Matilda Empress

by Lise Arin

  †

  Henry writes to us of the grand ceremony of reconciliation at the Christmas Court in Winchester.

  When the king progressed with me through the streets of the town, there was such joy among the folk that they could not contain their adulation, but continually burst out into singing and cheering. Lovely young maidens wept and tossed bouquets at my feet. Stephen and I were attended by throngs of dignified clerics and rich magnates, who all exclaimed at this stupendous welcome from the people, their willingness to declare their new fidelity.

  Inside the cathedral, Henry of Blois placed me upon his own episcopal throne. A great assembly of distinguished persons commingled. We could hear the shouting crowds outside the church, as my father acknowledged my hereditary right to his kingdom and confirmed his gift to me of its honors. In return, I allowed him control, if he wanted it, over the realm for all his life, and did him homage.

  Then His Majesty, and all the archbishops, bishops, earls, barons, justiciars, and sheriffs who were present, each took an oath. They swore that, after the death of the present sovereign, I should come into Britain and have it as my own, without opposition.

  I received all their kisses, embracing them as their liege lord.

  Eleanor prizes this communiqué as an inestimable treasure. She cherishes the fold of parchment, as if she could take communion from it. I blush now to think how I worshipped at the false altar of desire, before I came to the notice of the Virgin.

  A royal courier took me quite by surprise. He had a document for the Lady Dameta, if she still lived, from the Lord Arthur. To my relief, it was not a love letter.

  I have bequeathed my most opulent sword to my most valiant son. And I have made him a greater present, the grant of my whole fief. In all my affairs, I have promised, as is fitting, not to act without his advice and counsel. If any man shall infringe upon my rights, as they still are, our Henry shall be the first to punish them.

  The Mirror of the Plantagenet

  Scroll Twenty-Three: 1154

  I have sung unto you a prolonged cycle of the empress’s love and strife. If I have any supporters among discriminating men, I shall be esteemed by them all the more for bringing her chronicle to its conclusion. Thus, be it known, that after the long winter of his war, the pretender met his earthly end. The Plantagenet wore the English crown and his sovereignty was much applauded for the good peace that it promised. As for Matilda, she thrust her rebellious mind and wicked body away from her newborn soul. The Virgin was merciful to the princess who had persisted in indecency year after year, acknowledging her calamity and accepting her remorse. In the depths of her conversion, the empress marveled at heaven’s strength and pity. In displeasure, the Almighty had destroyed the land of her father; in compassion, He exalted the realm of her son. He who created the queen of resignation was the king of kings.

  †

  Winter

  Henry returns to Normandy in order to escape the difficulties that plague England in the aftermath of his adoption, primarily due to the multiple claimants to each parcel of property, whether great or small. Some judge must determine between them: often a deposed earl who stands for me, a resident baron of Stephen’s and some mercenary knight who has managed to build a fortified tower during the recent years of mayhem. How shall all these rivals be appeased? There are not enough castles, manors, fiefs, or titles to satisfy all of them. Surely, many of the nobles will refuse to make expensive sacrifices merely to assure the tranquility of our throne.

  The Plantagenet intends to restore territory and honors to all those who lawfully possessed it in my father’s time. The recent elevations and newly written deeds he deems fraudulent. But he wishes to announce this verdict after his coronation, when the power of enforcing it shall also rest with him. In the meantime, until the demise of the pretender, his word is not yet the law.

  On the other side of the Channel, the Count of Boulogne sets out on a progress, to display himself before the British people as the gallant champion who dissolves their dissension and abolishes their discord. Will my England fete and please him? Declining to follow in the usurper’s train, refusing to loaf about without total authority or complete dignity, the prince returns across the water, to address himself to his duchy.

  †

  The Plantagenet lands on the continent, but does not appear among us in Rouen, for some fool, refusing to accept the new political realities, revolts against his name at the castle of Torigny. Henry proceeds to invest the disloyal keep, with the aid of his youngest brother. William, now seventeen, is ready to prove himself a worthy ally, and is eager to be knighted by the sword of his illustrious sibling. My heart lightens; William has none of young Geoffrey’s poisonous enmity.

