The Forsaken Monarch Page 51

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “A message from the archbishop of Rouen. King Henry has been taken ill at Lyons.”

  I felt a twinge in my stomach. “How ill? Is it serious?”

  “All the lords have gathered around him,” he said, still evidently catching his breath from running up the stairs. He then bent down slightly, placing one hand on the desk, and spoke earnestly, “They say he is likely to die.”

  “What?!” I cried, pushing back the chair and standing up, my heart suddenly beating fiercely.

  “My wife, do not make yourself uneasy,” he urged, raising his hand.

  What an odd thing to say at such a time! I had just received a piece of news that might change my life and affect the destinies of us all, most especially our sons.

  “I think we have good reason to be uneasy!” I cried. “The last time I saw the king, we parted badly. This past year …”

  My words trailed off, for already my mind was calculating the cost of our support for the rebels. What might the king decide in his final hours? Had he lost faith in me? So many thoughts were passing through my mind, it was a wonder steam did not flow from my ears!

  “What must I do?!” I finally asked, uncertain which of a hundred paths my thoughts should take.

  “You could travel to Rouen to be by his side, but you would not get there in time if he is truly dying. It is better that we should move to take hold of Normandy from the south.” He then began pacing around the room, or rather stomping. In anger, he kicked the frame of my bed and cried, “Oh, would that your father had granted us those castles before now! We are forced to begin with nothing!”

  I saw that it was my turn to attempt to calm him. “Not nothing. We have the oaths of the lords made twice over.”

  “And you believe they will keep their word?” he asked, the look on his face almost desperate.

  I certainly could not prove to him that they would remain true, so I offered the only comfort I could. “We must hope that they will, for what have we in this life but hope?”

  “I will tell my men to make themselves ready. We ride at my command!” he concluded, then stormed out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

  I remained standing in the same position, my breath coming quickly, considering what had just happened. For years, I had dreamed of my father’s death. A few times I might have even wished for it. One cannot help thinking of such things when it comes to a king, for the future must be won before his death creates it. I was not sure if I should feel happy or sad, but one cannot always go by what should be when it comes to feelings.

  I felt a sense of grief that my last parent might be dying, and an even greater sense of grief that he was hardly a father to me. I felt happy that I might have a chance to wield authority for once in my life, but afraid that I would not be up to the task. More than anything, I felt a pressure to do the right thing and make the right choices for myself and my sons, but I feared that circumstances might spin out of my control.

  I also had a secret: one I had not yet revealed even to Count Geoffrey or Adela. I placed my hand on my belly, in which I suspected that another child was growing. I could not be completely certain, but I had gone without passing blood again, and this had been the first sign with my sons. The feeling of possibly being connected to a child by flesh once again only increased my desire to fight for all the heirs to the throne: all the ones who could bring order and stability to England and Normandy. I had never coveted that throne for myself apart from wanting the power to make my own decisions, but I knew I must fight for it on behalf of my sons, no matter what happened. It was my fate—my purpose on earth.

  “Oh, mother Mary and all the saints, make haste to help me now, for I must be England’s queen,” I prayed. “Let him not deny me at the end!”

  I hardly slept that night. My mind was sore oppressed with worry, and I longed for news from the North. Just when I ought to have been at the king’s side, receiving his final blessing, I was fifty leagues away. Before the breaking of the dawn, I was at my desk again, this time writing to my brother.

  To Earl Robert of Gloucester, the Empress Mathilda sends greeting and bids you remember the bond of love between us. I have heard that our most gracious sovereign and mutual father, King Henry of England, is nigh unto death, and this news has caused me to tremble. I would be with you at this time, but fate has kept me away. Therefore, do what you can to ensure the support of all the nobles for our succession. Bid them remember the oaths they made to us, and write to assure us of your continued affection.

  MATHILDA IMPERATRIX

  I then wrote letters to the archbishop of Rouen, the count of Surrey, and Bishop Roger of Salisbury. Still in my robes, I walked down to the front gate where the messenger Pierre was sitting.

  “Pierre!” I said. “Take these to Argentan and have the king’s men deliver them. Quickly now!”

  “Yes, my lady!” he replied.

  I stood there for a moment in the courtyard, breathing in the winter air. The sun was just starting to rise, and the sky was a hue of red. “A red sky bodes ill for this day,” I whispered to myself. “Horace was right. ‘Pulvis et umbra sumus.’ Dust and shadows. All we are is dust and shadows.”[17]

  I made my way back into the palace and was about to mount the stairs when I passed by the new chaplain, Philip. He had been installed that very month, but already I had found three occasions to confess to him. I was a bit ashamed to see him with my hair uncovered and still in my night things, but I attempted not to show it as he bowed to me.

  “Good morrow, Empress Mathilda,” he said softly, for there were many who still slept.

  “Good morrow, father. Tell me, what is today’s date?”

  He raised his eyes to the ceiling as if in deep thought, then looked at me again. “It must be the Kalends of December.”

  “A fearful day—” I said quietly, half speaking to the chaplain and half lost in my own thoughts.

  “Why should it be fearful, my lady?” he asked, pulling my attention back to himself.

