But if there were vacant chairs at Westminster, there was a shortage of seats at Wallingford. The Earl of Gloucester thrust his long jaw into the castle in February, and again in April. Miles of Hereford called by twice in three months, and scarcely a week passed without the warning shout of ‘Riders on the river path!’ and the subsequent identification of a noble visitor. They came to pay their respects to Lord Fitz Count, and to study this most easterly outpost of rebellion. They were charmed by Alyse, impressed by Brien, and subjected to the unsmiling scrutiny of Varan and his protegé, Sergeant Morcar. If Matilda and her bastard brother gave the barons spiritual encouragement, Brien and Alyse and the others taught them the stern practicalities of defence. They came and they went, these callers, and, when they returned home, they put into practice what they had learned at Wallingford-on-the-Thames.
Then, in early July, the most important visitor of all sent word that she was on her way…
Alyse felt greater foreboding at that time than she had ever felt before. From the day she had married Brien she had lived with the knowledge of Matilda. Throughout the years she had heard him speak well of the empress and, because she loved her husband, she had used smiles like brushwood to conceal her jealousy. There were long periods when the feeling lay dormant, and she accepted that whatever had been between them was over and done with. Then somebody, not always Brien, would mention Matilda, and Alyse would remember the letter she had discovered and allowed to unfold and allowed herself to read – ‘To Brien Fitz Count, Lord of Wallingford, the most affectionate greetings and the most gentle embrace, from Matilda, his friend.’ Then the pain would return, and the fears would mount.
It did not help Alyse to watch Brien prepare for the visit. He had never been innately vain, yet now he crouched in front of his precious hammered silver mirror, grooming his hair and brushing soot around the temples. He trained himself to walk with a spring, and for the first time cursed the natural wear and weather of his clothes. And as she watched him, Alyse realised that he, too, was living in fear. He might have presented himself as the firm and tolerant man he was. But instead he chose to play the youth, anxious to appear unchanged by time or travail. Did he really believe the empress had not aged, or would fail to recognise him if he was white around the ears? Did he think a dab of soot would make the world spin backwards?
Yes, she sighed, for everything must fit with his dream.
They had been given a week’s warning, and the slender, dark-haired chatelaine woke every night and stared at the flickering candles in the bed-chamber, and listened for the shout and the hoofbeats. But Matilda did not arrive until the last day, and that seemed true to her nature.
She came in the afternoon, escorted by one of the largest columns Brien and Alyse had ever seen. They knew it must be her, and scarcely heard the alarm. They were dressed, as they had been dressed throughout the week, in their finest clothes, their newest shoes, their most valuable jewellery. High on their lookout tower, they watched the armoured column wind its way along the river path. ‘It is she,’ Brien announced. ‘Come on down. Let’s be at the gate to greet her.’
Alyse put a hand on his arm, frowned with concern, and said, ‘You’re trembling like a man with palsy. Wait on awhile, until—’
‘Don’t worry!’ he joked. ‘I’m thinking of all those mouths we have to feed! Men and horses!’
She looked at him, saw the tremor reach his lips, and murmured, ‘Yes, of course. It’s as well we have the food.’ Oh, my sweet Brien… What is she to you? How can she make you gibber, when the threat of fire and sword leaves you unmoved? You have had your women, more than most, and you are happy with me, and yet this single creature drives you to distraction. Why? For God’s sake, why?
He moved to the top of the steps, and beckoned to her, and held out his hand to guide her down. She snatched a last glance at the column, but she could not yet see Matilda. The guards continued shouting and, as she caught Brien’s hand, she could hear the drum of hoofbeats and the clink of metal. She said, ‘Go gentle, husband,’ and he said, ‘If I know anything, I know these steps.’
* * *
‘Well, well,’ she thought, ‘my brother’s not far off the truth. It is a pretty place.’
