The Forsaken Monarch Read online

We had passed around Alençon without trouble, making for our chief aim of Argentan. With every mile we traveled, I feared that we might be set upon by enemies. With every brief night we passed, I feared for the child inside of me. Yet if anyone did see us, they evidently decided not to try the strength of that band of knights, for we were never stopped. We simply continued mile after mile, moving ever farther north.

  By the time we reached Argentan, snow was falling quite heavily, and our presence could not have been concealed from any who sought to follow us—at least, not until the snow filled in our tracks. I was more eager than ever to be safely within the castle walls, but such access was hardly certain. So much time had passed that the fortress may well have been seized and archers placed behind every crack. Therefore, when we came within about a furlong of the city walls on the western side of the River Orne, the company stayed back and Drogo rode across the bridge to the gate along with two others. The castle itself lay within a second wall inside the city.

  I watched as they moved forward, praying to God they would not be cut down. They did make it to the gate and conversed with someone through a small window in the door. My horse stamped its hoof in the snow as I pulled my cloak tight around me. It was not a long wait at all, but on account of the cold and my fear, it seemed eternal. Finally, the men returned the way they had come. As soon as they were within range, I cried out, “So what did they say?”

  “The castle is still controlled by Wigan,” Drogo replied. “The guards had been instructed to watch for us. They will open the gates on his order.”

  What relief swept over us all at these words! Within moments, we had passed beneath the portcullis of the castle itself, and I was seated before a fire in the same dining room where I had spent time about four years earlier, a glass of warm mead in my hands. One of the men brought a blanket to warm me, and I was almost thawed when Wigan, viscount of Exmes, made his appearance.

  “Empress Mathilda!” he said, clasping my hands in his own. “It is an honor to welcome you again, though I wish we could meet under better circumstances. We have been waiting for you ever since the king died.”

  “I am a bit surprised that you have done so. I did not know who would remain true to their oath once the king no longer lived.”

  “The count of Ponthieu and I have remained true at the very least,” he said, pulling over a chair from the table and sitting next to me. “He is holding Domfront for you, while I have this castle and my home at Exmes. I thought it likely you would come here first, being on the road from Le Mans. I must say, it did take you rather a long time.”

  “We had to start in Angers, and the weather was poor,” I explained, taking another drink of the mead.

  “Ah, that would do it.”

  “What news is there?”

  He sighed and placed his hands on his knees. “Only that the lords are all in Caen: Earl Robert, Earl William, Count Routrou, and of course, Count Theobald. Last we heard, they wanted to hand the throne to Theobald, but you should know, my lady, that none of us here support that idea. You will find you have many friends in the South, and we hold you as our rightful lady.”

  He said this last bit with great conviction, which did my heart good, but I knew Wigan the Marshal was a far better man than most of those gathered in Caen.

  “That is rather charitable of you, for the rest of the world seems to hate the very air I breathe,” I told him. “But I suppose William Talvas wishes to have his family lands returned to him, and Count Geoffrey has always supported him in that.”

  William Talvas, the count of Ponthieu, was the very same man we had helped in his rebellion against King Henry the year before, so he would have been a knave and a half if he turned against us.

  “Will Count Geoffrey be joining us?” Wigan asked.

  “He is gathering his men as we speak and will ride for the North at the first opportunity, but given the suspicion that many hold toward Anjou, I thought it best to come alone first.”

  He nodded in agreement. “That may be wise, though for myself I rely on the trade with Anjou, whereas from the late king I had more trouble than not. But I should not speak ill of the dead, nor of your father. Forgive me.”

  “Why not? I have plenty ill to say about him, but I take your meaning. It is good and noble for a man to respect his sovereign, even after he has gone the way of all flesh.”

