The Forsaken Monarch Page 48

  “Actually, yes, I would like that,” I said, oddly relieved that someone had asked. “I am ever so afraid.”

  She continued to sit beside me and pat my hands in silence for a moment. I winced as the pain surged through my body. I thought about asking for the fire to be quenched, but I knew it would not help much if I was burning due to a fever.

  In my mind, I imagined a coffin being led into the cathedral of Rouen with four mourners behind it: my father carrying my first son and my husband carrying the second. My body was committed to the ground, and the men walked away with smiles on their faces. I could bear it no longer and attempted to pull my mind back to the present.

  “Are they coming?” I asked.

  “Very soon,” she replied.

  It was indeed very soon after that that the door to the room was opened and Grimbald strode in clothed in his dark robes and cap, with Eleanor following close behind him.

  “I am sorry to wake you, Master Grimbald,” I said.

  “No matter,” he replied.

  Grimbald was not one given to displaying his feelings, but I was beginning to see great concern in his eyes, and this as much as anything caused me to fear. He looked me over, feeling both my pulse and my forehead, and determined that I did have a fever, just as I had feared. He bid the ladies place cold cloths upon my body.

  “Is it very dangerous?” Adela asked.

  “It might be. It is too early to tell,” he concluded, though again I could see that his countenance was grim.

  Oh Lord, what is happening? I prayed. I beg you, think of my boys! I cannot leave them alone! They are innocent. Spare my life for their sakes!

  As the hours wore on, the fever grew worse. My whole body began to shake, and no matter how many coverings they placed on me, I felt as cold as death. My heart pounded with such a force, I might have been running a race. Slowly, my spirit began to despair. I knew what became of new mothers who experienced such things.

  “Eleanor,” I said weakly.

  “I am here,” she replied, hovering over me.

  “I bid you send for a priest.”

  “My lady?”

  “I said,” I continued, gasping for breath, “send for a priest.”

  “Of course,” she consented.

  What evil spirit had invaded my body and sent a chill through my very soul? Was this to be the end of me? Such tremors racked me from head to toe! I had not completely given up hope, but I was very near. I needed someone to speak to God for me, for I felt as unworthy as a snail. I needed to confess my sins whether or not it was a sickness unto death, and death seemed more likely by the minute.

  I have no idea how long it took Eleanor to return with the archbishop: perhaps an hour, or perhaps a day. Time no longer had any meaning. I was not entirely aware.

  “What is it, my daughter?” a man seemed to ask.

  “She is ill—very ill,” someone replied.

  “Let us anoint her with oil,” he said. “Empress Mathilda, can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” I muttered.

  “There is no need to talk, child. Do you wish me to administer the holy sacrament?”

  I attempted to speak, but a very high buzz seemed to rattle my brain, and for whatever reason it held me silent.

  “Best do it, just to be certain,” another voice said.

  I sensed that Archbishop Hugh was speaking the words over me, but I could no longer remain awake.

  “Oh God, my God,” I whispered, and then there was nothing.

  “Maud! My precious Maud! Awaken!”

  “Is that you, mother?” I asked.

  “Yes, it is I. Wake up, I say, wake up!”

  I opened my eyes to see my mother standing there beside my bed, her hand stroking my wet hair. She looked the same as she had when last I saw her: young and full of life, and far more comely than myself.

  “Mother!” I cried, great tears in my eyes. “Mother, I am sick.”

  “I know, my love,” she said, her voice as smooth and pleasant as the flow of a stream. “You have suffered greatly.”

  “Thank God you are here! I am ever so distraught.”

  “Peace, child! I will comfort you.”

  “Where are the others?” I asked, though the reason was not clear to myself.

  “What others?”

  “Father Anselm, William—where are they?”

  “I am here,” said Archbishop Anselm. “I am just at your feet.”

  Sure enough, I saw before me the tutor of my youth, still smiling behind his great white beard.

  “Yes, I see you there,” I replied. “But where is William?”

  “Here, sister!” he called, stepping out from the darkness. He was not as I remembered him in our youth, but a young man tall and strong, as he must have been at the end. “Have no fear! We will stay with you.”

  “My love,” my mother said. “Very soon, a man will come to the door. He will ask you a question that you may fear to answer.”

  “What question is that?” I asked.

  “Where you wish to take your eternal repose,” Anselm said.

  “Eternal repose? Am I to die then? Is that why I can see you all?”

  They did not answer, but looked upon me with downcast faces. I could feel the terror rising within me.

  “So I am dying then,” I concluded. “I will be with you all within hours.”

  “You must not fear death!” Anselm declared. “It is the passing into life.”

  “But what of my sons?!” I cried. “What of young Henry and his brother?”

  “There are others who will care for them,” my mother said. “They will grow into strong men.”

  “They will be raised by Angevins,” I assured her, my heart filling with anger. “They will know nothing of me or of England.”

  “Trust in the Lord,” William urged me. “He will provide for them. Soon, you will see him face to face.”

  Tears flooded my eyes as I spoke my last and greatest fear.

  “I am not ready to face the Almighty!” I argued. “He will send me to purgatory on account of my sins! I am sure of it!”

