Matilda Empress

by Lise Arin

  My units were fewer, but we had better discipline and the men were willing to keep to their line, the better to outmaneuver Stephen’s rabble. The thief-king perceived my tactical advantage and attempted at the last minute to rearrange his formation. In his haste to be everywhere at once, he was thrice thrown from his destrier. These mishaps could not improve his chances.

  I had taken special care of my own appearance. My pages had spent the entire night polishing my armor. It shone like the sun. In my spectacular garb, I was the illustrious duke, the noble prince, among the warring bands.

  The Earl of Sussex, Adeliza’s widowed William, stood with our cousin. In the pregnant pause, he called out his hopes, thundering, so that we all should hear him above the gushing river. “Let us stop here, men of England, and substitute heroic pity for heroic action. For what purpose are kinsmen pitted against kinsmen? This is abominable madness! We should not permit it on our beautiful island. Let us now declare a truce between relations.”

  There were cheers on all sides, especially from the mouths of the earls and mounted men, for whom a ceasefire meant further months of anarchy in which to strengthen their own positions at the expense of my throne.

  But my stomach churned in anger, for although I was sick of the discord that robbed me of my realm, I wished for a complete victory. I would reign as my parents have never done, but in the image of my grandfather, whose royal authority was but infrequently thwarted.

  Yet the shouts grew and grew in favor of the Earl of Sussex’s proposal, so that both the pretender and I were forced to submit to the general clamor for delay. Two weeks without hostility was the demand.

  That night, cloudless, was made to fit our purpose. In certain places, the Thames recedes until it is just a mere rivulet. Here we met, without witnesses. The sky was black like tar. We stood in silence, lending an ear to the whistling wind.

  I said, “There is a man called ‘Arthur,’ to a lady who remembers what they did create together.”

  It was pitch, Mother, but I do think that he blushed.

  Then I was ashamed of this feminine show from the creature who had stolen my inheritance. I regretted that I had brought on his flush with my softness. “What will you say to your God when he accuses you?”

  The usurper seemed taken aback by my virulence, coming as it did upon the heels of my generosity. “You have become a man, and a soldier, when I was not watching.”

  I continued to be harsh, for that was the way to win him over. He is an old goat now. “I arrive, sir, a duke and a prince. As such, I come to lift the siege between us. I come to do what my mother, my uncle, and even my grandfather could not, to establish the rightful succession.”

  As we parlayed, the night deepened. His famous red hair was as invisible in the dark as every other claim that he may once have had to the world’s notice. His small, thin voice was all that was left of him. “My battle engines have won much acclaim; they are still trained upon the keep. But I am through with fighting. Let us exchange our hostages. Let no knight complain that he was imprisoned because of our family dispute.”

  “I want Wallingford Castle; it is in the empress’s gift.”

  I could hear my father’s deep sigh. I waited for his capitulation, and not in vain.

  “These terms are most favorable to the Angevin rebels, but I submit to such a peace.”

  By morning the various troops and all the freed captives had begun to disperse.

  Eustace was beside himself. Several of my escort heard his raving against this improperly tame conclusion to the investiture of Wallingford. In desperation, he shrieked against the Fates and pummeled two of his own pages. Time is his foe. He begins to suspect that his father plots to lay down his arms for good, in favor of “the traitor.”

  †

  Full of ire and disgust, Eustace departed from Wallingford into Cambridgeshire, where he proceeded to ravage the countryside, in the hopes of provoking the duke to nullify the détente. Maud’s brat quickly ran out of coin with which to pay his hordes, so he led his marauding army to Bury St. Edmunds, one of England’s greatest monasteries. The brotherhood received him with dignity and circumspection, feasting him with all that they had, but refused to hand over their treasury. Eustace repaid their hospitality and sanctuary by razing their store of crops, already harvested.

  But vengeance is already ours. At a crude encampment, among his own rough companions, Eustace rapaciously stuffed himself full of freshly slaughtered game. Immediately, he was overtaken by a criminal madness, ending with his mortal throes.

