by Lise Arin
†
I hear tell of Denise, both from the ill-natured rumors that circulate here, and from her own letters, one of which I receive this morning.
I regularly visit His Grace’s tomb, to indulge in my memories. It irritates me to find pushing crowds of fat matrons demanding cures and scores of pimpled novices beseeching my beloved’s intercession with the angels. The simpletons have made his bier into their shrine, when it is properly only yours, and mine.
I have some of his jewels and some of his girdles and arms; you do not begrudge me his chattel, I suppose? Before his sarcophagus, I touch a ring to the hand of his stone effigy, but no demon appears to reanimate his corpse. I put it upon my own finger, but I do not faint away dead, as I might prefer.
At home in my petty manor, I trace a circle on the ground with his knife, and then place the dagger in the center, beside jars of ashes, flour, and salt. And yet, no matter my rhymes or mathematical equations, my master does not arise from his grave, resuscitated.
Is it any great riddle that I do not essay to concern myself with the local affairs of my little estate?
For my part, I collect my second widow’s dower. Almost all are well-tenanted properties. Flush with riches, I arrange to disburse much of my good fortune.
But to whom? The Angevin endowed Henry with the whole world. Stephen has provided for Gervase. Young Geoffrey casts his lot with our antagonists. William poses a problem. I would marry the boy to Marie if they were not half-siblings. I have no insight, yet, into the true nature of his character. Will he merit a sizeable bequest?
I put aside a small token for Denise’s girl, to add to my husband’s donation. Her marital prospects thus improve; this increased fortune should tempt a baron, at the very least. But Marie thwarts every plan, and hints that she will permanently immure herself in a convent. The monies set aside for her will be swallowed up by the sisterhood. Will she be able to stifle her fervid lust, under a habit?
A gratuity to Bernard seems to be in order, although Gerta marvels that I would pay him for the honor of bedding me. “He who sticks his nose into everyone else’s business, and then sells his scandal, is ill-deserving of your esteem or your patronage. He trades his honor for a few gold coins.”
It comes as little surprise to either of us that de Ventadour accepts the stuffed purse without transmitting any expression of thanks, not even the most formulaic one.
By messenger, I convey a small treasure to Avera, but my man returns from her hovel, his task undone. He finds no sign of the enchantress. Her nearest neighbors claim that she deserted Anjou some months ago. Gerta engages to discover what has become of her. We pray that she has not fallen victim to local superstition.
I can never adequately repay my maid for her long-term fealty. Exiled from her native land, she has seen me through war and villainy, siege and strife. So often, I scandalize her with my ungovernable desires and considerable hatreds. Yet Gerta rebuffs the very mention of an annuity, preferring to continue her service and share my portion, until the end of our days.
†
Summer
Eleanor makes one of our household in Angers, while Duke Henry fights the evil alliance to which their match has given birth. Situated halfway between my north and her south, neither one of us feels much at home. Which is to be queen here, the duchess or the dowager?
Our relationship stiffens. I blame the capricious wench for dabbling with my husband mere months before wedding my son. I appraise her too great a harlot to wear my English crown.
Every day we sit together, the two Graces, without the companionship of our bright boy. I demonstrate my growing negation of life and joy, in the face of her wholehearted acceptance of them. We have few conversations that do not end in open or silent disagreement.
Even in the absence of most of the knights, Eleanor bedaubs herself with paint. Yesterday, I watched it melt in the midday heat. “Is that cuttlefish powder or flour on your cheeks? They are both most unsuitable to the weather.”
“Hah! I am no lyre to respond to the picking of your nails.” But my daughter-in-law could not resist an argument. “I know far more of the womanly arts than you do.”
“Of course you do, for they were exactly what your first husband disliked.”
The duchess spouted her tinkling laugh. “You are right there, Empress. Louis thought that it was not at all in keeping for his consort to have knowledge of medicaments and poultices, tisanes and tinctures. Common herbs are the resort of the poor; quack’s nostrums are the placebos of the merchants. The pious leave healing to God.”
My mind wandered over Gerta’s canny tricks, and my own.
