by Lise Arin
The Earl of Chester undertakes to meet Prince Henry’s landing, and to escort him northward, guarding and guiding him until they reach the castle of Carlisle. Both my heir and my ally promise me that they do not intend to stir up revolt along their way. Nothing must invite a battle between father and son before the boy knows what he is about, and can win. But can I be secure in the support of the notoriously capricious Chester?
Under one corner of the interior lining of my son’s shield, I tuck a scrap of parchment, on which I have copied a bold prayer to my lady: “Oh, Holy Mother, freeze my heart into ice. Let no tears etch their tracks on my cheeks, for you have already cried a river, and its currents wash away the pain of all the world. My son must be as yours, the wind that blows the waters into waves and inundates the land, guaranteeing its rebirth.”
Concurrently, Duke Geoffrey rides off from Rouen to put down an insurrection in Anjou, a siege that may last several months. With both men departing from these precincts, Matilda Empress rules Normandy. I recross the Seine and reinstate myself at Rouen Castle, quite prepared to take up my administrative duties.
†
Last evening, a jongleur, hoping to garner goodwill, heaped me with praises. “I am confounded by you, as fetching and radiant as a snowdrop. Who is not mesmerized by your mouth, so pink and plump; who can withstand your gaze, so mournful and clear?”
Expecting more talk of crowns and armies, history and kingdoms, I was touched to be styled a captivating female. In recompense for his compliments, I offered him a fine cloak, not much worn, and without holes or fleas.
Gerta laughs at my gullibility. She is sure that the panegyric was written for another patroness, decades younger. “Do not be his dupe, Empress. Adulation is meant only to deceive us. If they laud you now, it is only to belittle you later.”
I sigh, forlorn to be past my prime. The minstrels flatter me merely because there can be no more aspersions cast upon my house. The rightful prince sets off on his quest to fulfill his destiny as the legitimate sovereign above us all.
†
Letters from England come thick and fast, so that I hear of Henry’s adventures almost as they unfold.
At the court of Carlisle, magnates loyal to me, including Brian, congregate to reconnoiter the Plantagenet and be recognized by him as early adherents. Robert’s heir, William Earl of Gloucester, bends his knee to his cousin, despite the influence of Amabel’s corrosive hate. The prince distrusts the effeminate William, and declines to strike up a personal friendship. My boy’s chosen companions dream of war.
Overall, the ceremony devolves into a general rally in support of our party. The Earl of Chester, now my mainstay, organizes our resistance against the usurper in the Midlands, in Wales and the west, and in the north. All the barons who surface to honor Henry are crucial to our ultimate success. We do not shun the embrace of any vassal, however tardy his allegiance.
†
Yesterday, a squalid, haggard Avera materialized at the portcullis to our keep. She had traveled from Angers by foot, mule, and cart. Her tatty garments emitted a swinish stench. I allotted her a solar far greater than her station and urged a bath upon her. She accepted with more alacrity than I expected. I dispensed my servants to wash her clothes, overlooking their squeamish groans and superstitious invective.
At supper, I was taken aback to see Avera’s clean face beneath her brash blond locks, brushed and silky. Her laundered bliaut, threadbare but decent, sufficed under a patched but ornately embroidered corsage, clearly of luxurious provenance.
The seer retains a verdant beauty of Maud’s sort, profusely inviting. Many of the courtiers, both women and men, were agog at the identity of my guest and aroused by the tempting enchantress. They imagined her to be the mistress of every sort of erotic pleasure, demonic or no. They outdid themselves, essaying to impress her with their wit and braggadocio.
Avera had no use for their posing, and devoted herself with gusto to a dish of young goose, stuffed with herbs, quinces, pears, grapes, and garlic, larded and roasted with ginger. She then polished off heaps of duck hotchpotch, stewed with pepper and cumin, burnt bread, minced onions, boiled blood, and ale. Jugs of sweet wine were emptied at a vulgar pace. I overlooked her gluttony, for I doubted that she had eaten so well in many a season.
When her hunger was sated, I invited her to take a seat beside me, and dismissed the higher-ranking members of my retinue, insisting that they dance and carouse. The mystic and I were left alone at the high dais.
