Matilda Empress

by Lise Arin

  Holy Mary stretches out her hands to reclaim what I unjustly appropriated. I am Her wayward child, lost amid some dense, wild wood, cowering and despairing, then finally stumbling across my mother’s path. Running into Her skirts, I am indifferent to the menace and confusions that plagued me moments before.

  Already, my bequest lessens my tribulation, as the Virgin promises. In return for my sacrifice of Devizes, I bask in Our Lady’s pity. I had fallen from Her grace, but I shall redeem it in everlasting paradise. The Queen of Heaven showers down the rays of Her bliss, illuminating me.

  Perhaps the troubadours shall defame my defection from my own war, my refusal to finish what I have begun, but the wandering rascals never appreciate me.

  †

  It is stultifying work to pack my trunks with mantles and bliauts, corsages and slippers, cloaks and girdles. We fold and refold articles of clothing still likely to wrinkle despite our best attempts to store them properly. Gerta carefully seals her vials of herbs with sturdy stoppers and binds up my needlework with ribbons. I roll up my voluminous writings, attaching my seals. My maid nags me to do everything at once, and discounts the importance of my parchments.

  Today, I have been distracted from my tasks by the arrival of FitzCount. Hearing a commotion in the bailey, I thought Chester had begun to load up the baggage mules. I was startled to see Brian at the entrance to my solar.

  He bowed down very low before me, perhaps unwilling that I should see the emotion distorting his features.

  “FitzCount, you take me quite unawares.” Out of politeness, I ceased to sort my letters, although my fingers tickled to continue.

  My vassal looked very much aged, with shadowed eyes and pasty skin. “Does my visit bewilder you, Empress?”

  “I assume, sir, that you no longer wish to be actively in my service. It was more than three years ago that you left me to return to your domestic obligations.”

  Brian took small steps forward, almost broaching a respectful distance. “I have always been ready to fight for you, if need be. I refuse to acknowledge that you discard me. I have not perpetrated some great crime against you.”

  I smiled ruefully. “You do not find it possible to admire Basilia?”

  FitzCount’s expression deadened into sullenness. “That sorceress? At the crossroads between Wallingford and Oxford, she buries a bone from one of our unbaptized babies, born dead from her poisoned womb. For all her exorcisms, she does not have the power to eradicate my mania for you. I loiter at her hearth without one moment of harmony, counting out the turgid hours of each day. And the memory of you does not sustain me. Oh, my dark angel! The thought of your noble forehead beneath the black stream of your hair torments me, so that I toss about each night in sleepless anguish.”

  This was worse than I had imagined. “Your unseemly torpor does you no credit. Keep five leaves of the nettle upon your person, and be made safe from fear and fantasy.”

  My knight stepped up to my side. “Am I to have no true welcome?”

  I tried to recall his vanished charms. “I advise you to be comforted by Basilia’s veneration or Christ’s compassion.”

  FitzCount laid his palms on my shoulders. “If you revolt against my amour, you sound my death knell. Laid to rest among my ancestors, I shall no longer trouble you with buffoonish complaints.”

  Was he bluffing? I shook off his grip. “I am grateful for your esteem and your fealty, but I cannot grant you your desire. I cannot show mercy where I have found none.”

  FitzCount stood his ground. “I shall gouge out my eyes, hack off my nose, shatter my fingers, and slice out my tongue! Then I will shove my wood into Basilia without regret, for I will be unable to compare her to your translucent flesh, to your honied scent and taste, to your firm and pliable form.”

  My blood stirred within me, but to embrace him would do neither of us any good. Pushing past, I sat down next to the fire, smoldering and smoky from inattention. “No, no! Damn up your river of love; permit it to eddy into a reservoir of religious devotion, as I have done. Repent. Wring out your soul, exhaust your spirit, give all of your passion to the Lord.”

  Brian knelt before me. “Empress, your chastity does not bar you from glory. You shine all the brighter, for husbanding your flame. But heaven has no such bargain to strike with me.”

  My patience had run out. “Boil forty ants in daffodil juice, sir. Drink it hot, burn your mouth on it, and your lusts will cool into impotence.”

