Lady of the English

Fifteen

Forest of Loches, Anjou, September 1131

B reathing hard, Geoffrey reined in his sweating mount and patted its hot chestnut neck. He gazed round, trying to get his bearings, but they were deep in the forest and far off beaten tracks. The trees rose around him like stately cathedral columns and arched to form barrel-vault canopies above his head. The first leaves of autumn fell in a slow confetti of rust and green-gold. He had outridden the rest of the hunt while in hot pursuit of a ten-point stag and now had lost both. Only Bruin remained with him, and the hound had obviously lost the scent because he was snuffling in circles.

Geoffrey tilted his head and listened, but there was no sound beyond the rustle of leaves and, somewhere, the harsh call of a jay. He reached to blow on his hunting horn, but cursed to find it missing from the hangers on his baldric, for it meant he could not summon aid, and the item was carved from elephant ivory and valuable.

He turned the horse in the direction from which he had come and sought the path, all the time listening for the horns of the other hunters, but heard nothing. A promising path turned out to be a deer trail that only led him deeper into the forest.

Once, his straining ears caught the sound of a distant horn, but he was unsure of the direction, and it did not come again.

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Geoffrey was pragmatic. He knew eventually he would find his way out, but still felt a glimmer of anxiety at being lost in the forest, away from the safety of his companions. The night would be cold, and he had neither provisions with him, nor the wherewithal to make a fire. He turned the chestnut towards the setting sun, because at least it was a known direction.

After a while, he began to smell woodsmoke and his hope rose, mingled with caution. The scent strengthened and moments later, Geoffrey rode into a clearing where a charcoal burner was tending one of his clamps. The smoke was mostly the product of the louver over the cooking fire in his hut, but white tendrils also swirled gently from the covered charcoal mound itself.

The man bowed in deference to Geoffrey’s obvious rank, but did not kneel. His eyes were as bright as speedwells in his soot-smudged face, and he kept his fist clenched tightly around the rake in his hand.

“How do I find my way out of this place?” Geoffrey asked.

“Do you know which way leads to Loches?” The man leaned on his staff. “If I did not know, I couldn’t sell my charcoal there, could I?” he said, and began issuing a string of directions by way of various trees: the big oak, the twisted lime, the hazel coppice with the rabbit warren in its roots.

Geoffrey’s nostrils flared with impatience. “Take me yourself,” he snapped. “These are not directions for a man unused to these woods.”

“Messire, I dare not leave the clamp lest it flares up again.” The burner gestured to the smoking mound. “This is my livelihood.”

“Christ, I’ll pay you for it; I’ll pay you what you earn in a month; just show me the way. You can ride pillion.” The man pondered for a moment and then, with a curt nod, laid down his rake and brought a stool so that he could 126

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mount up behind Geoffrey. “It’s that way,” he said, pointing a grimy hand.

The path twisted and meandered like a hungry snake, but the charcoal burner navigated with confidence, using various obscure landmarks that were obvious only to himself. Geoffrey realised uncomfortably that he was a stranger in his own land.

Here, in these woods, this man had the authority of knowledge while he possessed none. “What do ordinary men say of the Count of Anjou?” he asked curiously as they rode along.

His companion shrugged. “It is not my place to speak, messire, but were I to do so, I would say that men do not yet know what to think of him. He is a young man and still to come into his full flowering. It is said he should watch those who serve him lest they are serving their own ends. When the count visits his castles, his bailiffs take goods to provision the place from the local people, promising to pay them, but they never do. It has happened to me with my charcoal before now, but if folk complain they are beaten or imprisoned. Perhaps these men think that they can gain advantage because their lord is inexperienced, but it was an abuse of his father’s day also.” Geoffrey contained his instinct to kick the filthy creature off his horse and have him clapped in fetters for his insolence.

It was in his own interests to keep his subjects sweet and see justice done. He knew his father-in-law had put a stop to such abuses among the officials of his own court, and that he had received praise from the people because of it. Over and above that, Henry had taken control of the situation and stopped men from lining their own pockets At the expense of himself and his subjects. This charcoal burner might be crude and soot-smirched, but he spoke a refreshing truth.

“What else do they say?” he asked.