  The news arrived this very evening, at dusk, just as the duchess felt her first pains. Full of the herald’s message, I hurried to her rooms.

  Even in the first moments of her confinement, Eleanor looked as if she could not bear her ordeal. “There is word of His Grace?”

  “No, my dear, but there are wonderful tidings, nonetheless. Eustace is dead. The false courage of those oafs who oppose the duke will falter. You shall be their true queen.”

  The duchess groaned, twisting about on her mattress.

  I grabbed her hand, so that she might squeeze mine while her movement lasted. “It is a day of woe for our enemies. With the loss of his bestial spawn, the Count of Boulogne will designate Henry his heir, in name and truth.”

  Eleanor calmed herself, optimistic about the sudden boost to her ambitions. “Verily, it is the Lord who anoints the Plantagenet.”

  The duchess had chosen Gerta to be her midwife, for she had four times brought me to bed of a living boy. Other competent crones shuffled in and out of the chamber with fresh linen and water, as my maid directed.

  Now I invoked a prayer. “Hail Mary, full of grace, mild Virgin of virgins, merciful Mother of the greatest Son, let your blessing bring forth another son, of holy issue, to the honor of Thy holy name.”

  To my surprise, my daughter underwent less travail than most. In four hours, she pushed forth a fine son.

  Eleanor looked radiant; her own blood became her. “He shall be the future Count of Poitou and Duke of Aquitaine; he shall have, therefore, the name of my father, William.”

  I felt a great burden lifting from my own breast. “You give him the moniker of the conqueror, fulfilling your obligations to our royal house. I have no objection to your choice.”

  As one of the waiting women warmed and cleaned the loudly wailing infant, the duchess grinned at the cacophony. The she yawned. “Such a fine gift to present to a husband.”

  Gerta compressed her belly, still bloated with fluids. “If the sex act is an expression of cherishing love, then a knight releases an especially potent juice and a male child sprouts inside his wise and pure lady.”

  I kissed the once and future queen. “Henry’s seed is as vigorous as he is; the son that is come to him shall be the king of England.”

  †

  Eustace has been buried at Faversham Abbey in Kent, beside the bitch who bore him. The monks there had little to say in his praise, so settled on a paean to his soldierly abilities, although the predatory, black-hearted warrior was constantly engaged in projects displeasing to almighty heaven.

  His timely passing removes the most significant obstacle to a settlement between the Angevins and Stephen’s party. Now all future violence may be evaded.

  The archbishop of Canterbury serves as the chief negotiant between the pretender and the Plantagenet. We trust the Church to unravel their rivalry. It is God’s providence to make peace; his delegate lifts the scourge of civil war, bestowing the Lord’s prosperity in its place.

  †

  His Grace returns to Normandy; we are all met in Rouen. The duke, delighted with his legitimate heir, dotes on the swaddled prince.

  Bernard usually avoids me, and trails after the duchess, much as before.

  Gerta reports that de Ventadour complains to the castle steward of winter flies in his dark and inconvenient chamber. The kitchen staff accommodates his request for dried bunches of shredded fern. If he would wake at prime with t
he sun, he might easily toss the loaded trap into his smoldering grate. But the sop lies abed until well past terce, long after the flies have resumed their position upon his ceiling.

  This morning, we happened upon one another in a constricted stairwell. Likely not to be overheard, he hissed: “Virago!”

  I was so taken aback by his forwardness, and his disrespect, that I allowed him to scuffle off to his hidey-hole without imprecation.

  †

  Tonight, we held a dance of celebration, alongside our Norman friends. My son took many turns with me around the great hall of the castle. We stomped our feet and swung ourselves about to the raucous tunes of the players, until, sweating and laughing, we had to retreat to a cool antechamber behind the royal dais.

  I had forgotten what it was like to fall down against a man’s body, hot with exertion. “For a moment, I am young again.”

  Henry panted, much as I did. “I do battle, astride a warhorse, with less effort.”

  I giggled, open-mouthed.

  We looked out into the enormous chamber. Eleanor flounced by, hand in hand with Bernard.

