The Forsaken Monarch Page 44

  With the papal dispute all but settled, King Henry was eager to return to England in the summer of 1131, and he wished me to accompany him to a great council in Northampton. The purpose of this council was plain enough: he would have all the nobles and bishops pressure me into returning to Anjou. Well, they were welcome to attempt it. All I knew was that my anger at what I had been forced to endure had consumed me. It was not merely Count Geoffrey with whom I was angry, but all the men who had ever denied me my due.

  A large company came over with us from Normandy, for it was to be one of the greatest gatherings in the reign of King Henry. Strange as it may seem, I never traveled any farther north than the city of Northampton, much as I might have desired it. Circumstances always had a way of preventing this. We resided at the castle, which by then had reverted to the control of King David of Scotland through his marriage to the former countess, Mathilda.

  While the site was perfect for such a meeting, we could not have come at a worse time, for upon our arrival we learned of the sudden death of the Scottish queen. What a terrible loss this was for my uncle, who had loved her most truly! She was laid to rest at the abbey of Scone, and it is said that he often went there alone to pray at her tomb. Queen Mathilda had left her husband with two living children: their son Henry, who was ever his father’s pride and joy, and a daughter named Claricia. This was not much progeny to speak of, but King David nevertheless refused to marry again. I asked him about this once and he told me, “She was not only my queen, but my very heart and soul. I was so content in her that I needed no other.”

  The greatest women on earth might have paid all their riches to hear a man make such a proclamation. I had certainly never heard such a thing spoken by either of my husbands. Even so, it seemed a rather poor decision for a king to make: that is, to bet his kingdom on one son. But perhaps he knew what he was doing, for though Henry did not make it to old age, he did leave behind many descendants who still sit upon the throne of Scotland.

  So the council began at Northampton without the presence of King David, which felt strange given that he spent half his life in England. I was greatly discouraged, for I had very much hoped to have the support of my uncle in my bid for a divorce. Nevertheless, we all made due the best we could without his company. On the first day, the king held a court of pleas and the archbishops of Canterbury and York tore into each other once again, neither of them wishing to surrender influence to the other. The following day, the council was to discuss the chief matter at hand: my unhappy marriage to Count Geoffrey.

  That evening, I was sitting with the queen in the room she had chosen to be her audience chamber for the length of our stay. It was perfectly square, with tapestries on the walls and a fire in the hearth. The two of us sat in chairs across from one another, each reading a book by the light of the fire. I confess that I spent less time reading and more simply staring at the pages while I attempted to decide how to make my case to the great lords of the land. We had been at this for about half an hour when we received a visit from Abbot Boson of Bec.

  “Empress Mathilda, may I have a moment of your time?” he asked, poking his head through the door across the room that had been left ajar. “Begging your pardon, Queen Adeliza.”

  “Of course,” I said, setting my book upon the floor and beginning to stand.

  “There is no need, Empress Mathilda,” the queen said, raising her hand and causing me to freeze in place, half sitting and half standing. “This is a good room for a private conversation. I will make my way down to the hall.”

  “But this is your room, and I do not intend to steal it from you,” I countered, standing to my full height.

  However, the queen had done me one better. She had already stood herself and walked over to grab my hands and clasp them in her own.

  “I command it then,” she said with a smile. “May God bless your fellowship.”

  Protesting further at that point would have caused things to turn sour, so I submitted to her request and returned to my chair. The queen nodded politely to Abbot Boson and departed by the same door through which he had lately entered. The bolt clicked and then all was silent except for the soft crackle of the fire. I looked at the abbot, who was standing there with his hands clasped, all calmness and serenity.

  “Have a seat,” I said, motioning to the chair across from me.

  “Thank you, gracious lady. I am sure you know why I have come,” he replied, crossing the space between us, pulling his robe forward slightly, and settling into the seat.

  “Of course. You wish me to return to my husband by law.”

  He folded his fingers together and smiled at me. “He is not merely your husband in the eyes of the law, but by God’s holy ordinance. My lady, why will you not go to him?”

  “Because he is a swine. You know I know this, and I know you know it. The world does not hold as many secrets as men suppose.”

  “Even so, are you to live apart for all eternity?”

  “We’ve kept it up for almost two years thus far,” I said with a shrug.

  “My lady—”

  “Abbot Boson,” I interrupted, growing rather annoyed, “I know what the world demands of me. They wish me to trample upon my own spirit and suffer that which ought not be suffered. Let us be honest now: no one was very happy about this marriage when it started. They all hated the idea of an Angevin husband. Now when I have the chance to rid myself of him, they forbid me to do so. Do you have any idea what it is like to be bound in life to a man you do not respect and who does not respect you—a man who hardly warrants the name? Do you have any idea what it is like to break into tears upon seeing a child, knowing that your husband would rather make babes with a whore? Please, I beg you! You must see that I cannot do this. Nothing you could say would convince me to take back Count Geoffrey.”