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people, and it was mostly uncomplimentary. He had been given much food for thought. He had also been highly entertained by his guide, whose name was Thomas Charbonnier. The charcoal burner’s expression when he finally realised he had been riding pillion behind the Count of Anjou himself was priceless and Geoffrey was deeply amused to witness the shock from both peasant and castle attendants alike; the latter horrified that their lord had been sharing his horse with a man of such dubious credentials. Charcoal burners were always viewed with suspicion. Living their itinerant lives in the forest, they were only one step away from being poachers, and outlaws. Charbonnier knelt, with bowed head, but Geoffrey raised him to his feet and, laughing, ordered the servants to give the man food and drink and a horse to carry him home.

“A donkey would be better, sire,” Charbonnier said. “A horse would take too much caring for and cost too much to feed. Men would envy me. If it did not die, it would be stolen.

But a donkey will bear a burden of charcoal and be coveted by few.”

“So all you desire is a donkey?”

“Yes, sire.”

Geoffrey chuckled. “Therein lies wisdom,” he said. “Perhaps I should make you my fool.”

Charbonnier gave him a shrewd blue look. “I am no man’s fool, sire.”

“Indeed not. But would you not like to give up the life of a charcoal burner for one at court? Wear fine clothes and sleep on a feather mattress and know that your wife and children were well fed? That to me seems the deed of a wise man.” Charbonnier puckered his face in thought. “Indeed, I would enjoy such things,” he acknowledged, “but I would be changed. I would be more than a simple charcoal burner and that would not be so wise, sire.”

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In the end Geoffrey sent him on his way with the requested donkey laden with provisions and a promise to buy whatever charcoal he produced. Watching the peasant go on his way, happy with his donkey and his lot, Geoffrey felt a momentary pang that was almost envy.

“Sire,” said his chamberlain, bowing. “Your lady wife arrived while you were gone. She is settling in the wall chamber of the west tower.”

Geoffrey’s heart sank. He’d known her return was imminent; it was part of the reason he had gone hunting, because he had felt it was his last opportunity to taste true freedom. He dismissed the man with a curt wave and, pinching his upper lip, turned to look down the road that the charcoal burner had taken with his new donkey. Losing his way today might have been a portent, and his conversation with the forest dweller as they journeyed to Loches had made him very thoughtful indeed.

ttt

Matilda paced the chambers she had been allotted by Geoffrey’s tense attendants. Preparations had been made to receive her, but the fine details of laying a fire and providing warm washing water and refreshments had led to a last-minute flurry. Now everyone had gone, apart from the members of her own household. Geoffrey was out hunting, for which she was glad because it gave her time to assemble her defences. She still did not know what she was doing here. Although safeguards had been put around her by letter and strict agreement, she was uneasy. In her absence, her rivals in England could work upon the matter of the succession to their own advantage, and although she had an increased household, she was still isolated.

Drogo had not returned with her, but had taken the cowl and become a monk at the abbey of Prémontré. Others had replaced him, but they were her father’s men, not knights of her choosing.

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At least there had been neither sign of Aelis nor evidence of her occupation here, although Matilda had not asked about her.

Geoffrey’s servants had shown her to her quarters, seen to her hospitality, but otherwise kept their distance. She felt as if she were standing inside a gilded cage, but was unsure whether it offered her protection from what was to come, or was a place to imprison her until the time came for her to be disposed of.

Her chamber door suddenly flung open, making her start, and Geoffrey strode in, vibrant as a young lion. His red-gold hair was a mass of wind-ruffled curls and his eyes were as vivid as clear green-blue glass. He had grown and broadened during the time they had been apart; the soft angles of adolescence had hardened into the chiselled bones of young manhood. He was breathtaking. And she hated him and she feared him.

“Lady wife, welcome home.” He flourished a mocking bow.

She felt a horrible mingling of arousal and trepidation.

Already she was preparing to fight him to the death. If he beat her again, one of them would die.

“I trust your chamber is to your liking.” He looked round, hands on his hips.

“Thank you, my lord, it is—or it will be when my people have finished making it so.” Her attendants had knelt as Geoffrey entered the room. She gestured them to stand and continue with their tasks.

His jaw tightened, but there was bleak amusement in his eyes. “Strange to say, but I have missed your presence,” he said.