The insufferable whore had a stash of insults ready for me. “Mother, you should swallow an infusion of dill to offset your damp temperament. Dill is a wonderful restorative for the elderly, especially northerners. If dill does not suffice, perhaps your maid could brew you leeks in honey, or boil the juice of beets. Either will warm the blood of a person known to suffer from a cold-hearted disposition.”
Gerta, attending upon our needs, could not remain quiet. “Beet water eliminates dandruff, of which the empress has none. Did Your Grace not think to provide long and dark turnips, twice stewed, to your Frankish lord, to increase his seed? Such a pity that you did not have the expertise to bear him a son.”
Fortunately, the duchess did not consider my waiting woman’s abrasive words to be insubordinate enough to punish.
†
Bernard slinks into our castle, for he is now an established member of Eleanor’s circle, and necessary to her vanity. Although Gerta occasionally catches him staring at me, he never meets my eyes. I pretend not to notice him, any more than I do the other entertainers in our midst.
Today, I could not resist teasing my daughter-in-law about her supposed subjugation of the troubadour. “How he hurries here to make you a present of his adulation! If his hounding disconcerts you, I would be happy to exile him from the county. For what does he tarry, if not to realize his joy in your embrace?”
Pleased, the duchess made a bow of her lips. “He claims that he is a man in the sway of a mad passion. He calls me his ‘Beautiful Hope.’”
Gerta snorted. “He has quite a reputation for swordsmanship.”
Eleanor frowned. “Your foolery annoys me, woman. Bernard’s adoration remains platonic, as is appropriate to our respective stations. His unrequited flirtation amuses me, and helps to pass the time in this backwater, devoid of our barons and my prince.”
†
Our Henry burns and invests castles throughout the Vexin. His siege of Montsoreau, well directed and thoroughly prosecuted, establishes his complete superiority. Young Geoffrey is forced to submit to his elder brother’s conditions. The Plantagenet strips his sibling of the three Angevin keeps bequeathed by their father. King Louis signs a truce with his vassal the duke, slithering back to Paris to avoid further military engagement. Eustace had never answered the Frankish king’s call for help, preferring to remain abroad, the better to wrap himself up in his father’s stolen glory.
†
Gerta’s considerable network of informants unearths the details of Avera’s awful demise. The Church’s position on witchcraft has always been clear; in theory, anyone caught practicing sorcery shall be executed. But, in practice, one hears of lighter punishments dispersed for benign spells, useful potions, and questionably accurate divination. Priests caught indulging in necromancy, even of the malevolent sort, are considered cleansed by a three-year fast of bread and water.
Talented Avera, hardly infernal, but certainly a tormented soul, was slain by an angry mob in Rouen. Perhaps she infuriated an elderly, well-connected burgess, by promoting an affair between her husband and some other, younger woman. Whatever the cause, she was whipped in the public square, eviscerated, then hurled from the city walls. Her stomach was paraded through the streets, to the jeers of her customers.
†
The Plantagenet is returned to us. Eleanor organizes a
progress through Aquitaine, so that her husband might survey her massive domain, and remember to appreciate the enormity of her dowry. The duke happily complies, eager to witness the harvest of her vintage and sample her Bordeaux. But such a honeymoon will have to wait. A travel-stained herald brings us a message from Brian, despairing of the security of Wallingford Castle, under attack by the usurper.
The courier barely touched the roasted beaver’s tail we presented to him, for he was too busy exhorting the Plantagenet to attend to FitzCount’s letter.
Henry’s mouth was stuffed full of saffron pottage, and he waved his fingers, permitting the man to read the scroll aloud.
If you have any regard for your adherents, or any wish to win back your realm, you must return over the Channel as soon as possible. On your eastern flank, Wallingford is in extreme distress. Bestir yourself, for you are the Savior!
Henry shrugged. “Let my English vassals mortify Stephen themselves. I have just now quit the field of battle.” The prince stretched a thick arm over his wife, to grab at a dish of fish, mint, and parsley, steamed in ale.
