Matilda Empress

by Lise Arin

  I wore a blue bliaut, in a mood to announce my fidelity to the memory of our bond. Gerta’s frown dampened my boldness, so I covered it with a stiff white corsage, heavily embroidered with cabochon emeralds, for emeralds can be trusted to moderate lust.

  Stephen’s hair, jarringly red, preposterously red, stood out against the blue sky. The lines on his sharply boned face pronounced themselves along his brow.

  My stomach lurched and my breathing became labored when I met his gray regard.

  We stood alone, next to a white field pavilion. Some distance away, other tents sheltered our retainers. Closer at hand, Maud waited in an enclosure decorated with the royal blazon. I could smell the rot of her impatience.

  The Count of Boulogne smiled down at me, taking my arm, and led me into our meeting place.

  To stand with him, with no one’s eyes upon us, was more than I had ever presumed to do again. Tears rolled down my cheeks.

  The pretender held out his little finger, the finger that holds the secret of a man’s life and death, and wiped it around the edge of my lashes, to stem the brimming tide. “I well recollect those times when we turned our back on our disagreements, when we thought only of trading delights.”

  I gathered up my elation. “I gave you three gifts: my heart and our two sons.”

  The usurper circled my waist, still narrow after five pregnancies. “How can it be that we are such dire foes?”

  Until that moment, all was euphoria, but then the atmosphere curdled. I had to refuse what was offered, and repudiate what I wanted most. “I have cried out against my fortune, but now I accept what is written down for me in the Great Book. I will think and think on you, evermore, but never again know you. There is only one way for me to step, along the path of atonement. I entreat the Holy Virgin; She accepts me as Her penitent.”

  His expression did not change. “My sword cleaves you in half, but my manhood heals you, remakes you whole. I wield them both before you. It has always been my nature to hesitate between the gifts that have been showered upon me by the glory of God. You and Maud always demanded that I choose between my crown and my felicities, but I withstood both your blandishments and your recriminations.”

  I knew that I was the stronger one, the one who could forswear my longing. “In order to salvage my own sanity, I hold myself aloof from you.”

  Stephen mouth twisted. “I would be no more than a shadow of myself if I thought that I had truly lost you.” My cousin still had his palms on my hips. Now he lowered his mouth over mine.

  My eyes overflowed and my limbs shook, but I pulled sharply out of his embrace. I pinched the skin of my arm, and hard, so as to recall me to myself. My rival would have had me, there on the carpet that had been laid upon the ground; I knew that I had only to touch him again for it to be so. No one would dare to interrupt our two majesties.

  Struggling to snuff out my own ardent need for him, my voice quavered. “Our mutual passion once enriched us, even as it humiliated us.”

  Boulogne gaped at me. My beloved could not fathom the abyss of my despair, nor plumb the depths of my denial. “Maud weeps before me, castigates me, terms my foibles a disgrace. Yet, untamed as I am, she is always willing to lie with me.”

  I inhaled my rage and my woe. I had no thought to spare for that shrew. “Her tempestuous nature is only one of her frailties. If she smarts upon her stolen throne, she would do best to remember that someday soon she will be bereft of everything that she has thieved from me.”

  The count bowed curtly and inched apart from me. He raised the flap of the white tent to survey the crowd of his subjects and mine, come together in the hope of ending the destruction of civil unrest.

  He dropped the panel of the pavilion; we were hidden once more from spying glances. With a somber expression, he returned to my side. “I admit I am a villain. But essay, great lady, to bend as sweetly as my wife has done. I will never be free of the unbearable, parching thirst for gratification.”

  I stood my ground, poised to leap away from him. I struggled to keep my voice steady. “Your battle-axe cannot pierce my skin, but your prick wounds me to the quick.”

  The pretender had regret in his eyes. “Shall we talk of the treaty, Matilda?”

  I covered my face with my hands and spoke into the darkness. “Will you turn over your crown to our son, Henry?” I envisioned it atop his father’s red locks. In the hot darkness, I seemed to dream.

  Stephen’s voice washed over me. “I will devolve it upon my son, Eustace. His mother insists upon his accession.”