After a pause, she spoke her purpose. “You rebuff me, but I will not be gagged. Although you are a queen, you must open your ears. If you would be staunch rather than feeble, set aside your pride.”
I considered her abundant comeliness, straining at her clothes, and her heavy, limpid eyes. “I demean myself only before heaven. The mortification of my spirit, and the denial of my desire, primes me to receive the Virgin’s light. I do not need you to teach me humility, or constrain my will.” My mouth quivered.
Avera noticed the flutter of my lips. She regarded me full in the face. “Hearken to whoever has moved you, whoever calls forth your trembling.”
To gain time, I drained my goblet of its liquor. The last of my food had congealed upon my trencher of bread. Why was I slow to react to her sallies? “Do not think to perturb me. I reject your revelations; they have always been unholy and base.”
The witch bit her lip. “You are condemned to ride at the head of a troop of the dead. You sit astride a saddle emblazoned with red-hot nails, your feet in fiery spurs.”
Was my majesty of no account to her? “Miserable wretch! Heretic!”
Avera spat onto the table. “How many is the number of your crimes? How many years are left to you, to atone?”
How dare she act as my confessor? “Incubus, of what do you accuse me?”
Her voice rose, but no one heard us over the music, stomping, and clapping coming from the other end of the great hall. “You take unrighteous pleasure in the awe and dread of your citizens. But understand: your power over them, your divinity, does not stem from your native distinction, your grasping ambition, your fluctuating wealth, or your pyrrhic conquests.”
My ears pounded. “You are Denise’s creature, here to flout me, here where I am the rightful duchess by birth and now again by marriage.”
Avera barked out a laugh. “Geoffrey, so puissant a prince, but yet her humble page! In courtliness, the duke loads her with prestige. He would marry his whore and elevate her, if you were no more.”
I sneered. “Do you threaten me? The laws of the church forbid marriage to men who have killed or have colluded in the murder of their wives. Are you their accomplice?” I pushed back my seat and stood, sending a flurry of pages scurrying in our direction.
Red spots mottled Avera’s fleshy cheeks. “You misunderstand me, Empress. Denise gives me her custom; I sell her my aphrodisiacs. It is you who has my fidelity.” The serf grabbed my hand, then kissed my palm. “Pax, pix, abyra, syth, samasic.”
Twaddle! Would the peasant cast some spell on me? Now I knew what she wanted of me, what she longed to gift me with.
So often of late, I have thrown off my lusts, holding myself aloof from Brian, from Robert, from Stephen himself, in order to serve my son and the Virgin. But last night I dabbled in obscenity, lame before temptation, unworthy of my recent piety and self-control. Today, to atone for my pointless licentiousness, I abstain from food and drink.
†
For all the oaths that the Plantagenet and Chester swore, for all that they vowed not to lure the pretender into a military engagement, it is clear that they yearned to fight. Uncle David and his battalion of Scots, Ranulf and my boy, along with all the knights friendly to the Angevin cause assembled at Carlisle, set off to find the enemy. The Count of Boulogne and his force of English warriors, up north to defend against any such invasion, were just as willing to engage. When the burghers of York appealed to the usurper to hurry to their city, in case my supporters should strike there,
both armies simultaneously approached the town.
Miraculously, a pitched confrontation between father and son was avoided. The troubadours proclaim that the country folk sabotaged the battle. I employ my own spy, a monk planted within Henry’s retinue, who witnesses and records what he can. It is his opinion that Stephen and David secretly colluded, agreeing not to meet on the field. My uncle, outnumbered, wished to avoid a rout. My source cannot fathom why the false king hung back. The Plantagenet and the Earl of Chester seemed vastly disappointed and a bit puzzled to be denied their blood sport.
Then the prince buoyantly decamped to Bristol, negligently separating himself from Ranulf, his guide and protector, thus inviting capture or worse. At least he had the prudence to choose unfrequented byways, abandoned and forgotten roads unknown by his foes. Enemy search parties attempted to waylay him, hoping to make a fortune in ransom, but my heir escaped their ambushes.
