Matilda Empress

by Lise Arin

  “Our son is to reign; I bemoan nothing on that score.”

  There was a pause. Verily, we had more complaints to make than encomiums to lavish.

  A small wheeze escaped Stephen’s chapped lips. “It came to pass that I was inconvenienced on your account. Maud suffered a thousand pains, knowing what had transpired between us, and she made sure that I repaid her for my lack of fealty.”

  My heart burned at that name. “I do not wish to avenge myself upon you, although I myself have agonized immeasurably. Now that you are stripped of your strength and resources, you still have me to lean on. I will not abandon you. You have recognized our boy at last, and I exult to see justice done. “

  “I do not marvel at your compassion and charity. You are merciful to me today; the saints shall be mild tomorrow. So I was lenient, and loath to enforce crown liberties, when it was my turn to arbitrate men’s fates.” As his stomach cramped, the knave’s voice cracked.

  I glimpsed his agony, etched in the twist of his lips and the beads of sweat on his brow. I reached over to smooth his brittle hair, feeling him once more beneath my fingers. “Do you wish me to call your physicians?”

  He groaned. “They cannot help me. My end will come when it will. But do you remember me to the Holy Virgin.” Stephen’s eyes met mine. “Be careful, Matilda; do not allow my passing to injure you too greatly. See that I am buried beside my family, resting alongside Queen Maud and Prince Eustace at the abbey of Faversham in Kent. Go in peace from thence to your son’s coronation.”

  His countenance swam before me, and I fell from Her grace. “Nothing is as it was. Nothing is as it should have been.”

  “My wife has prepared our nuptial couch, among the thick grasses, under the shade of the tree of knowledge.”

  Stricken, I cried out. “I bore you your heir!” My cheeks flared red at my failure to forswear what had been.

  My cousin winced. “You are one island; I am another.”

  Keening, ashamed, I flung myself away from him, but stopped at the door of the chamber. “I begged you so many times for clemency, but found you hard-hearted. The benevolent Mother Mary blessed me when you cursed me, succored me when you stripped me of all that I had.”

  Stephen understood that I was ready to desert him. “Hallowed be Her name. She is light and life, in the face of temptation and death. Let us praise Her, and Her son, and yours, and sing songs to them.”

  I would not be cheated again, turned hot and cold by his facile, lying tongue and my broken heart. “Farewell. You are no more vanquished than I.”

  I ran off to my solar, where I fell to my knees. Have I passed through my last ordeal? Will I be resurrected, whole and pure?

  I disown, forgo, gainsay, and withhold myself from him, body and soul. I choose, admit, affirm, and grant myself to Mary. He shall not rob me of eternal serenity, for I am nothing but the vessel of a Mother’s love.

  But I hear the bells tolling; my cousin has died this night.

  †

  Three suns have set on a world without him.

  Today, a subdued archbishop of Canterbury anointed King Henry II. Westminster Abbey itself is ill kept and in need of repair, for my cousin’s coffers, always depleted by warring, were not at the Church’s disposal. The rites of accession felt somewhat improvised, for the duke and duchess had accelerated their coronation plans, having found with their wedding that a less than sumptuous show matters not.

  At least the Plantagenet had attired himself with opulence. I insisted on splendor, and he acceded with nonchalance to my proffered silks and ermines. He looked the very portrait of a sovereign, but belittled my fanfare: “These vestments do not shine more than my armor. My subjects should see my lively expression, my robust body, my dignified carriage. They may have confidence in my valiant energy, my princely poise, and my vital determination. It is not necessary that they think highly of my tailor.”

  For all his bluster, Henry II held his head high beneath his crown of solid gold, a priceless treasure that had been among my trunks when I departed from Germany. Embossed with roods of opal, it weighs so much that it had to be bolstered up by two long silver rods, held in the hands of his attendants. Over his head, other pages waved pennants that displayed the shield of the Plantagenet: three golden lions facing forward, charging across a red field. He embellishes Henry I’s motif, for his arms declare his three-fold inheritance, through his grandfather, his father, and me.

