Matilda Empress

by Lise Arin

  Suddenly, Eleanor shuddered, then pressed her palm against her belly. Seeing my wince, she said, “It is nothing, Empress, just the babe wrestling with my innards. A strong son for his sovereign sire.”

  I frowned. “You are sick with fondness, as you have been before, with other men.”

  The duchess steadied herself, straightening her expensive drapery. “You, of all other women, should understand my complaint.”

  My empathy withered my dislike. “You gasp for breath, you drown, in an oozing swamp of want.”

  Gerta wandered some paces behind us, but now kicked savagely at the dry ground.

  Lady Eleanor scoffed. “Your heartless maid comprehends only the sin of it!”

  It was sweet to talk as I had with Adeliza, unburdening myself to another princess. “I have been hungry for love, as if yearning for a sugary treat that melts away on the tongue the moment it is popped into the mouth. But the confection is expensive, and when we sample it again and again, unthinking of its price, we accrue a great debt. The pleasures of love are brief, and its delights fade, almost immediately. What lasts, its sordid aftertaste, is rue.”

  We stood silent for some moments.

  The duchess took my hands. “Lady Love deserves our tributes. We fight in her column; if we sustain casualties, if we are routed, if we prevail, it is no matter, for it is all miraculous.”

  Gerta would not be catechized by an argument such as this one. “The empress lost the very essence of herself, in the service of her beloved; she gifted him with all that she was.”

  In everything, Eleanor venerates excess. “I undertake the most horrible quest, when sublime Lady Love commands it of me. I am her most courageous vassal.”

  I squeezed the girl’s palms, my daughter’s palms, to dissuade her from my own folly. “Alas, how much we have in common.”

  †

  As the weather gets colder, Eleanor makes do with fireside frivolity. She has not had one message from her departed husband, so instead takes solace in trivialities. Trained dogs walk on their hind feet for her; monkeys march in formation; gymnasts form enormous pyramids. She justifies her liberal tips and constant feasting by asserting that her husband’s knights are likely engaged in greater feats of gluttony on their campaign, and will surely return draped in booty, vessels of gold and silver, garments of silk, and mantles of sable and ermine.

  Bernard passes so much time in my daughter’s company that I see her less than before. Eleanor reserves her most salacious humor and her keenest insights for her new favorite. They play round after round of “The King Who Does Not Lie,” taking turns as the monarch who must test his wit against the inane questions posed by the other players. In the today’s game, the duchess wore the paper crown, and debated which was to be preferred, a young, handsome, vicious paramour or an old, desiccated, virtuous one. Surprisingly, she argued in favor of the elder, good man, much to the hilarity of me and Gerta, who heard the story secondhand.

  My maid suspects that my daughter, in defiance of her rounded belly, lies abed with the versemaker. Her eyes glinted. “No two thoughts about it, she wants to punish the duke for his neglect.”

  I remembered pining for Stephen, in the arms of Brian FitzCount. “She is no better than a widow. The Plantagenet is thoughtless and disrespectful to keep her in suspense, and deny her the satisfaction of a word. How she would swell and swoon, to welcome a courier, dispatched by her hero on the battlefield! If only Henry would take the trouble to return a piece of himself to her.”

  Gerta rolled her eyes. “If your son were here, in the ardent clutch of his new bride, I am certain that you would still have to evade a constant volley of de Ventadour’s compliments. He may deceive the erstwhile queen of France, but I judge his devotion for her to be coldly mechanical.”

  I sighed to think that I might have to subvert further advances from the minstrel. Did I prefer my son to be a cuckold?

  †

  The prince receives information, for all that he forgets to transmit it. Just yesterday a messenger galloped into the inner bailey with my heir’s orders for his household. The duke banishes from Angers all “ill-assorted riff-raff,” and specifically decrees that Bernard shall accompany the Norman invasion, in order to record its martial exploits. The ages to come must know of the Plantagenet’s elevation to eminence.

  In addition, the duchess has a letter, but it is not the sort she yearns for. His Grace disparages his wife’s companion and pointedly demeans her wit. She thrusts the note at me, as if daring me to defend my son’s irascible insults.

