Anarchy

by Stewart Binns

  The King, true to his word, allowed me to return to Rouen in the summer of 1133, where I met young Henry, my handsome son, for the first time. I also met Geoffrey, Count of Anjou, who had adopted the name ‘Plantagenet’ to reflect his love of hunting – derived from the Latin for a sprig of broom, Planta genista, which he liked to wear in his hunting cap. And so Henry, my son, became ‘Henry Plantagenet’ – a good name, I thought.

  I could see why Maud disliked her husband – he was frivolous, often drunk and loud – but men took to him. They enjoyed his merry company and relished joining him in his debauchery and womanizing. Maud introduced me to the Count during one of the King’s banquets. She was uncomfortable, and I found it hard to contain my hostility towards him. Fortunately, he barely acknowledged me, being already the worse for drink and far too preoccupied with the nubile young ladies of the court. His aloofness was a relief, as it meant I only had to exchange the minimum of courtesies with him.

  He was handsome, athletic looking and full of self-confidence. He was still only twenty years old – fifteen years my junior – and I reflected on how immature I had been at the same age. As I looked at him, I couldn’t help wondering how he would react if he knew I was cuckolding him. Perhaps he would not care, such was the light-hearted way in which he approached life.

  He soon returned to Le Mans, allowing me to spend as much time as I liked with Maud and baby Henry. It became a very happy time; Eadmer and Greta were also able to be together, and we enjoyed life as a cheerful quintet. Not surprisingly, it was not long before Greta announced her own pregnancy, which brought more elation for all of us.

  Eadmer then made a heartfelt request: he wanted his child to be born in England.

  Maud jumped at the opportunity.

  ‘My father wants me to go to England as soon as Henry is weaned, so that he can show him off to his magnates. He’s already made them swear oaths, promising to be loyal to me as Queen. Now that Henry has been born, he wants them to swear again. And he wants me to be there when they do – the fact that I have a son will make it so much easier for them. We can travel with my father. I will speak to him directly.’

  Maud had no difficulty in persuading her father to allow me to travel with her. She could do no wrong in his eyes; she had given him the grandson he thought he was never going to have. The King and Maud had come to an understanding with Count Geoffrey: she would travel to Le Mans twice a year and spend a month with him on each occasion. For the rest of the time, they were both free to live their own lives.

  It was not a perfect future for Maud, Henry and me. But for ten months of the year, it was as good as circumstances would allow.

  Henry Beauclerc, King of England, called a Christmas Court at Westminster for the end of 1133. His daughter, Matilda, now revered as the ‘Lady of the English’, took pride of place beside him. In her arms was the young Henry, a future ruler of the realm. Significantly, not only was the boy a true Norman, he was also a true Englishman – a child able to unite the whole of the realm.

  All the leading magnates of England were at Westminster. They came from far and wide to kiss the forehead of the King’s grandson and kneel at the feet of Matilda to swear their unwavering loyalty to her.

  There had been no occasion as grand as this for a generation. The monks sang and the echoes rang around the nave of the mighty cathedral built by King Edward, the last Cerdician King of England. Set against the bland cream stone of the nave were the rich colours of the gonfalons and pennons of the lords and knights of the realm, mixed with the rich silks of their ladies. The crowds outside the cathedral cheered with a fervour they had not shown since King Harold had assumed the throne in 1066 in his vain attempt to keep England’s shores secure.

  As an earl of the realm, I stood less than ten yards away from the anointing of Maud as future Queen of England, and our son as her successor. I felt immensely proud of both of them. I thought about my family: my great grandfather, the Old Man of the Wildwood, who began our saga; my grandfather Hereward and grandmother Torfida, who fought to the death against King William; my father and mother and their friends, who found a way to keep England’s dream alive.

  What would they think now, knowing that their descendant would, one day, be King of their ancient realm?

  My eyes filled with tears, as did those of many in the cathedral – Norman and English alike. I looked around at the high and mighty of the realm. Inspired by the pomp and ceremony of the occasion, I dared to imagine the future.

  Perhaps, I thought, when Maud becomes Matilda, Queen of England, Englishman and Norman will be as one after almost seventy years of bitterness?

  I glanced at Maud.

  She smiled warmly at me; she was happy.

  Our plan was working.

  24. Death of a King

  While the King returned to Normandy, we spent the rest of 1133 touring Maud’s future kingdom. She was hailed wherever she went. Not only did her reputation as the beautiful Empress go before her, but her adopted title – Lady of the English – reminded the people of her noble Cerdician pedigree. She was one of them. And with her was Henry, who was also one of them.

  In November, Maud fell pregnant again and we returned to Rouen for the confinement. Greta gave birth to a daughter in March of the following year. To her parents’ delight, Gretchen was a happy little bundle of blonde hair and pink skin.

  At the end of May 1134, Maud went into labour. She was worried, as there had not been a conjugal visit to Geoffrey at the right time, and so it was announced that the arrival was premature. In any event, her husband seemed not in the slightest bit interested and made no attempt to travel to Rouen for the birth.

