‘It’s fine, you can trust him – he’s a Swabian, one of the Emperor’s finest.’
‘My Lady, I’m sorry my message arrived a little melodramatically.’
‘Melodramatically, indeed – you nearly speared my maid to the floor! But it was a fine shot. Where did you learn to use a bow like that?’
‘I am an English knight, my Lady; we practise with a bow as soon as we can walk. We heard a scream – I hope it didn’t alert your guards.’
‘It did, but I told them it was a rat!’
Once again, I was impressed by Matilda’s composure. And yet I couldn’t help thinking that her lightness of tone was a clever way of masking her vulnerability.
‘How are you, my Lady?’
‘I am relieved you are here; we barely know one another, but I need help. The King has insisted that I return to Angers and apologize to my husband. He is livid with me for having tested his authority.’
‘And what do you want to do?’
‘I want to escape. When my first husband was alive, the whole of Europe supplicated themselves at my feet. I was regent in Lombardy and in the lands of the Swiss – and even the Pope knelt before me when he needed to keep his Roman Bishopric safe.’
‘Who can you trust?’
‘Only Lothar here … and my maid, Greta. The rest are my father’s men.’
‘Where is Margam?’
‘Drinking or whoring – possibly both. I don’t trust him. He keeps an eye on me for my father, rather than protecting me.’
‘So what is your plan?’
‘Follow us across the Channel. We should rendezvous at the old Church of Our Lady in Beauvais. I know the priest there – he was my confessor in Mainz. Give him this ring, he will know it’s from me. Wait for me there. I need to escape beyond the borders of Normandy and find refuge somewhere in the Empire, probably in Lombardy. Hal, you are my only hope, please be there!’
‘Worry not, my Lady, I will be there. Will you need horses?’
‘Yes – and supplies for a journey. Here is some money; please buy simple clothes for me and Greta.’
The three figures then scuttled across the keep as furtively as before and returned to the royal chambers.
We were in Beauvais as quickly as good horses and a worthy sea captain permitted, and there we waited patiently for Matilda.
Eadmer shared my concerns for the future.
‘Margam has a lot of men who know how to handle themselves. He’ll alert every garrison in Normandy. Her husband will be looking for her as well, and he has many powerful friends from the Alps to the Mediterranean. She can’t hide away forever.’
‘I know, my friend, and to make matters worse a new Emperor has been elected in the Holy Roman Empire – Lothair, Duke of Saxony. He will have little sympathy for a fugitive wife.’
‘It is going to be another pit of shit we’re getting ourselves into!’
‘I think you’re right, but I also think she’s worth it. She’ll be a Cerdician queen one day, remember.’
‘Not at this rate! If she doesn’t go back to her husband and produce a grandson for the King, the crown will go to someone else.’
‘You’re right, of course. But first, let’s see if she will tell us why she left Count Geoffrey. Then we can take it from there.’
During the third evening of our wait in Beauvais, the priest came to us with a message from Matilda: two hours before dawn, we were to be ready with the horses in the lee of the nave of the old church.
It was a cold night, and a bitter wind howled around the walls of the church as we huddled under our cloaks for shelter. Always anxious about ambush and betrayal, Eadmer circled the building several times but found only stray dogs and blasts of icy air.
‘She needs to hurry! I’m freezing, and I’d much prefer a good head start in darkness.’
‘Patience, Eadmer. She’ll be here.’
A few minutes later, Lothar, Matilda’s giant Swabian bodyguard, appeared. He was alone, but questioned us in his heavy Germanic accent.
‘Do you have everything ready?’
‘Yes, all is prepared.’
‘Wait, just two minutes; we are camped nearby.’
Three hooded figures appeared soon afterwards – as did the priest, who let us into the church. Matilda did not seem flustered and spoke with a calm authority.
‘Good evening, Gentlemen. Did you bring clothes for us?’
‘We did, my Lady.’
Eadmer handed the clothes to Greta, and both women went behind the altar to change.
When they emerged, Lothar handed me a casket and Matilda issued a firm order.
‘That contains enough silver to take us across Europe several times. Now, let’s ride!’
I felt justified in asking the obvious question.
‘In which direction, my Lady?’
‘South, of course. Let’s go!’
South it was, day after day. Thankfully, both ladies could ride and we made excellent progress. We steered clear of large towns and cities. The women’s modest clothing meant they were taken as yeoman’s ladies and our anonymity remained intact. We camped in the open, despite the chill of winter. Matilda seemed not in the slightest perturbed by the cold air or the rain, as long as we made a good fire to bed down beside.
There was never a hint of any pursuers, and we were confident that we had left no trace or trail to follow. We veered west of Paris, passed Chartres, Orléans and Châteauroux, before reaching the High Limousin beyond Limoges, where we knew we could relax. There was snow on the ground, so we found a small village in the valley of the Charente and gave a farmer a piece of silver for the use of his hay barn for a few days.
While Eadmer and Lothar went hunting and Greta made up some bedding, I asked Matilda what her plan was. I had not raised the subject until that point, thinking it wise to let her get well away from Normandy. Feeling sure that she had a plan, I was impatient to hear it.