The duchess grinned. “The king’s constant assaults upon his people are nothing out of the ordinary. What is your urgency?”
The herald brushed off her input. “Your husband’s allies can no longer support the notion of civil war. If Wallingford falls, the empress’s party will disintegrate.”
I thought of Brian’s will to serve me. “Why should the Count of Boulogne’s success be assured? He has never held FitzCount’s fortress, although it has long menaced his position at Oxford.”
The courier spoke in earnest. “For this latest bombardment, His Majesty recruits the ragged citizens of London. In addition, scores of noblemen ride to his aid, more than in any recent time. Over the last month, Stephen’s forces have constructed an elaborate and ingenious wooden edifice, which will probably mean the downfall of the castle. The battalion within the tower no longer braves nightly sorties. Wallingford begins to fear starvation.”
The time had come for my heir to recover what was once mine and was now to be his. I met the duke’s eyes. “It is likely then that the garrison will submit to the pretender and turn over the keys to the keep.”
Eleanor tried to tempt her husband, who had been briefly her slave, but was already her master. “You grow too serious, my sweet. Gratify your whims today; seek power tomorrow.”
The messenger pursed his lips at the duchess’s indifference to the fate of our friends. “Sir Brian entrusted me to seek out England’s true king.”
FitzCount was ever our most faithful adherent. “Henry, do not lay waste your strength in idleness or sloth.”
His Grace took a swig of wine.
Bernard spoke up, without anyone’s leave. “Who is the most estimable among the noble assembly of knights, he who feasts upon the most succulent morsels at the high table, or he who turns the table over, and sets off on a Christian quest to liberate a kingdom?” Clearly, it would suit him to console the lonely Eleanor, when deprived of her handsome spouse.
My son’s wife tried one more time to beguile him. “My love, you must travel south to drink the juice of my grapes, and soon, before it sours.”
But the Plantagenet was my heir, above all. “Your claret may be as brash or as subtle as your French logic, but I will not taste it this year.”
†
The herald had another delivery to make, from Sir Brian to me. As I unrolled the scroll, my heart thumped in my chest. Would he expiate my crimes against him, or unleash further rage and misery in my direction?
O Mistress Love, I inhale deeply, and exhale stale air, but it cannot be said that I live. My heart is full of adoration for you, but there is no enjoyment or succor for me in the world. I continue to serve you, despite the pains that I have taken to overcome my weakness, to eject your image from my mind and my soul. I am still your obedient slave, for your worth has not dimmed in my eyes.
I do not truly atone. God cannot be fooled; I will never be redeemed. My existence is one of continual torment; I am entrapped, irrevocably. O Lady Love, to know you is to err in word and deed.
I hope for death, but it does not come. Your cousin, my rival in everything, stalks my keep. I sit upon my battlements, in defiance of his bowmen; their arrows rain down to my left and right. Perhaps he pardons me, knowing that I twist in the wind, miserable without you. His mercy is nothing to me, for yours is withheld.
†
The prince convenes a council of advisors to strategize the coming conquest of England. An armada of thirty-six ships rests at Barfleur. The continental magnates provide one hundred and forty knights and three thousand foot soldiers, mostly mercenaries, for the invasion army. There has been some talk of landing our forces at Bristol, despite the unpropitious season, for it remains the headquarters of our faction on the island. However, Wareham, our only secure port on the southern coast, is once more to be our chosen destination.
†
Last night I tossed about until dawn, in the thrall of a gruesome vision, in which the Holy Virgin underscores the vile negligence with which I have left so much unsaid to my son.
I lay in a trodden battleground, polluted with the carnage of a recent engagement. When I arose, I saw the spires of a distant, glittering city. Tramping with difficulty through the muck and gore, seeking something of great consequence, I wandered toward its shimmering gate and discovered it to be entirely constructed of gleaming gold and silver. Every wall, building, and tower was fashioned from a precious metal. I searched broad, deserted streets, running with rivulets of blood, until I reached the white crystal castle at the heart of the town. Its outer bailey was a cesspool of refuse, mutilated corpses, and discarded military equipment. Stumbling across it, I realized that my skirts were soaked through, red to my knees.