  Marooned on the continent, I had prepared my own ceremonial costume. Today, I officially adopted new colors, those of the Virgin. My pleated linen bliaut, white as the lily, set off my flowing silk jacket, red as the rose. I left my hair unbound, in Her holy image. I eschewed costly jewels. In my right hand, I carried a wooden staff; I positioned my left hand upon my breast. I adorned myself in Her placidity, amidst constant upheaval, and in Her incorruptibility, among the pernicious.

  A magnificent assembly of vassals thronged the gloom of the ancient cathedral. The crowd sparkled with assorted brilliants, as bright as the stars in the night sky. Faces radiated relief at the evasion of death and suffering. It seemed to me that our courtiers basked in the glow of the wonderful age to come. I recognized many of my former enemies and others who had once, twice, thrice sworn to serve me.

  A choir of young boys welcomed the arrival of their Messiah, chanting: “Lord, now we are yours! Command us! Employ us! We shall live in you!”

  The archbishop raised his hand, assuring all our silence. From the regalia displayed upon the altar, he held aloft a golden eagle. “The consecration of a king is a sacrament; the sacred oil is an indelible balm. Neither water from a stagnant wayside pool nor the crashing waves of the ocean can wash the unction from an anointed sovereign.” The archbishop tipped the bird forward, so that oil flowed through its beak, and he dripped it in the shape of a cross onto my son’s red hair. “Many have been the atrocious evils wrought upon us. Never have a people endured more ruination or greater sorrow. And so I pray to the Lord that His light shall banish the darkness of hell, and that His love shall subdue the devil.”

  His Majesty pledged his oath to the church. “I shall be the guardian of heaven’s abundant gifts and Christ’s illumination.” He turned to the congregation of barons and earls, friends and foes. “I will insist upon your fidelity and your counsel, in return for the privilege of your fiefs. I will not forfeit your life, lay claim to your forests and keeps, or deprive you of your titles and honors without just cause.”

  How well it behooved him to address his vassals directly, the very moment he had gained his crown!

  The archbishop next anointed the duchess. Her pink face looked charming under a short veil, held in place by a diadem furnished all over with solid gold flowers. This tiara had also been mine. My coronation gift well became her remarkable head of curls. And so Eleanor became queen, sharing the throne, with specified powers as consort. “When King Henry is absent from England, Your Majesty shall issue his writs in your own name and under your own seal.”

  Finally, His Grace made the sign of the rood over my head. “Hail Mother! Blessed is the treasured infant of your womb. You were chosen to bring forth the Prince of Glory. Forgive us our doubts and mistakes.”

  Despite the dictates of protocol, there was scattered applause. I listened, numb, to the rest of the Mass, steeped in joy and surrender, washed of resentment and agitation. I prayed for the wisdom to understand my fate. I am renounced, I am sacrificed, but I am reborn. I still have a place among the English; I remain their Mother. But they petition me for compassion, and look for justice from my son.

  When the royal party departed the abbey, a throng of local burghers, merchants, guild masters, and moneylenders roared their shrill approval, as they had robustly cheered our illegitimate predecessors. London is their capital of profit and ease, and their ignoble prosperity still galls me. They worshipped Boulogne and his slut of a wife, and would have none of me. I never took my brother’s advice and learned to conciliate them. Gusts of
wind were pungent with the teeming Thames and the acrid scents of wool and beer. I held my nose, for I am replete with what is ill-favored and vexatious.

  †

  At tonight’s coronation feast, each magnate and bishop present paid his respects to the new king with an honest heartiness. Regardless of his age or agility, every man bent his knees to the boy of twenty-two.

  During the copious meal, companies of pages cut the viands up into bite-sized pieces, so that we, at the high table, were not put to the trouble of using our cutlery. Blaring trumpets heralded the arrival of each new course. Our washbasin was fashioned in the shape of a swan. We wiped our fingers on squares of silk, red and gold in honor of the occasion.

  Jongleurs performed bawdy songs, and then were succeeded by the tomfoolery of acrobats, jugglers, and conjurers. Late in the evening, Bernard materialized at the dais to recount a long historical poem, whose subject was the return of the irreproachable Greek hero, Ulysses. A harpist accompanied his recitation.