  However, the date of the child’s conception became the least of Maud’s worries. The baby was breech and the labour protracted. The midwives struggled and Maud went through hell for many hours. When the child did arrive, Maud bled profusely and was severely torn. She lost consciousness – which, at least, was a relief from the pain – and the midwives called for the King’s physicians, who rushed to her bedside.

  All sorts of remedies were administered, but there was no sign of her regaining consciousness. The doctors claimed her body was going into a deep sleep to recover, but I had my doubts. Greta slept on the floor by her bed and acted as wet nurse to the child – a sweet blond-haired boy who Maud had decided should be called Geoffrey, after her husband.

  Her loyal Lotharingians, Otto and Berenger, stood guard at her door with instructions from me that no one was to pass.

  When Maud eventually came round, she had a high fever; it was obvious that she had become infected. She was soon delirious, and urgent messages were sent to the King and to Count Geoffrey. The King was hunting nearby and soon arrived, but Geoffrey was in Anjou, a journey of several days. Her condition deteriorated and her prospects looked grim. The physicians predicted that she would not survive beyond another day.

  When the King arrived, he sent for Hugh, Archbishop of Rouen, who administered the last rites on the evening of 17 June 1134. The priests told me that this day was the feast day of St Botolph – an English saint who had helped bring Christianity to the Gauls and whose remains are revered in the crypt of Ely Cathedral – and suggested that I should pray to him.

  I took the link to Ely as a propitious sign. After everyone else had left, instead of praying – which I left to Greta and Eadmer – I placed the Talisman around Maud’s neck. Its legend said that it had been worn by kings and emperors and had helped them find wisdom and truth, so there could be no better person than Maud to wear it. My recent passing fancy that, perhaps, I was its next recipient had long since vanished; it had been just an idle thought.

  Harold of England had been the last King to wear the Talisman. I begge
d the Fates, the Wodewose and the spirits of my family to succour my conviction that it was now being worn by England’s next Queen. Although Maud was desperately ill, I knew at that moment she would recover – I do not know how I knew, but I did.

  It took several weeks to overcome the fever, followed by several months of recuperation, but by the end of 1134, Maud was restored to us in glowing health. Not only that, but our quartet of friends now had three babies to care for.

  Count Geoffrey did appear in the late summer to see his son and namesake, and immediately gave him the title Count of Nantes. He was kind to Maud and brought her some beautiful jewellery from Provence. He was even courteous to me.

  ‘Earl Harold, I am grateful to you for the care and devotion you show to our family. Empress Matilda speaks very highly of you.’

  ‘It is not in the slightest a burden, Count Geoffrey. She is my half-sister, and the King has made it my duty to protect her at all times. What more honourable task could a man ask for?’

  ‘Quite so! But tell me, what is that strange amulet she now wears around her neck? I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘It is the Talisman of Truth, a family treasure said to be centuries old.’

  ‘Is it a lucky charm?’

  ‘It has sometimes been regarded as such, but it’s more a symbol of hope, like a crucifix.’

  ‘Isn’t that blasphemy?’

  ‘Some might consider it so, but the Talisman is older than the Cross – and probably means much the same thing.’

  ‘That is blasphemy. Does the Empress believe that?’

  ‘I’m sure not. She just wears it because I have asked her to; I believe it helps protect her.’

  ‘So, it is a lucky charm?’

  ‘If you like …’

  Geoffrey shuffled off, clearly bemused. I thought about what I had just said and it dawned on me that I was beginning to talk like a seer. God help my soul!

  We did not see Geoffrey again into the winter of 1134. The cold months passed slowly; the weather was typically harsh, and people hibernated as usual. Henry, Geoffrey and Gretchen grew at a pace – and Maud and Greta spoiled them, as mothers tend to do.

  We received very sad news at the beginning of 1135. Word arrived from England that Robert Curthose, the firstborn son of King William – who, as Duke of Normandy, had befriended Edgar the Atheling and my family – had died in Cardiff Castle at the age of eighty-one. He had been incarcerated at King Henry’s pleasure for almost thirty years. I had often thought about him: a hero of the Great Crusade, a just ruler and a good man, but a broken one after the loss of his wife, Sybilla. His remaining years must have been an interminable purgatory.

  His death meant that I was the last survivor of the Brethren of the Blood of the Talisman – and the final link to the Brotherhood of Ely. It was the end of an era and reinforced what I already knew: the outcome of what had been fought for since 1066 could only be determined by me. I now had my own small family and a group of loyal friends – as had my father and grandfather – and through Maud and baby Henry, I had the chance to bring the long journey to a happy conclusion.

  The burden was great, but the task was simple: ensure Maud and Henry’s succession.

  Towards the end of November, Maud lifted my sombre mood with the best possible news.

  ‘I’m pregnant again, Hal – number three. It seems I can’t stop conceiving!’

  ‘Wonderful news, my darling, another summer baby. What shall we call it?’

  While Maud thought about names, I came to an unwelcome realization.

  ‘William, if it’s a boy, and Maud, if it’s a girl –’

  ‘Maud, I hate to dampen the occasion … but this time, we can’t contrive for there to be any chance that the child is Geoffrey’s.’

