The Forsaken Monarch Page 14

  “Now, open the door for us,” I commanded, pointing toward the portal to my right.

  “Certainly, my lady—that is, my empress!”

  He proceeded to drop the rest of the candles and rushed over to open the door, striving to keep his head down all the while. Drogo and I walked through, and my spirit was calmed when I saw the carriage sitting there without a crowd surrounding it.

  “Put it in the carriage, Drogo. Quickly!” I whispered.

  “What about the driver? He will see me.”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  He did as I commanded, and I walked to the front to address the driver. As I had hoped, he only paid attention to me.

  “Did you leave that covering inside as I requested?” I asked. “It is grown quite cold.”

  “Yes, my lady,” he replied with a smile. “Do you need any assistance getting in?”

  “No, thank you. Sir Drogo will help me.”

  I walked back to the carriage door, where Drogo was climbing out.

  “Is it safely inside?” I whispered.

  “Yes, and I covered it with the cloth that was lying there.”

  “Good thinking. I was about to do that myself.”

  Within short order, we were back at the monastery, with the driver none the wiser to our theft. As I climbed out, I engaged the few people there in intense conversation so that Drogo had a chance to take the relic and hide it in one of my chests. Apparently, no one thought to ask what he was carrying, or perhaps they were simply too afraid. I had noticed from time to time that people were more hesitant in addressing him, believing him to be some kind of giant still walking the earth.

  Now the sign of your authority is taken, Adalbert, I thought in delight. Now you are truly humbled.

  Long after the monks had gone to bed, Drogo and I sat at the long table in the empty refectory with one of the few bottles of wine that had survived the election. It was wonderful to be alone, just the two of us. The walls were painted with scenes of the different seasons of the year, one of which showed a vineyard harvest. A lone farmer trampled upon the grapes, his feet turned red in the process.

  Drogo lifted his goblet toward the man. “Thank you, kind farmer, for supplying us with the last fruits of your labors!”

  We both laughed. His jest was nothing special, but we had both achieved that perfect combination of weariness of body and merriness of soul, the latter no doubt brought on by drink. We each took a long draft and then sat in silence, contemplating everything that had occurred in the past few days.

  “Let us hope no one checks the chapel until morning,” I said, “or that they are too afraid to tell their master.”

  “I’m amazed that worked,” he replied, pouring me another glass. “I feel it shouldn’t have.”

  “I too had my doubts when we were stopped,” I agreed, lifting the goblet to my lips.

  “Why? You were in complete control. I was a little afraid of you, actually, and I was on your side!”

  I stopped drinking but continued to turn the glass round in my hand, watching the red liquid whip inward like a whirlwind. “Well, it may not have been my proudest moment, but it worked. Once our deed is discovered, Adalbert will be out for blood. It is best that we leave as soon as possible.”

  “Everything is made ready. The men will be here before dawn to receive you.”

  “I think it best that we take our leave of as few people as possible. The less questions, the better.”

  “Just tell me one thing: why did you choose to take the hand of Saint James? Why not something else?”

  “Because Drogo, the authority of a bishop lies in his cathedral, and the authority of a cathedral comes from the presence of a holy relic. Therefore, since this bishop has made a mockery of authority, we have made a mockery of him. In removing the symbol of his authority, we make known to all men that God has removed his Holy Spirit from Adalbert, even as he did from the evil King Saul.”

  We both drank deeply from the goblets. Within a few hours, the monks would rise for their morning prayers, and we would be traveling down the Rhine on our winding course toward Normandy. It was strange to think of all that had happened since I arrived in the empire.

  “Thank you, Drogo,” I said. “You have been with me through it all. I had no one when I came here—not a single soul. Even though we have not always been in one another’s company, I am sure I could not have survived it without your encouragement.”

  “I hope when we arrive in Normandy, we will find lovers each of us,” he said, raising his glass to me and drinking.

  “Mind what you say, Sir Drogo. I have not given up on making you a priest, and my womb belongs to the king of England to do with as he pleases, barren though it may be.”

  He laughed. “Very well. But don’t forget: you promised me gold, or barring that, some lampreys!”

  “Indeed, I did, and as soon as we are in Caen, you will have all this and more.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  So we sat there, two old friends, enjoying the last dregs of our German experience.

  This I will say for the Normans: the sea is in our blood. It was the sea that bore us from the lands of ice and snow down to the kingdoms of the South, the green pastures waiting to be settled. There the descendants of Rollo made their home by the white cliffs and the River Seine, and upon that sea my own grandfather William set out to try his fortune on the plains and hills of England.

  For some, it may be difficult to imagine such a breadth of water that stretches as far as the eye can see. In all my years in the empire, I had never set out in a ship without being able to see the far shore. Even the endless length of the Rhine is no match for the unknown depths of the sea, which can produce a sense of awe in both the humble and the great. When I first saw those waves again after so many years, it brought tears to my eyes to behold such majesty.

