Matilda Empress

by Lise Arin

I yelped. “Do not handle me as you would your whore!”

  I should not have said that.

  †

  I am exiled in Anjou, while Stephen rules in my stead. My belly stretches with child, despite my husband’s ministrations and the shivering cold of his keep. Again, I foretell a son; this fifth pregnancy unravels much like the others. My letters link me to the world, although they are of very little solace.

  I hear from the royal widow that the preponderance of my father’s corpse, embalmed with salt and wrapped in a bull’s hide, lately arrived in England. His Majesty’s bowels, brains, and eyes had already been removed in the cathedral church at Rouen, to be inhumed there. What remained of him was buried, as he had wished, in the Royal Abbey at Reading, where Adeliza endows a fund to keep a lamp burning in perpetuity before the tomb. The dowager queen had grieved much at the long delay between her husband’s death and the receipt of his body from the Continent. A month of bad weather meant that it was long after the pretender’s Christmas coronation before Henry I was shipped across the Channel.

  The sea tempests that kept the king from his grave are also to blame for my political tragedy. Those loyal men who witnessed my father’s death swore to one another not to abandon his exalted corpse before its interment. This oath held them fast in Normandy, while the usurper acted against us in Britain. The very barons who could have proved my appointment as heir were far away from the scene of my cousin’s treachery.

  In comparison, Stephen’s swift appearance in London served his purpose. The Count of Boulogne vowed to uphold peace and promote trade; the freemen guaranteed him money and weapons. Received enthusiastically, my cousin promised preferment to the leading citizens, who then “elected” him king. The London burghers dared to vote him onto a throne rightfully dispensed only by God and his divine representatives. This unlawful compact between commoners and traitor was no great council of state, but a travesty of the proper workings of the succession.

  After the pretender parried with the Londoners and assured them that they were the most vital part of the realm, he went on to Winchester Castle to claim the royal regalia and treasury, overflowing with the proceeds of the late king’s efficient rule. Winchester, capitol city of our ancient Anglo-Saxon sovereigns, has stood a safe repository of English gold and crown. But it could not withstand its corrupt bishop, plotting to enrich his brother and stake his false claim. The snake bribed the collusion of his parish, the desertion of my father’s constable and treasurers, and even, somehow, the perjury of the archbishop of Canterbury. Each and every one of these knaves had sworn his allegiance to me, and kissed me in fealty, whilst my father lived.

  Winchester claims that all previous oaths made to me, by anyone whomsoever, were given under duress, and were therefore not binding. But His Grace of Canterbury must have given most attention to the bishop of Winchester’s insistence that his brother’s treatment of the church would be exemplary, protecting and expanding its liberties at the expense of royal authority. Quickly thereafter, in Westminster Abbey, the archbishop anointed my cousin, precipitously spreading the church’s divine sanction over his heretical intrigue. The ceremony was a paltry affair, escorted by few of note, but the sacred rituals elevated the usurper, validated the citizens’ false election, and cemented the hasty decisions of some disloyal barons to violate their consciences and their promises. Any subsequent evaluation of the legitimacy of events unfolds during King Stephen I’s reign.

  Can I have expected Winchester to stall the promotion of his kin, in my name, for my benefit? The House of Blois and the House of Anjou are rivals on the continent; married to Geoffrey, how could I hope to enlist His Grace’s support? Whatever affection or esteem he felt for His late Majesty, the primary bond of family obligation undermines his service to the legitimate crown. Winchester’s cunning and energy most likely allay fears that Stephen will prove to lack the mettle required to rule well. I remember how Stephen’s beauty and easy amiability were disparaged by the other earls; his brother Henry’s sober mask reassures them.

  Five sons were born to Adele of Blois, a mother who cherished only courage and achievement. The first weakling she dispensed with, the second was given his father’s county to rule, and the third, my errant beloved, was sent to the English court to rake up whatever preferment should drift down upon him. He purloins what did not fall in his way. Her last two sons, Adele raised up in the church. Henry, admitted as a child to the abbey of Cluny, advances into the center of the world’s affairs, despite being brought up sequestered from court life. How long he must have schemed to achieve importance among us.