Stepping over several prone guards, perhaps dead or merely enchanted, I entered the sparkling keep. In its innermost chamber, resplendently lit by candlelight, I saw a sleeping knight whom I knew to be Stephen, resting whole and safe. I covered him with kisses, so that he awoke and embraced me. He entrusted his sword to me, in return for my vow that none should ever wield it but our son.
Waking, clammy and anxious, I understood Mother Mary’s directive. At first light, I hurried, disheveled and frantic, to Henry’s solar.
Despite the hour, he was awake, sitting before a cold hearth in the dim room.
I hastened out with my telling, sick to death of my secret. “I have come to reveal what may surprise you, concerning your birthright. The usurper sired you, while the Angevin and I were separated and considering the annulment of our marriage.”
The duke did not respond, but in confusion or consternation? Had he already guessed his identity?
My voice shook. “Do not think that I wish you to spare his life. On the contrary, you must slay him.”
The prince dropped his face in his hands, rubbing his temples. He hummed a bit, off tune, through his teeth. Did he await further explanation?
I reached out my arms, although he did not see the gesture. “Vainglorious, I did not watch my steps, and so fell from my dignity. Many have trod upon my name, trampled it in the dirt. I paid a high tax for the privilege of an imperfect bliss. Now I have repented, and reclaimed the soul that I pawned into my cousin’s keeping. Cut him down! Defend my honor and the renewed purity of my spirit.”
The Plantagenet did not alter his posture. “I am somewhat jolted, Mother, to hear this news of my paternity, although not by your history, which bears the mark of a splendid stamp. It is a relief to be freed from certain obligations to the late Duke of Normandy, now that he is little more to me than a guardian.”
I hugged my shoulders, clad only in a thin linen chainse. “If you wish to signal to the Count of Boulogne that you are aware of the relationship, you need only call him ‘Arthur,’ once his alias.”
Henry nodded. I squinted, essaying to commit his face and form to memory before he departs on this last, great escapade, to win or los
e all. Thickset, unlike slender Stephen, he is shorter than he should be, but puissant, hale.
His Grace interrupted my study. “Nothing will content me, Mother, but the king’s defeated heart. I am off, to action!” He rose, striding to exit the solar.
A small scuffling outside revealed Eleanor, listening at the door.
The Mirror of the Plantagenet
Scroll Twenty-Two: 1152
As it was to be, the Lord in His mercy swept Duke Henry into England. The Plantagenet’s foes ceased their resistance, quaking and receding before his victorious spirit. The voices of Matilda’s enemies warbled in fear; her allies sang of the coming of their righteous prince. Delivered from exile, the empress resigned herself to the loss of her own importance and stood ready to submit to a greater glory. Her own star had fallen, but behold the Lord’s grace and His miracle: in her acquiescence, in her abdication, the flower of her grace did not wither.
†
Fall
Henry decamps to Barfleur. Eleanor, half swollen with child, pines for the privileges of a royal court, to divert her from physical discomfort and loneliness. Angers bustles with pilgrims, clerics, and clerks, no fit companions for the once proud Lady of France, now the lovelorn duchess. Bernard’s position strengthens, as his compliments become more and more indispensable to her leisure.
My company also suits Eleanor’s frustrated temper. Today, while the bright days endure, we strolled among the castle fields, admiring the reds and golds of the ripening landscape. She seemed to walk upon her heels, more than her toes, a sure sign that she carries a boy. To keep the duchess’s dullness at bay, we set ourselves to word games.
All her brilliance settled upon her idol. “Henry: the ‘H’ is his High Valor, the ‘E’ is his Energy, the ‘N’ signifies his Nobility, the ‘R’ is his Royalty and the ‘Y’ is his Youth.”
Stepping through the rustling, crackling leaves, I marveled at how swiftly my boy had demolished her pride. “He is no king yet, but you have already been a queen!”
The duchess tinkled her laugh, unlike anyone else’s. “That pitiful land of yours, smoldering in its own ashes, moldering no doubt, is reborn by his coming.”