  Henry yawned throughout this muted performance, and waved over an elaborate, boat-shaped flagon of wine.

  I noticed that he was still sober, although most of our guests had slipped onto the floor rushes or away to their pallets.

  A replenished drink loosened the archbishop’s tongue. “Your Majesty rules an empire that stretches from the Scottish border to the Pyrenees. You are more than a Holy Roman emperor. You are such a one as Charlemagne.”

  †

  Last evening, as the bells struck compline, I took a circuitous, discreet walk through the lesser-used corridors of the palace, so as to exit the bailey near the maze, where I once trysted with my cousin. My veils were as opaque as fashion allows, to stymie the curiosity of the gardeners, or any courtiers out for a stroll.

  Meeting no one, I wandered, fascinated, among the verdant paths of the labyrinth, relishing their austerity and their circuitry, as cold and cyclic as the movement of time. It felt right to be trapped in a tangle of inextricable cause and effect, as cruelly rhythmic as nature, indifferent to the bliss and woe of the sinner.

  As I roamed, I communed with Lady Mary. She thinned out the foliage, and lightened my tread. With Her guidance, it became simple to find my way to the center. I could rove, letting the Virgin direct me to the heart of the enigma. There, I flung myself in the dirt before my Holy Mother, and mingled my tears with Her own.

  Without question, everywhere, and in everything, I must follow Her winding course, for it leads straight to heaven.

  †

  I need Her intercession, for I could not forgo the road to Kent, and a visit to the pretender’s grave. I wanted to renounce my cousin again, for repudiation purifies me. It settles me to sacrifice Stephen, to suffer denial, as I would the sharp needles of a hair shirt or the hot whips of a lash.

  Henry refused to travel with me to Faversham Abbey, preferring my journey to go unremarked by the gossips. His Majesty cares nothing for the mausoleum of the House of Boulogne.

  And so, alone, amazed, I lingered before the usurper’s massive stone tomb, inlaid with bands of precious metals and blanketed with a silk coverlet embroidered with colossal gems. I stood transfixed by the profusion of emeralds, topazes, sapphires, jasper, and onyx. Twenty candles burned at the sides, feet, and head of the sarcophagi. An amethyst censer swung nearby, heavily perfuming the extravagant display. Entombed within so much vulgarity, my once beloved rested, at peace, for all time. No business of state, nor female recriminations roused him from the luxury of his bed.

  My cousin never ascertained that desire cannot damn the river it erodes within the soul. His external comeliness withered, yet he never redeemed his inward ugliness. He was my courtly lover, but he did not deserve my surety. His treated promises and sworn kisses were mere figments of my imagination. The English were likewise illused by his hollow affection. A third of the British populace perished while the knave sat upon my throne.

  †

  Our son begins to rule, issuing a conservative charter of which I well approve, confirming all the concessions that his grandfather had given and granted, outlawing all the evil customs that his grandfather had abolished. There is none of Stephen’s mind in it, for Henry II erases the usurper’s governance, resuming the protocols of Henry I.

  The Plantagenet dismisses a flock of coarse, frivolous friends such as Hamelin, appointing in their stead somber and well-respected deputies. He ignores the old allegiances and the old affiliations, choosing practical men who will help him to create a centralized state, loyal only to the party of the king. But, primarily, he forges his own way, attending busily to his subjects’ complaints and rivalries, hearing their cases and pleas at all hours of the day and night. He struggles to reestablish public order and to strengthen the right and might of the courts and of the law, balancing, in all cases, justice with prudence.

  The island is rife with dispute and competition for honors or fiefs, yet the feuding melts away like the steam above a boiling cauldron. The well-armed barons seek compromises or settlements, so that they may lay down their weapons and demolish their strongholds, in subservience to His Majesty’s authority and in fear lest the others move more quickly to gain his confidence. The earls surrender all the towers that have ever been crown properties and cease to occupy any manor within the royal demesne. The kingdom is returned to its expansive estate, as Henry I held it, entire, for our heirs to come.

