Matilda Empress

by Lise Arin

  Standing among the royal party, on the ramparts, Marie’s breaths were shallow, for she perceived Henry to be at risk. She ripped off a brooch from the neck of her corsage, and thrust it to a page. “Deliver this unto the young Duke of Normandy, with the compliments of Marie of France. If he is to endure any blow, he must suffer the hurt for my sake.”

  This would not do. Who was she to order my servants to do her bidding? “Halt! There has been some small mistake. Present the brooch to the elder duke, with his daughter’s compliments. Bear the same message, if you will. But the jewel is for her father.”

  Marie stood silent, flushing with some mixture of shame, frustration, and worry.

  The tournament was relatively short-lived, and never at a standstill. Geoffrey and Henry, together leading one of the two armies, effectively smashed their force into the ranks of their adversary, less able to stay tightly arranged. At terce, Henry led a turnabout charge, from the rear, and an unambiguous victory was theirs within three hours.

  In spite of the quick triumph of our two dukes, Hamelin had been able to unseat a great number of soldiers, and imprison them for the ransom of their armor and horse. Once one had pledged his surety, the boy was off to attack another victim, and increase his spoils. Sometimes he could be seen snatching the bridle of an animal, and dragging the steed out from under its rider.

  Denise laughed and clapped at each of his sallies, but frowned at the hasty conclusion to the tumult, which served to limit his gains.

  Her greed rankled Gerta. “Empress, your prince looks like an angel, shining, radiant, in his armor. His splendid chivalry earns everyone’s esteem. He fights not for profit, but for glory.”

  Denise’s mouth twisted, and the successful conclusion of the celebratory games was marred by pettiness.

  †

  My hand quivers, and my handwriting suffers, for I have just heard tell of Adeliza’s death at Arundel. Her earl, still Stephen’s man, transmits the woeful news, and imparts a lock of her golden hair, in honor of my once sacred friendship with his wife. Of late, she preferred her husband’s handsome face to my claims upon her, yet I grieve the loss of the confidante of my youth.

  Bernard now lodges continually among us, haunting my fireside, eating my victuals, and drinking my mead. In exchange, he dogs me with poetry and flattery, attempting to extenuate my sorrow. Although his banter and songs are unlikely to resurrect Adeliza from her crypt, or even to assuage the ache in my heart, he reminds me that life unspools itself, ever unwinding, and that the harsh north wind of winter is always supplanted by the mellow, balmy breeze of spring.

  Would that this wisdom were enough. Adeliza, forty-eight, shrugs off her earthly cares, yet I, forty-nine, continue vibrant, ambitious, unhappy under restraint. Despite all that I give up, I am not resigned from life.

  †

  The Plantagenet is eighteen now, and the two Dukes of Normandy reign jointly. Suddenly impatient to do away with any lingering uncertainty over Henry’s pretensions, Geoffrey determines that my son should pay homage to the Frankish sovereign. He will not tolerate any whispered claim that the boy’s position remains illegitimate until he kisses Louis VII in fealty. How can he doubt that my magnificent prince holds my father’s territory aloof from any overlord, giving precedence only to God?

  King Louis, however, responds favorably to my husband’s overtures, agreeing to unite with us, in amity. And so the Plantagenet travels to Paris to swear allegiance to him, in return for French recognition. Henry consents to be Louis’s vassal, dispensing with some part of his pride, in exchange for a continental peace that will allow him to focus his resources on the war to come in England.

  †

  Summer

  Rouen Castle fairly throbs with the upheaval of preparation.

  With some trepidation, I announce that I intend to make one of the party, to participate, as is proper, in the feudal rites. I hanker to spend long days in the saddle, my skin and hair refreshed in the pristine air. I am eager to survey the great city of Paris, so famed for its elegance, learning, and decadence. I look forward to taking the measure of Eleanor, its renowned queen.

  My husband amicably permits me to join the ducal entourage, and does not interfere when I pack my red silk tent, Brian’s gift, so as to be assured of some dignity and repose along the route. The Angevin amiably overlooks the two extra carts in our train, which convey its rolls of fabric, long cypress poles, and the tools necessary to erect it.