  “No! He will fetch you to heaven,” said Anselm.

  “You do not know what I have done. I am plagued by sin! I am not like you all. I am selfish, proud, angry—yes, I am filled with passions!”

  “So make your confession,” William told me. “Make it in full.”

  The figures began to darken, and I cried out in deepest despair.

  “No! Please, do not leave me! Do not leave me here to die alone!”

  My mother and brother disappeared, and all that was left was the dark figure of Archbishop Anselm. I looked upon him intently, my eyes begging him to stay. Then I saw a change in his visage: something most strange. He stepped closer to me and held out his hand, his face set like stone. He spoke with authority. “Maud!”

  “Yes!” I answered. “Tell me what I must do!”

  He looked deep into my eyes and spoke a single word. “Rise.” Then all was darkness.

  Suddenly, I felt someone shaking me: it was Adela.

  “My lady! My lady!”

  “Yes,” I murmured, opening my eyes.

  “Oh, thank God!” she said. “I was afraid you were gone. You seemed to cry out, and then you stopped breathing.”

  There was a knock at the door, and she moved to answer it, racing across the floor and swinging it open.

  “Abbot Boson!” she called, as he walked into the room. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Where are the midwives?” he asked, looking in both directions.

  “Out tending to the child Geoffrey.”

  He walked nearer the bed and looked down on me. “Where does she stand?”

  “I think she is having delusions.”

  “That is the final stage,” he said quietly. “She may not be long for this world.”

  “I am awake at this moment,” I stated, causing both of them to turn and look in my direction.

  The abbot sat on the bed be
side me.

  “Empress Mathilda,” he said, “I have been sent by your great father, King Henry of England, to ask—”

  “Where I want to be buried,” I whispered.

  “Yes, that is correct. How did you know that?”

  “My mother—she told me.”

  “Ah, well, of course, we all trust that you shall recover very soon, but in case you do not, we must discuss the disposition of your estates.”

  “Must you really burden her with that at a time such as this?” Adela asked, looking over his shoulder.

  “No, the abbot is right,” I said. “Please, sir, I wish to leave the bulk of my estate to your monastery: the monastery of Bec.”

  “Truly?” he replied. “We would be most honored if you should—”

  “And I want to be buried there,” I stated, as firmly as I could in my condition.

  He paused for a moment, then said, “My lady, you should know that the king is most intent that you should be buried here in Rouen, in the great cathedral beside your ancestors.”

  “I don’t give a—I do not care about that,” I replied, struggling with each word. “Your abbey holds a special place in my heart, for you were the one who caused me to place my hope in a greater purpose. This is my desire. Please, promise me that you will see it done.”

  “I am sure it will not come to that, my lady,” Adela said, taking hold of my hand. “You will rise from this bed within days: I promise you that!”

  “I will inform the king of your decision,” Abbot Boson concluded. “I am sure he will not deny your dying wish.”

  Without warning, someone burst through the door. It was the physician Grimbald.

  “Let me see her!” he demanded, and the others moved out of the way.

  He placed his hand upon my neck to feel the beat of my heart.

  “Your breathing is very quick,” the doctor said. “We may only have a few hours left.”

  He then pulled a bottle out of a small purse that he had been carrying. When he removed the top, it smelled worse than sulfur and not unlike a pig’s sty. Even in my state, with my sensesall amiss, there was no mistaking how awful it was.

  “What is that?” the abbot asked, covering his nose.

  “It is an old remedy I found in one of my books,” replied Grimbald. “It may be our last chance to stop the infection. My lady, do you think you could swallow this?”

  “I don’t know,” I whispered. There was no food on earth that sounded appealing to me in that moment, and the contents of that phial least of all. But if there was ever a time when the phrase “extremis malis, extremis remedia” applied, it was that one.

  “What is in it?” Adela asked, a look of dismay upon her face.

  “Garlic, onion, wine, leek, and one other thing I do not care to mention.”

  “If you are to put that in her body, you should at least tell her what it is!” the abbot demanded.

  “Very well—the dung of a cow.”

  “And you actually think that will work?” he objected.

  “Good abbot, I pray you perform your task and I will do mine!” Grimbald cried. He lifted the phial to my lips. “Drink it! This is the best chance we have.”

  Who was I to argue when I was upon death’s door? Of course, I could hardly have put up a good argument in my state. With some difficulty, I was able to swallow it. It was so utterly vile, that were I not to be killed by the infection, I was sure that the medicine would have the same result. I leaned back my head and sighed. The buzzing in my ears was increasing again and the room was growing dark.

  “What now?” Adela asked.

  “We wait,” Grimbald replied. “We wait and we pray.”

  XIX

  “Per istam sanctan unctionem et suam piissimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per visum, audtiotum, odorátum, gustum et locutiónem, tactum, gressum deliquisti.”

  Those were the words I hoped never to hear: the words that come just before death. Yet the archbishop was speaking them over me, praying that I might be accepted into heaven.

  “Do you repent of all your sins?” he asked, bending over me.

  “I do, most truly,” I murmured.

  “Do you make contrition for the same?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then speak the words: Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa …”

  “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.”

