Matilda Empress

by Lise Arin

  My husband spurred his charger, cantering away from us.

  †

  Two days ago, we stopped to rest at the fortress of Le Lude, near Le Mans. Hamelin and a party of relatively green knights join us here, traveling from Rouen. My other sons do not take the trouble to be among the first to welcome us back to Normandy. Yesterday, Henry and a cadre of younger men from our expanded entourage set off into the forest, on an extended excursion to hunt fresh game. I hope that this small separation will allow the two dukes to cool their tempers.

  But the Angevin, always so vigorous and facile, falls ill. After a short spurt of falconry near the keep, Geoffrey felt heated and plunged into a freezing stream. Before sext, he returned to Le Lude, to read in its great library. Soon the duke was beset by chills, although he burns with a high fever.

  Today, Denise is beside herself with anxiety. With an ashen face, she paces distractedly through the baileys. Forcing her way past his attendants, and into his solar, she strews her lover’s sheets with dracontinium, an herb said to counteract infection. She smears the walls of Geoffrey’s room with the entrails of a catfish, dragged out of the moat, so as to ward off any bewitchment. The idle pages and mystified medical men at my husband’s bedside cross themselves before abusing her nonsensical incantations of “cuma, cucuma ucuma cuma uma maa.”

  My maid takes the matter into her own, more capable hands, and with the cooperation of a mendicant friar, inscribes several sugar wafers with healing prayers, transcribed in the most austere and authorized Latin. Gerta hand-delivers them to the duke’s chamber, and places them under his tongue.

  I too begin to fear the likelihood of some catastrophe. I add together the number eight (for there are eight letters to Geoffrey) and the number six (for there are six letters in Le Lude). Conjoined, they are fourteen, and even; His Grace will not escape his fate.

  †

  I have just returned from my husband’s solar, where his steward and I witnessed the last will and testament of Geoffrey Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou and Maine. The Angevin bequeaths to the Plantagenet all three of his territories, almost disinheriting Geoffrey the Younger, save for a gift of three important strongholds: Chinon, Mirabeau, Loudon. His Grace bestows nothing upon William; he is to be provided for out of the largesse of his eldest brother. I blush to think of the coming impoverishment of my lesser sons.

  Always leery of Geoffrey’s intentions toward Henry, I am shocked at this unexpected favoritism. My husband cannot resist the allure of passing down a great realm, stretching from the Channel to the southern tip of Anjou. He cannot bring himself to split up the enormous dominion that he has spent his whole life piecing together. He comprehends that the Plantagenet needs all of our continental possessions to generate enough manpower and revenue to win England from the Count of Boulogne.

  Yet the Angevin offers his namesake some hope of preferment. If Henry invades Britain successfully, gaining the English throne, then his younger brother shall be enfoeffed with the Counties of Maine and Anjou. Such an arrangement guarantees that the second son will fight bravely for the betterment of the first.

  Denise’s settlement amounts to three manor houses and their adjoining land. She will be able to live out her life in ease and to transmit a petty nobleman’s legacy to Hamelin, often in debt to moneylenders. Perhaps her son will no longer need to resort to pawn shops in order to keep himself in horse and armor. Marie receives a small dowry. Overall, the leman’s endowment bears no resemblance to her rich position as the substitute Duchess of Normandy, but it is more in keeping with her native social status. Again Geoffrey puzzles me, for what he imparts to his mistress is no more than what is right.

  †

  Uncomfortably passive in my strange bedchamber, and uneasy in the eerie silence of the keep, I ventured back to my husband’s side and dismissed a retinue of squires and priests. Vacant, the duke’s solar resounded with his labored breathing.

  The Angevin lay awake, between this world and the next. To my confusion, he asked my pardon. “Do you forgive my violence, Empress? Our marriage, lately chaste, achieves a perfect, unsullied dignity. We stand side by side, not hand in hand, but joined none the less, according to the will of heaven.”

  I regarded his perfect features, unchanged in extremity. “I do absolve you, Your Grace, from your crimes against me.”