She raised a hand and stared with shadowed eyes at the battlements. The southern wall-walks were crowded with soldiers and servants, and the shouts of alarm had changed to a welcoming chorus. Only Brien and Varan and a handful of long-service troops had ever set eyes on the empress, but the banners of Anjou that fluttered above the column were enough to identify the caller. The garrison cheered as she approached, and then she removed her helmet and turned to look back at the column. The movement sent her long russet hair swinging around her shoulders, and the watchers roared with delight. ‘There, d’you see? There she is, Henry’s daughter! And then the chant – ‘Mat-ilda… Mat-ilda… Mat-ilda!’
The gates were open and she rode through, accompanied by her cavalry captain and a dozen knights. The body of the column halted on the river path, where they were kept in line by travel-weary sergeants.
Matilda entered the outer bailey, saw Brien – He’s darkened his hair; Gloucester said it was ashy – and beside him, Alyse. So… My brother was right about you, lady; you are the beauty. But let’s see a smile, if only in pretence. Look, I’ll show you how.
She raised a hand to the watchers on the wall, and they took up the chant again. Ostlers hurried forward with mounting steps, covered for the occasion with orange silk, but the empress ignored them and sent her horse trotting around the yard. Brien and Alyse waited for her to come across to them, or stop and dismount. Standing at Brien’s shoulder, Varan said, ‘She’s playing hard to catch,’ and with an embarrassed scowl Brien told him, ‘She has the right to be seen. The people welcome the tour, if you’ll listen.’
The constable’s expression had the permanence of granite, but his eyes were bleak with disapproval. He was one of the people, far more than Fitz Count, and he knew that when the cheering stopped they would wonder why Matilda had preferred them to their liege-lord. One did not visit a friend’s house and first parade for the kitchen staff.
She came around the yard, swelling the cheers as she saluted the guards who manned the northern towers. Then, her popularity assured, she reined-in before her hosts. The ostlers positioned the steps and she climbed down. Behind her, the captain and knights stayed in their saddles, dominating Fitz Count. Brien stepped forward and knelt on the hard-packed ground.
‘The Lord of Heaven bless your arrival, Highness. This day is one for which we—’
‘Too soon, Brien Fitz Count. Call me Empress, which I once was, or Countess, which I am now, but not yet Highness. That’s to come, with your help.’
Varan gazed at her, his fists clenched against his thighs. Christ on the Cross, could she not allow her most loyal disciple to complete his first sentence? What did the title matter when he had crowned her with a word?
Alyse was also taken aback by the interruption, though her feelings were already confused. In appearance, Matilda surpassed Brien’s most glowing descriptions and the chatelaine’s worst fears. Her skin was flawless, her figure perfectly created, her voice low and strong. She was a creature of legend, the incarnation of an artist’s dream. Angels were painted so, and the heroines of fable. She was Woman for all the Christian World, and an object of worship in the minds of men. One could come no closer to the ideal than to fill the reservoirs of one’s gaze with the image of Empress Matilda.
Alyse distrusted her on sight. She acknowledged that part of this had to do with Brien, and it had, for how else could she feel about the woman who so completely haunted her husband? But her confusion did not arise from these expected feelings. She had made room in her mind for them, and Matilda’s arrival merely gave them substance. Her confusion arose from another, more sinister fear – a premonition that could not yet be identified. Again it concerned Brien, or rather involved him, for at present his only concern was to placate his visitor
.
He apologised for his anticipation, welcomed the empress to his castle – no, he smiled, to her castle – and presented his wife, the Lady Alyse, descendant of Saxon kings.
‘We have met before,’ Matilda said, ‘in ink. When you were suffering your first reversals, three years ago or more, your lady wrote to me, pleading impoverishment. She said you were about to lose Wallingford.’ She nodded at Alyse. ‘We must all exaggerate our problems in time of need, eh, my lady?’
Alyse stared at her, then shook her head. ‘It was the truth,’ she said. ‘It needed no embellishment. We were spent out on that first, hollow alert.’ She thought of other things to say in defence of her plea, but Matilda’s gaze had already wandered.