  Agitated by the disharmony in Normandy, I endeavor to remain stoic. I have paid a high price for my prize, stripping my soul of its pride and greed and fantasy. In exchange, my heir shall bless the world. I am content with the bargain, an old woman’s settlement, to be sure. But the Virgin is my model; I am privileged to play Her part.

  The duchess fidgets, wheedling Gerta for love charms and beauty potions. My maid winds massive, lustrous auburn wigs into Eleanor’s own hair, to thicken her tresses. Local women profit from their lovely curls, hacking them off in exchange for a clinking purse. I frown at the duchess’s borrowed splendor, the fortune on her head. It is the province of heaven to glorify us with comeliness. A woman’s face is the handiwork of the angels. I am ashamed at how often I permitted Gerta to overstep, in my own futile scramble to preserve and magnify my beauty.

  Yet I do not speak out against my daughter, for she has given my son her true heart. Her maneuvers beseech his desire and devotion. How can I scold her, or teach her that these things do not endure? I was guilty of the same vanity, in the service of the same cause. For too long, I struggled to abate my own feverish excitements.

  How sweet it is to have finally mastered my own debased passions. My infatuation is extinguished. But I do not rest secure in this victory over myself. I pray daily, almost hourly, perpetually on my guard, continually besieging my own self-fortress. I have eradicated all my defenses; I have decimated the garrison fighting on the behalf of what was forbidden. My soul submits. But still I stand guard upon my engines of warfare, ready to take up my arms against temptation.

  It was my fate to be a golden pyrite, a burning rock, sequestered on the arid pinnacle of the highest mountain. Stephen was just such another, and in the same place. We emitted great heat, scorching the flesh of any creature that ventured too near. If we two had incinerated only ourselves, no harm would have come from our incendiary natures. Hot and indifferent, we rolled toward one another, so that a blaze erupted that consumed everything of value, all the good things that Christ and his saints had bequeathed upon the world.

  Consorting together, my cousin and I were ever surrounded by a ring of flames. Upon this fire, I have poured a cold torrent of rebuke. The Count of Boulogne lit an evil candle within me, but I am now formidable enough to snuff him out. I am wholly chaste. The deep waters of heaven flow through me, cold and pure.

  Again and again, I adore and give homage to Mother Mary. With continual vehemence, I bestow myself in vassalage to Her; ardently, repeatedly, I give myself in fealty to Her. I escape from the Iower of Love, where I was a cramped prisoner of war, and set off on a voyage to the island of the Word.

  †

  Spring

  The pretender lies dying; a cryptic herald does not explicate further. All my muscles tingle to hasten over the sea. At his side, I will have nothing to fear, for I have found my lady’s grace. I shall take leave of my knight, here on earth, before we rise to paradise, for there I shall not know him.

  Henry, home among us, refuses to hurry a departure, for he would put every Norman affair in order before taking up his throne. The duchess, concerned for my equanimity, tries to rush his preparations. But the Plantagenet will not be unseemly, and would show that he trusts in England to endure and abide. He mea
sures its faith and tests its promises.

  Eager for physical exertion, His Grace organizes a hunting expedition. Our castle seethes with personnel dedicated to ensuring the success of his sport. Numerous knight-huntsmen and their various servants swarm through the keep, reviewing and packing up their particular gear. My son lends an ear to flunkies who forecast the weather, predict the location of herds, and suggest the surest equipment. The prince invites some of the leading men of the duchy to accompany him; they begin to arrive here with all of their squires and baggage, further swelling our numbers and straining the resources of our hospitality.

  Today, I had to waylay the Plantagenet in the muck of the stables, where I found him inspecting his mounts. A nervous page twisted his cap in a far corner, but I was unlikely to find my son so nearly alone any time soon.

  I swallowed my pride. “Appoint your brother William to look after our affairs here on the continent. Start off for your English future, with me at your side.” The sun was too weak to have penetrated the barn, and I huddled into my cloak for warmth.