  I had not properly mourned the death of my father. Since I first heard he was sick, my only thoughts were of what to do next and how to obtain my inheritance. So steadfast had I been in this pursuit, that I had never truly acknowledged that my father—the man who at times had made my life a living hell, but who was nevertheless an inseparable part of myself—was gone. I was quite happy to be free of both him and his wrath. Indeed, I was experiencing great relief, and it seemed somehow wrong that I should feel such in response to the death of my own father. But how could I feel otherwise after all that had taken place? Perhaps it was the guilt this created that led me to put such things out of my mind.

  “Well, he certainly left you in a bad spot!” the viscount said, interrupting my thoughts. “How are we to go about it then?” He folded his hands together and leaned forward, waiting intently for my judgment.

  “Do you have anyone who can carry a message?” I asked, draining the last of the mead and setting the cup on the floor.

  “Most of them are already out, but we have one rider still here, yes.”

  “I need him to go to my brother, the earl of Gloucester.”

  “Certainly, my lady, but perhaps you wish to go yourself? I have some men I could spare, and you can take all your knights.”

  “I think it best that I remain here for the present.”

  I could tell by the look on the marshal’s face that I had perplexed him.

  “Why would you not want to go?” he asked. “Surely, it is best for you to travel to Caen in person and promote your claim. I do not mean to worry you, my lady, but a ruler who is not seen is not always feared.”

  He was right, and I could see I had no choice but to tell him the truth. “I did not intend to announce this until much later, but I am with child, and I must take care not to harm it, whether it be a him or her. My body has already endured much just to come this far. I fear what might happen if I marched all the way to Caen.”

  “I see,” he said with a nod, his eyes grown wider. “Naturally, you can rely on my discretion. Are you to give birth soon?”

  “No, not for many months.”

  “I am surprised you can be so sure then. You don’t look it.”

  “Well, not that it is anyone’s business, but I often felt ill with my two boys, and that is how I feel now.”

  It was strange to be speaking of this with a man whom I did not know well, but the marshal had such an easy way about him that I felt comfortable sharing.

  “To tell you the truth, I ought to be more fearful,” I added. “The birth of my second son almost killed me. I suppose it is a bit dangerous for me to be pregnant again, and at such a time as this. Yet for some reason, I have a peace about it. If God wished me dead, he could have taken me already. I believe he will keep me alive for as long as it takes to ensure that my children receive their inheritance. The child in my womb may be another matter though. I have often heard of women miscarrying when placed under great stress.”

  “I am certain you are right that it is your destiny to fight for your sons, and I believe that the child in your womb will be safe, but nevertheless we must take care. Should I send for someone? A physician? A midwife?” he asked.

  “No, this must remain our secret for now. Just tell your man to make himself ready. There is nothing a doctor could do at this point in any case.”

  Within the hour, the rider was heading north to Caen with my letter in his bag. What would he find when he arrived? My thoughts were half with him and half with the sons I had left behind. Yes, I had only been away from them for a short time, but it was the first occasion on which we had been separated fo
r more than a few hours. Already, it gnawed at my heart.

  I was not to enjoy that merry season, sitting alone in Argentan Castle without family or friends, save of course for Drogo. The messenger I had sent to Caen never returned: an ill sign if ever there was one. Instead, I was forced to feed upon rumors. I did finally receive a letter from Count Geoffrey, who had joined with William Talvas to make an assault upon the fortress of Sées. I wished they would make for Honfleur and prevent any ship from leaving the port, but that was outside the realm of possibility. If Theobald was to be the nobles’ choice, then our best hope was to keep the holy oil from touching his brow, or there would be little chance of overcoming him. A king once anointed is second only to God.

  Finally, on the day after Christmas, some three weeks after I had arrived in Argentan, a message came from the North. I had been sitting alone in my outer chamber—a small room with naught but a couch by the fire for me to rest—seeking out every possible means of distraction when Drogo entered without even stopping to knock. He stood there silent, all six and a half feet of him, his eyes wide and his lower lip quivering, as if he had just seen a ghost.

  “What is it?!” I demanded, sitting up straight. “Something bad?”

  His face said more than his tongue could speak, and when he still remained silent, I imagined the worst.