Incensed by such calculated discourtesy, and by the wounding misinterpretation of her letter, Alyse struck back. ‘My husband can fully explain how things were when I appealed to you, Highness, but he will do so more easily on his feet. And your riders intimidate me. Set them down, if you will, before they’re mistaken for invaders.’ Ignoring Brien, a thing she had never done before, she nodded at Constable Varan. He moved forward immediately and said, ‘We always separate the man from his horse, messires. Or, if you prefer to sit, shed your weapons.’
A dozen mouths sagged open, then snapped shut. Two dozen eyes scorched Matilda’s russet hair, but she dared not turn to face them. To do so would be to admit that she had placed them there, aware that they posed a threat. Instead, she looked at Alyse – how quickly you learn, for a Saxon offspring – then at Varan – yes, we have all heard about you, monster – then at Brien, who was once again on his feet.
She said, ‘We have set no limit on our call here,’ and Alyse touched Varan on the arm, and he growled, ‘It’s in hand, my lady,’ and told the empress, ‘Correct. It’s Lord Fitz Count who sets the limits. If your men have come to stay, they’ll join us on foot. You see the value of it. We may be short of money, but we still control our house.’
Matilda said, ‘I thought Fitz Count called it mine—’ then realised that she, once wife of the Emperor of Germany, now wife of the Count of Anjou, and future Queen of England, was being held to account by this hideous, blunt-nosed Saxon. Christ and His angels! They laid some pretty traps along the Thames!
As she sealed her lips, Varan continued, this time addressing the mounted line. ‘Now you know our ways, messires, dismount, or sit outside; whichever you will. But nobody looks down on the Fitz Counts, Lord or Lady, and least of all in their own home!’ His seamed and chiselled face was purpled with anger. This was why they kept him at Wallingford. Why else would they pay high for a bare-fanged dog, unless it could strike terror into an intruder? And there was something personal in it, for he was sixty-two years of age, and he was being challenged by a dozen disdainful knights and a grizzled captain of cavalry who should have known better. Well, messires, the dog snarls, and is anxious to bite.
‘Down or out. Make your choice.’
They dismounted without a word, and the ostlers and off-duty soldiers and farm-bred servants came forward to collect the horses. As they did so, Alyse moved over and linked her arm in Brien’s. He looked at her, and there was pain in his eyes, for he, too, was being forced to choose.
‘Well,’ Matilda said, ‘now that you have confiscated our transport, you are stuck with us. Are we allowed into the keep, or would that also contravene the rules of the house?’
Brien shook his head, unwilling to hold her responsible for her words. She was tired, that was it, fatigued by the journey from Bristol, exhausted by the ebb and flow of recent events. They had demanded too much of her; no wonder she was snappish.
He slipped his arm free from Alyse and held it out parallel to the ground, his fingers extended. ‘You know you are welcome, Empress. If your senior knight will escort my lady—’
‘Otto de Rochese.’
Brien acknowledged the man who bowed in line, then continued, ‘—we will go inside. My own knights will entertain yours in the inner yard. The tables should be set up there by now.’ He moved beside Matilda, then felt his body stir with excitement as she laid her hand over his. Her skin was cool, and she curled her thumb around the edge of his hand. He told Varan to find Sergeant Morcar and see that the waiting column were fed, both men and horses. Alyse glanced sharply at him, but what was said was said, and she could not make him reverse the command. There were few warlords as well versed in administration as Brien Fitz Count, so he must be aware that his generosity would halve the food-stocks of Wallingford.
Matilda did not trouble to thank him. Why should she?
Greylock had known she would visit him, and had therefore known she would travel with a large protective force. He must have made provision, else he would not have said eat. Gratitude was unnecessary.
They went through the inner gate, Matilda with Brien, Alyse with the bulky Otto de Rochese. The knight said, ‘I’m as hungry as a brachet hound,’ then coughed when Alyse ignored the remark.
Varan watched them go, and let his shoulders sag to release the tension. Then he turned to the south wall and called up to the garrison knights to come and take charge of their visitors.
Sergeant Morcar also responded to the call, first helping Edgiva down the steps, then nodding as she said, ‘Lady Alyse may need me in there.’
