“Yes, of course.” I was not sure how to say what I was feeling. Finally I said, “I cannot explain it to you, but I would be very glad if you should do as I request.”
“If you wish it, then certainly I shall,” he replied.
I was eager to change the subject and made the first observation about the evening’s proceedings that came to mind.
“Uncle David is dancing with the Earl of Northampton’s wife. That is interesting—I did not think they cared for each other.”
I turned toward Robert and was surprised to see him smiling in a manner that implied that he knew something more about the subject but was afraid to share it.
“What is it? Did Father force him to dance with her? Did he have a poor night at dice?”
“Nothing so honorable,” Robert answered. “Can you keep a secret, Maud?”
“Yes, and anyway I am about to bid my final farewell, so no one will hear what I have to say.”
He leaned close and whispered in my ear, “Uncle David has a passion for her, more so than I have seen in him with any other woman before. Were she not shackled to the old earl, I suspect he would have attempted to induce her into matrimony. Of course, the prince must covet her ancestral lands, but I do not think the lady cares about that as much as she lets on. She cannot seem to keep her eyes off him . . . or her hands.”
I was appalled to hear my brother speak thus. “But she is a married woman! Surely you are wrong. I know my uncle is an honorable man. Perhaps he merely regards her from a distance and seeks to win her favor by performing mighty deeds. The poets often speak of such love.”
“So they do, but believe me when I say that a man may be honorable in all other things, but the female sex is another matter entirely.” He paused for a moment, then said, “The last night we were at Northampton Castle, I awoke to find that Prince David was absent from his bed. I had my suspicions about where he might have gone, but it was only confirmed to me by one of the servants the following morning: he spent the night in the lady’s chambers.”
“That is no way for a man to behave,” I said, not wanting to accept what I heard. “I wish to God there was some mistake in what you say. Do you think that these rumors shall ever become public knowledge?”
“That is the danger, Maud, so you must promise me that you will never speak a word of this to a single soul.”
“I promise, unless someone should ask me directly, in which case I would have no choice but to be honest.”
“Then perhaps it is good that you are going to Germany after all, for no one there speaks our language.” He laughed as he said it, but I still felt troubled.
“I think it is time that I went to bed,” I responded and rose to make my way back toward the ladies, at least one of whom would be forced to break away from the festivities long enough to help me out of my gown. As I turned to go, Prince David happened to be standing in my path, and he moved to greet me. I suspect he must have been quite confused upon witnessing me turn my face away and continue walking without uttering a word.
VII
February 1165
Rouen, Normandy
It is early morning, and outside my window a goldfinch is perched on a nearby branch, casting its small eyes here and there across the yard. Such a creature could be easily overlooked until one catches a glimpse of its red face and yellow wings, which set it apart from the common sparrows known only to God. The slightest movement of my hand attracts its attention, and for one brief moment it turns to examine my own feeble frame, which age has now stripped of what small beauty it once possessed.
“How fine you are,” I whisper.
A sudden noise breaks the spell. It is Adela come with her usual morning gift: one glass of fresh milk, another of hot water, and a plate with some bread. As she sets this all down on the small table beside me, I notice that she has accompanied this small offering not only with the usual sample from the buttery, but also with some honey that she received from Jean, the beekeeper.
“Good morning, my lady,” she greets me in her usual comforting voice. “I didn’t know if you would be awake so early this morning.” Immediately she begins moving about the room, arranging objects as necessary, replacing the spent candles with new ones, and starting the fire.
“I am not sure why that should surprise you,” I reply. “It is my usual manner these days. Even if I wished to sleep until the rising of the sun, I doubt that my body would allow it. In any case, I like to join the monks for Lauds in the morning.”
“Yes, the archdeacon tells me you have taken to walking to the sanctuary barefoot and in your robes, carrying your own candle. I think you ought not be out so early.”
“If there is anyone who ought not to be out at such an hour, it is you, Adela. You have a family to attend to. I wonder what those poor boys must be thinking with their mother always slipping out before the break of dawn.”
“My ‘poor boys,’ as you pronounce them, shall survive as they always do,” she tells me with a knowing smile. “Have you been writing again? There is no need for that, or is Father Lawrence failing in his duties as your clerk?”
“Certainly not! He should come by within the hour to begin again. I have merely been scribbling a few lines before his arrival. There is no need for concern. I take pleasure in it, and I am not yet so decrepit as to suffer from such small labor.”
“As you wish,” she responds, having enticed the logs into a small blaze. “Now, if the archdeacon is coming, we must get you properly clothed.”
As she removes the articles from my wardrobe, I glance back through the window. I know that I am fortunate to be so wonderfully placed. The guest rooms here at the monastery of Notre-Dame-du-Pré provide a perfect view across the Seine. In the distance I see the green hills, and before me the town walls of Rouen rising up next to the river. To the right is the Mont du Sainte Catherine, upon which sits the nunnery that once housed my own Adela, if only for a short while.