  “I will train him in my methods, after I return from the chase. He remains a wee bit naïve, and needs my firmness.” The duke squatted beside a magnificent racer, and inspected his forelegs. The animal whinnied its approval of his sure touch.

  I huffed at my his obstinacy. “When you were seventeen, you thought yourself quite fit to rule. William is able enough to be your regent.”

  Henry stood upright, and smiled thinly. “To direct the affairs of the world is no easy adventure. I myself have been asking the advice of assorted chiefs and sages about the matter of Britain. They all agree: right now, contrary winds blow in the Channel. To cross would be very unwise.”

  “Your ministers are no geographers.”

  The Plantagenet walked away from me, and out into the bailey. Now there were many loitering nearby who might hear us. He seemed to speak to them, and not to his interfering mother. “I wish England to be without its sovereign and yet, in fear and in love, at peace.”

  I darted after him, as he stepped off. How much longer would he have any use for me? “I shall come with you, to witness your coronation, as is right and fitting and praiseworthy.”

  His Grace spun around, and placed his rough hands upon the shoulders of my thick mantle. “I assume that you are not determined to toss aside decorum. I would have no whispers against my mother’s conduct, for the sake of some hopeless fixation.”

  I dared not blink. “I no longer care for Boulogne; I do not intend to salute him.”

  The prince guffawed. “Drivel! What courtly lady braves a sea voyage to visit her lover’s deathbed, merely to renounce her feelings for him?”

  I knew that my cheeks flushed pink. When had I ceased to be an empress? “I would show myself inviolate to him.”

  “I shall forbid you to visit him, if you persist in troubling me. He wronged you many times over, but you must no longer concern yourself with what is long past.”

  Shameful tears ran down into my mouth. “I wish to demonstrate to him that I have found what I have been seeking, a reconciliation with Our Lady.”

  The duke could still be moved by a woman’s imprecations. He kissed me hard on the mouth. “Together, we flower in the garden. But you are the stem, the stalk, humbly rooted to the earth. I am the blossom. My scent is glorious, and wafts over England.”

  I pursed my lips, and swallowed hard, for I could taste the sour truth. “I am the royal way, the road you and Stephen both trampled.”

  †

  As the days pass, the bells chime out the Lord’s hours. Still, I am over the water, far from my declining cousin, at the port of Barfleur. Supposedly, we are impeded by the currents, although each day dawns fair. Eleanor is inclined to credit her husband’s caution, but I find it unlikely that more than one White Ship can dampen the fates of a family. Heaven is on my side now—this I forefeel. The duke and duchess and their heir will be in Mary’s hands on the crossing—this I foreknow. The time is come.

  Today is Whitsunday, the Feast of the Pentecost, when the Holy Spirit descends into the Apostles, miraculously endowing them with understanding. Blooms decorate the facades of all the churches in the town. Parades of children sing anthems in the streets. Gerta submerges herself in the kitchens of our inn, and alludes to carrot soup, roast veal, pigeon pies, and gooseberry tarts to come. Tonight, we feast to celebrate our own hard-won wisdom, and to pray that favorable winds blow.

  †

  Summer

  At last, we traversed the Channel, and with God speed. Midway through the journey, the fears of our entourage were excited by a dense fog that separated the crown ship from the others of our fleet. For a spate of time, we could not see the flares or hear the drums of the other boats, nor they ours. Yet despite the eerie spell of isolation, every one of our vessels came safely ashore. The ducal family landed at the port of Southampton. The other crafts made for various harbors along the coast. All our party shall reconvene on the highway to London.

  †

  Along the way, throughout the countryside, our cortege swells with noblemen and prelates eager to welcome their Messiah and accompany his caravan. Many of the villagers and farmers cheer our passage. It is well known that the pretender will soon pay his due to death. As we march by their fortresses, the barons loyal to the Count of Boulogne shiver in doubt over the security of their land and positions. But no knights block our path or threaten our well-being. All is tranquil, for the archbishop of Canterbury awaits the Plantagenet with open arms.