‘Go along then.’ He smiled at his wife. ‘You want to rub shoulders with the empress, is that it?’
‘Why not? I sat in the next room to her cousin, the king, you remember?’
‘I remember. The night of his coronation, when you could have spent the time with me.’
Pleased that he still felt greedy for her, she repaid his smile and hurried away towards the inner gate. Morcar caught Varan’s impatient gaze and went over to join him. Matilda’s knights were no longer in line, but bunched together, discussing painful ways of dispatching the watchdog of Wallingford. They were astonished when Morcar arrived. Fitz Count must have a mould, from which he turned out these gravelled brutes…
* * *
Matilda stayed with them until the evening. They discussed the progress of the war, and Alyse nursed her premonition, waiting for it to die, or blossom like some colourful, poisonous weed. In the heart of her heart she knew what it was, but it was too cruel a thing to set in the light.
She believed that Empress Matilda would someday destroy Brien Fitz Count.
There it was, unsupported by evidence, an intuition that could not be communicated. There were no witnesses she could call, no example she could cite, nothing to bolster the indefensible conviction that Matilda would ruin Brien. And worse – something the chatelaine could scarcely accommodate, even within the most private recess of her mind – the more ominous conviction that it would be done without regret, since the empress felt not the slightest dusting of genuine affection for Greylock of Wallingford.
He believed he loved Matilda, and she him, and Alyse had yet to discover what, in his past, had fostered such ardent worship. She, too, had believed it, and lived with the fear of it – until now. But today, seeing the elegant, peerlessly beautiful Matilda for the first time, Alyse abandoned her own defences and moved to safeguard her husband.
She knew she could be accused of jealousy, possessiveness, meanness of spirit. Look at Matilda, the world would say. She is unsurpassed. Listen to her when she is not under such present strain. Hear how she can charm and hearten. Admire her for her courage, this woman who dares to out-stare men. She is faultless, can you not see it, a perfect creation.
And what are you, but a Saxon lady in a small, well-sited castle, the wife of a minor baron, a beautiful creature made plain alongside the empress, the countess, the soon-to-be-queen? Your skin is as green as emerald, Lady Alyse, as green as the stone of envy. Oh, yes, the world would say all that, and it would be impossible to deny.
But the world could go hang. Dogs scent cats, don’t they? Scouts scent an ambush. Criminals scent arrest. Why, then, should a woman not sniff the perfumed air and know her husband was entranced
?
Throughout that warm July afternoon, Alyse watched Brien become more deeply enmeshed in the web. Every phrase he used, every movement he made, every expression he adopted, all were arranged to please the empress. This man, who was known across the disc of the world for his courage and loyalty, and respected, even by his enemies, for his unswerving moderation – often more severe than extremism – this man who should have been the first to recognise falsity of emotion was stuck like a fly on the sticky strands of flattery.
Alyse sat in her high-backed chair and watched Matilda go to work. The last time Brien had met the empress was in the summer of 1132. Alyse had been his wife for three years then, and it was the only occasion on which he had left her and travelled abroad. And now, eight years later, he was as enamoured as ever. He laughed where, at other times, he would have smiled, and yessed in place of a nod.
Matilda drummed her long fingers on the table and said, ‘I heard you were a father, Greylock. Where’s the boy?’
‘No,’ Brien told her. ‘We have no children. Who told you—’
‘I forget. Someone. No matter, you’ll be pleased to learn that my sons thrive. In particular, the young Henry. But you would know that.’
Alyse eased forward in her chair and watched Brien suck at the wine he had served. She heard Matilda continue, ‘He’s a strapping lad, though I suspect he will also discolour.’
‘How so?’ she asked, as Brien frowned into his glass.
‘Oh, it’s an unfounded suspicion,’ Matilda dismissed. ‘It’s just that I remember, when Greylock and I were children together, he had the same pallor to his skin. Henry’s healthy, as I say, but—’
‘Then he is already discoloured.’
The Villains of the Piece Page 14