At the southeast corner of the city, the great residence of the Norman dukes rises in splendor, the tower providing a handsome view. Incidentally, this was also the spot where my father once sent the traitor Conrad to his death, forcing him headlong onto the street below. That is quite a story, Daughter, but perhaps one for another day. Farther inside the walls is the Priory of Saint Gervais, where my grandfather William breathed his last, and the monastery of Saint Ouen. Towering above them all is the cathedral. As always, it arrests my gaze, its bright stones shining in the morning sunlight. I have not set foot within those walls for months, not since . . .
“My lady?”
Ah, Adela has caught me lost in thought once again. Here she stands directly beside me, waiting to assist.
“I am sorry, Adela. I was just gazing at the cathedral. It looks truly wondrous this morning.”
“You were thinking about him again, weren’t you?”
I pause to decide how to respond. Should I feign ignorance or admit that I was thinking of my son William, who lies buried in the very cathedral of which we now speak? The grief of his loss still plagues me—not so much the fact of it as the manner in which it happened. But should I admit this and expose myself to my friend’s inquisition?
“I was thinking that it is bound to be quite cold again today. I had best put on something a bit warmer.”
A slight frown shows upon her face that would be undetectable to most but is clearly visible to one who has studied her behavior these many years. She then smiles and moves to exchange the garments. Upon her return I request to be allowed to continue my preparations in solitude. She agrees and leaves me to adorn myself. As soon as the door is shut, I find myself repeating, “Time . . . time . . . time . . .”
On the nones of February, in the year of our Lord 1110, the long days of waiting finally came to an end, for it was time at last to depart for that land across the sea. An endless line of chests contained all that was necessary for a young bride setting out into the world. One was filled exclusively with linens of cloth, another with furs, a
nd still another with precious silks. A smaller vessel contained the glistening jewels fit for a queen. At my mother’s request, one chest was set aside solely for works of literature. Naturally, we needed several carts to hold the endless provisions necessary for such a journey: food enough to satisfy a small army, a supply of parchment and ink, an extensive array of healing herbs and cleansing drafts, and weapons fit for such an occasion.
Our party was to be led by the legate Burchard, a clerk in the imperial chapel who had arrived in Westminster a few weeks earlier. A small retinue of knights and ministeriales had accompanied him to England and would now join us for the return. A much larger contingent of Normans would later join our company, particularly once the rumor spread that any knights who traveled with the princess were likely to receive the emperor’s beneficence for delivering unto him such a treasure. Chief among these was Roger de Clare, who, along with his brother, Gilbert fitz Richard de Clare, was heir of that great Norman lord who fought beside William I at Hastings and was rewarded with lands throughout England to accompany those across the Channel. The younger son, Gilbert, had lately received the lordship of Cardigan from King Henry, and I believe that his brother must have sensed that this was the time to achieve his own manner of distinction.
You must not ask me to remember the names of all those other knights who were with us upon that journey, whether they were Alain or Bertrand or some other such person. The span of years has swept such things from my memory. However, I shall never forget the best of those knights, Drogo, who was to become my chief guardian and protector through many dangers. He too was with us when we set out from Westminster.
I would be remiss if I did not mention Henry, archdeacon within the See of Winchester, who oversaw the Norman clerks and attended to the spiritual needs of all persons in the party. He joined us at the command of the king, who had made his acquaintance on several occasions and believed him to be a most upstanding gentleman. As fate would have it, the archdeacon was able to present himself in the best possible light to all manner of men. I wondered if he had not learned something of this from Bishop Roger of Salisbury. This Henry would later become bishop of Verdun.
That, my daughter, is a full accounting of the individuals in our company, but for the two maids who attended to my every need. Small comfort they provided to my soul in those hours, for I was filled with terror. I remember well how I lay awake in my bedchamber pondering the coming day, knowing for certain that I should never again pass the night in the same room as my brother, William, whose loud breathing no longer annoyed me.
Never before had the morning light seemed so unkind as it did that day. Never had the ordinary preparations taken on such an awful significance. I felt as if I were living in a dream, my body performing the actions my mind commanded, but my spirit unable to grasp that this was truly the last time I should be dressed by Lady Beatrice, walk these halls, and feel these embraces. Despite my dearest hope to be granted a reprieve, the moment had arrived, and as the palace doors opened before me, revealing the farewell spectacle I had so long dreaded, I was struck with a fear that threatened to undo me.
Although it was uncommon on such occasions, the queen was determined to take me by the hand and lead me out into the outer ward herself. We didn’t speak as my mother approached and accepted me from Lady Beatrice, placing my hand within her own and offering me a smile that might have strengthened me under different circumstances. It was a cold winter day, and I was wrapped from head to toe in heavy garments. Since departing my bed that morning, I had become aware of a strange beating of my heart that grew stronger with every step. Now I felt that in spite of the chill in the air, my body was hot as burning coals and under intense strain. We had not taken ten steps past the threshold when I found it necessary to halt. The path toward the open carriage seemed eternal.
“Are you unwell, my love?” the queen asked, bending over to meet my gaze.
A thousand responses rushed through my mind, but I was unable to make a sound except to utter, “I feel hot.”