  With regret, Adeliza alerts me that Henry of Blois removes St. James’s hand from the abbey of Reading, installing it in his private treasury. This speck of news overwhelms me. Faced with Winchester’s vice, my courage falters, until I remember that the righteous will triumph over the sinner, for the wisdom of the lord is true, worth more than the purest gold, sweeter than the amber juice dripping from the honeycomb.

  †

  Spring

  I feel my baby quickening in my belly, and I fear that my wrath and sorrow may deform the child into a monster of evil inclinations. I resort to the chapel in Angers castle, to pray for its safety. Will I be able to ward off the demons that tempt the inconsolable? I need to find some peace, for my infant’s sake, and for my own.

  Our little place of worship is built into the wall of the inner courtyard. It is far from kitchen noise and odor, but near the gate and fortified bridge that lead to the constable’s tower and the outer ward. The guards’ chatter and the workings of the winch often pervade the room, interfering with my concentration. Sometimes I encounter priests or clerks, their eyes shut tight, their faces clenched in need.

  My husband’s religious artifacts, his precious chalices and Psalters, are stored elsewhere, under lock and key. The chapel’s only decorations are a large wooden rood upon the wall and a rich altar cloth. I myself embroidered the white silk cover, glimmering with gold crosses and red-footed silver doves, representing the martyrs whose blood was spilled for Christ’s sake.

  Today, I had the sparse chamber to myself. In solitude, I attempted to focus my energy upon the ornate shroud, upon holy suffering. I recollected that the elegant stitches had cost me many hours of toil; I could not lift my thoughts from the material world. I appreciated only the beauty that perishes. My understanding was unequal to the spiritual perfections that subvert decay.

  It came to me to lie face down, so that I might reach for a faith in what is outwardly hidden. I stretched out my arms to my sides, forming the shape of a cross. I shuddered on the frigid ground, and my nose ached, pressed against the rough floor. I could not help but notice mouse droppings and spittle that had not been properly swept away. Again, I was trapped by the material, unable to search for what was immaterial. I prayed then that my conceit might be lessened, so that I could find sanctuary in a higher plane.

  Recollecting myself, I appealed to the Most Blessed Virgin. I called on Her, the gardener of the seeds of knowledge, the tender of the flowering of wisdom. I asked Her to bedew me, to bathe me with light. Mary consented to answer my pleas, for I am Her first, and most loving pupil. She welcomed me, She opened my ears, and I could hear the harmonies of truth. I felt my distress subsiding; a great ecstasy enveloped me.

  I venerate the Father and the Son, but I am dependent upon the radiant Mother. She shall lessen my torments on earth and vouchsafe the salvation of my soul in paradise.

  †

  I remember that I am under the Virgin’s special protection. Our Lady’s pity and strength flow into my heart, conferring fortitude, reinvigorating me.

  In secret, I write to my once adored friend, now my despised foe. I use an ink made from ammonia, which dries clear, so that my words are whitewashed upon the page. After a fortnight, they will darken into legibility.

  With difficulty, Gerta seeks me a courier. Thieves prey upon itinerant merchants. We suspect every man’s fidelity. But an i
nsignificant friar traveling from Angers to London engages to carry a note to my cousin’s household. The monk pledges to hide the tightly wound scroll in his copious beard, and agrees to personally deliver it, but only in return for several sordid favors. Gerta accedes to his proposition. Tonight, she endures the carnal embraces of a man who shirks his bath in the name of his piety.

  We trust in the Virgin to hurry the friar’s horse and dissuade him from prying. For my rash message jettisons pseudonyms. I will no longer be anything other than the pretender’s overlord. His wicked, unjust usurpation of my throne has not transformed him into a king. He remains, to me and to heaven, the Count of Boulogne.

  Where does your honor lie, in forsaking my father, and our amour, and the rightful inheritance, according to feudal custom, of our son Henry Plantagenet? It is useless to argue that my barons do not want a female above them, for at your coronation, it is said, the archbishop traced your right to the throne through the female line, through your mother. In truth, your path to power was paved with deceit and not the sacred blood of family. The speed with which you enacted your sin proves that you and your brother of Blois had long been planning to swindle the English royal house, which you purported to reverence. The treason against us began with your meaningless oaths.