  The peasants gloat, for the Plantagenet banishes the pretender’s mercenaries, the standing army that was vainly devoted to reinforcing my cousin’s preeminence. I pray to the Virgin that my son will not need to impose his will upon the English. Henry appears sanguine, and secure, although I recollect the hatred of his brother Geoffrey and the ill will of Louis of France. But, for now, on this side of the Channel, my son gleefully accepts the embrace of gratified people, yearning for the restoration of amity and affluence.

  Henry II declines to repeat my mistakes, and is leery, lest he be considered a tyrant. By the time that his dominance over the realm is absolute, it shall be with his subjects’ full concurrence. Under the guise of slow and thoughtful action, he persuades the English that it is for the best that he alone controls the empire.

  I do not need it spelled out for me. He is the future; I am the past.

  †

  Fall

  With Their Majesties, I dawdle in England, at the royal manor of Bermondsey, in the east end of London. They could not long reside at Westminster Palace, quite decrepit, due to the sloth of Maud’s housekeeping, and the paltriness of the crown treasury. I was loath to dally where I was once so brutally deposed, and so followed in my son’s wake.

  That snake, Henry of Blois, again proves himself disloyal. His Grace has long delayed the return of his palaces to the crown. Now, when veritably forced to relinquish the castle of Winchester, he flees abroad to France. The old man, maker of princes and almost a prince himself, does not dare to defy Henry, but obeys His Majesty’s commands without due fealty.

  And now he writes to Bernard, and commissions an epic poem! Our minstrel, agape with delight at the bishop’s unlooked for generosity, will not specify the composition’s subject. I suspect Winchester’s patronage guarantees political verse complimentary to my foes and disparaging of me, hence pure calumny, neither useful nor agreeable. I am uneasy, and rather dread the publication of his inevitably false, exaggerated, and malicious account. De Ventadour actually packs his meager bags, and slinks off to settle down in some monastery hereabouts, so as to invent his insulting, misleading tale in seclusion, far from the noisy distractions and perpetual demands of court life, not to mention my pointed stares.

  Oddly, the bishop’s herald also transmits a small parcel addressed to me, a most gorgeous book, a Mariales, recounting the life and miracles of the Virgin, paying homage to Her power and mercy. When I unwrapped it, my breath caught in my throat to perceive what a treasure he had made over to me. Under its cover, I discovered a letter.

  O empress, Greetings! I have had
a vision of the most gentle Holy Mother, radiating goodness, lit from within by the eternal flame. She commands me to carry you in my heart, for you too have given forth a Son, ennobled by the Spirit of God.

  It was, for many years, my deeply held belief that you were a mediocrity, not fashioned to rule over men. I admit that I audaciously stole from you the right of succession. Perhaps it was not for me alone to determine whether there should be peace or war, quiet or storm.

  For my brother’s sake, I denounced you and your dark lusts. I always made it my business to limit Stephen’s follies, and your raven charms unmanned his body and troubled his mind. It was you who made him less of a king than he might have been.

  The snake still speaks with seven tongues, and his corroded heart still pumps with venom.

  †

  We endure at Bermondsey. The worsening weather dampens our mood, and my household is given to bickering. I do my best not to notice.

  Eleanor talks incessantly of her coming child, convinced it is another boy. The queen would have a second prince, this one born in the purple. Rather fat now, she still accepts the effusions of the minstrels. She is found handsome by those who think more of her largesse than of her person. Much is made of her “goodly reign.”

  His Majesty praises the awkward proportions of his bride. He presents her with a brooch, inscribed to his darling. Gerta smirks, thinking the king prefers his sultry, careless wife to fasten her mantle more closely about her shoulders.

  Eleanor’s distrust of her spouse grows apace. My maid ferrets out a royal bastard, sired upon a tavern whore in Normandy, who dares to name her boy “Geoffrey Plantagenet.”

  Today, we gathered in the queen’s solar, for it has a splendid view of the river and a commodious hearth. Her Majesty attempted to interest her husband. “I hear that Louis has given your brother Geoffrey an audience. The topic was the last will and testament of the late Duke of Normandy. Geoffrey insisted that he had a right to be Count of Anjou, now that you have risen to sovereignty in England.”