  Are you simple or conceited enough to fall prey to the man’s trite, mercenary adoration? When he compliments your unfathomable comeliness and your inestimable purity, and licks his lips, he is dreaming only of my gold and his position at the center of my court.

  Tonight, as we sat among a numerous assembly, a subdued Bernard offered up his farewells directly before Eleanor’s chair, although he looked down at his own boots, and not into the hot gaze of his reputed idol.

  The duchess, irate at her favorite’s coming deportation, spoke her mind indiscreetly, ignoring my pointed coughs. “The selfish duke does not allow me to have the slightest enjoyment! Would that I were an albatross, to swoop after you across the Channel. You might stand at the prow of your boat, and watch me bathe in the ocean.” She cackled at the shocked tittering of our guests.

  The expression on her troubadour’s even features turned sly. “I am away, to England, yet to be separated from its two queens. Whether the island sky is blue or gray, alight with sun or obscure with rain, its gardens shall bloom with your flowers: crimson, yellow, and white.”

  Eleanor frowned and I sighed, for I am done with flirtation and vanity. Despite all my vainglory, my purported loveliness has been put to no service. My handsome face could not guarantee men’s allegiance, for all that it attracted their regard. I carried my comeliness on my shoulders, a cross of temptation and delinquency.

  †

  The Plantagenet and all his ships successfully crossed the Channel into England. With his troops at his back, Henry arrived safely at Wallingford, and there discovered what had been well hidden. My vassal’s castle rots from within. Its garrison defends a keep peopled only with Brian and Basilia’s two sons, both lepers, tragic figures sent among us by the Lord, so that we might see how malformed our souls appear before the Heavenly Host. Aware of Henry’s imminent arrival, both husband and wife had fled, sequestering themselves in separate religious houses.

  I would never have foretold it, that charming FitzCount would bring forth such mutilated creatures, such warnings. “The Lord works what He will,” says my prince, in a letter. And so it is, that heaven endows Brian’s perverted marriage with deformed offspring, blistered and cracked; the children suffer for their parents’ sins. Leprosy is an incurable disease, save by witchcraft. Were her children too misshapen, too deformed, for Basilia’s skill? Did she lack the courage or the wherewithal to procure the fat of a stillborn infant or the mortal blood of an innocent youth?

  I have been no real friend or patron to the knight who served me with the utmost fidelity, so caught up was I in my own tribulations and delights. Likewise, my son turns his back on Wallingford in order to address other, more pressing situations. I have his justification, excusing himself from the siege.

  I have determined not to march to the relief of the fortress, for it is an isolated Angevin outpost, sitting well within the royalist Thames Valley. Instead, I shall begin our fight for Britain in the west and the north, where our allies still have the upper hand.

  I bear witness to FitzCount’s fealty, surrounded by his neighbors’ treason. Yet, his patient, faithful adherence is nothing, in the end, to our Messiah, whose plans are for England entire.

  My arrival home is as momentous for my subjects as Jesus’s own coming among them would be. I do nothing but repeat the priests’ assertions when I tell you this. At the mass held to commemorate my landing on native soil, the bishops said: “Behol
d, the Lord, the ruler, is come; the kingdom is in His hand.”

  Bernard earns his keep; his verses embellish me among the barons, although no more than I deserve. He reminds them that I am heir to my grandsire’s name, high renown, and empire. He paints a harsh picture of your Eden, your Fair England, now fallen into gloomy desolation and lurid ruin, but promises that I am its solitary hope, its Savior, its dawn.

  Who is de Ventadour, but some French serf grown bold with his tongue? Who licensed him to ignore my history and my claims? If my people rejoice, it is because the son of their mother, their true queen, comes among them, to deliver them from the tyrant who has stolen their prosperity and peace. Duke Henry shall liberate the land and reestablish England’s glory.

  †

  With the onset of truly foul weather, Eleanor resumes her reliance on my company. Together, we dissect each of the Plantagenet’s occasional briefings, when messages arrive addressed to either of us. I attempt to decipher whether Henry values my legacy and sacrifice. She essays to take the temperature of his ardor or disillusionment. We both want to know whether His Grace’s need for us waxes or wanes.