  “King Henry lies this day upon his sick bed and is never likely to rise again. Pray for me, father. Pray that God will grant me strength.”

  “Of course,” he promised, his eyes filled with concern. “These are sad tidings indeed. I will ask the monks of Fontevrault to say a Mass for his soul.”

  “Yes, well, very good.”

  In truth, I did not require prayers so much for my father, whose soul I was certain would be forced to endure either a thousand years of purgation or the fires of hell itself. Neither did I need strength to endure my grief at his passing, for I was not sad to lose his company as I had been upon the death of my mother and brother. No, I required strength to face down the wolves of the Norman court who would be looking to gain an advantage. I knew the hatred for Anjou ran deep among the Norman nobility, and I knew that they hardly yearned for a female ruler. Those were two strikes against me. I needed every bit of divine aid the prayers of the saints could muster.

  I locked myself in my bed chamber and was about to ponder my next steps when there was a knock at the door.

  “Who is it?” I called, annoyed that I should be interrupted so soon.

  “Your husband,” came the reply.

  With a great sigh, I walked back over to the door. As soon as I had pulled back the bolt and allowed him to enter, I asked, “What now? Is there some news?”

  “I’m afraid not. I came to say that I have considered the matter, and perhaps you should ride to Rouen after all. I can send my men with you. Even if he is dead when you arrive—”

  “Please, speak no more of this,” I pleaded, closing the door.

  He placed his hands on his hips and glared. “Why ever not? Don’t tell me you have changed your mind since last night!”

  “Not changed my mind exactly. I have merely considered something I did not take into account before. You see, I cannot go to Rouen. It is too dangerous.”

  He laughed. “Lady England, you m
ay have enemies in Normandy, but I am sure none of them would think to murder you upon the road!”

  “That is not what I mean! I do not suppose that anyone would try to murder me, though they might attempt an abduction. I am sure that if Sir Drogo and the rest of the knights were to accompany me … But that is not the point. There is something else.”

  “Then out with it, wife, for I grow weary of this discussion!” he ordered a bit more forcefully than I thought was warranted.

  I looked down at the ground and then back up at him. “I am with child again.”

  Well, if I had wanted to surprise him, I could not have picked a better means of doing so. Of course, Count Geoffrey knew full well that we had been in the marital way of late, attempting as always to produce more heirs to the throne. He had also seen me have two children before, so I am not sure why it took him by surprise. Nevertheless, he acted as if I had just informed him of the second coming of the Lord.

  “What?!” he cried. “Are you … how can you … how sure are you?”

  I chose to respond to his third attempt at a question. “Quite sure, and I fear the journey might prove too much for the babe that grows inside me.”

  Count Geoffrey placed his head in his hands and began to pace around the room. You would think I had told him a child of his had died rather than was about to be born.

  “This timing could not be more ill, but if you are certain, then I suppose there is nothing we can do,” he complained. “We will just have to wait and hope, as you say.” He then moved within an arm’s length of me. “But that had better be another son in there, for if I find out that we have placed everything in doubt for a girl, I shall be most displeased.”

  Ever since I had returned and given the count two legitimate sons, he had been disposed to treat me with a bit more respect. We had found a way to be civil for the sake of our children. However, every once in a while, he would say something that caused me to remember why I hated him in the first place: because he was not a proper man, but an arrogant arse. This was one such moment.

  “You are all charm as ever, my lord,” I replied.

  One day, two days, three days passed, and still no news of the king. I thought I would go mad with waiting. My ladies bid me be calm so as not to harm the child, but how could I be calm at such a time? Finally, a lone rider was sighted upon the morning of the Nones riding down the road by the river and approaching the castle gate. He bore the standard of the Normans.

  “Let him in!” Count Geoffrey called. “Let us hear what he has to say!”

  The man was brought into the great hall, which had up until that moment been in the middle of preparations for a feast that evening. The tables were decorated with green boughs brought in from the nearby woods, and all the candles sat ready to be lit. I stood in front of the fire pit flanked by Agnes on one side and Adela on the other. Count Geoffrey stood just to the side, his hands folded together so tightly it was a wonder they did not crack. My heart seemed to pound, and I thought I might be ill, though that could have been on account of the child in my belly.

  “Empress Mathilda,” the man said with a bow, “I come with a message from Archbishop Hugh of Rouen.”

  “Read it,” I said quietly.

  “Very well.”

  He broke the seal and opened the scroll. I grasped the hands of my ladies on either side and breathed deeply. I had guessed that I was about to receive news either of my father’s recovery or his death. If the latter, I would likely be informed of whether or not the Norman lords were submitting to my rule. In my heart, I said a prayer to the Virgin, to my mother, to anyone who might listen. Then the messenger began to read.

  “‘Be it known that this day, the second of the month of December, in the year of our Lord 1135, I have delivered into the keeping of Earl Robert of Gloucester the mortal remains of King Henry I of England, duke of Normandy. He passed from this world at Lyons-la-Forêt, on account of a malady in his bowels, as the physician Grimbald assures me. We shall bury his inner parts here in the city, then send his body on to Caen and thenceforth to England, for he sought to be buried at the abbey of Reading. We offer up our prayers for you in this time of great mourning, for there never was a king of England such as King Henry, last son of the Conqueror. The lords must now consider the matter of the succession, and we have already among us Count Theobald of Blois and Champagne, who many of the nobles hail as king, being the eldest male descendant of the first King William. However, it is not yet known if Earl Robert shall support him.’ Thus ends the letter.”