  Geoffrey smiled thinly. “You are gracious and clement, Holy Queen. You are sweetness and mercy.”

  “I regret to not have inspired more of your poetry.”

  “I repent of any shame that I have brought upon you; I was often blind to your value. You are as white as the moon, and as bright as the sun, as high as the mountains, as unyielding as the currents of the sea. The dawning glory of the Plantagenet proves your worth and virtue.”

  I trembled at his praise, almost unable to believe in his approbation.

  “You must vow, wife, to leave me unburied, until such time as the young duke shall return. He must swear, upon my corpse, agreement to the terms of my dispensation.”

  I pondered this last request and nodded my head. I felt generous. “Husband, do you have anything that you wish to ask me? In all justice, I will answer.”

  Geoffrey considered me for a moment, and I him. “It is no matter; the law unites us, and we are reconciled. You did not present me with a son beneath my notice. History names him mine.” Suddenly anxious, the Angevin struggled to take in air. “I would say my adieus to one who was long my solace, if you will permit me this final insult.”

  I summoned a page, sending for Denise.

  Very soon the distraught mistress burst in upon us, showering her caresses upon the recumbent duke. Her voice was too choked with sobs for her words to have any clarity.

  My husband placed a hand over his paramour’s wet mouth. “You will no longer have the luxury of behaving with abandon.”

  Dismayed, Denise stopped her fawning. “For years, we explored together the kingdom of the senses. Your household always wondered whether you were prompted by more than lust.”

  His Grace grunted. “For many years, my courtly heart belonged to you.”

  She still worshipped her knight, but his recent offenses had hardened her. “Now I measure the scope of your attachment.”

  The duke looked bewildered. He touched her red curls.

  Denise backed away from him, although I could imagine what such a sacrifice cost her. “I have already lost what I value most, above everything else.” The wronged woman devolved into another paroxysm of sobs, distorting her loveliness. “Of all the hateful whores, I am the most despised, and the unhappiest. I was dignified on high, preferred to all others. When you tossed me aside, I suffered deeply over my long and hard fall.”

  I sighed at her sordid lack of tact. “Be consoled by His Grace’s willingness to see you now.”

  My husband stared with glassy eyes.

  For some minutes, the leman cried heatedly, still at a distance from her erstwhile favorite.

  As Geoffrey’s inhalations became more ragged, he remembered her, who mourned him more than any other. “For the space of many, many years, you were enough for me. You were my bliss, and my hallelujah.”

  But for Denise, his false heart would no longer suffice. “Will I be recompensed?”

  “May Jesus Christ grant you what you desire. I cannot.” The words petered out and he closed his eyes.

  With a short gasp, the wench gathered him up. Then my husband died, in her arms, with their argument ringing in our ears. She screamed out her guilt and sorrow.

  Cringing, I pried Denise away from the duke’s body. Humbled by her misfortune, she was beneath my notice. Yet I knew the tribulation of her coming solitude. I could not withhold my prayers, either for the false knight who had wounded us both, or for the fate of all women no longer relevant to the affairs of the world.

  †

  Awaiting Prince Henry’s return to Le Lude, my mind stalls, awash in perplexity. For a second time, I am widowed. Shall my life revol
ve, now that Stephen and I are both free? Shall I fight for him, as I have fought against him?

  Tied to Geoffrey, I set myself apart, independent, and regarded not my marriage vow. I copulated with knaves, soiling myself. Body and soul, I am unclean and unworthy, even of my cousin.

  I stand now at a crossroads. I see before me the route to virtue, at an intersection with the route to love. Do I step to the left or the right, to the wrong or the right? My foot wavers in the air; where shall I set it down?

  I lower my shoe upon the golden way, toward paradise. Refusing to look behind me, I give him up.

  †

  Henry is shocked, of course, to apprehend what has transpired in his absence, but by no means distraught to find himself the sole Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou and Maine.

  The Plantagenet’s face is inscrutable as he views the mummified body of his titular father. Encased in a linen shroud, Geoffrey lies in state, in a chamber draped with black wool. The pale figure illuminates the somber room, as a feeble taper penetrates a vast darkness.