  I was to join my father at the royal castle in Caen by mid-autumn, but there was still the trouble of William Clito. Hateful man! He did love to spoil my travels. On account of his quarrel with my father, I was not permitted to travel through the lands of either the count of Flanders or king of France. There was only one path open to us: to travel down the Rhine until it emptied into the northern sea, then to sail through the Channel and down the coast of Normandy. This would add some two weeks to the journey, depending on the weather.

  “Think of it this way,” offered Drogo, “you will see more of the countryside.”

  Yes, Drogo was always eager to find the good in any circumstance. I was not born under such a joyous planet, for I saw only pitiable delay. In Normandy, I was to begin my life over again, and I hoped this time I would not be a pawn in the hands of a king or emperor, but an heir with hopes and dreams of my own. Of course, I was also filled with fears. Perhaps my father would find me wanting in some way. Perhaps my long absence had made me a foreigner among my own people. Yes, there was plenty to fear, but at least I felt that I had a purpose: yes, I and not another. I also hoped that the relic hidden among my possessions would help to promote my cause to the king, for he would no doubt covet it for one of his own abbeys.

  It took us just a few days to reach the mouth of the Rhine. We then began our course through the Channel, steering none too close to Flanders. Even so, there were plenty of times when I could see the coast line clearly.

  “You know, we are very near the city of Boulogne,” one of the sailors said to me on a fair afternoon as we gazed at the brown and green coast in the distance.

  “Are we?” I replied. “Perhaps young Mathilda is staring back at me, though I should not call her such now, for she is made countess of Boulogne since her father took holy orders. She was wed this year to my other cousin, Stephen of Blois.”

  “Ah,” he said, nodding his head as if he fully understood, but from the empty look in his eyes, I gathered that he did not. “Have you met either of them?”

  “Stephen made one trip to Westminster before I left, but I spoke with him very l
ittle. Likewise, I only saw the young Mathilda once, though it is burned into my memory.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because she almost burned the place down. Well, she caused her mother’s dress to catch on fire.”

  “Really?!” he said in surprise, his eyes wide. “That must be some story!”

  Indeed, it was quite a story. I laughed softly thinking of it. It was strange that such a terror of a girl was now made countess of the prosperous territory of Boulogne and married to one of the greatest men in King Henry’s service. It seemed far better than she deserved, but then again, my opinion of her was based on naught but hearsay and that single meeting. Nevertheless, I struggled to imagine that she had grown into a fine woman of good character.

  “Would that she had the ability to turn the count of Flanders toward our side,” I said, more to myself than to him. “Then I might think better of her.”

  Within the hour, the captain was happy to report to me that we had left Flanders behind and entered the waters of Normandy. What joy filled my heart at this news! Strangely, although I was half descended from that land, I had not yet set foot in the duchy of Normandy. I was most eager to see this place I had heard of from my earliest hours.

  The sun was already dipping low in the western sky, so we sailed into the bay on which sits the lovely little monastery of Saint Valery, right at the mouth of the River Somme. There we dropped anchor and settled in for the night. The dwellings were not grand, but at least we were able to gain provisions for the rest of our journey and to sleep upon blessed land.

  I rose before the sun the following morning, while the monks were still chanting their prayers. I had left Adelaide and Gertrude behind in the empire and was without a maid to help dress me. Indeed, I had changed my garment only once since we left Mainz, and I had not bathed. While the common man may wash as little as he likes, I was accustomed to do so more than once a week. With no one to aid me, there was also no one to stop me, so I took the simplest gown I could find and slipped out of the house.

  I set out barefoot on the dirt path, passing first the towering maples and then the willows bent low near the river. The path then disappeared in the brush that formed a final barrier against the sand. I received a few scratches from those small branches, which poked out like hands seeking to grasp any passer by. Thank God they at least were not covered with thorns! I was glad to have made it so far without being noticed, but as I stepped into the open, my reward was not a sandy shore nor even the mess of rocks common in the South of England. Instead, I had walked straight into a fen, and my feet were sinking into the mud.

  I muttered a curse under my breath. Had it been lighter out, I would not have made such a mistake, but as it was, I had only two choices: to press on toward the river or run back in defeat. I chose the former.

  Finally, I came to the river’s edge. The autumn air was cold, and my body seemed to protest against the very idea of that water. However, I was determined to be clean, even though I knew my feet at least would be made filthy again on the return journey. I continued walking until I found a place where the shore dipped down slightly and I might bathe in privacy. The sun had just risen, and I knew the longer I waited, the more likely I was to attract attention. Thus, without deliberating further, I left my clothes behind and walked up to the water’s edge.

  This is mad—utterly mad, I thought. This might be the maddest thing I have ever done. Nevertheless, I waded into the sea.

  Oh, such cold! Unbearable cold! I was forced to use all my will to remain under water. It felt as the embrace of death, and that was what caused me to remember that it was in that very sea that my brother William had met his end five years earlier.

  Was this what he felt in those last desperate moments, gasping for breath, the heat of the fire and the cold of the water, the fury above and the fury below? Much like myself, he might have never learned to swim. Yet even if he had, there would have been little hope so far from shore.

  Even as I considered all this, there was something else gnawing at the fabric of my mind and lending discomfort to my spirit far beyond any I felt in the flesh. It was neither fear nor pain, but rather guilt that seemed to plague me.