  You must have played me false every time that you took me in your arms. Under other circumstances I might have written to you about the career of our first boy, Gervase, now seven and at the age of reason. I think to dedicate him to the church, to guarantee his ultimate salvation, the hope of which you have overthrown for yourself. But such sweet domestic concerns are between us no longer, for you force your way into my house and shut the door against me. You put war instead of love between us.

  You presume to take up heraldic arms like my father’s, with your satyr in passing on a red field, so like his two lions walking on a gules ground. Your device fools no one. The firm justice and hard won peace that he stood for are no more. They are replaced with the rule of lawlessness and the evils of civil strife. As you disembarked from your ship in England, there rang forth a terrible peal of thunder and burst out the most horrible bolt of lightning, so that Judgment Day seemed upon the world. Your reign will bring no good to my empire.

  †

  As Easter approaches, the six weeks of fasting required before the feast of the Resurrection sorely tries the vigor of my body and my spirit. Ravenously pregnant, I am obligated to suffice with one horrid repast of salted fish a day. Although I recognize the promise of grace and redemption couched within the austerity of Lent, I look forward to its conclusion.

  Geoffrey’s cook wails outright. In these Ember Days, he exhausts his repertoire of seafood sauce, and begins to experiment wildly, concocting mock eggs out of almonds and false meats out of crustaceans. My husband disapproves of his cheating and would dismiss him, but Denise is also fatigued by the period of penance and grateful for any relief from red herring and eel, however sacrilegious or imaginary. Our atonement suppers are often inedible, despite heaps of mustard. Gerta does not scruple to embezzle wig cakes and figs from the kitchen, for me to nibble on before retiring.

  During these repugnant meals, the talk on the dais concerns the riots and disturbances that erupt across the contested realm. Geoffrey’s heralds bring us tidings of violent skirmishes, truces broken, castles stripped from the keeping of loyal men, or fortresses withstanding my cousin’s assault.

  †

  Increasingly, however, our foes outnumber our friends. My envoy to the pope fails to enlist His Holiness among our supporters, lacking the skill to plead my case effectively. Apparently, my man was no match for my cousin’s wily ambassador to the Vatican, who suggested severally that my birth was unlawful, that I was born to a nun, that my father kidnapped my mother from a convent and raped her. The Count of Boulogne’s representative insisted that, given my marriage to a foreigner, Henry I repented of his decision to endow me with all his fiefs, disinherited me, and repealed both compelled kisses and oaths, releasing all his Norman and English barons from their extorted bonds. It was given as true, with false evidence, that the pretender was chosen by the late king as his successor.

  A herald arrives with a copy of the pontiff’s proclamation, approving the usurper’s ascension, declaring that heaven answers the unanimous petitions of the prelates, magnates, and people of Britain. My beloved is named “the special son of the Blessed Peter.” Will this engineer his subservience to Rome, and to the brotherly influence of the bishop of Winchester? The Holy Father seems to await the receipt of generous donations. Ah! Saint Peter’s house is given over to moneychangers!

  My envoy beseeches my pardon for representing my interests so poorly, but reminds me that the Holy See recognizes a new sovereign previously anointed by the archbishop of Canterbury. If the coronation were put aside, it would undermine the church’s divine prerogative to create kings.

  As news of the papal decision spreads, the usurper sets off on a triumphal progress through the English countryside. Accompanied by a large body of knights and decked out with the splendor of royal majesty, the Count of Boulogne receives the homage of towns and castles in return for the distribution of bounty.

  †

  Sometime before the joyous feast of Easter, Stephen reunited with Maud in London. In contrast to the sparsely attended coronation, the royal Easter Court boasts a populous assembly. Leading barons and clerics convene there to celebrate the newly exalted king of the realm. The pope’s pronouncement in the pretender’s favor makes up the mind of many who had wavered between our parties. They flock to London to compliment the usurper and wait upon him. In exchange, much is to be given to those plighting their faith.