  “You, whom I love, do me the most harm, as if you were my greatest enemy. I have been your champion on the field, and yet am not your chosen hero. You order me to decamp your presence, and to forget what came before, but it is my courtly obligation to remember. Even though you are fickle, I will rest stalwart and sure.”

  I stood up. “I am off, over the water.”

  He had no choice but to quit my chamber.

  †

  I find that my maid attempts to adulterate FitzCount’s suffering. This morning, when the bells rang out prime, she was nowhere to be seen. Disheveled and wan, reeking of sex, she finally made a belated appearance in my solar.

  I had been scowling at my copper mirror, inspecting the ridges on my forehead, the brown spots on my nose, and the yellow tinge of my teeth. “Harlot! Whose prick was so hard that you could not leave his pallet to do your duty to me?”

  Gerta reddened. “I caressed a baron sorely in need of affection.”

  At once, I intuited that she had lain with Brian. I was in no mood to be fair. “Why did you mingle your sweat with his tears?”

  Gerta sighed. “Madam, why should I resist a knight wielding a stiff weapon, and in sore need of a conquest?”

  Already I regretted my petulance. “More than once, I have asked you to lie with a lesser man for my sake.” I held out my hand to her. “Forgive my tongue lashing. I am lonely and aggrieved.”

  Gerta ignored me, and began to make up my bed. “FitzCount was embarrassed to awaken in my arms, and bustled out from under my big bones as fast as any knave I have known. My complexion, ashen and gaunt, could not tempt him to dally away the morning.”

  I watched her smooth my coverlets and tuck them under the rush mattress.

  My maid straightened up. “Sir Brian was in his cups; I sated his need. But I was no substitute for a queen.”

  “I begrudge you nothing that assuages your spirit. You have always been my steadfast helpmeet.”

  Gerta put her hands on her hips. “The ass asked me to procure some token garment of yours. I refused, of course, but he would have fought all the more bravely for your son if he had your malodorous nightdress stuffed under his mail, or nailed to his shield.”

  I snorted and picked up my looking glass. “His fidelity flatters me. The woman in this mirror remains vain, lascivious, and disturbed. When will she be completely liberated from the sin and misery that ails her?”

  †

  Spring

  In the mildness of the new season, as the orchard begins to sprout and the birds to trill, I set out for the continent, at the head of a long train of carts and soldiers. I have been here, among my English people, for eight and one half years. I have little to show for it, leaving without the throne I came to claim. And yet, despite the failure of my ambition and the attendant burdens of travel, I rejoice to survey my native land, abundant in regrowth. Basking in the warm air, I spend a pleasant, almost leisurely month on the road, distributing pennies and blessings upon the crowds of pilgrims, clerks, paupers, squires, knights, and ladies that we come across. I exult in their accolades and well-wishes.

  Whenever our route winds through a village or town, I step into its small church. The bells ring out my presence, as I grace its austere doorstep. Inside, the local householders and serfs reach out to touch or kiss the hem of my robes; my heart warms to see fidelity and confidence shining in their faces. Their honest gratitude, for the trouble I have taken, and their simple prayers on my behalf cleanse my spirit.

  We spent last night encampe
d under the stars. Within my capacious, silken tent, a troubadour in our entourage, that sniping Bernard de Ventadour, unspooled the tragedy of a negligent king, indifferent sovereign of a fertile land. While he looked to his pleasures, a thick haze choked the sky and destroyed all the wheat and corn to be harvested. His Majesty, indecisive and indolent, did nothing to combat this misfortune, and there ensued an onslaught of inky ravens who clawed apart all the oxen and sheep in the fields. Still the king refused to save his realm, against the advice of the wiser men in his retinue.

  I pretended to believe that Bernard painted a picture of my foe, and clapped with all my might at the end of his performance. For good measure, I paid him the compliment of a pair of scarlet shoes. But I suspect his aspersions, and wonder whether his barbs are aimed at me, and my line.

  Oh Henry! When you are king, you must never shift your eyes from the changeable political landscape.