For the first time since we had left Beauvais, Matilda sounded hesitant and looked bewildered.
‘Well, I suppose we should turn east soon … to head for Geneva and the Alps.’
‘But, my Lady, it is midwinter and to the east is the high ground of the Massif. It may be wise to keep going south and cross into Lombardy along the Mediterranean.’
‘As you wish; I would appreciate it very much if you took care of our journey.’
‘With pleasure, my Lady. But what is our destination?’
‘Well, Lombardy … or perhaps Savoy. I think I can rely on the Count there, Amadeus III. He is very ambitious and has always been an ally to me …’
‘Are you not sure?’
She hesitated and suddenly looked vulnerable. There were tears in her eyes.
‘To be honest, no, I’m not sure … I just need to get as far away from my father and my husband as I can.’
I felt that she was about to tell me the whole story, but this was neither the time nor the place. An audacious – even impudent – thought suddenly came to me.
‘My Lady, you need time to think. I have a small estate several days south of here. It is not an imperial palace – nor, indeed, any kind of palace – but it is comfortable and very private. You are welcome to spend as much time as you like there.’
She looked at me with an expression that was a strange mix of desperation and joy.
‘It sounds perfect … I am so grateful to you. But it could get you into trouble.’
‘My Lady, I am already in a good deal of trouble. I don’t think it could get worse!’
The journey to the south would bring mixed emotions. I was excited that one of the most important women in Europe would be staying on my humble estate, but anxious that I was sinking deeper and deeper into a mire fro
m which there was no obvious escape. At times, my feelings were almost childlike. The astonishing good fortune of being able to play host to a beautiful empress made my heart race. But it also galloped with fear: I was almost certainly pronouncing a death sentence on myself and Eadmer. At times I had to pinch myself to be sure that what was happening was indeed real and not a figment of a storyteller’s vivid imagination.
By the time we reached St Cirq Lapopie, Matilda was smiling broadly and seemed happy – or as happy as her circumstances would allow. The further south we had travelled, the broader had become her smile and when she saw how remote and peaceful the estate was, she beamed from ear to ear. She had a wonderful smile – a smile that seemed to light up her whole face and infused everyone around her with joy.
‘You were right; it is wonderful. Thank you, Hal.’
‘We need a name for you, my Lady. The locals will wonder who you are.’
‘Of course! My family name is Maud – Greta and I can be your relatives from England.’
‘Very well, Maud it is.’
I waited for almost two weeks before reminding Matilda of the realities of her circumstances. It was late in the afternoon; she was sitting at the top of the limestone crags at the back of the farmhouse, watching the full waters of the Lot flowing swiftly towards a rapidly setting sun.
‘May I join you, my Lady?’
‘Of course, Hal. Please call me Maud – my family name for my new family in the Lot.’
‘Thank you.’
She smiled her distinctive, very uninhibited smile again. I was smitten by her presence and very proud that Maud was so happy in our humble abode. But I looked nervously towards the east, feeling anxious about the conversation I knew I had to have with her.
‘The snows are melting on the Massif. It will be spring soon. You will like it here in the spring – it is very pretty.’
She sensed my anxiety and also knew perfectly well that her haven in the Lot was, at best, a temporary arcadia.
‘But you don’t think I should be here by then, do you?’
‘Well, we need a plan. Your father will be angry – and so will your husband.’
‘My husband will not give me a second thought. He’s just a silly boy, petulant and spoiled. He has no conversation and no charm. He drives me mad!’
‘That will change –’
‘Perhaps … but there’s no hint of hair on his face yet. And even less sign of virile manhood between his legs!’
‘That will change as well.’
‘I have no doubt! But my father expects a grandson, and I’ve told him there’s no chance of that – unless the Angel Gabriel intervenes!’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He told me to use my feminine wiles to get him to perform. The typical response of a man! Hal, I had to get away. I begged the King to let me stay in London until Geoffrey is ready for a proper marriage, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He was in a towering rage and threatened to put me in a nunnery.’
Despite the crisis we were in, I felt energized. Maud was confiding in me in forthright terms, like an old friend, and we were still able to enjoy our haven in the Lot – at least, for a while longer.
‘You know I will do all I can to help. But we must get a message to the King, to tell him you’re safe.’
‘But how? Do you have a suggestion?’
‘I do. We should send Lothar to Angers, and Eadmer to London, with messages from you.’
Tears started to form in her eyes.
‘But I don’t know what I want to say … I know that ultimately I must do my duty. I grew to like Henry; he was a good Emperor and a robust man. We never had children, but he knew what to do in the bedchamber and kept me content. But Geoffrey is not easy to like and certainly couldn’t pleasure me as a woman. I began to look at the men at court …’
She paused and looked at me wistfully.
‘Do you mind me talking like this? You see … I have no one else.’
‘Of course not – I am no stranger to issues of the heart, and have experienced my own frustrations.’
‘I’m sure you have. But I couldn’t help noticing that there was no woman here, waiting for your return?’