  At our own Easter banquet, we gorged ourselves on venison meatballs rolled in parsley, capon stewed in cinnamon, painted hard-boiled eggs, tansy omelets, and jellied beef broth in the shape of the Angevin’s shield. All the while, minstrels sang to us of the great gathering over the Channel, of all the bold knights, meritorious priests, and fair ladies who accept Stephen as king. My ears burn at their repeated refrain: “As Christ conquers, Christ reigns, Christ commands.”

  My rival’s sumptuous festivities roll onward, extended for more than a month. The Count of Boulogne insists upon the presence of the dowager queen among the multitude. From London, Adeliza assures me of her loyalty. She coldly observes the litanies chanted before the pretender, somehow raised above them all. With shock, she beholds the usurper touching those with leprosy and scrofula, as if to heal them.

  The numerous jewels, rich furs, and widely embroidered mantles of the nobility likewise astound my father’s widow. Henry I let lapse the custom of holding a magnificent, costly Easter Court, but my cousin rejoices without care for the state of his coffers, hoping that this immoderate inauguration shores up his stolen dignity. That tramp Maud hurries her husband on to each expense considered appropriate to their aggrandized status; Adeliza scoffs at her trumped up corsages. How I burn to hear of Stephen’s prodigality, which ill becomes the English crown, so long the model of moderation.

  †

  Adeliza’s undiplomatic correspondence startles me. The dowager dispenses with circumspect anagrams, secret alphabets, and the discreet use of initials, any of which might protect her letters from the accusation of disloyalty to her sovereign. Her innate dignity and reputation for virtue permit her the freedom to send and receive communications without fear of sabotage or reprisal.

  And so I am awash in the infuriating details of my antagonist’s presumption. At many of his royal feasts, a celebrated jongleur, one Bernard de Ventadour, regales the guests with verses from his newly completed Histories of the Kings of England. A copy of it has also made its way to our court, and it is a driveling cheat of a chronicle! Listening to its vapid hyperbole, the English baronesses and even some of their husbands applaud wildly, claiming to believe that the Count of Boulogne is another Arthur, reborn to bring the empire into a new golden age.

  The former queen does not
conceal from me the scores of highborn ladies pining for my beloved’s handsome face beneath his golden diadem. Boulogne’s delight in the gentle sex is well understood. The naïve fools dream of copulating all night long with their virile hero, whom they reckon immeasurably robust. Other devious beauties plot to exploit his affinities, once he is under the spell of their allure. Adeliza chastises their admiration, whether simpering or sly, for she would not cherish the token of any warrior who has not been three times victorious in battle.

  The most seriously smitten take to displaying his colors, donning red silk jackets or weaving red and gold ribbons into their braids. No better than they, I have yearned for my chosen knight to drape himself in my pennant and adorn himself with my heraldic device. And now he does so, without me by his side.

  Ignoring my father’s longstanding prohibition against tournaments, which he disparagingly termed “French fighting,” the pretender holds one, and on a massive scale. Colorful tents, to lodge all the participants, are erected in an enormous circle, around a vast parade ground and playing field. Wooden stands, built hastily and without proper attention to safety, hold the enthusiastic audiences that witness each day’s assortment of martial exhibitions and games. The dowager cringes at the daily chanting of “Give chase, knight!” or “Thrust, stab, strike a blow!” or “Wound, maim, slay, slay!”

  Magnificently equipped magnates and haphazardly armed minor knights, astride stupendous chargers or meager palfreys, demonstrate their valor, rashness, and vanity before the cheering crowds. No one gives thought to the Church’s injunctions against such displays of pride, envy, anger, and greed. My rivals’ adherents are hungry for the glory of the day, avid for the praise of the troubadours, and lusty for the appreciation of the court ladies. They are careless about the winning and losing of fortunes in ransoms, indifferent to the sometimes lethal wounds inflicted upon their fellows, and negligent of their own possible disgrace.

  I will hold the English to a higher standard, when I regain the realm.