  Still I would not look at him. “That impertinent wench is not the heiress to England. You must concede the succession to the Plantagenet.”

  The count took my hands down, into his own grasp. “Although Normandy is yours, Britain remains mine.”

  I freed my fingers from his. “I shall never abjure my sovereignty on this side of the Channel.”

  Suddenly, the usurper pivoted on his boot, and strode back toward the entrance to the tent. “We are reduced to our former state of enmity.”

  Holy Mother Mary, you have taught me that he is no longer mine to caress, but I entreat your further intercession, for I have been an imperfect pupil.

  †

  Fall

  In this season, my sizable palace is swollen with my most prominent allies and their vacuous wives, triflers eager to amuse themselves at someone else’s expense. My stairwells and baileys ring with their catty laughter and the clink of their jeweled ornaments.

  Full of smirking spleen, the Countess of Gloucester and her attendant ladies convene a “court of love,” trying the merits and demerits of a well-known affair, poring over the details of the case until they reach a verdict. The story presented is that of a highborn lady, properly wedded to a great warrior, renowned for his beauty and elegant verse. Separated from him by historical circumstance, she begins a relationship with another married knight, fine of face and famous for his pleasing manners. They ask the question: May the lady claim to be virtuous?

  Gerta puts her ear to every door, and worms the rest of the truth from the least frivolous among our guests. Unsurprisingly, Amabel’s court of love holds the accused to account, and names her wicked. One or two women, with no personal animosity toward me, insist that any two married persons who freely decide not to prefer one another should not be bound together forever. But the countess will not tolerate any dissension within her coven. My sister-in-law proclaims faith between spouses to be eternal, and wedded union evermore. How dare that bitch peer into my soul, rooting for Stephen’s image?

  Gerta detests Amabel and moans about her pernicious allusions. But she herself has continually disparaged my amorous adventures outside of Geoffrey’s bed. She has always stood guard before my reputation, wishing to truss it up, unsullied.

  Doing what she can, she winds my long hair and some linen strips into braids, then fashions the beribboned plaits into knobs on the back of my head. “I have a mind to misplace your copper mirror. You may take my word for it; you still sway the feeble minds of men. Indeed, none surpass you. But withhold yourself from amorous trouble! Live for your son, the king to come.”

  Is it not enough that I have suppressed my inclinations? Must I exorcise all my memories? “I fear that love is an incurable affliction. There are no quacks talented enough to lessen its influence. No leech can bleed it out of me, or drain me of lechery.”

  Gerta’s capable hands yanked firmly at my tresses, vigorously pulling them into order. “You have had too many sexual relations, if I may be so bold as to say it. This has overtaxed your womb, which now wanders about your insides, unbalancing you.”

  I flashed pink. “I was long stymied by a lack of intercourse. This insufficiency damned up my uterus with the spinster’s venom.” I flushed again. Had I insulted Gerta, long my friend?

  She did not stop twisting my locks around her fingers and pinning them close to my head, sparing me no jab or poke. “Speaking for myself, Empress, I can say that it is d
ifficult to repose the forlorn spirit and refresh the corrupt humors, when the lonely scourge of nights stagger, one after another, on and on through the seasons.”

  I sat in silence, for she had foretold my future.

  Gerta grunted. “When Christ is resurrected, you shall not be able to fool Him. Do not foreswear your prayers to the Holy Mother. Only She can whitewash your polluted soul.”

  The Matter of

  the Crown

  Scroll Eighteen: 1147

  Why should the Almighty have rid the empress of her troubles? She had more courage than piety, more beauty than compassion, more zeal than humility. She knew that she sinned when she fought only for her earthly kingdom. Now, pained at the loss of her greatest vassal, she doubted that she would ever claim her due. To compound her woes, Matilda’s errant lover judged their first-born son foreign in spirit. With their second, so much more illustrious, his soul vibrated in sympathy, but she knew not whether to exult in this ripening tie.