  “Forgive me, William,” I said with trembling lips. “It should have been me in your place. You were the one born to be king. You had everything needed to rule. What am I, William? What am I to England?”

  Remembering my original purpose in coming, I rubbed at my arms and legs. The flesh still clung to my bones, but my brother’s had become food for the fish of the sea. Denied the dignity of a proper burial, he should have lain with the great kings of old. Instead, he was in a darkness far more ancient: as old as the earth itself. Meanwhile, though my heart continued to beat, I felt as if I had also been stripped, not of flesh, but of every person I loved. William, my mother, my husband—all had succumbed to the icy pull of death. I knew I must begin again, but I feared to do so alone.

  I moved to where the water was shallow and fell to my knees on the sea floor. As much as I longed to leave the cold, I felt that in those waters I could be one with my brother again. Somewhere in the channel, his body lay upon the ocean floor. There amid the waves, I was as close to him as I could ever be, save for when we were to meet again in heaven.

  I will not fail you, William, I thought rather than spoke. Stay with me. Lend me your strength. I will fight for what you sought to win. The branches of England and Normandy will be united. Hope will live on.

  My teeth began to chatter and my toes were numb, so I returned to the beach only to find that my clothes had been caught in a wave and drenched. I muttered something unworthy of mention and placed the wet gown over my body, all the while ruing my mistake.

  I then moved as quietly as possible back through the woods, at one point tripping over a fallen branch that was hidden beneath the leaves. I must have been quite a sight when I arrived back at the monastery, wet from head to foot, water dripping upon the stone floor. I made it back to my chamber, hid the filthy clothes back in the chest, and slipped into the bed. With any luck, my hair would dry before anyone came to wake me.

  “We are one, William, you and me,” I whispered into the darkness. “From this moment forward, I carry you with me. I will do all that you could not do. If father has no heir, I shall be heir in your place. I will take up that helm and fight for the honor denied you. I am all that is left of our mother, and all that is left of you; but I shall never be alone, for you are in my very bones.”

  It was only after I had spent the night there that I learned of the importance of Saint Valery for my own family. Sixty years earlier, on another autumn day, my grandfather William had gathered his forces and crossed over to Hastings to reclaim his crown, even as the chronicler has written:

  “William the earl landed at Hastings, on Saint Michael’s Day: and Harold came from the north, and fought against him before all his army had come up: and there he fell, and his two brothers, Girth and Leofwin; and William subdued this land. And he came to Westminster, and Archbishop Aldred consecrated him king, and men paid him tribute, delivered him hostages, and afterwards bought their land.”[9]

  This knowledge brought some cheer to my heart—to think that I was repeating the very steps of my forebear. But it was not to England that the ship would take me, but along the alabaster coast of Normandy, past the great towns of Dieppe and Fécamp, rounding the corner into the bay of Honfleur and then rowing the last few miles to the mouth of the River Orne.

  What a sense of prospect seized me! We had only the last length of river before we would come to the city of Caen and I would see my father once again. Our last parting was unhappy: he had pushed me into the carriage with little regard as my mother shed many tears. There was a violence about it that had remained somewhere in my heart all those years: a ripping, a tearing. I had barely known him. I feared him. But at that moment, as the castle walls came into view, I was disposed to forgive him, for I was now returned from the empire with little harm done, gr
own older and a bit wiser. Though I would always carry that experience with me, I felt somewhat renewed. I would place those days of death and doubt behind me. I would hope for the best when it came to my father. Perhaps the years had changed him even as they had changed me.

  “Drogo!” I called, as I looked out from the bow. “I can see the castle, there on top of the hill, and that must be the abbey of Saint Étienne, and over there is the women’s abbey.”

  “Yes, I see it all too,” he replied, walking up to join me. “I guess this is it then: a new country, a new life. I doubt you will have need of me now.”

  “What utter drivel is this? Of course I will need you! We are friends, Drogo, and always will be.”

  “I am glad to hear you say so, but who is that?” he asked with a nod.

  “Who is who?” I asked, my eyes searching.

  He pointed ahead. “That man there at the landing, about a furlong yonder.”

  Sure enough, I was able to make out a man standing beside two horses, waving to our captain.

  “He must have been sent down to wait for us,” I said. “They cannot have known the hour of our arrival. The rest will be waiting up at the castle.”

  “Yes, but who is he?”

  I bent down slightly and strained my eyes to make out the figure. He was of middle height and build, and looked to be not much older than myself. His attire was rather fine, so he was a lord of some sort. He had a beard and some rather long brown hair that made it difficult to see his features. Then as we drew closer, the sun hit his face and I recognized him beyond a doubt.

  “That is my cousin, Stephen of Blois.”

  “Really?” Drogo asked, squinting in the sun light. “I never saw him before, so I cannot say one way or the other.”

  “It’s a bit hard to tell under that beard, but yes, I am sure it is him. My father will have sent him down to fetch us.”

  He looked at me and smiled. “You’d best ready yourself to be fetched then.”