At one point, his antagonists did spot him at a distance. Only by dint of good horsemanship and amenable terrain did he manage to elude Eustace himself. Outraged, Stephen’s son plagues Oxford, devastating the landscape, and mounts raids against all of our garrisons in Gloucestershire. Poets in Eustace’s pay opine that his rival, in grave peril, has been driven out of the north.
Henry’s jongleurs sing of the resplendent dubbing and his spectacular escapes.
†
The Count of Boulogne and his armies stampede through Britain, bent on destruction. The harlot Maud, anxiously comparing her own puling son to my brave boy, orders her husband to eradicate the Angevin forces, once and for all. With that bitch’s invocation ringing in his ears, he attacks everywhere, pillaging noble treasures, razing houses of worship, scattering the dwellings and food stores of the peasantry. Reducing his own subjects to extreme destitution, starving them, he hopes to guarantee their surrender. I hear tell that ravenous, homeless hordes barge into their own holy churches to wolf down the heavenly host. Verily, the usurper transforms his realm into a barren desert, incapable of sustaining life. Everything of mine that is fair and fine is forfeited to my cousin’s brutality.
The pretender’s depredations have been especially severe at my city of Devizes, where he burns down the town, entrapping my garrison in the palace. In revenge, and to draw him away, the Earl of Chester assaults Lincoln, maneuvering to retake the keep. The burghers of Lincoln defend their walls, awaiting royal aid. Stephen appears; a stalemate ensues. Although the local people suffer every imaginable injury, the possession of Lincoln tower remains unresolved.
†
Henry makes for the shires of Devon and Cornwall, aspiring to clear them of the usurper’s partisans. Capable and cocksure, my heir invests the strategic fortress of Bridport, winning the loyalty of its castellan. I count this his first victory.
Sagely, the Plantagenet invites the advice of new, more experienced and prudent friends. They favor a mobilized truce, counseling him to dispense, for now, with the unending, hazardous cycle of raids and counter raids. His supporters need some respite from the pretender’s battalions. They urge the prince to desist from further exploits, and to set off for the continent.
I concur. Despite this first military success, Henry remains unready for the decisive and fatal battle that must come between the illegitimate king and the lawful heir. In Normandy, he shall build up his resources among his continental allies, and wait until such time as he shall be, unquestionably, a man of eminence, able to guarantee a great and lasting peace.
†
Spurred on by the Plantagenet’s imminent return, Marie flees her convent and journeys though icy snow and thick mud to Rouen. The runaway, pretty, red-haired, and refined, ensconces herself at my court. I often invite her to sit with me in my solar, a politeness that I do not extend to her mother.
Today, some prankster attempted to amuse us with his tricks, as if I could not guess that his apple, “possessed by the devil, Your Grace,” had a beetle, stuffed inside its core, trying to creep out of its prison.
Marie would not laugh, even when the fool transformed a white rose into a pink one.
Gerta and I snickered in derision, smelling the vinegar whose vapors had dyed the petals. I dismissed the jester, dispatching him to con the naifs of the scullery or the stable.
I wondered at the girl’s severity. “How you have grown to womanhood, while I have been away!”
She looked at her hands, clutched together in her lap. “I am contrite, madame, to think of my own stupidity, which threatens the future of a young man of immaculate ancestry, great high-mindedness, and deserved repute.”
“You are sweet, well-bred, as noble and talented as your father. Another knight will find his joy fashioned in you.”
Now Marie regarded me coldly. “I am a poor, fragile creature.”
I grieved to find her still steeped in bitterness. “My son has spoken of your tribulations. I was pained to hear of them.”
“When I writhed under the influence of my ill star, the prince’s kiss upon my brow cooled my fervor. Sacks of French lavender under my pillow cannot soothe me to the same degree.”
Gerta shook her head and muttered. “French lavender is bound to excite your passions, not curb them.”
The girl blushed. “Alas! How shall I regain his affection, when even the highest falter and stammer before the risen Son?”
Did she speak of my boy or Mary’s? “Your illness is mere longing, thwarted and festering. I give you my leave to love the Plantagenet, but chastely, and from afar. Pure devotion, a flowering virtue, puts him in no danger, and leaves you inviolate.”