  Of course, Denise accompanies us. Gerta’s presence is deemed necessary to the women’s comfort. De Ventadour shall entertain us upon the road. We will be quite a big company around the campfire.

  Yet Marie is not to go, and grows despondent. Pallid, she mopes about the keep, trailing Henry’s footsteps. The prince is more than fond of the dour girl, but tires of her idolatry. Fortunate in his personal favors, and utterly artless, he discounts the sting of unrequited love. In accordance with my wishes, the Plantagenet’s marital ambitions far outstrip this incestuous affair. Precocious Marie sees clearly that their relationship is at an end, but wallows in her melancholy. While she suffers, my son, blithe and abandoned, carouses with innumerable willing companions, who throw their virtue at the new duke-and king -to-be. In this, he has the Angevin’s blessing.

  Neither is Geoffrey the Younger to travel in our caravan, for the rancor between my heir and his sibling grows to such proportions that my husband can no longer tolerate the younger brother’s hate. Geoffrey’s bitter outrage at his omission is ugly to behold, only strengthening his father’s wish to exclude him from the imminent adventure.

  I still find it odd that the Angevin prefers Stephen’s son to his two legitimate offspring. The Plantagenet is a finer specimen of knight, more refined and courtly than the others, but any other man would cleave to his own blood. Can Geoffrey not smell it?

  †

  Eight days ago, we set off from Rouen. Thus far, the road has been easy, dry and wide. Yesterday, we crossed the border into the Vexin, a small county southeast of us, lodged between Normandy and the Isle de France. It has long been a sort of buffer zone between unfriendly territories, but on this journey we admire its fruitful serenity. Henry tallies its prosperous beauties.

  Just now I have a blaring headache, the effect of last night’s excessive carnival. At dusk, I was apart from our campsite, alone in a meadow, making use of a field privy. Hearing the pounding of hooves, I crouched low to conceal myself. I hurried back and found my family and attendants crowded around a courier dressed in Stephen’s colors. Expecting something terrible, I found to my delight that it was the best possible news.

  Maud, the thieving, whorish, false queen, is dead! She expired at Heningham Castle and has already been buried before the high altar at the abbey of Faversham, in her loyal county of Kent. Faversham is a fitting resting place for that strumpet, for it is a decadent house, filled to the brim with treasures stripped from my subjects during the Count of Boulogne’s endless wars.

  The herald described the usurper, at first beside himself in despair, then frantic with arrangements for his wife’s interment. In very little time, craftsmen carved Maud a lavish tomb of marble. The royal messenger insisted that God’s hand must have been upon the work, speeding its completion. I laughed aloud at such a miracle, for it is the miracle of my revenge. Everyone in our train was jubilant to hear of the harlot’s demise, and showered our enemy’s envoy with liquor and kisses.

  As Henry reveled with me in the death of our foe, I shared my scorn and exultation. “Imagine her at the pearly gates, demanding entrance! Maud, aflame with promiscuous fever, flaunting herself, but denied passage into paradise! Heaven measures her presumption.”

  The Plantagenet laughed. “She would toy with the Lord Jesus Christ, and lead him to her chamber, and take communion with him, eating and drinking of his body and blood.”

  I could not grimace at his obscenities, in the face of Maud’s greater heresies. “She is blind to His divinity, too enormous, too preci
ous for her to apprehend.”

  My son and I strayed closer to the great bonfire that blazed in the center of our encampment and partook of the drink being doled out to the celebrants. Before I thought the better of it, I gulped down more than was prudent. As I quenched a thirst that had already been extinguished, my gaze wandered to my husband, so handsome and yet not my heart. He stood with his hands on Denise, who gave herself liberally, out under the open sky.

  Numb, I thought of Stephen, free at last, and of my own perpetual bondage. But what does it matter? My soul is too deeply wounded, my inner light is too dim, to rebound in love.

  The prince sensed that my happiness was not unalloyed. He loitered near me. “I have heard, Mother, that Queen Eleanor of France is both exquisitely attractive and much discontented. Her husband holds himself like a monk, humble before his abbot, or a boy not yet grown to his full height, who still fears a beating from his father. It is said that he squirms aside, effacing himself, to allow priests to pass him by in the corridors of his own palace! Shackled to such a spouse, Eleanor chafes at the dull round of her existence.”