  †

  Yesterday, we listened to my husband’s steward intone the particulars of the Angevin’s testament. The prince drummed his fingers in impatience, then smacked his leg at the caveat favoring his antagonistic brother.

  At first, Henry declined to take an oath to obey his father’s wishes. “Why should I not rule the world from Scotland to Anjou? Why should I be less than I might be? I am being asked to cede half of my portion. What do I owe young Geoffrey, who hates me, and whom our late father mistrusted and feared?”

  I beseeched him to honor His Grace’s decision, for the sake of peace and amity, but it was not until this morning that he finally pledged to accede to the Angevin’s plans. I shiver to recollect that his voice wavered and his eyes were slit small as he agreed to follow the will’s directives. Although he vowed to enrich his foe, it was clear that he remained disgruntled at the injustice.

  Due to the delay in negotiating Henry’s acquiescence, Geoffrey’s corpse has begun to decompose, and exudes a most foul smell. Gerta informs me that some of our hypocritical courtiers whisper that the prince’s greed is indecent. The point is moot, for the usurper sits astride the English throne.

  †

  According to his wishes, we inter Geoffrey the Fair at the cathedral of Saint Julian in Le Mans; he is entombed where we were married, where he was first elevated to a great station. There he lies in effigy, a handsome knight, carved from white, translucent alabaster, illustrious and lustrous, both. In contrast, his blue shield, with its golden lions, glitters in colored enamel. A record of his significant military campaigns is engraved into the smooth marble base of his sarcophagus. In death, the duke is distilled to his essential nature: inanimate, cold, martial.

  This morning, the family and courtiers froze through an interminable Mass. Pinching my chattering teeth together, twisting my numb fingers, I ruminated upon Geoffrey’s bier. I glanced over at Henry, whose face was tight, almost disdainful. Marie’s despondence was evident; I remembered that the bond between her and her father was once uppermost.

  To my ears, the music sung at the service was not nearly as moving as what we had recently heard in Paris. During the mourning office, a large incensoir swung above us, imbuing us with the divine musk, particularly jarring in our frigid nostrils. It seemed impossible to find my faith under my furs, and I mumbled the Lord’s Prayer. At long last, the bishop pronounced the Angevin’s absolution from the final judgment.

  Leaving the cathedral, passing through its enormous portals, our retinue swelled. A large cortege of the poor, paid alms to carry candles in the procession, attached themselves to our party.

  Only Denise tarried, loitering by the final resting place of her beloved.

  Curious, I melted away from my son and our barons to return to the apse.

  The leman acknowledged my presence with a curtsy. “I was a lady capable of discriminating among men, and so gave myself to the model among them. Finding him so worthy, I dared to adore him openly. Why should I not have the world’s esteem?”

  Some monks wandered forth from the shadowy recesses of the choir and started to chant the seven penitential palms, praying for the soul of Denise’s hero.

  She unearthed some gold from her purse and pressed it upon one of the brothers. “You must report to me any miracles that you witness here. I will pay you well for your evidence.”

  I took her hand. “I would be your benefactress.”

  The mistress blushed. “You are the grandest of women, encircled by vagabonds and thieves. I was another pretender, another foe who wrongly usurped what was yours, the seat of power at your husband’s side.”

  †

  Spring

  Hamelin joins Duke Henry’s court in Angers, so as to abet His Grace’s schemes to cement control of Anjou and Maine. Denise immures herself in one of her manors, but I remain at the head of my son’s entourage.

  All the talk in the new season concerns the termination of the French royal marriage. The divorce has everyone’s disapproval, including my own, although I once dreamed of the same. Separated from Geoffrey, and burning to dispose of him, eager to be at liberty to wed my cousin, I was unable to implement my plans. How is it that Louis’s queen smashes her way through all the rules and forms, into happiness?