“Oh, Mother of Mercy!” Marie flung herself at my feet, and embraced my boots. “I am called celibate, but I am guilty of great hypocrisy. Cure me with your holy fire!” She began to weep, and almost to wail. “Touch me, heal me.”
My maid drew her away, and hushed her up with an infusion of vervain.
†
Geoffrey’s daughter unsettles me, and reminds me that I too have been mocked and deceived by Lady Love.
Never again will I see the one whom it has been my misfortune to adore. Never again shall I shiver under his flinty glance, raking over me with indifferent ardor. Never again will I boil at his arrogant excuses.
I refuse to relish his memory, to wallow in it. I must put my heart to sleep, forevermore. For it has gone on long enough! I give the scoundrel up; I execute him, jettisoning his corpse from my soul.
O Holy Virgin! Fasten me to the continent; bind me here, Mother, where I have only you to worship. Though he ransacks England, you must keep me here, across the Channel.
The Mirror of the Plantagenet
Scroll Twenty: 1151
The empress struggled to foreswear her lust. Yet, if she prostrated herself before the holy altar, still she swathed herself in a mantle of flesh and blood, and threw her head back to swallow a vicious tincture of ashes and honey. Matilda knew all the time that she could never elude the hour of her reckoning. But she lingered in a purgatory of her own making, powerless to rise above the iniquity of her hopes. Subject to the insanity of her passion, sovereign of nothing, she floundered.
†
Spring
My husband returned, and supplanted me on the ducal throne. I have spent the last two years living quietly, passing my time in regular devotions, avid reading, and extensive self-communion. At times, I feel stagnated and resentful. But, for the most part, I am relieved to couch my strength.
Geoffrey soon dispensed with the supposed continental authority of the French king, declaring the sixteen-year-old Plantagenet of age. In a newly rebuilt section of Rouen Cathedral, surrounded by noble supporters, he invested the boy as Duke of Normandy in his own right. During the ritual, my husband bellowed out his superior pleasure in the prince’s manner: “He has proved himself a warrior and a leader of men; he is daring, adventurous, and courtly!” Everyone present cheered in true faith except a jealous Geoffrey the Younger, who had nothing to gain from his brother’s ascension. I rejoiced
aloud to see my son kneeling before my spouse, then standing, elevated, at his side.
I insisted that the Plantagenet place his ceremonial sword before the high altar, and solemnly vow to be a true knight of the Church and of Our Lady. He did so, with a serious grace, reassuring to our entire retinue of magnates, and the crowds of burghers and prelates that had pressed into the cathedral behind our procession. The sword itself, a gift from the Angevin, had a pommel of gold, inlaid with blue cloisonné enamel, and a golden hilt, decorated with cabochon sapphires and pearls.
We feasted all the rest of the afternoon. Graciously, my husband allowed his minstrels to proclaim that both duke and duchess bequeathed Henry his province, through his mother’s inheritance and his father’s military conquests. Bernard de Ventadour, in particular, outdid himself. His inflated, complimentary rhymes grated on my ear, but satisfied the boisterous jubilance of our party.
The following day, the two Dukes of Normandy held a tournament in celebration of their puissance and prosperity. For the games, father and son wore matching tabards, silk tunics displaying their heraldic insignia, which I had fashioned for them. They rode similar white chargers, lately imported from Spain. The various prizes, announced in advance, included a lion, a pig, and a bear.
The rules were those of the melée. Two opposing units of warriors had been assembled with great tact, so that each team was equal in size and strength, and so that traditional enemies were not expected to fight alongside each other, as allies. Weapons were blunted with care. Safety zones were established, just within the boundaries of the city, although the skirmishing was to take place outside the walls, encompassing and trampling many of our most fertile hectares.
At dawn, hundreds of mounted men presented themselves in the fields, eager to acquit themselves to their honor. They split into two massed formations, awaiting the sounding of the trumpet and direction from their nominal overlord.
Noble ladies and elderly male courtiers observed and supported the proceedings from the crenellated battlements of Rouen Castle. The local burghers and their wives clustered along the walkways of the city walls, or climbed to the top of steeples and bell towers, in order to cheer and marvel at the sight.