The Forsaken Monarch Read online

  “So what is it you like?”

  There was a question I had never been asked. Indeed, I had never really thought about it, but when it came to Count Geoffrey, I knew the answer as if by instinct.

  “Brevity.”

  “Very well,” he replied. “Brevity it is.”

  XV

  Having achieved his desired end of marrying me into the House of Anjou, King Henry left the very next day with all the Norman lords and marched northeast into the county of Blois, having gained permission from Count Theobald. I watched them go with a heavy heart, for I was once again left as a stranger in a strange land. They passed through Chartres, and by the end of the week they were within the realm of the king of France, not two days’ march from the gates of Paris. I dearly hoped that they could make an end of the alliance between Clito and the French king, which threatened both my position and my inheritance.

  My father’s intention was not to conquer the lands of King Louis, nor even to engage him in open battle. Rather, he hoped by means of skirmishes to draw the French forces to the south and thus prevent them from coming to the aid of William Clito in Flanders. In that at least, he succeeded, but the fates were not so kind to Thierry of Alsace.

  On the eleventh day before the Kalends of July, just south of Ypres, the forces of Thierry and William Clito met in battle. When the traitor Clito’s men saw that they were far fewer in number, there were some who begged to call off the charge, but he would have none of it. He bid them cast off all the vanities of this world and pray to God for remission of their sins. And so they did cast off their noble clothes and even the very hair on their heads, and rode into battle as if they were monks. Whether or not this appeased the Almighty, I cannot rightly say, but they did achieve the unlikely victory against Thierry.

  What a blow this dealt to all of us who believed the traitor’s downfall to be near at hand! I was filled with dismay when I heard the news, for we had lost our best ally in Flanders. A great disagreement broke out between King Henry and his own father-in-law, Duke Godfrey, with each blaming the other for the defeat. Here the game was badly played, for their dispute led Godfrey, who by right should have been on our side, to throw in his lot with William Clito. Well, it should be clear by now that my father did not always treat people as they deserved, and on that occasion, he reaped his ill reward. It was bad news upon bad news.

  Those were stressful days for me as I awaited news of the fighting to the north. Along with my new husband, I had traveled back to Angers, home of the counts of Anjou, and had quickly set to work forming my household. Though I took no joy in it and may have preferred to delay the task as long as possible, I knew there was no point fighting what could not be fought: Anjou would have to become my home.

  I was angry with my father for pushing the marriage, angry at the world for requiring it of me, and angry at myself for breaking my pledge to never marry Geoffrey of Anjou. As much as I hated to admit it, my spirit had indeed been broken. I had lost the will to resist, for I felt there was no hope of succeeding. I tried to convince myself that it was the noble thing to do: to sacrifice my desires for the good of the kingdom. In any case, the deed was done. I hoped that the assurances of others were correct, and that something good might come from my marriage, however small. If by some miracle I could have a child, perhaps it would be worth it after all.

  The former Count Fulk had departed for Jerusalem, along with his daughter Sibylla. I would like to think that it was fraternal devotion that led her to the Holy Land, but the rumor was that she did not wish to be within fifty miles of me. The reason was simple enough: she had once been wed to William Clito, but my father had convinced Pope Honorius to annul the marriage, thus leaving her out in the cold. Well, Godspeed, Sibylla! I had no wish to be friends with her either.

  My husband’s other sister, Mathilda, was the widow of my own brother, William Ætheling. She had lately taken the veil at Fontevrault Abbey, and the only other sibling was young Elias, who was studying under a tutor in Le Mans. That left the two of us—Count Geoffrey and I—to man the family estate. I hoped this might finally provide a chance for us to have some long discussions, but as it turned out, Geoffrey was not much for long discussions with anyone. He was a restless type, always intent upon action. Even on the occasions where we would engage in marital relations, it was a rather brief affair, but I could hardly blame him for that, since I had requested brevity.

  Count Geoffrey had many young friends with whom he spent his time, jousting during the day and feasting late into the night. Every elegant lady in the county wished to be seen at those gatherings. I, on the other hand, merely wished to get some sleep. I had never thought myself among the aged, but I certainly felt old in their company.

  On one such night, I had returned to my room in the hope of getting some rest, even as the noise continued below. It was rather late: indeed, it must have been near midnight when I received a knock at the door of my bed chamber, which was tucked away in the corner of the upper level of the castle.

  “Who is it?” I called from where I was seated on the bed, brushing out my hair before slumber time.

  “It’s only me—Agnes,” she replied.

  Lady Agnes was one of the chief women in my household. She had arrived at the same time as myself and proven rather helpful, if a little dull.

  “Come in,” I said, setting the brush on the small table next to my bed.

  She entered, but the room was so dark that I had to reach back over to the table and hold up the candle to make out her face.

  “What is it?” I asked. “I was about to go to sleep, or at least attempt it.”

  “I am sorry to disturb, my lady, but they just received some news down below, and I thought I should make you aware of it.”

  “News? What kind of news?” I stood up from the bed and moved toward her, holding up the candle to shine on her face.

  “There’s been a message from Flanders. Count William was wounded in the fighting. He is very near death.”