  Somehow, the world engages to please Eleanor, who renounces the king as “feckless,” “rotten,” worthless to her. Her husband withdraws his garrisons from Aquitaine, declaring her a “strumpet,” undeserving of his throne. A church synod decrees that the crown union is dissolved on the grounds of consanguinity, the Frankish sovereigns being related to one another within a forbidden degree. Only divorce can save their souls from jeopardy and restore the king to true religion.

  Their two daughters are declared legitimate princesses of France. Their custody is awarded to His Majesty. Eleanor’s titles and territories are restored to her, as she possessed them from her father. Her Majesty becomes once more Duchess of Aquitaine and Countess of Poitou. Both spouses shall wed again freely, as long as the duchess respects her vassalage to Louis.

  Why was I, Holy Roman empress, unable to rewrite history according to my desire? I was hung upon the rood of my passion, but she employs hers as a battering ram.

  †

  Doffing her royal rank, the heiress departed homeward, south through Blois. Lovely, vastly wealthy, she was tempting prey to a slew of adventurers. On the first day of her journey, Count Theobald of Blois, Stephen’s nephew, attempted to waylay her. Acting quickly, Eleanor jumped onto a barge on the Loire and floated down into the town of Tours. On the frontier of Touraine, my son Geoffrey unsuccessfully tried to ambush her, thinking to violate her and force a marriage. Her Grace outfoxed him, taking another road to safety. Lately, she has arrived in her own provinces, residing now at her castle in Poitou.

  If the Angevin were alive among us, I would be suspicious of his own plots, given the likelihood that the duchess would agree willingly to ally herself to him. As it is, the Plantagenet quits our circle, without notice.

  †

  I have no need of Avera. The heralds’ cries echo my predictions. Only weeks after the erstwhile queen’s break from the Frankish king, Duke Henry united himself to the duchess, in the cathedral church of Saint Pierre, in Poitiers. My vehement prince and that immoderate harpy wed hastily, shiftily, but although they shirked the proper protocol, the deed is done.

  The Plantagenet might better have given his name and hand to the elder of her girls, Princess Marie. Louis would have consented to the match; Henry was the most eligible bachelor in Europe. But the young duke charts his own course.

  I have a letter from him, in which he neglects to hang his head before me.

  Eleanor brings me Aquitaine and Gascony, which I proudly add to my Normandy, my Anjou, my Maine. I control the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, from the Pyrenees to the Channel. All that remains is our England. But were the whole universe mine, I would throw it all over to lie down
beside her.

  I know that you will be the only one to agree that she is not too old for me. At almost twenty, I am quite experienced, and thirty years sit lightly upon her glorious face. The marriage is very like your own to my father. You too were a queen who condescended to marry a promising Angevin, transferring to him your own inheritance.

  Do not blame me for avoiding any display of regal pomp. For I wished to hurry the ceremony before any meddling clerk should proffer dry parchments to prove that the blood connections between me and my bride were no less incestuous than those which so recently gained Eleanor her freedom from her sniveling, sexless monk of a husband.

  God will forgive me, if it can be said that I sin, for it is He who graces my angel with perfection, and sets her down amongst us.

  My annoyance is not assuaged by my son’s self-satisfaction, but my feelings are nothing to Louis’s ire at the two ingrates who have seen fit to combine themselves without his prior and formal consent as their overlord. The king is livid that this sudden and unexpected aggrandizement of the duke denies his two daughters any hope of inheriting Aquitaine from their mother.

  In retaliation, Louis calls upon Eustace. They are joined by my young Geoffrey. Indeed, all who are, or who would be, in league against the newlyweds meet at the castle of Montsoreau on the Loire. They would, if they could, seize all of Henry’s territories, dividing Normandy, Anjou, and Aquitaine into so many parcels to distribute among themselves.

  The Plantagenet had intended to set off for England in the near future. To this end, he had begun to assemble a fleet at Barfleur. In the face of such protest, he stays to defeat his foes on the continent, perhaps to besiege all these antagonists altogether, in one keep. He races to meet them, before they move on. From Poitiers, he charges furiously northward, riding several horses to their deaths.

  With such news as seems forever disturbing my calm, I sleep little.