  He again made the sign of the cross upon my forehead with holy oil.

  “Ad deum, soror mea,” he whispered.

  Archbishop Hugh then stepped aside and I was joined by both Eleanor and Sybil.

  “How is my boy?” I asked. “How is Geoffrey?”

  “He is well, my lady,” Sybil replied. “He was christened yesterday.”

  “I wish to see him before I die,” I pleaded. “Please. Send for him.”

  The two women looked at each other with concern, then Eleanor spoke. “Forgive me, my lady, but that might place him in danger to be so near disease.”

  I sighed. “Yes, of course, you are right. It’s just—I never saw him properly.”

  “But you will!” Adela said, stepping in front of the midwives. “You will live to be a mother to your sons. You will rise from this bed! Do not give up hope!”

  “Sister Adela, that is quite enough!” Sybil ordered.

  “We must wait to see if the medicine will work,” the younger woman argued. “It is too soon to tell. Besides, her fever seems to be dropping. Perhaps it is the medicine!”

  “We ought not set store by some pagan witchcraft,” Eleanor chided. “I hear Grimbald receives his knowledge from the Moors, those enemies of Christ!”

  “No, it is from the English! He told me as much,” Adela said.

  The young woman rushed to my side and again took my hand within her own.

  “You must not lose faith, my lady,” she entreated. “The Lord walks even in the valley of the shadow of death.”

  “Enough!” Eleanor cried. “Sister Adela, kindly remove yourself from this room at once!”

  “Do not send her away,” I commanded. “She is to stay with me. If you have nothing further to add, then it is you two who should leave.”

  That took them very much by surprise. Though they left the chamber without another word, I could sense their minds furiously at work, devising some slander they might have hoped to throw at me.

  “You are a good girl, Adela,” I said. “Sit here. I must sleep.”

  I did sleep for quite some time before I was visited again by Grimbald. He felt my pulse, examined my breathing, placed his hand upon my brow, and looked over my extremities. A smile appeared on his face.

  “Empress Mathilda, I am pleased to report that your fever seems to have improved and your breathing is more regular. Have you experienced any more delusions?”

  “No, sir,” I said. “I do feel a bit better. I can see everything clearly and speak freely, though I am still exceedingly weary and have no appetite at all.”

  “Is it the medicine?” Adela asked. “Is it working?”

  “Quite possibly,” the physician answered. “I will administer it again this evening—with your permission, my lady.”

  “Foul as it is, if it can make me well, I shall drink a barrel of it,” I replied.

  “Excellent. I will have the apothecary make another batch.”

  “Can we please open a window?” I asked, as he rose from the bed. “I have such a need of fresh air and sunlight.”

  “Certainly,” he replied.

  He threw back the curtain on the window at the far end of the room, and sunlight poured into the room. It was glorious, although my eyes had been in the dark for so long that I was forced to close them in view of that brilliance. As they slowly adjusted, I looked out and saw that the sky was blue and birds were flying hither and thither. The world was still alive, and so it seemed was I.

  From that point on, I seemed to improve with each new day. I was able to sit up and take food, and on Midsummer Day, I
walked out of that place under my own power into the waiting arms of my young son, Henry, who was waiting for me in the passage.

  “Mama!” he cried, a broad smile upon his little face.

  “Oh, my son! My son!” I said, through tears of joy, kneeling down and pulling him into my arms, running my fingers through his red curls and kissing him.

  My trusted Lady Agnes was standing there with the babe in her arms, and when I had finished embracing my eldest, she handed over my youngest son. I stood there as he murmured softly in my arms. Unlike his brother, he had brown hair very like my own. He looked up at me as if to say, Where have you been, mother, and what was all that strange business about?

  “We meet at last, Geoffrey,” I whispered close to him. “I did not know if this day would ever come, but I am glad of it. I fought my way back to life, and I will never stop fighting for you both and for England.”

  “Are you pleased that they named him after his father?” Agnes asked.

  “Why, of course!” I replied, not breaking my gaze. “It is a most proper name, for like his father, he almost made an end of me. But do not think that I shall hold a grudge, Geoffrey. You too are my beloved son, even if you did try to kill me.”

  I remained in Rouen for some time along with my sons. King Henry was eager to enjoy their company, and he was filled with pride to think that our line would be ensured twice over. It ought to have been the happiest time of my life, but ever since I had come back from the brink, a cloud had hung over my mind, and I could not escape it. While my body was restored, my spirit seemed to be still upon that death bed. I took little joy in the moments I shared with my boys. Indeed, I took little joy in anything.

  Have you ever sat to read a book, and found you could not do so without great effort? Have you ever awoken in the morning to the fierce beating of your heart? Have you ever felt numb to the touch of water, the heat of the midday sun, or the cries of a child? Have you ever found yourself in such a plague of darkness, that you despaired of ever seeing the light again?

  Such was my state at that time, and I could not seem to free myself from it. Grimbald advised me to take more exercise, yet this did little to calm me. He recommended a change in diet, but all to no avail. Even Drogo’s jesting failed to break me out of the stupor. In truth, I was loath to admit the full extent of my torment, for it seemed to me utterly shameful.