  †

  Winter

  Here at the Palace of Devizes, a year passes without adventure. I have been too full of lassitude to record mundane events of court life; even our war seems banal, as we grow used to an unending armed stalemate amid a barren landscape. The jongleurs do not cease their fear mongering, and yet, in the face of their reproofs, civil turmoil persists. Knights throughout the empire continue to launch their arrows and javelins against one another. The newer they are to the riot and unrest born of greed, the more eager they are to demolish and dismantle, and thumb their nose at the law. Scoundrels dream of lavish additions to their wealth and territories; their mutual pacts of fidelity are nullified again and again.

  I pray fervidly for peace, but only my victory can ensure complete tranquility in England and Normandy.

  †

  The minstrels are full of a new story that raises my hackles and guarantees them a warm dinner.

  The Earl of Chester traveled from his marcher fief to my cousin’s court at Northampton. He petitioned the usurper to abet a campaign to put an end to Welsh harassment, the devastation of crops and the firing of villages. He insisted that a few battalions, under Boulogne’s banner, would send the marauders fleeing back into their desolate fens. He further claimed that the royal presence could terrorize the looting hordes more effectively than the arrival of thousands of soldiers. Seeing the English king, the insurgents would scatter back across the border, never to recross it. Such a rout would burnish Stephen’s already magnificent reputation as a strategist and a general.

  Fascinated by this flattering invitation, my cousin ardently agreed to the earl’s proposal. The counterfeit queen urged him to desist, calling the scheme wild and impracticable. The Welsh inhabit a region of mountainous forest, traversed only by narrow passes, unfamiliar to strangers. The crown counselors harped long on Ranulf’s previous treacheries, and how reckless it would be to send the body of the king into an unknown territory, under Chester’s power. But the pretender would be munificent.

  Stymied, the Count of Boulogne’s advisors required hostages from the earl, given that he had proved himself so unreliable a friend in times gone by. Arrogantly, Ranulf denied the request, claiming that he had not come to Northampton to satisfy such an enormous demand. Maud, oblivious to the obligations of the king’s peace, shouted out at this supposed evidence of disloyalty, and immediately ordered her guards to clap Chester into chains. As they shuffled him away, she blessed the day that delivered his wickedness into their hands.

  Those in league with the earl negotiated his release. Ranulf ceded the royal castle of Lincoln to my nemesis, and was given his liberty. Within a week, he hired a troop of miscreants, and set them alight with wild rebellion in the neighborhood surrounding the contested stronghold. The embattled keep held for my cousin; Chester ultimately retreated.

  The pretender celebrates with lavish entertainments, honoring the fortress of Lincoln’s endurance and faith. Unhampered by superstition, my cousin flaunts his crown, embellished with brilliants, so as to wash away the blot of his own previous captivity. The visiting courtiers are wary, thinking much of sudden imprisonments, and display only lukewarm enthusiasm.

  †

  With great flourish, heralds deliver unto me a papal bull, demanding the return of Devizes to the auspices of the church. The pope admonishes my disgraceful larceny; if I do not vacate his citadel, I shall be excommunicated.

  Whose pride is so great that they would pilfer from the Lord?

  For four years, I have lived within Devizes’ splendor, and its stateliness no longer astounds me. Yet, I am ashamed to find its luxury necessary to my domestic comfort. In order to gain time, I have promised to compensate the pontiff, to bequeath in exchange other of my manors and lands, anything else but this keep.

  I await the Holy Father’s response.

  †

  Chester arrives at my palace, asking to be readmitted to my favor, to be the flower of my support. In light of my recent fracas with the Vatican, I readily agree, asking Ranulf to oversee the reinforcement and resupplying of my castle. I hope that it can be rebuilt as a staunch fort, with the potential to withstand any attempt at investiture.

  The earl introduces new recruits to my garrison; they crowd my ramparts, scattering their knives and maces along the walkway. The evening air fills with whoops, catcalls, and the clanging of tankards of cider. Short, powerful destriers and noxious, wizened baggage mules clog my once pristine outer ward with their dung and stench. The inner bailey chokes with a glut of bursting supply wains. Grandiose Devizes, my refuge, is a disorderly cesspit of mud, refuse, and noise.

