for the most successful knight. It would have been easy to give way to the excitement of the occasion. She had watched many tournaments before and had always found them thrilling. But this time she forced herself to remain impassive throughout, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing that she was impressed.
That night there was a banquet and she found herself for the first time seated next to him, unable to avoid conversation. The sprig of broom was now in his hat. There was no point in trying to ignore it.
‘I see you still wear the favour you were given earlier,’ she said.
He gave her a charming smile that did not quite reach his eyes. ‘It brought me luck today so I shall wear it always as my badge of honour. It is called in Latin planta genesta. I think from now on I shall call myself Plantagenet.’
She lifted her shoulders in a gesture of disinterest. ‘As you please.’
He reached across and tried to take her hand, but she withdrew it and clasped it in her lap. She saw him flush and his lips took on a childish pout. She thought, I was right. He is spoilt and petulant. He expects everyone to fall at his feet. Well, he will learn that I am not so easy to impress.
He said, ‘Why are you so cold? Do I not please you? If we are to be married you must be kinder to me than this.’
After the meal there was dancing. Normally this was something she would enjoy, but tonight she was forced to lead the dance with Geoffrey. He danced well but showily, with many extra flourishes and athletic leaps. She did not attempt to match him but paced through the measures with what she hoped was both dignity and grace. As he led her back to their seats he said in an undertone, ‘Can you not smile? Am I to have to put up with your ill manners after we are wed?’
She met his eyes. ‘I see nothing to smile about, sir.’
He threw down her hand and turned away, and for the rest of the evening he danced and flirted with all the most beautiful women in t
he room. When other members of the court asked her to dance she pleaded exhaustion and kept to her seat.
7
ROUEN AND ANJOU, 1128-29
The wedding took place one week later. Once again, there was a great feast and she was powerfully reminded of her first wedding. She recalled her anxious fears about what was to follow and thought bitterly that she looked forward to the night to come with just as much dread, though for very different reasons. Now she understood only too well what was expected of her. She ate little and drank less, but she saw that Geoffrey was draining his goblet with a frequency that told her he was as uneasy as she was. When at last the final sweetmeats had been consumed, her father brought the feasting to a close with a jovial remark about not keeping young lovers from their bed. He was perfectly aware of her unwilling compliance in the match, but he was determined to behave as if nothing was amiss.
Her ladies took her up to the chamber that had been prepared for them and helped her to undress, but there was no giggling or ribald jokes this time. Her demeanour made it clear that such things would not be tolerated. When she was in her nightgown she dismissed them, but she did not get into bed. Instead she knelt at the prie-dieu in the corner of the room.
‘Merciful God, guide me tonight! I have made vows before you to obey this man, who is now my husband, but must I prostitute myself to a boy who cares nothing for me, nor I for him?’
There was no answer, and she expected none. Outside there was the sound of drunken male laughter, then the door opened and closed.
‘You can get up off your knees. The time for praying is over.’
He was in a night robe, his face flushed with alcohol, his hair tousled. She got up and their eyes met.
He said, ‘Take off your robe. I want to see you naked.’
‘No.’
‘Take it off! I am your husband and I command it.’
She held his gaze. ‘And if I refuse, what will you do? I will not submit without a struggle and I do not think my father will be impressed if he sees me tomorrow with bruises on my face. Or do you plan to call your servants to strip me? How the court gossips will relish that story!’