  The usurper beleaguered my realm with iniquity and destruction; the land that had been the mirror of religion in the time of my father has long reflected a picture of impious disruption. Now, my son’s righteous peace begins to heal and uplift all of us.

  †

  As soon as my horse plodded through the stone courtyard of Westminster Palace, I tossed the reins to the nearest page. With some agitation, I skittered to my assigned room to wash off the dirt of the road. My hands trembled, yet I managed to wipe my chin and cheeks and replace my riding headdress with a fresh veil. The tremors in my fingers echoed the palpitations of my heart, pounding in my chest. I lacked the composure to await Gerta’s assistance, and a complete change of garments, and so dispensed with any sartorial splendor.

  On my walk to the Count of Boulogne’s solar, I had the corridors to myself, for every household attendant was busy facilitating the arrival of our large party to the castle. Having grown up in this keep, I easily found Stephen within the royal chamber that my father set aside for his own use.

  My knight-errant still lives, although his appearance is macabre. His skin fades to the color of chalk. Illness pares down his face, so that his skeletal features, his high brow and pointed chin, jut out of his thin flesh. His flinty eyes sink into his skull. His famous red hair bleaches ashen. Dark red fever spots mar his cheeks, dashing garish color upon them.

  When I entered his presence, the pretender smiled an occult grin and dismissed his entourage. “I knew that you would come, for who else remains?”

  I recognized the leering conceit of my handsome chevalier. He looked obscene, yet I was drawn to him, as my familiar.

  I caught myself wishing that I had not bound up the remnants of my own beauty. But as soon as I became conscious of the urge to tempt him, I knew that I had been right to swaddle my physical fairness, still an open wound upon my soul. I have made this pilgrimage to pledge farewell to carnal love.

  I had not noticed it at first, so intent was I upon his cadaverous mien, but now I smelled the horrible odor of disease. Apparently, the usurper is much discomfited from a terrible and chronic diarrhea. It is to be hoped that such a mortification of the flesh serves as a penance, and warrants his salvation.

  He grimaced, but greeted me with a chivalrous tribute. “Hark! My mistress knocks on my door, and comes forth to waken my sleeping heart and water my arid soul.” As was his wont, he lived in the moment.

  Mute, I stood before him, awas
h in memories.

  Despite my silence, Stephen’s eyes brightened. “Love is as strong as Death. How this consoles me, and reminds me that I need not evade what is to follow. There will be further solace for me, among the angels.” My cousin was ever optimistic, even now. “Matilda, if the land were mine again, it would be no more wonderful than my imminent ascent to paradise, when I shall bask in the Lord’s glory.”

  Had he discovered that faith was our only true comfort? Could we stand together, in joint service to heaven? I approached his bed, taking his bony hand in my soft palm. “You should be despairing, yet you are certain. You slip away, yet for Christ’s sake you remain rooted to the truth. You are surrounded by eternal silence, yet you hear the sublime melody.”

  The Count of Boulogne gave me his other hand. “I remember the moment I first beheld you, that elegant girl, her eyes shining with the will to rule, her face beaming with the hunger to please. From the beginning, you were my shining star.”

  I held his fingers tightly, to impress upon him our mutual atonement. “But you repent of our relationship, and of all your other amorous intrigues.”

  He would not succumb to my suggestion. “Touching you, I recall every one of our secret embraces, and all the other private dalliances that enriched my years. I regret none of the kisses that I showered upon comely maidens, nor any of the caresses that I received. They say that females are the source of our depravity, but debauchery was my own compulsion. Still, I shall pass through the pearly gates, for I was a godly king.”

  I despaired that I had misunderstood him. “Now, you must choose betwixt your gallantry and your piety.”

  The pretender’s words drew me in. “I once betrayed you; I know it well. I was not enough of a general to win the war that I declared upon you.”

  We were intimates, despite his sacrilege. “You were too courageous when you plotted the theft of my inheritance. You have the blood of your grandfather, the conqueror.”

  For a moment, he competed with me to be the most noble and courteous. “I was a usurper. You were the Lady of the English.”