  The duke’s high humor deflated. His still shortened breaths were audible. “That man has a way with his pen, but he is a dunce, pandering to the whims of every grand lady he meets. He had better limit himself to courting the favor of our female parasites, our vacuous crowd of handmaidens, no better than village busybodies. He should have the good sense to withdraw his compliments from a person of such stature as my wife.”

  I shrugged, essaying to soothe his temper. “You are too mighty to heed petty scandal; you are a peacock in the chicken coop.”

  “Mother Hen, do not cluck at me.” His Grace resumed his equanimity. “Are you prepared to meet your nemesis within your own household?”

  I was stunned out of my giddiness. Did he mean my once beloved, my own demon, he who had made my life a living hell?

  “Tomorrow, the bishop of Winchester arrives in Rouen, to discuss the terms of our amity. He assists the archbishop of Canterbury with the Church’s diplomacy.” The duke rearranged his red silk tunic, richly embroidered with pennants and unicorns. Eleanor was an able seamstress, but she had had my help with this complicated craftsmanship.

  I tasted the bile rising in my throat. “His Grace despises us and perhaps plots to undermine you.”

  Henry flapped at the neck of his shirt. Rivulets of perspiration traveled down his cheeks. “Again, you speak like an old woman. The bishop admits that his past conduct has been unworthy, a stimulus to enduring conflict. He repents of his interference.”

  I ground my teeth together, to think of that withered incubus. “He repents of the result.”

  The prince took my hand. “He discovers that we are kin; after all, he is my uncle.”

  I shook my head. My hair, loose to my waist and wound with ribbons, fanned out over our joined fingers. “His Grace, however obsequious, does not act out of sentiment. He looks to the future, under your reign, maneuvering to be your Primate.”

  My son squeezed my upper arms.

  I envisioned Stephen, drugging the guests and attendants at his own feast, so that we might lie together.

  Now Henry held me under the chin. “I met Winchester and spoke to him at length. We were of one mind.”

  How I ached to hear it. “There can be no commonality, nor any brotherhood between you.”

  The duke lifted my jaw, so that I might not miss his severity. “I believe that His Grace loves me now.”

  I brushed the boy’s fingers from my face. “You have the look of the usurper, to whom Winchester has always given way. You conduct yourself with honor; he trusts your word, although Stephen repeatedly swore falsely to uphold him. He should pledge himself our vassal, but do not deem him sure.”

  “I will be his overlord, and the source of his aggrandizement. Where else should any man place his faith, but with me, the king to come?”

  †

  The weather is so biting that we spend the brunt of everyday at the blaze in the keep’s great hall. The wily bishop is fond of the fire. I am required by etiquette to cede the warmest seat to my most distinguished guest, but I do so with ill will.

  Today, over steaming goblets of fragrant rose liquor, Winchester’s tone was especially patronizing. “It is a fine thing to be at rest after the exhaustion of eternal strife! Let us bow our heads in thanksgiving.”

  I could not bear his hypocrisy. “We rejoice, for the seditious, illegitimate pretender no longer ferments civil disturbance.”

  The Plantagenet looked annoyed to hear us wrangle, but Eleanor interjected. “We all exult in the deliverance from chaos, most especially my husband, who is the true prince of the people.”

  His Grace was careful to flatter his next benefactress. “A queen well measures the price of war, but tranquility is the gift of the Lord.” A scrap of macerated flower petal clung to Winchester’s lip.

  That rogue Hamelin clustered with us at the hearth. “I pray that His Majesty and my brother continue to toss the royal scepter back and forth between them, so that the threat of turbulence persists. In troubled times, the overlords have no choice but to make much of their brave warriors, and share their spoils with a greater evenhandedness. God may spread concord down upon England, but not until men-at-arms such as myself open the gates to walled towns and lower the drawbridges of fortified castles.”

  Henry was roused into enthusiasm. “Well might we heap rewards upon gallant men, wielding their weapons in our glorious cause!”