  “Has Count Geoffrey been slain?! Has Count Theobald been accepted?!” I cried, standing up and walking toward him. “Tell me, Drogo! Tell me now!”

  For a moment, our eyes were locked, and I sensed that when he spoke, the die would be cast. Destiny would be set in motion.

  “No, my lady,” he said quietly. “The news is not from Normandy, but from England. Your cousin, Count Stephen of Boulogne—he made for London as soon as he received news of the king’s death. He won the support of all the men there, and of the treasurer, William Pont de L’Arche. But most of all, he had the support of his brother, Bishop Henry of Winchester, and of the former chancellor, Bishop Roger of Salisbury. Together, they pressed his case, and won over the archbishop of Canterbury.”

  “What are you saying?” I asked desperately. “Drogo, what are you saying?!”

  “He was crowned in Westminster Abbey. Already, he holds his royal court in London. My lady—he is made king.”

  I felt in that moment much as Lot’s wife must have felt when she was turned into a pillar of salt. The sheer weight of his news seemed to crush my spirit. I could feel anger coursing through my veins, bitterness filling my very breath, and wrath as of the Almighty beating the drum of my heart.

  “Are you … quite sure?” I asked slowly.

  He nodded sadly. “Very sure. The nobles in Caen were ready to lend their support to Theobald, but when they heard that his brother was crowned, the count removed himself from consideration.”

  “And what of my brother? What of Earl Robert? Did this message come from him?”

  “No, my lady. From him, we have nothing.”

  I looked down at the stone floor, so hard and unfeeling—cold and bereft of life. That was the world I lived in: a world with neither compassion nor any trace of loyalty.

  “What do you wish me to do?” the knight asked.

  I looked back up at him, tears in my eyes.

  “Tell me this, Drogo: For what did I surrender my youth? For what did I come to Anjou and make an end of my own content? For the benefit of whom, I know not. I sacrificed my very dignity for the House of Normandy, and see now how I am rejected, cast aside like so much rubbish! I swear, were he not already safe in Abraham’s Bosom, I should have made my father pay for this. I will make the lords of England pay for it!”

  “You will fight him then?” Drogo said. “You will make war upon Stephen? For if that is your intent, my lady, I am with you until the end!”

  I reached forth my hands and gripped both of his shoulders. “I have suffered many betrayals in my life, but none as foul as this! I swear to you, Drogo, that usurper will live to rue the day he forsook me. How he kissed me and sent me forth unto the wolves, even as Judas Iscariot! Yes, we will make war upon him, and all those who support him. Those cursed traitors shall not enjoy a peaceful night ere I make amends! Lock up your babes, England, for the Empress Mathilda is coming to you!”

  XXI

  This was how Stephen of Blois was declared to be king of England, though he never deserved that title. For some time before the king’s death, he had set his aim upon the crown, acquiring wealth and lands as the common man gathers timber, the better to build his house. He made friends of the merchants and promised them liberties. Through his mother and brother, he earned the respect of the sons of Cluny Abbey, the most powerful of the spiritual lords. In all of this, he was unwittingly helped by my father, King Henry, who gifted him Countess Mathilda of Boulogne as his wife, one of the few remaining descendants of the old line of kings. By her, Count Stephen already had a son and two daughters living when his great benefactor, the king, gave up the ghost.

  The speed with which Stephen acted revealed his firm intention. As soon as the news of the king’s death reached him in Boulogne, he made no attempt to speak with the other lords, but set sail for Dover with a band of armed men. Upon their arrival, they were denied entrance to the castle, which was under the control of Earl Robert of Gloucester. My brother must have ordered them not to open the gates for anyone but the true sovereign. Here I salute them for recognizing a fraud when they saw it. Stephen was, however, allowed to continue north into Kent, where he attempted to enter Canterbury, but was once again turned away by my brother’s men.