  Maud did not share my concern.

  ‘He won’t care – and neither will my father. The terms of the marriage settlement were fulfilled long ago. As long as they both think young Henry and baby Geoffrey are his, then they won’t care about a third child. Two legitimate heirs are plenty.’

  Maud seemed content, so I chose to put the question of the baby’s parentage out of my head. I knew it would add some spice to my next meeting with Count Geoffrey – but I had faced worse prospects!

  The King continued to enjoy good health, sharing his time evenly between Normandy and England. He had repeated the oath-taking ritual once more, and all the magnates of both realms had sworn their loyalty to Matilda for a third time. They must have regarded the whole exercise as irksome, but they did it without overt complaint.

  But all was not well in King Henry’s domain. He had always been a strict ruler, but he could be excessively cruel and had made enemies – especially among the lords on the periphery of his domains, who were often courted by his enemies.

  When he was a young man in Rouen – during the Dukedom of his eldest brother, Robert – there was a revolt among the burgesses of the city, which Henry crushed ruthlessly. Many young hotheads were cut down in the streets by Henry’s cavalry. When their leader, Conan, son of Pilatus, was caught, Henry had him dragged to the top of the tallest tower of the city’s walls. Then, with the young man begging for mercy, Henry threw him from the top – laughing as he did so. Conan was very popular, and the incident was never forgotten by the townspeople.

  In 1119, in a dispute over the lordship of Breteuil in Normandy, Henry sent a hostage, a boy called Ralph Harenc, to his rival, Eustace of Breteuil – his own son-in-law, the husband of his illegitimate daughter Juliana – to try to secure his loyalty. Henry held Eustace’s daughters, his own granddaughters, as hostages in exchange. When Eustace blinded the boy Ralph and sent him back, Henry was so angry that he agreed to Ralph’s request for revenge by allowing the two little girls to be blinded and have the tips of their noses cut off.

  Mass executions and mutilations were not uncommon. Many people said that although there was peace throughout most of Henry’s reign, it came at a high price – one that was all too reminiscent of the draconian rule of his father, William the Bastard, Conqueror of the English.

  Memories were long among those the King had wronged and among those who thought that siring more than two dozen illegitimate children and giving them all land and titles were both an affront to God and an outrage to those who paid him taxes and tithes. Henry was in his sixty-seventh year, and those with scores to settle knew that he could not live forever.

  The old stag was nearing his end, and the young bucks were circling.

  The King had spent almost the whole of 1135 marauding around the fringes of his realm, reminding any doubters of his power. He had prowled around Wales and the West of England with a large force, inviting challenges from the Welsh Princes, or from his own lords. He had made a point of inviting himself to the castles and fortifications of those he knew had an axe to grind, insisting on the laws of hospitality for himself and his retinue, making any troublesome nobles fawn at his feet, or challenge him. No challenges had been forthcoming, but the resentment had grown.

  He had then turned his attention to Normandy – especially the south, where the French King, ‘Fat’ Louis VI, was constantly trying to win the allegiance of the local lords. Henry had taken control of the castles at Alençon, Almenêches and Argentan, and had then moved north to the border with Flanders. After another show of force, he had taken a break to indulge his third greatest passion, after power and women – the thrill of the hunt.

  On Friday 29 November – only a few days after Maud realized she was pregnant – the King went hunting in the Forest of Lyons at St Denis and returned to the castle to a dish of lampreys, another of his many passions. He was violently ill in the night and died on Sunday evening, the first day of December 1135. It was a
day that became etched in the memory of all Normans as the day when the last of the three mighty Norman Kings of England died.

  The King had insisted that his body be taken to England, to be buried beneath the altar of Reading Abbey, his own foundation. It had been built, as he decreed: ‘for the salvation of my soul, and the souls of King William, my father, and of King William, my brother, and Queen Edith, my wife, and all my ancestors and successors’.

  The gruesome task of preparing the King’s body for such a journey fell to a local embalmer, who was greatly honoured to be given the responsibility. He removed the brains, eyes and intestines, which were buried in an urn at one of Henry’s favourite churches, Notre Dame du Pré at Emendreville, before scoring the rest of the body with deep cuts to allow salt to penetrate deep into the flesh. The body was then sewn into ox hides and placed on a bier for the long journey by land and sea.

  Unfortunately, the innocent embalmer had not been told that the King had ordered that when his task was complete, he was to be executed and his corpse dealt with in the same grisly manner.

  Maud and I were in Rouen when we heard the news of her father’s death. But before we could make arrangements to accompany her father’s body to England, word arrived by courier that trouble had flared in the south. Scores were being settled and willful vengeance was replacing the rule of law. As Maud was now the titular Duchess of the realm, she decided it was her duty to ride south to impose her authority.

  I disagreed with her decision.

  ‘Send your husband to the south. Make use of him – make him your regent in Normandy if needs be – but you must make England your priority. That’s what your uncle did when your grandfather died, and that’s what your father did when your uncle died.’