  “Perhaps not. I am only a poor monk,” he admitted, bowing his head. “Yet I must say, my lady, with all due respect, that you are thinking about this the wrong way.”

  I had been pressing on with my argument at full speed, and his quiet words, uttered with all courtesy, caused me to stop in my tracks.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “This question does not touch yourself only. It is not even a matter for the living.”

  “Well, I hardly think the dead should care what I do.”

  “That is not what I mean either.”

  “Then pray, get to the point, for you confound me utterly!” I begged.

  He nodded and took a deep breath. “Empress Mathilda, you must think not in terms of one lifetime. You must think in terms of a thousand years.”

  “A thousand years?” I whispered, overcome with a sense of awe. To even imagine such an amount of time was difficult.

  “Yes, quite. Do not think of yourself at all. Think of the children who might be born. Think of the kings and queens that might reign. Think of this kingdom and what it might accomplish.” His voice grew stronger with each sentence, carrying an excitement that touched both our souls. “A thousand years from now, I dare say no one shall remember my name, and even yours may be forgotten. Yet your descendants will live and inhabit the earth! Through them, you may live on for ever! Your dream must be larger than yourself. It must live for a thousand years! Consider this island, my lady. They have only just made peace with the new order of things. As the apostle says, they do not yet know what they shall be. But search your heart: you know the greatness for which this land is bound. That is your destiny, and you must see it done!”

  He had made a good point—a very good point. Any possible retort seemed quite selfish, but I was not going to acknowledge defeat that quickly. I had come too far and suffered too much.

  “Truly, good abbot, you amaze me. Your words have such power, yet I have spent my entire life sacrificing my own contentment for that of others. Will it never end?”

  “Once again, I entreat you to think not of what you are losing, but of what you might gain,” he argued. “Count Geoffrey may wel
l be a disagreeable fellow, but he is the only man living who can give you sons.”

  Here I opened my mouth to interrupt, but he boldly held up a hand to stop me.

  “No, my lady! Do not speak the word divorce. Whatever right you may have to such a thing, we both know that we do not live in such a world. He is the only one who can give you sons. Would you for hatred of him throw away your own fortune, turn the king against you, and live out your days in misery? Or will you return to him, bring forth an heir, and sit upon Saint Edward’s throne? We are not merely the contents of our days. We are the authors of the future, for that which we create lives on to become either the hope or the bane of future generations. Only in your blood can the greatness of the past—the kings of old—be passed on to enrich England for years to come. Does that not stir your heart and cause you to see the passing sorrows of this age as the birth pangs of a brighter future?”

  By this point, there were tears in my eyes. No one had ever presented my duty to me in such terms. Indeed, it seemed no longer a mere duty, but a privilege, albeit one that was filled with sacrifice. He allowed me to sit and absorb these words for a moment, then I wiped the tears on my sleeve and continued.

  “I know that you speak wisely, good Boson. Yet a part of me does not want to accept it. I have suffered greatly, not only at the hands of my husband, but also those of my father. I cannot simply forget that.”

  “Granted,” he said, with a nod of the head.

  Again, I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and sniveled. “Do you really suppose my descendants might reign for a thousand years?”

  “If they have any of your blood in them, I should say their odds are as good as any that walk this earth,” he replied, leaning forward and smiling.

  I laughed. “You are too kind.”

  “No, my lady. You are the kind one. You have borne my words with great patience.”

  Many thoughts were floating through my mind. His words had struck me as true, and if that was so, then I must return to my husband. Oh, how I despised the thought! Yet the abbot had played me to perfection. He had presented me with something I loved even more than I hated my sorrows—even more than I hated Count Geoffrey!

  “Patience is precisely what I shall need if I am to return to Anjou,” I whispered.

  “Never fear, empress! The Lord himself goes before thee. He will give you strength.”

  I cast my eyes toward the ground and spoke quietly. “My father would think it was his doing. He would think he had conquered me once again.”

  “Let him think what he will!” the abbot said. “You and I know the truth. We know you serve a higher purpose. He cannot control your mind, my lady. He cannot bend your heart.”

  That night, I went to the church of the Holy Sepulchre and prayed for hours both upon my knees and lying on the floor. Tears flowed from my eyes and supplications from my heart. I was at war with the Almighty. I despised the very thought of Anjou, but hour by hour, my heart seemed to soften, and by morning, I knew what I must do.

  I walked into the hall of Northampton Castle, and pledged before them all that I would take back my idiot husband, for the good of England and Normandy. The king could not have been more pleased with my decision, and he promised me that he would extract from Count Geoffrey everything that was possible. He pledged to turn over the castles in southern Normandy to myself and my descendants, as soon as they were born. King Henry also made all the nobles swear fealty to me once again, for there were some who complained that they had been tricked the first time, not being aware of the king’s intent to marry me into Anjou. By forcing them to take the oath a second time, my father removed any such doubts.