  Count Stephen was not one to take “no” for his answer. He pressed on to the one place where he was sure to find supporters: the streets of London. Here were men ruled by the ledger rather than the law, who would have sold their very souls for a reduction in their taxes. So presumptuous were the Londoners that they set themselves up as the jury for all England, claiming to elect Stephen as their king. How very like them to believe that theirs is the only opinion that matters! Might we also assume that they hoped by making Stephen their ruler to ensure favorable trade with the Flemings? Yes, when they ask what the throne of England is worth, I may answer, “All the wool in Flanders!”

  Having won London, Count Stephen rode to Winchester, where his younger brother Henry was bishop—again, my father’s doing. Naturally, Bishop Henry lent his support to his brother, but only at a high cost, for he forced him to make such pledges to the Church as my father would have surely rejected. No one knew the full extent of what was promised, but it surely made Bishop Henry even more powerful than he already was.

  Winchester was not only the home of the bishop, but also of the royal treasury, being the old English capital. There most of the gold laid up by King Henry was in the keeping of William Pont de L’Arche, lord of Portchester Castle. It is said that the brothers coerced him to part with the treasure, though he does not seem to have offered up much of a fight.

  Next, that old devil, Bishop Roger of Salisbury, made common cause with Count Stephen, no doubt helped on by the younger Bishop Henry of Winchester. They had a common grievance: namely, that their advice was not sought regarding my marriage to Count Geoffrey, which was yet again my father’s doing. Both had much to lose should the Angevins be granted power, yet both had also sworn their allegiance, without regard to any possible marriage, as had all the lords and bishops. And as for the alleged honor of Bishop Roger, who knew not that he had a son whom he hoped would be given the office of chancellor? A bishop with a bastard: now there’s a mark of honor!

  The very first man to swear his allegiance to me had been Archbishop William of Canterbury, and if they were to convince him to crown Stephen, they would need to present some just cause by which the oath might be declared null. Here they found just the man they needed: Hugh Bigod, constable of Norwich Castle and a man without honor. He repeated a tale to Archbishop William that upon his death bed, King Henry in his anger had released all the nobles from their former oath and bid them offer
fealty to Count Stephen, his true heir.

  Such a very convenient story it was, and it had the appearance of truth, for my father was disputing with myself and my husband at the time of his death. Based on this story, the archbishop crowned Stephen at Westminster on the eleventh day before the Kalends of January, without the presence of a single earl or abbot. I imagine that the ceremony was rather hollow.

  Now, you must not fault me when I call Hugh Bigod a perjurer, for though the archbishop of Canterbury did not know it and many men sought to deny it, Sir Hugh was not with the king in those final hours. I have this on the testimony of at least a dozen persons who had reason to know. Moreover, those who were at the king’s side never brought forth such a claim of his reversal—rather the opposite. Thus, Count Stephen bought the crown of England with a damnable lie, playing upon a man who had become foolish in his old age. Perhaps it was fitting that the Lord called the archbishop home later that year.

  Oh, how those ill tidings worked upon my mind with each passing hour! Stephen’s betrayal created a storm of wrath inside me. That wrath drove me on and gave me purpose. It consumed me and made me stronger: more present, more alive. Yet my wrath was not as that of the Almighty against human iniquity. The wrath of the Lord is perfect and unfailing. It does not ebb and flow like the wrath of man, but tends toward holiness. Can the fire that lives so freely within the heart of God reside in a man without causing his destruction? Beware of that flame!

  The news from England grew worse by the day. Count Stephen had gained the support of Miles of Gloucester and Pain fitz John, who between them were sheriffs over all the western counties along the border with Wales. They transferred their allegiance so quickly that they clearly had something to gain, and here we come to it, for Earl Robert of Gloucester was lord over much of that land. Indeed, this Miles had held Gloucester Castle on behalf of Earl Robert, but now the usurper offered it to him as a direct grant of the crown, making Miles faithful to Stephen alone. What a pretty piece of work! There was not one game being played, but many, and I feared that I was not aware of all of them.