  †

  In Normandy, established at Rouen Castle, I find my husband more finely lined, yet still striking a heroic figure. His pale eyes and sharp gaze retain their allure. Altogether, age and power complement his wiry face and well-preserved form. To mark my arrival, he presents me with an elaborate gift, an artificial tree fashioned entirely of bronze. Small squirrels, modeled from cabochon opals set in silver, perch upon its branches.

  Denise is almost as exquisite as she once was. As they did in her youth, the fiery hair and pouting mouth enchant the duke, who remains smitten. Indeed, the leman rules beside him, as Duchess of Normandy in fact. I infer that the small, thin stripe her mouth became at my reappearance was the first frown she has worn in the nine years of my absence. Despite this small indiscretion, his mistress wears her frustration well, for she has little to fear. She has displaced me, in Geoffrey’s soul and at his court.

  I cannot hope to supplant her, and do not wish to do so.

  †

  Today dawned warm and clear. My husband and I, and the three sons of our house, along with Denise and Hamelin, met on a wide plain below the keep, in order to try out the handiwork of a new fletcher. His elegant bows prove extraordinarily light and sturdy, and his glorious arrows are feathered with the plumage of only the swiftest, rarest fowl. Delighted with our new weapons, we challenged each other to a match.

  I wore a yellow bliaut that does not complement my skin tone. Denise, resplendent in a gray corsage laced up at the sides with green ribbons, easily monopolized Geoffrey’s notice, although I shot at his side, and my aim was sure. I rolled my eyes at his slights, until finally the Angevin remembered what honorable attention was due to me.

  He sighed. “If I am feared as a general, it is my beloved to whom I owe my martial will to conquer; if I am admired as a poet, it is she to whom I owe the polished style of my courtly compositions.”

  The strumpet strode over to us, tossing her bow aside. “I am done with archery. I mark at joy.”

  Hamelin scoffed. “Mother, when we are under bombardment, amour will not suffice.”

  Prince Henry laughed. “If we did not flirt and dilly-dally away the days and nights of a long siege, the investiture of a castle would be an unbearable ordeal.”

  Denise smiled upon the Plantagenet’s insouciance. I do not perceive that she harbors my son any ill will, or intrigues to raise a question about his paternity, so as to impede his inheritance. Perhaps it is enough that she likes him.

  My husband put his arm around his paramour’s waist. “Despite the passage of time, my heart lightens whenever I see my favorite.”

  The slut slipped the string of the duke’s bow off his shoulder and put her red head in its stead. “My interest in you has never waned, nor am I the trifling sort.”

  There was silence. Had they all heard the exaggerated rumors of my innumerable affairs: Stephen, Brian, Robert, Ranulf?

  My younger boys continued to shoot at the targets, replenishing their quivers with boastful hoots.

  William, almost twelve, cared nothing for romance and did not heed the conversation.

  But boorish Geoffrey, over fourteen and a picture of his father in his youth, listened while staring down the shaft of his arrows. Into the hush that had fallen among the adults, he interjected: “Lady, we have been felicitous here without you; why do you come among us now?”

  The Plantagenet cuffed his sibling on the arm. “Cad! The empress is no cloud to smother the sun, but our mother, returned to us after too many years spent fighting for my English throne.”

  Irate at the smart to his limb and the bruise to his dignity, Geoffrey whined. “Pardon me, Your Grace of Normandy.”

  My husband’s voice deepened with annoyance. “Namesake, do not resent your own brother’s magnificence. You will possess more than enough splendor for such an oaf as you are.”

  Geoffrey, canny in his belligerence, recovered his composure. “Your patrimony was not sufficient for you. You put ardor aside, when your squires dressed you in your armor.”

  Would Henry be able to renounce Marie, when the time came? “A knight is not always free to pursue his fancies.”

  Geoffrey’s antagonism was undampened. “When I seduce a woman, it will not be in admiration or in lust, but for the benefit that I might obtain from her.”

  To find this Angevin son so unlike me in every way was mortifying. “Where is the honor in that? Such indecent talk will never merit a lady’s trust.”

  Hamelin spoke up for Geoffrey, estimating as he did. “A feverish heart is a prison; women, swindlers all, are the jailors. Thinking too long on a girl is like repeatedly burning your tongue on the same scalding tankard of mead.”