  Lately, heralds apprise us that the prince marshaled his forces and marched to the city of Malmesbury, wedged between our strongholds of Bristol and Gloucester, but still loyal to Stephen. The burghers climbed atop their defensive walls to hinder my son’s approach to the town. Our archers mowed many of them down from their perch, allowing our foot soldiers to scale the stone perimeter. Our battalions eagerly burned and pillaged until all the residents sought sanctuary in the local monastery.Unfortunately, Malmesbury keep continues to hold for the pretender.

  Today, I disparaged my son’s savagery. “The end is near. We cannot now risk the profound sympathy that the English feel for their prince.”

  Eleanor rested her head upon my shoulder. “I will reign alongside the Plantagenet, in the land of his father and grandfather. I freely admit to you that I wish to place another crown upon my curls.” She picked herself up and shook out the red tresses, as if to evidence their impoverishment.

  Oh, my daughter, do not forsake me, when our duke returns to us. Who else is left to me?

  †

  Ever the disreputable, secretive, two-faced lout, Bernard writes privately to the duchess.

  Thus, it is Eleanor who first informs me of the meeting between father and son. As soon as she received his scratchings, she whirled through the tower, bursting in on my solar.

  I sat among charcoal and parchment, devising scenes and tracing designs for a great tapestry to celebrate the second Norman invasion. We shall weave it together, in honor of our beloved boy.

  My daughter slammed the door with the force of her girth. “King Stephen and Prince Eustace, along with a whole host of armed followers, came to defend Malmesbury Castle from the Angevins.”

  My heart skipped a beat. My sketches were at my feet, unattended. “For the love of Christ, did they clash?”

  “Wait, wait. On a stormy day, the two enemies faced each other across the River Avon. The waterway, swollen by rain, ice, and snow, roared, clearly impassable. English and Norman banners flapped in a stiff, cold wind. Splendid equipment rusted under the onslaught of the weather.”

  I stood up, creasing my parchments. “Spare me your troubadour’s details! Was there a pitched skirmish?”

  “The usurper declined to put his life and the Plantagenet’s on the line. Your cousin refused the fray, apparently squandering his opportunity to end the civil war. His soldiers withdrew from the riverbank.”

  Now I could breathe. “Conditions must have favored us, so that the Count of Boulogne feared another Battle of Lincoln. Who could cross against a strong current? Who could wield a slippery lance, or protect themselves with a slick shield?”

  Eleanor strode over to me, lifted the hem of my kirtle and considered a drawing of the young duke astride a mighty steed, in the midst of slaying his foes. “If peace comes, it will be without a magnificent conflict. Your lover will never consent to Henry’s death. Pray to the Virgin; give Her mercy your thanks.”

  I glanced down. “Your husband aches to spill his father’s blood in a decisive contest. And that viper Eustace, son of the sorceress Maud, stands between the prince and what is rightfully ours. He burns to establish his prowess and eliminate his rival for the throne.”

  Heedlessly, the duchess crumpled my sketch with her foot. “The English people wish, above all, for an end to unrest and destruction. King Stephen must understand this. His maleficent wife rots in her tomb. Before him stands the son born of his true love, the rightful heiress to Britain. He can no longer deny the will of heaven.”

  “The pretender has plotted, again and again, for his bishops to anoint Eustace.”

  “But they have refused; he could not persuade the church to crown another usurper. Stephen retreats to London. Malmesbury is ours.”

  I exhaled, surprised to discover that neither rage nor joy roiled my once tempestuous soul.

  †

  Bernard steadfastly pesters and flatters the duchess.

  His perseverance irks me, for it threatens the peace of my house. I encourage my daughter to toss her admirer’s insipid, aggravating nonsense into the moat. His poems are inelegantly styled, his diction is flawed, and his subject is sure to be considered treasonous the moment two bejeweled crowns are lowered onto two red heads.

  An inveterate blockhead, of dubious tact, Bernard tattles on the Plantagenet’s latest romantic dalliance, an entanglement with the Countess of Warwick, whose decrepit earl stands with the Count of Boulogne. In a fit of extreme jealousy, Eleanor takes to her bed, complaining of a burning in her womb and something wrong with the child. She prays to Saint Anne, patroness of difficult deliveries, and bemoans her husband’s devious inclinations, apparently forgetting her own.