  Chester encourages me to be ready, at a moment’s notice, to don a suit of armor. Gerta instructs the castle smith to fashion me a helmet, and to cut down a shirt of mail to my size. He lines it with hide, so as to give me a further layer of protection; my maid is adamant with the man that the skin be taken only from the breast of a deer. Resting against my solar wall, a new and extravagant sword awaits some extremity of circumstance. The pommel and hilt are bronze, inlaid with topaz. Our wily smith tempers its blade with an unknown chemical, so as to heighten its ability to slice through the thickest obstruction.

  We must not cower before the threat, but gird ourselves to demolish it. Ranulf warns me of leather scaling ladders that will permit our adversaries to breach my crenellated walls. He arranges for the household attendants to stand sentry at the narrow windows of the tower, which he has provisioned with burlap sacks of rocks, weighty enough to crush heads. Will my army of servants gather up their wit and their will, or be useless, dazzled by the sight of waving pennants and the glint of metal shields?

  †

  Today, Chester exercised our battalion, loading the men with heavy weapons, then jostling them up and down the stone staircases. He bellowed at them when they raised and lowered the drawbridge too slowly. He oversaw mock battles, crying our units on to more and more exertion.

  This evening the earl’s smell was so baneful that I offered him a bath, a hospitality overdue to him as my vassal. In keeping with his high birth, I honored him by consenting to be present during his ablutions.

  A page kneaded his back with a cloth. Naked, Ranulf is ugly, shaped like a barrel and covered with coarse, matted hair, of the same blond as his oversized mustaches.

  His broad shoulders reassure me of his vigor, but I could hardly keep my eyes steady upon his bloated, massive form. “My lord, I wish to acknowledge the thoroughness with which you have shored up Devizes.”

  Chester smiled, exposing his darkened teeth, irregularly spaced in his wide mouth. “As much as I appreciate this sign of your respect, Empress, I am no mincing pretty boy prone to frequent washing. If I stay too long undressed, my soul is likely to run off from my body, leaving the territory ill-protected from imps and demons.”

  I laughed aloud. “The steam will rehabilitate your spirit, sweating away the poison of overindulgence.” His bath was less of an ordeal than I had foretold, for the infusion of spices
in the water gave off a strong and pleasing scent of musk, cloves, nutmeg, and cardamom.

  Ranulf sighed, shifting about as if he would rise. “I cannot abide all this womanly nonsense. Females may be moist creatures, but I prefer to be dry.” He stood up, splashing the floor.

  I averted my gaze from his nudity. To my relief, Chester kept his distance, stepping over the edge of the tub to his clean clothes. Then, I was annoyed to hear him dismiss the servant. A small sound of protest escaped my throat.

  “You are a beauty, madame; there is no doubt that the fairies went to some effort to shape your face and form. Such a nice mouth you have; your nose is well enough too. There are barons who proclaim you the handsomest wench in the kingdom.”

  I sniffed with displeasure.

  The earl grunted. “Do not alarm yourself. I have no wish to fornicate with you. Queens make dangerous paramours.”

  “Hah!” I said, and then stopped my mouth, for I would not argue the point with him.

  Ranulf laced up his stockings. “A girl’s embrace is nothing to me. No satisfactions are so complete as those of a hearty meal, a refreshing bout of sleep or the sound of a trumpet blaring out the call to arms. Ah, to see a pasture flowing with the blood of mangled corpses!” Over his thick breast, Chester pulled a tunic of green wool, decorated with red stags leaping among brown trees. “This is a first rate garment!”

  “You admire Gerta’s needlework.” It would not do for the jongleurs to announce that I had gifted him with embroidery from my own hand.

  “It is almost as excellent as the one Maud presented to me.”

  I sank onto a bench, feeling almost sure that he would not accost me. “Do not mention that Jezebel.”

  The earl gave me a long look. “Her Majesty was in a fine tizzy at the last peace talks.”

  I tried to keep my expression neutral. “I had barely a glimpse of the harlot. I was busy negotiating with the Count of Boulogne.”

  Ranulf’s face revealed nothing. “Your rival drank her full of the sight of you.”

  “Capricious, jealous tantrums must surely repel her husband.”