  So it was settled then: I was to return to Anjou. I could only hope and pray that Abbot Boson’s charge to me was as wise as it seemed. Not for the first time, I was about to do what I had sworn not to do. I was going to surrender the desires of the moment for desires that would last a thousand years. Indeed, I think they were eternal desires. Would it be worth it? Only if I had children, and there was no guarantee of that. Yet I wanted it—I desired it so strongly. Having heard the words of the abbot and seen where my place might be in history, I could think of little else. Yes, I hoped. I hoped and I prayed, for I was sorely afraid.

  By the time the council was completed, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. I was forced to wait until November 1131 to make the crossing, and then I remained in Rouen well into the next year before returning to Anjou in time for Midsummer. I can well remember the day we rode through the north gate of Angers Castle, a place where I had vowed I would never again set foot. How life makes hypocrites of us all! We made our way into the inner court, and standing there to greet me was my husband, Count Geoffrey of Anjou, who had finally been able to grow a slight beard. I had imagined this meeting for months—ever since I had made the difficult decision to return—but I was not entirely certain how he would react or what I myself would feel in that moment. As it turned out, he acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place.

  “Good day, my wife!” he said, reaching up to help me off my horse.

  I settled on to the ground and patted my gown back into place. I then looked up and observed that Count Geoffrey must have grown in my absence, for while he had only been a bit taller than me before, he had now passed me by a good half foot. I quickly took an account in my mind and determined that he must be eighteen years of age. Well, he may have grown in stature, but I was not about to give him any marks for growing in character: not until I observed such a change.

  “Good morrow,” I replied, with some degree of loathing.

  It was not much of a beginning. After I had been received by all the lords, ladies, and bishops, my husband held out his arm and I took it. We walked together into the castle as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened and I had not been gone for almost two years. He led me up the main stair and down the hall to his private room in the castle. A fire had already been made up in the hearth and a small table was set with a bottle of wine and glasses. Most of the room was taken up by the very large bed with its high canopy. The only other item of note was a desk by the lone window, on which sat a few small boxes.

  I had never spent much time in this room before, and I could only guess that he had brought me there to speak without being heard. I let go of him and he moved to close the door behind us. He then turned to face me.

  “You came back to us. I admit, I did not know if you would.”

  “You have only yourself to blame for my absence,” I replied, crossing my arms.

  He laughed. “What did you think this was? We were forced together, you and me. We were made to wed. This was not some kind of love match, as if we were common peasants. You can’t have been too surprised. You are too clever for that.”

  “Are you saying we don’t have to like each other?” I asked.

  “I am saying we were brought together for one purpose, and we must see it done.”

  “Then I suppose that is the difference between you and me, because I always wanted a real marriage, where I would not have to wonder whose bed you might share on any given night. It shows a lack of respect for my person, not to mention making it very difficult for me to respect you.”

  “Such things are permitted for princes. Just look at your father!” he argued, gesturing with his hands as if the king was standing off to the side.

  “He may be my father, but he is a poor Christian, and so, I think, are you.”

  Neither of us spoke for a moment. I looked him over even as he did me, each of us no doubt seeking some advantage over the other. I saw a face that so many women had come to love, but which to me seemed more foul than fair. The glow from the flames gave it a somewhat different character, though I was not sure how. Perhaps he seemed a bit older, which he most certainly was.

  “God does not command us all to be saints,” he said quietly but with authority. “There may be some who are called to a higher righteousness, but we are not among them.”

&
nbsp; I shook my head in censure. “Well, there we will have to disagree. The commands of the Lord are meant for everyone, including you! But just look at you: a grown man who walks around with flowers in his hat, hair that is longer than mine, garments that I can only describe as eccentric. ‘Oh, I adore that planta genista! How handsome he is! If I see him again, I may faint!’ Yes, I hear how they fawn over you and lust after you, young women without a brain between them. It makes me sick!”

  “So you would prefer me to look like an Englishman?” he jeered, moving closer to me.

  “Not an Englishman—just a regular person. I would not mind if it wasn’t done to increase the desire of those who ought not give it, and we both know perfectly well that is your aim. You look as if you’re putting yourself out there as bait to be swallowed by every maid in Anjou!”

  “You would judge me based on my appearance?” he complained, moving closer still.

  “No, I find your deeds wanting as well.”

  Here he turned and walked toward the fire, laughing as he went. I did not see any humor in the situation, but he evidently took some pleasure from it. He grabbed a poker that was sitting beside the hearth and used it to move a log back on the fire. Then he turned to face me and pointed his instrument in my direction.

  “You know what I think? I think you never liked me from the moment you saw me,” he charged, pointing the poker at me. “I swear to God, you are the most stubborn woman I have ever met! It’s no wonder the Normans sent you back!”