As my legs began to quiver, my mother grasped me with both her arms so as to hold me still. I could see the great lords of England assembled before me: the Earls of Warwick and Suffolk, Bishop Roger of Salisbury, Brother Robert, Brian fitz Count, and all the other men of court and the king’s household. At the center of my vision was King Henry himself and William beside him. Every eye was fixed upon me, and I felt an intense pressure to perform my duty, but I could not cause the fire to cease.
“Maud, look at me.”
The command distracted me for a moment, and I did as the queen requested.
“Do you have the strength to walk?”
“I hardly know.”
“You are overwhelmed, I think. Rest for a moment.”
They were all forced to wait as I recovered my balance. I breathed slowly, and the cold air seemed to temper the fire. Somewhere deep inside, a force greater than fear was gaining ground: the desire not to bring shame upon my family and myself. Finally I was able to say in all honesty, “I am ready. We can continue.”
I walked under my own power toward the carriage, stopping to bid farewell to a few officials. There were smiles from both Brian and Robert, some tears from the ladies of the queen’s household—who seemed to like me now despite all my bad behavior—nods of blessing from several old men whom I had seen only in passing, and a deep bow from the bishop of Salisbury. Upon reaching William, I was somewhat surprised to see that his eyes too were filled with tears. Despite all our disputes, he must have sensed as I did that there was a bond between us, which distance would now seek to sever.
“I will miss you, Sister,” he said with some great effort.
“And I you, William, more than I can say.”
Although it was not altogether seemly, I embraced him for a brief moment. It seemed to be too much for the queen, who let loose the tears she had been holding back until that point. This caused the king to become most impatient.
“Why all the tears? This is a great occasion!” he protested, evidently displeased that a flood of human emotion was diminishing his moment of personal triumph. Perhaps he even feared that the emperor’s men would gain the wrong impression from all this sadness.
“Come, Daughter,” he said in a somewhat kinder voice.
As he led me up to the carriage, the queen stopped him and hugged me one last time. She kissed me and held my face between her hands, bringing it close to her own.
“Maud, remember the words of Saint Paul: ‘Let us keep the profession of our hope, without wavering, for he is faithful that promised . . . The just shall live by faith.’”
“Mother . . . ,” I said, but it was too late, for the king had pulled me once again into his own power, and he lifted me inside the carriage and closed the door. I attempted to look again upon those I loved, but my father seemed intent upon saving this last moment for himself and positioned his body so as to command my attention.
“Remember this, Maud: you must always strive your hardest, for us and for England. Godspeed!”
Enveloped in the relative darkness of the carriage, I could hear the grooms making final preparations and the driver yelling at the horses to begin their long march. The crowd cheered, but I dared not pull back the curtain to glimpse their faces. The tears were once again trailing down my small face, and I cared not that I gasped for breath, or that my body writhed with the pain of separation. I lay my head upon one of the pillows and wept for what must have been an hour before finally succumbing to weariness. I was keenly aware of what lay before me. “I am alone,” I whispered to myself. “At last, I am truly alone.”
I did not speak a word to anyone the rest of that day—not when the company stopped to rest, not when we ceased travel for the night in Rochester, not throughout the lavish supper that I hardly touched, and not when the ladies put me to bed. I responded to their instructions and answered through slight nods of the head, but was silent.
“She must miss them dreadfully, poor thi
ng,” one of them said to the other once they believed I was asleep. “A little slumber should set her right.”
Oh, how they overlooked my capacity for despair! I proved myself quite able to remain mute even as we pressed on to Faversham and Canterbury. I mumbled a few words at the Holy Mass and accepted the host with fervor, but I admit that it was not the suffering of my blessed Savior that occupied my mind. Rather, my own tribulations took hold of every thought and maintained the bitterness of spirit that grew with each passing hour.
“Sooner or later, you will have to eat something,” one of the women said. “You have a long journey until we reach your betrothed, and I am sure he has no wish to see you nigh unto death.”
Little did they know how I could feed on the bread of loneliness, certain of my own righteousness and the iniquity of a world that would send young girls to live among the wolves. So I remained as silent as Zecharias, even as our trail led us along the River Dour toward the great port of Dover. It seems strange now to think that before this time, I had never beheld the sea. The world of my youth, lively as I believed it to be at the time, was limited to a rather small space. What I possessed in determination I lacked in experience, but that would soon change.
On account of the pleasant weather that day, the curtains on the carriage were pulled back, and I could see the cliffs rising on either side and feel the sea air upon my face. The town itself lies at the mouth of the Dour, near the harbor. Somewhere in that harbor was a ship ready for my own voyage, a prospect that filled me with dread. Though I knew that the king had sailed safely across the Channel many times, I was nevertheless troubled by the stories of men with a different fate, who were swallowed by the waters and never seen again.
Rather than pressing all the way to the harbor, our company climbed the hill on which sat Dover Castle, a perfectly placed fortress if ever there was one. Sadly, it was not so presentable in those days as it is now. The old Saxon fortress had suffered much damage when King William placed it under siege. Little survived but the chapel of Saint Mary and the remains of the old Roman pharos, whose twin sat upon the western hill. The new fortifications were made from wood, as was usual at that time, though there were a few hastily built rooms of stone that would be our refuge for the night.
The Girl Empress (The Chronicle of Maud Book 1) Page 13