‘There have been girls here, but no one special. The one love of my life died in tragic circumstances. It took me a long time to recover from that …’
I suddenly felt a pang of pain from the past.
Maud gently asked the question I knew I would one day have to answer.
‘Who was she?’
‘Her name was Livia Michele, and she was a Princess of Venice. It is a long story; I’ll tell you about it one day … But for now, we need to decide what you want to say in your messages.’
Maud was astute enough to recognize that there would be another time for intimate reminiscences. She gathered her thoughts and spoke with determination.
‘I need time. I will return to London two years from now, in the spring of 1131, to see my father. He can summon Geoffrey to join me there – he will be eighteen by then and should have a beard on his face and a man’s prick between his legs.’
I smiled at her crude turn of phrase, and she laughed out loud.
‘What do you think?’
‘I think two years is a long time, and the King will be furious! But if that’s what you want, then that’s what we will do. You must write it in your own hand and seal it. Lothar and Eadmer will deliver the messages, but they must not be captured. I fear they would be tortured to reveal your whereabouts.’
‘So how do we get an answer to our messages?’
‘Ah, that’s easy – homing pigeons!’
‘What are those?’
‘The crusaders learned how to train pigeons from the Muslims; they have a postal service in many of their cities. Pigeonmen keep flocks in London, and I’m sure they will have them in Angers. All Lothar and Eadmer have to do is find a pigeonman and hire one of his birds in a basket. If he leaves the bird with your message outside the palace, the bird has a pouch on its leg for the reply. When released, it will always fly back to the pigeonman’s home nest, where our men will be waiting. In that way, they can stay clear of capture.’
‘How clever! But how do the birds know their way home?’
‘I don’t know – but they always fly home.’
‘You are a resourceful man, Hal. What would I do without you?’
Matilda leaned over to me, kissed me warmly on the cheek, and then skipped back to the farmhouse like a young girl.
Eadmer was right; the situation was becoming yet more complicated. Not only had I devoted myself to Matilda’s cause, but I knew then that I was in very real danger of falling in love with her.
The next day, while Matilda wrote her messages, I briefed Lothar and Eadmer on their tasks.
Lothar was dubious; he had never heard of carrier pigeons. But like the loyal man he was, he just accepted his task dutifully.
Eadmer was more belligerent.
‘The King will be as angry as a snake in a sack. Two years! Is she mad? What are we going to do with her for two years? Don’t answer that … I know what you’d like to do with her!’
‘Don’t tease me, Eadmer. She is our future Queen! There is no possibility of anything between us.’
‘I’ll wager good money that she’ll be in your bed when I get back! I’ve seen the way she looks at you – and the way you look at her. But what concerns me now is a much more important point – my own safety. I’d better have a way out of London and a safe port to depart from. If the King delays his reply to Matilda’s message, he could use the time to seal London and have the ports watched.’
‘I know. I’m sorry I have to ask you to do this. Try to get a pigeonman outside the walls – perhaps in So
uthwark – and cross the Channel far to the west. Devon might be a good idea. And you could travel south through Brittany, even sail to Aquitaine from there. If the King puts out an alert in Normandy, and Geoffrey does the same in Maine and Anjou, an overland route might be dangerous.’
‘I think you’re right about the route; it’s good advice. I’ll be careful.’
I was relieved that Eadmer was taking my advice seriously. But then he started grinning at me.
‘But what about my wager?’
‘Enough! Take care and come home safely, old friend. I hope to see you again before the summer.’
Lothar and Eadmer left early the next morning. It would be a long and hazardous journey for them – and a long wait for Matilda and me. As I watched them wind their way down the track to the bottom of the valley, I thought about Eadmer’s provocative wager.
In fact, I had been thinking about little else. I had spurned the advances of a beautiful aristocrat once before, and I did not intend making the same mistake again. I made the conscious decision that I would be guided by Matilda’s feelings for me, rather than by mine for her.
If her feelings proved to be platonic, then so be it. But if they became amorous, then I would respond with as much passion as my mortal frame would lend me.
Fulham Palace, 30 May 1187
Dear Thibaud,
Another Sabbath has gone, and another service missed at St Paul’s. I thought the warmth of spring would ease my aches and pains, but alas, no. My scriptorium is cool. I am now wheeled in there every day, as I find it almost impossible to walk.
Anyway, I digress; let us return to Harold of Hereford. This latest bulletin contains the most incendiary part of the tale – the morsel that must, beyond all others, be buried deep in the Vatican’s vaults. I suspect the story of how baby Henry was sired will not prove to be the only example of its kind – whether within or outside the royal bedchamber. But enough of my treasonable musings! I suppose it is one of the few comforts when, at a great age and approaching God’s judgement, one is only answerable to Him and inclined to say what one thinks.
And yet, my friend, I cannot help wondering: how do we judge Harold? You have heard countless confessions, as I have. I’m relieved that Harold has not yet asked for absolution in telling his tale, but would you grant it? Perhaps, at the end, we will know more upon which to judge him. I have already started to pray for his soul.
Anarchy Page 26