  How well I could imagine the weight of her chains, the bonds of an ill-assorted marriage. “The queen’s court abounds in chivalry and corruption, for in such does she drown her ennui and distress.”

  The young duke perked up, grinning in anticipation. “Her possessions stretch from the Loire to the Pyrenees, from the central mountains to the western coast.”

  To me, Eleanor seemed the victim of her wonderful circumstances. “She must miss the southern light under the gray northern skies of Paris. She surrounds herself with mercenary wits, in an attempt to illumine her damp and gloomy castle.”

  Dizziness and a growing nausea sent me into my red pavilion. While the others still wassailed, I lay down upon the bed of aromatic leaves that Gerta had readied. I smelled the odor of roasting meat, and thought of Maud’s corpse. I yearned for a pound of her flesh, to cure and treasure. I heard a lovely melody, played upon a zither and a harp, and my strength ebbed away from me. The rumpus continued unabated, but I fell into a troubled sleep.

  †

  Fall

  Paris is a wondrous and aggravating place, for its antiquity breeds austerity and piety on the one hand, licentiousness and folly on the other.

  Yesterday, we attended the sumptuous banquet that paid tribute to our arrival. The great hall of the French royal palace was hung with damask tapestries. The most beautiful among them depicted the colorful birds and varied beasts of a lush forest. Attached to the borders of the weaving were small silver bells, which jingled elegantly whenever ruffled. On the dais, thick carpets were spread underfoot, and scattered with rose petals. The high table was cluttered with candelabra; a profusion of costly wax candles burned down, only to be immediately replaced by a chamberlain.

  I was introduced to the king, whose abstemious appearance much intrigues me. Louis, slender and wan, almost fades into insignificance. He adorns himself too simply, in vestments more appropriate to a cleric. It is said that Louis is all meekness, but I suspect his quietude to be a pose.

  He was very courteous to the Normans and especially to me, placed beside him. With spindly arms, he doled out my portions of food.

  All the viands were drenched in sauces of sugar, pepper, and cinnamon. I sampled many unknown luxuries: the eggs of fish, called “caviar,” and a bitter, soothing drink, known as “tea.” The very water we rinsed our mouths with was scented with lime, to hide its impurities.

  Throughout the feast, His Majesty’s azure eyes looked mildly upon me, but I saw his soft glance intensify into a cold glare when it rested on his wife.

  On my other side reposed a boisterous Eleanor, not yet thirty years old, with lustrous black eyes and extravagant red hair. She is too tall, but has a superbly toned figure and a strong constitution. She wore a rich silk dress, gold in color, embroidered all over with priceless gems. She had paint upon her eyes and lips, although she did not need it, dazzling as she was. She was loaded down with glinting jewelry, also superfluous, given her immoderate gown and flamboyant natural charms. How Maud would have hated her!

  Eleanor paid much heed to me, beginning with a jest. “Do you think, Empress, that my costume is worth the lifelong toil of the worms who made it?” The queen tossed her hair, so that her diamond earrings shook.

  The French king answered in my stead. “You are decorated like a pagan temple, not so much ornamented as laden down with precious metals and stones.”

  Eleanor cackled and turned to my husband, on her other side. “What say you to my indecent finery, Your Grace?”

  Geoffrey unsheathed his flattery. “Your very bracelets, your brocade, your golden circlet: none of these do your loveliness any justice, for what nature gave you far outweighs the contributions of the arts.”

  Several troubadours who stood behind the queen’s place mumbled their appreciation of the Angevin’s wit. I guessed that Eleanor’s suggestive remarks were usually lobbed at them.

  The queen swerved back to me. “I have quite the reputation for opulence and frivolity. Is it not so, Empress?” She rolled my title off her plump, carmine lips.

  Did she test me, before my two dukes? “I would not repeat a slur against one of my cousins, madame. I believe that we are related through Robert the Pious, king of France at the time of the Millennium. His son Robert, Duke of Burgundy, was your great-great-grandfather and his daughter Adela was my great-grandmother.”

  Eleanor decided to be kind. “Looking at your comely face, I would never have known that we were not of age.”

  Louis tapped the table with his thin fingers. “I am also your cousin, for the eldest son of Robert the Pious was King Henri I, my great-grandfather.”