  Now there was a piece of news! I felt somewhat guilty, for upon hearing that a man was near death, I experienced joy. Perhaps it is not proper to rejoice in the torment of another, but given what trouble I had suffered because of that man and the threat he posed to my future, I believed my response was justified.

  “Near death?!” I cried. “But this news must have taken most of a week to reach us. He may already be dead!”

  “That is what we are hoping to find out. They sent someone to look for Count Geoffrey so that he could send out a messenger—”

  “Wait! Count Geoffrey is not at the feast?” This surprised me, as he had been feasting every time I left for the night, and I had been led to believe that he continued to do so long after I went to sleep.

  “No, he left about half an hour ago. I thought perhaps he was with you,” Agnes explained.

  “Well, as you can see, he is not.”

  “Ah …” she uttered with great pause, as if she was not at all certain what she should say next. “Right. Should I go and look for him?”

  “No. Let me go look in his private chambers. The way he drinks, he may have taken ill and gone straight to bed. I can see it will be up to me to be both his mother and his wife.”

  “Very well, my lady. I shall return to the hall.”

  “Thank you, Agnes.”

  As soon as she was gone, I quickly put on a robe and set off down the passage toward my new husband’s room, the stone floor cold upon my bare feet. It was strange to think that I was making my first trip there under such circumstances, for we had always met in my room before. William Clito dead? It was hard to believe. Knowing him, he had probably found a way to cheat death as he had a hundred times before. His good fortune had always done me ill, and it was hard to believe that his luck had finally ended. Either way, my husband would need to know, for the death of Clito was likely to shape all our fortunes.

  I soon arrived at his door and was about to knock when I heard a noise from inside, as if
someone was moving around furniture rather carelessly and allowing it to hit the wall. I could not think why my husband should be doing such a thing, and thus I became exceedingly suspicious. I listened a moment longer and heard the same sound of something hitting the wall, only this time it was joined by a human voice—no, more than one human voice. My suspicion seemed confirmed.

  I flung open the door and held the candle aloft. The light fell upon the bed, on which the naked bodies of my husband and two women were … well, perhaps I can say they were seated. What followed next were screams, flailing limbs, and a mess of red hair.

  “Who is it?” one of the two women called out, for she had fallen on the floor in the tumult.

  “Ich bin die Göttin des Todes, kommen Sie zu zerstören!” I yelled.

  This meant roughly, I am the goddess of death come to destroy you!, although in truth I could have said anything in the German tongue, and it would have had the desired effect.

  “Ah! Good evening, my wife,” said Count Geoffrey, who was standing there stark naked, a look of complete surprise on his face, even as his two lovers frantically sought to cover themselves.

  Oh, you bastard, I thought. Indeed, there were several other curses that ran through my mind.

  “Choose your next words very carefully,” I warned him.

  He turned around to look at the two ladies behind him, perhaps attempting to decide if he could explain them away. He then turned back to face me.

  “Care to join us?” he asked with a shrug.

  I quickly scanned the room and saw a small table just to my right with a clay pitcher sitting on it. I picked it up and threw it in his direction, not truly hoping to wound him, but merely to put the fear of God in his heart. It hit a bed post and shattered, causing the ladies—if they truly deserved that title—to scream again.

  “Go to hell, you fiend!” I cried, and left the room, throwing the door closed behind me.

  I began to walk, or rather stomp, back to my chamber, muttering under my breath.

  I hated him the moment I saw him. I should have trusted myself about him. I should have known he would never respect me, even if he respects my father.

  On and on my thoughts continued in that vein. His behavior not only showed a lack of respect and loyalty toward me: it proved his lack of regard for the laws of God. So caught up was I in these angry thoughts, that when I turned the corner toward my own room, I almost ran into Agnes.

  “There you are, my lady!” she said. “There is still no sign of Count Geoffrey. Were you able to find him?”

  “Oh, I certainly found him,” I assured her.

  She smiled. “I am relieved to hear it! How did he take the news?”

  “Never mind that. Tell me, Agnes: how long has Count Geoffrey been at it with every lady in the county?”

  Her eyes grew large like a dog caught doing something rather naughty. There had been little time for the two of us to become familiar, and judging by the look on her face, I think she was afraid that I might eat her alive.

  “What? I’m not sure what you mean,” she stammered.

  “Don’t play coy with me!” I cried. “I know you all know.”

  Her replies came out quickly and with passion. “But I am new here, my lady! I know nothing! Please, I only joined the household just before your marriage!”

  “Is that so?” I asked, feeling a bit bad for yelling at her. “Well, now you know.”

  I left her behind, entered my room, and locked the door. I was not particularly surprised by what I had discovered, but that did nothing to blunt the sense of betrayal. All I could think was that, had William Clito decided to die a few weeks earlier, I might have been saved from marrying Count Geoffrey. As always, the traitor had proven his ability to ruin everything, even in death.

  “Farewell, William Clito!” I said. “I have a new enemy now.”