  Denise looked surprised to hear him admit to a man’s feelings. “A noble relationship, with all its courtesies, embellishes us. Love wisely and you will not regret it.”

  Only William still essayed to improve his skill with his bow. “Cease your commentary; hoist your arrows!”

  †

  Rouen is the administrative and commercial center of the duchy. From the slit windows in our stone keep, and from the corridor along our battlements, I canvass our crowded, wealthy municipality. The burghers live in spacious mansions; the churches erect steep spires. The river Seine guides heavily stocked trading ships into port. The market squares throng with merchants and traders, hawking wares of every description, and ruddy peasants seeking work from the citizens. My nose tingles with the aroma of the public cookshops. Regardless of the noise and bustle, I sometimes even ramble incognito through the city’s littered lanes.

  The vibrant town is surrounded on all sides by cascading streams and gently rolling pastures, gracious hills and thick glades. The great hall in our stronghold overflows with mounted stags that the duke and his escort bag in the vicinity. To the west of the town, along the Seine, well-stocked fisheries supply our table. To the east of it, cloth manufacturies run their water mills, operating a steady business. I have paid a dignified visit to both of these worthy concerns, for I would promote such prosperity in England, when Henry shall rule.

  There is so much success at hand, so much new money in Rouen, that Duke Geoffrey takes out large loans from his rich subjects. I disapprove of these financial arrangements, but my opinion of them is not asked.

  I myself generously pledge to construct two stone bridges, one between the town and the isle in the middle of the Seine and another connecting the isle to Saint-Sever, on the south side of the river. The extant wooden walkways, spindly and easily damaged by fire or brawling, do not assure safe passage between the castle and suburb, where sits the priory of Notre-Dame-du-Pré, built by my father in his royal park of Quévilly.

  Lately, I prefer the priory guest quarters to the inconvenient, unwelcoming solar that I have been assigned in my husband’s tower. Geoffrey is grateful for my protracted absences from his hearth, and for my willingness to permit Denise to manage his household in my rightful place. At my request, and in my name, the Angevin grants the priory a bonus, revenue from market tolls levied in its neighborhood.

  †


  Sustained and refreshed at the priory, I refuse to see Avera, who sends a messenger all the way from her hovel in Angers, requesting to wait upon me in Rouen. Loathsome pagan, oracle of nothing; what has she to tell me that I do not already know?

  Crossing herself at the mere mention of Avera’s name, Gerta persists until I swallow gobs of rosemary butter, which she churns from the milk of a completely white cow, while she waves a baton inscribed with some Latin incantation. She thinks to protect me from the witch’s elf-shot, the contagion of her magic, now that I am almost healed, almost reborn.

  Through prayer, and self-abnegation, I ascend to wisdom. My transcendent fate unfolds before me. I lose what is dearest to me on this earth, in exchange for the keys to heaven.

  †

  Summer

  Sitting idle in Normandy, I imagine Stephen’s supremacy in England, unburdened by a rival. But I am disabused of this misconception by the prating, ingratiating minstrels, spewing out their political verse. My darling, as always, is unable to preside uncontested.

  Maud schemes to have the archbishop of Canterbury anoint Eustace as king. But public sentiment tilts toward the Angevin party. Tales of Eustace’s sadism are legion. One ill-favored member of his circle was recently buried alive for some small infraction, a perceived lack of deference toward the false prince. On the whole, it is felt by most Englishmen that Henry Plantagenet is the lawful heir to his grandfather’s realm.

  †

  Fall

  The leaves cascade down from the trees, but such unwelcome changes in the scenery are nothing to me now. I am suffused with sobriety, and would not wish to be surrounded by lavish foliage and a luminous sky. Once again, my heroic son, my prized beneficiary, abandons his studies to take up arms in our cause.

  He is not yet sixteen, but he is full of this, his second journey home, to be knighted by his great uncle, King David of Scotland. The Plantagenet will receive the grand emblems of the warrior’s rank, and enter into his new dignity. He is to be dubbed by a ruling sovereign, as is right and fitting to his station.