  Within the space of a few seconds, I had gone from absorbing the news of my father’s death, to being enraged at the news that the men of Normandy were already plotting to deny me my inheritance. However, I remembered how I had spent the last few days praying that I would act wisely rather than rashly, and I knew I needed more information. I wanted very much to say something, but Count Geoffrey was able to speak first.

  “What is the meaning of this?!” he cried, his voice shrill and his fists clenched. “Have they so quickly forgotten the oath they swore before God? Damn them! Damn them to hell!”

  “Pray, hold your tongue, Count Geoffrey,” I said, then turned to the messenger. “Tell me, do you have any other message? Anything from Earl Robert?”

  “No, my lady,” he replied. “Perhaps something will come later today.”

  “Not likely. I am sure he means to take the crown for himself!” Count Geoffrey cried.

  I was not about to throw my beloved brother overboard so easily. “You do not know my brother,” I argued. “He would never put himself forward.”

  “But he may choose to support Count Theobald, or perhaps even Count Stephen. You allow your judgment to be clouded by sentiment!”

  “Robert and Stephen have been at odds for some time,” I replied, “and in any case, Stephen is not the eldest son of Lady Adela. You need not fear that he will gain Robert’s support.”

  “Well, this puts an end to our debate,” he declared. “I will make now for Normandy and ensure the support of the castellans: Domfront, Argenteuil, the whole lot of them! I will not sit back and watch my sons’ inheritance be stolen!”

  “I hope you are not implying that is what I intend to do!” I objected, filling with anger.

  “What do you intend then?” he asked.

  What I wanted to do was punch him in the face and then ride off to Normandy to set things right, but that did not seem likely to produce good results. I closed my eyes and attempted to consider all the players, all the obstacles, all the possible outcomes. Unable to arrive at a firm decision, I opened my eyes again.

  “I need time to think,” I told him.

  Even to myself, this sounded rather weak. In truth, I wanted to strike, but I knew not what my target should be or how I could go about it.

  “Come, my lady,” Adela said, touching my arm. “You have had a blow. You must rest.”

  “And I shall make for Normandy!” Geoffrey concluded, turning to leave.

  Suddenly, I had a moment of clarity. Yes, I needed to take care of the babe growing inside me, but I knew that if I did not go—if I allowed others to fight for my children’s inheritance rather than myself, I would regret it. If I did not do all I reasonably could, they would never forgive me, nor should they. I had to take the chance. In any case, I could not bet everything on an Angevin when it was the association with Anjou that had caused the nobles to doubt me in the first place.

  “No!” I cried, with such force that my husband instantly froze. “This is my inheritance, my people, my land. The only way to ensure it is to go myself.”

  “But I thought you said—” Count Geoffrey began.

  “Never mind what I said! This is war and no mistake. Lady Agnes, tell Sir Drogo to gather the Bohun brothers and whatever knights Count Geoffrey can spare, and we will make for Alençon.”

  “Surely I should come with you!” my husband objected.

  “Surely not!” I replied. “Why do you think the lords ha
ve failed to grant me their due fealty? Because they want nothing to do with Anjou!”

  The red in Count Geoffrey’s face threatened to match the red in his hair.

  “I thought it was because you are a woman,” he said scornfully.

  I laughed perversely. “Oh, they may well fear me for that! The fiercest man cannot out run the mother keen to defend her sons!”

  Frozen ground passing beneath us, sky of gray gazing down upon us, warm breath meeting the cold air: even so we moved across the earth as the falcon dives upon its prey, intent upon our urgent purpose. The endless ground trailed beneath us, with each beat of the hoof surrendering its length. Thus we pressed on hour by hour for the fortress of Argentan.

  “Not long now,” Drogo breathed. “We shall claim what is yours.”

  Would that I had his confidence. I traveled with a small band of knights—two dozen at most—led by one Alexander de Bohun and his brother Engelger. These were not my men, but my husband’s. I had spent too little time in Anjou to expand my household. But while I left the ladies with my sons, I would never have surrendered Drogo. I had seen less of him since the children entered my life, but I still depended on him as ever.

  “Will they open the gate for us?” I asked him, as we rode side by side.

  “You know Wigan, my lady. He helped you before in an hour of need. He will not let us down.”

  I was not of such good cheer as my knight. Wigan the Marshal had certainly stuck out his neck for me when I left Count Geoffrey and returned to Normandy, but much had changed since then. It was also possible that the fortress had been seized by someone else. The land itself seemed more hostile to my aims, and the loyalty of all was in doubt. O tempora! O mores! Who was to be trusted when all honor was thrown aside? Fools trust, but the wise man carries a knife.

  “If they refuse to open the gate, then this will be a rather short invasion,” I said. “It could be days before Count Geoffrey collects his fighting men.”

  “Have faith, my lady!” he urged me.