  Denise’s son was as brutal and narrow as he had seemed as a boy. I tried to cow him. “Your suit of mail, in which you strut so proudly, will serve no purpose in paradise.”

  But Hamelin flourished his mother’s talent for seduction, endeavoring to lure his half-sibling from his holy purpose. “What care I for heaven? Whom should I meet therein? Aged abbots and skeletal friars, risen from their putrefying crypts? Crippled beggars, barefoot clerks, tattered pilgrims, plague-ridden orphans, awakened from a communal pauper’s grave? Look for me in purgatory, among the fierce pirates, painted whores, gouty earls, and jaded minstrels. I will drink to the health of my fellows there, all the brutal knights and their licentious, noble ladies.”

  The bishop coughed; the sacs under his eyes wiggled. “You are most unwise, when you neglect to draw a veil over the viciousness that defiles your belt of knighthood. If you cannot restrain yourself from bad conduct, if you insist upon following the well-worn path to ruin, keep your failure of courtliness to yourself. You pollute our ears with your degenerate talk.”

  I turned to Hamelin. “Permit me to speak as your father, who is no longer with us to guide you. You must go, with humility, to confession, and be given a penance; you must fulfill its terms with obedience, and be washed clean of your misdeeds.”

  Hamelin sulked, but did not refute my advice.

  The acrimonious bishop blinked his eyelids and smiled.

  †

  All the parties concerned agree to the major terms of Henry’s accession. The Count of Boulogne adopts the Plantagenet as his successor, but continues to reign unto death. The prince regains what is his mother’s rightful inheritance and his true father’s conquest. At the coronation to come, all may cheer, without reservation. History is to legitimate all that I have done.

  This contract essentially replicates the one that was proposed and accepted by me in the year of Our Lord 1141, before the dishonest knave of a usurper refused it. Seventeen years of anarchy must be laid at my cousin’s feet. I blame my once beloved’s imbecility and the greed of his strumpet Maud for the tragedy of upheaval.

  The duke returns to England for the royal Christmas Court, where he and Stephen will sign their accord. I would witness the rites, but neither empress nor duchesses is invited on the journey. How then shall I protect my son from the dangers that still surround him?

  Today, regardless of the sleet and mud, the household rode out in the fields, in order to exercise the horses. Henry was oblivious to the u
gliness of the world. “Now that I am no longer his enemy, it is senseless to rebel against the pretender, even in my mind.” The duke kicked his heels into his destrier’s flanks and cantered past me.

  I spurred my mare on, so that I could catch up.

  Unwilling to be hounded, Henry picked up his steed’s pace, galloping even further away. Over his shoulder, he shouted, “The king is fifty-eight years old, not immortal!”

  We approached the apex of a large hill, giving out onto a view of Rouen. From our saddles, we looked at the snowy rooftops of the growing town and the busy manufacturies in its outskirts. I patted the steaming neck of my mount. “He cedes you nothing that was not already yours.”

  The Plantagenet scraped some dirt off his stirrups. Then he looked me over. “Mother, I little thought that your bitterness would outlast our civil war. Your disappointment grows rancid. If you are at all anxious to reward me, the knight who has fulfilled your quest, you must excise the putrefaction. Heartache is futile. Concern yourself, nourish yourself, with my greatness or with your own goodness. Perhaps, Empress, you were specifically chosen by Christ to be sacrificed.” The duke nodded at me, no more than an elderly dowager.

  Overwhelmed, I could not reply. Tears poured down my cheeks, like icicles under the eaves of my eyelashes.

  “Behold your child, with one foot on your throne. Behold his devotion to his mother, whose great seat he yearns to fill. Gladden your spirit, for he shall wear the mantle of your greatness, with your name on his lips.” After all, it is my son who reminds me of my duty.

  †

  I have spent the night in prayer to Our Lady. Her intervention has brought forth a miracle. “Hail Mary, blessed among women. Blessed is the fruit of your womb, Thy Son.” I too am chosen, from among other queens, to be a holy vessel for the heir to the world, to bring forth the Messiah.