  Gerta is suspicious, and immediately imagines that the duchess is sterile, too old to bear us an heir. She measures my daughter’s rotundity with a critical eye, as if to ascertain whether it is a cushion worn to simulate pregnancy. Forgetting her place, she demands that Eleanor hand over a flask of her urine, so that we might steep it in bran overnight and count the number of worms that flock to the pot. She marvels at my daughter’s supposed scheme and our own gullibility, and wonders whether the duchess intended to substitute another baby for her supposed fetus, or would now pretend to endure a late miscarriage.

  Sometimes, even my trusted maid goes too far. The Frankish queen is reborn as our English hope; she is the vessel for the fruit of our vine. I send her a message, urging her to step three times over a grave, while beseeching the Holy Virgin’s intercession against the evils of a strangled, lame, or stillborn birth.

  †

  Today, I tried to comfort Eleanor, still interred in her private chamber under the pall of her embarrassment.

  I found her much humbled, ready to blame her own past doctrines for her present mortification. Tears ran down her lovely features, for once unadorned with cosmetics. “My first husband’s somber temper and rigidity repulsed me, and so I was ever blithe, loose, and cavalier, despite the necessities of my position.”

  “None of your vassals thought you pious, but nor were they honoring all the commandments, for they were too busy estimating the cost of your entertainments and the value of your furs.”

  “I should have wrapped myself up in a woolen mantle, the better to cloak my sins.”

  “If you had put up your hood, then you might not have captured my son’s attention.” I stroked her hair.

  She was full of his merits. “He can converse in every known tongue, between the North Sea and the River Jordan.”

  This was too much, even for me. “The Plantagenet’s excellences are so astonishing, so diverse, that they must not be exactly specified, lest a comprehensive account exhaust the resources of our memory.”

  “Would that I could deserve his perfection!”

  I smiled, but without mirth. “Only insofar as you consider his lineage, beauty,
wisdom, and good conduct, as it is defined by the law and noble practice. Regrettably, adultery is a sin only in a woman.”

  †

  Eleanor and I distract ourselves with the dicing games of hazard and queek, and, most obsessively, with draughts and chess, competing to capture each other’s kings, queens, bishops, and knights. With gusto, we sweep the pieces off the illuminated boards. Full of strategy and bravado, we clamor to defeat one another, again and again, sublimating both our strangled aspirations and unlucky romances.

  Perhaps it should have been obvious to me all along that only a man could regain what a man had stolen. My son, my amber knight, strives eagerly and pointedly; he does not blunder. Glory and triumph shall be his rewards.

  †

  I listen to the jongleurs’ accounts of the Plantagenet and his defense, at last, of Wallingford. His adherents have become more plentiful, as word of his successes disseminate across the island, and His Grace now rides at the head of an enormous assortment of three hundred knights and foot soldiers. They assault the new-fangled siege machine that the pretender’s troops erect outside FitzCount’s keep. Our battalions are repulsed, but persist in troubling our adversaries. The Count of Boulogne and his brat, Eustace, should arrive shortly.

  The versemakers debate among themselves: who shall be the master of the castle?

  Fools! Is it not as clear as a penitent’s tear?

  †

  Holy Mother Mary entrusts to me the Plantagenet’s own recollections, so that I might be privy to what actually happened at Wallingford, when he and his true father came face-to-face. A fatigued courier warned me that His Grace’s invisible ink had been whipped from of the fat of an entirely white hen, but Gerta and I easily discolored and darkened it with a salt rub. For added security, the prince had abbreviated many key names and descriptive adjectives, but his chilling account was easily decipherable.

  Our armies were within sight of one another, Mother, with only the River Thames to separate us. It was an awesome thing to witness a thousand Britons with a thousand well-wrought swords, hanging back above a rushing stream. It was a moment of expectation before the onslaught of hell. I could sense in the air the fury about to be born; I could feel the general wish to slay, no matter if it were their own brothers.