  As it turned out, William Clito really did die. He had gone to relieve Duke Godfrey at Aalst, and in the midst of fighting with some common peasant, he received a cut on his arm. Such a small thing, but for him it proved to be everything. The wound became putrid and the infection spread throughout his body. He lingered on in agony for most of a week before giving up the ghost. They bore his body to Saint Omer and declared him a monk post mortem, no doubt in the hope of moving his soul closer to heaven. Never mind that his proper place was next to Judas Iscariot!

  Before his death, the traitor had written to King Henry begging forgiveness for both himself and his supporters. Though he had no love for his errant nephew, my father decided there was no point holding a grudge when the end of their feud was near. He offered his pardon and allowed my cousin to die in peace. At least the king was content. I did not see how I ever could be. I would not forgive the role Clito played in forcing my second marriage, nor would I forgive my father for offering more mercy to a traitor than his own daughter.

  The poet Walo wrote an epitaph for Count William. I am not sure he truly deserved it, but it was a thing of beauty nevertheless.

  “Mars has died on earth, a star has fallen down,

  The gods lament a god, honor mourns honor’s demise

  A new thing this, that gods can die

  And immortals know they are mortal.

  The hero of heroes is fallen, he who never fled,

  Turned not from the fray, from arrow or danger,

  First to the foe, in battle the foremost,

  Thundering as the thunder.

  Flanders cradles his tomb, Normandy rocked his cradle;

  The bright star rose in one, in the other it has set.”[15]

  Would that a more worthy person should receive such a worthy epitaph, but that is life, I suppose. The truly valiant die without honor. The brave are chastised, and talent goes to waste. He who has a good name may triumph where others fail, but once that good name is gone, it is gone beyond repair. The best men and women I ever knew were hardly deemed worthy of remembrance, and the brigands play us all for fools!

  On the subject of being played for a fool, there was my marriage to Count Geoffrey. It had been hard enough for me to bear him at the beginning, but once his true character was revealed, I truly loathed him. You may find my opinion on adultery to be rather absolute, given that so many men of noble birth engage in the practice. But it is all well and good to pardon another’s indiscretion when it has no bearing upon one’s self: to claim that love is a thing of mystery that cannot be controlled. But what of fidelity? What of honor? It was not even love that my husband felt for those harlots, but simple lust. Must we applaud him for giving in to his base desires at the expense of those around him? I think not.

  For two weeks, I refused to see him. He sent me a note in which he pledged never to commit such an offense again. He claimed to be suffering from the ignorance of youth. What rubbish! A boy of five knows not to do what my husband did! I put the paper straight upon the fire. He sent me another letter and begged me to come to his bed. I wrote back and vowed I would never share the bed of a whore.

  Of course, I knew that only by returning to his bed could I ever have children, but my anger had taken control at that point. As I lay in bed at night, I would dream of leaving him: running far away, perhaps to the ends of the earth, where no one knew my name or cared what I did. It was only a fantasy, of course. In truth, I did not see any way of escape that would not be utterly ruinous. Therefore, I simply passed the days with my disdain for Count Geoffrey increasing every hour. I was forced to see him at supper, but that was all.

  In August, we received a visitor: Archbishop Hildebert of Tours. I was glad to have such an esteemed person among us, though I well remembered how he had attempted to sway me toward Anjou. Given all that had taken place that summer, my opinion of the archbishop was hardly at its zenith, but I still intended to receive him with all due hospitality.

  I asked him to walk with me in the rose garden beside the River Maine. We strode down the grassy lanes in and around the sweet smelling blooms, our conversation just as sweet. O
h, the tales he could tell! I had quite forgotten that the archbishop was once taken prisoner by my own uncle, King William II. He had thus spent a year in England, and heaped much praise upon the place—this despite the nature of his stay there. Perhaps he was hoping to regain my goodwill. We spoke of our experiences in Rome, our frustration with King Louis of France, and our love of Ovid. We continued on in this manner for the better part of an hour despite the summer heat, he with his hands clasped behind his back and I using a silk fan to cool myself a bit. Then the archbishop came to the true purpose of his visit.

  “My lady, I have spoken with Count Geoffrey, and he is most upset over the state of your young marriage. He says the two of you hardly speak. Can that be true?”

  I sighed at this change in the conversation, though I had known it was coming. “Yes, it is true,” I admitted. “Am I in trouble, then?” Here I cast a glance to the side so I could see his face.

  “Not at all! He took the blame for it. He said you caught him doing something rather impertinent.”

  “Was that how he put it?” I asked with a laugh. “That would not have been the word I might have chosen.”

  “My lady,” the archbishop continued, “Count Geoffrey is young and bound to falter at times. He seemed truly repentant when we spoke. He fears he has lost your love.”

  At this point, I was not sure if the archbishop was that easily deceived or if he and my husband had devised such an obviously specious account together.

  “He never had my love, but he has lost my respect, such as it was,” I replied.

  It was his turn to laugh softly. “I see you have no fear of speaking your mind. Perhaps that is good. These things must be addressed openly if there is to be healing.”

  I stopped in my tracks and lowered my fan. “Archbishop Hildebert, I know you mean well—”

  “Please!” he said, raising his hands as if in surrender. “I do not come here for myself, nor for your husband, but upon an order from the Almighty to bring peace to this house.”