  The Plantagenet spoke up, from the other side of the French sovereign. “Family trees are a bit confining.”

  The queen smiled briefly at the prince, then resumed her chatter. “Paris can be stifling to the imagination.”

  Henry did not want to be a mere listener at the board. Her Majesty’s obliviousness to his merit inflamed his cheeks. “It is a fantasy land and you are its ruling principle.”

  Eleanor gave the young duke a longer look, from head to waist. “I am almost what the jongleurs proclaim me to be.”

  Bernard piped up, from his spot at my back, presumably presenting some nonsense prepared just for this occasion. “If queens did not exist, the poets would have had to invent them, so necessary as they are to a nation’s glory.”

  Her Majesty giggled. “France can refuse none of my demands. I commanded Louis to ransack a nearby shrine, to procure me the slipper of the Holy Virgin, credited with one hundred and three miraculous cures.”

  Denise, on the far side of my husband, and at the fringe of the baldachin placed above the high table, had been waiting for her chance. “Did Our Lady wear slippers? I would think that she wore sandals. And if she did wear slippers, their delicate fabric could not have survived the ravages of time.” She blushed, perspiring under her nose, seemingly relieved to have declared herself immune to the glamour of the queen. The leman’s pulchritude, so invincible in Rouen, appeared as watered down as the wine one serves to children and the elderly.

  Eleanor grew serious at this aspersion cast upon her powers of logic. “May the righteous souls in heaven shrivel up your tongue! May it remain useless and desiccated, until such time as you kiss the Virgin’s shoe, and renounce your apostasy.”

  Her Majesty noticed her husband, nodding and smiling. Seeing his approbation, she remembered herself and tried to plague him anew. “I would not have the churches of Paris be lackluster, empty of glittering reliquaries. We have the reputation of our court to think of.”

  The French sovereign hung his head at his wife’s profession of hypocrisy and avarice.

  Dismissively, the queen held out her goblet to Duke Geoffrey, whose manly beauties she apparently appreciated. While he drank from her wine, she stroked his arm, as if to assure herself of his lean strength.
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  Sternly, Louis examined the Angevin. “I regret that Her Majesty attends only to what dazzles her eye.”

  Denise’s expression was dismal, her envy incompatible with decorum. “Perhaps the queen chases after refinement, and is a student of taste, instead of its master.”

  Eleanor’s cherry mouth sneered. “Who is this person at my table? What is her name? I cannot recall it.”

  I winced for Denise, and for my husband, who had brought such a rude wench to the royal notice. I enunciated carefully. “A queen’s humility is her most glorious attribute.”

  Geoffrey looked grateful for my intervention.

  Eleanor nodded, acknowledging my chastisement.

  The French king’s interest in me enlarged, but I found myself famished, and busied myself with the culinary delights.

  Louis sighed, then clapped his hands to initiate the entertainments. Thirty musicians, fiddlers, pipers, and drummers, filed into the hall, and began to tune their instruments. Just as many Saracen dancing girls, shapely and scantily clad, began to assemble in front of the dais. When the music commenced, they balanced themselves upon large balls. Swinging their arms and twisting at the waist, so as to move them along the smooth floor. All the while, they snapped their fingers and hooted.

  I found it amusing to watch Denise endeavor to feign indifference to this riveting display.

  The queen shrugged. “This spectacle surely will banish our dark humor.”

  His Majesty slammed his spare fist down on the board. “Perverse and profane! This dance is all innuendo, and no grace.”

  Eleanor clenched her teethed, and made as if to rise from the table, until Louis’s demeanor suddenly changed, from one of authority to one of submission.

  She resettled herself upon the dais. The French queen would not be cowed.

  The lewd acrobatics continued and we ceased to talk.

  †

  Disconcertingly, Duke Geoffrey succumbs to the charisma of the Frankish queen, who encourages his suit. Fascinated, he composes odes in her honor. Today, he has been invited to her solar to recite them. Gerta, having flirted assiduously in the kitchens, snidely confides that my husband has been practicing a few simple magic tricks, natural experiments devised by King Solomon himself to court the love of a princess. He has perfected a small explosion of fire in the palm of his hand. Will this seduce Eleanor out of her bliaut?