“The challenge and the icy looks have been wanting. No one else can send such a chill down my spine with a single glance.” She eyed him with contempt. “I would have had an annulment were it possible.”

“My sweet wife, I considered giving you one.” He glanced at the servants again. “But since it is not to be and we must both bear our crosses as best we may, shall we discuss matters?” 130

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“Now?” She fought her fear.

“Why not? Better sooner than later.” He raised his hand, then paused in mid-gesture and turned his palm over towards her. “Will you dismiss your people?” There was an edge to his voice, but obviously he was abiding by the letter of their reunion, if not the spirit.

She wondered what he would do if she refused him “Leave us,” she commanded with a brusque gesture, “but do not go far. I will call if I have need.” She ignored her husband’s snort of amused contempt.

As the servants filed out, she and Geoffrey locked stares like two opponents circling behind their shields. The latch fell and there was silence apart from the snapping of the logs in the hearth as the fire licked over the seasoned bark. Then Geoffrey crossed the space between them and slipped his arm around her waist and drew her against him. “I meant it when I said I had missed you. I also meant it when I said I considered an annulment. Why should I keep a wife who fills my cup with vinegar?”

“Because there are compensations?” she mocked. “Because it raises your rank to be married to a dowager empress and future queen? It gives you power and standing you would not otherwise have. Because you want Normandy and you will never get it without me…”

Geoffrey’s grip tightened. They were both breathing hard with lust and anger. Her loins were moist with need. It had been so long, and however much she disliked, perhaps even hated him, however little she would ever forgive him for what he had done to her, the physical attraction between them was still a powerful drug.

“Oh, I admit it, wife,” he said. “I would not have thought to say so, but I do, and whether you like or not, you feel the same way.” He pushed himself against her and made very 131

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sure she could feel how aroused he was. Between kisses, he drew her to the freshly made bed and there took her with leisurely thoroughness, drawing off her garters, kissing her legs all the way up from instep to inner thigh, trailing his hand over her pubic mound until she moaned. He covered her with his body and entered her, fitting his hipbones inside hers, thrusting slowly, thrusting harder, taking his time until she was thrashing with need. And then he forced her over the edge and watched her shudder in climax before he surrendered to his own.

Matilda closed her eyes as the flickers of pleasure died to twinges. She ought to have felt deliciously relaxed but she was on edge. She had not had time to insert the moss, but it was near the time of her flux and he probably would not get her with child. Pushing out from beneath him, she left the bed and began to dress.

Geoffrey watched her with heavy eyes. He had dined but he was unsatisfied because she still eluded him. He studied her body as she sat down on a stool to tidy and rebraid her hair.

“Do you have anything else to ‘discuss’ before I summon the servants back in?” she asked.

He sat up, his gaze sharpening. “No, because your father made all very clear in his letter, as I did in mine to him. As you can see, I have complied.”

Matilda vigorously wove her hair under and over. “So far yes, but the rest remains to be seen.”

“On both sides, wife,” he said. “I will have obedience from you.”

“What of Aelis? What have you done with her?” she demanded.

There was silence from the bed. Matilda looked round and caught a look of pain on Geoffrey’s face. Then it was gone as he schooled his expression to neutrality and began fastening his 132

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braies to his hose. “You need not trouble yourself about Aelis,” he said curtly. “She is dead.”

Matilda’s stomach jolted. She wanted to say she was glad, but it was not the emotion that flowed through her. What arrived beyond the initial spark of shock, was alarm. She wondered just what this husband of hers was capable of. “How?” She made an effort to keep her voice level.

“Of the milk fever a week after giving birth to my son. She at least had an easy womb to fill. I have a daughter of her too and both shall be reared in this household. As I recall your father said nothing on that score, and the matter is not open to negotiation.”

Matilda crossed herself. “God rest her soul,” she muttered, thinking that Geoffrey had killed her indirectly after all.

He stood up. “I think it fair to say I have learned from my mistakes, but have you learned from yours, wife? Will you show me respect in public?”

“As you do so to me—and as you have promised to my father.”

“So be it, and may our marriage be blessed and fruitful,” he said grimly and left the room.

Matilda shuddered and breathed a deep sigh of relief as he closed the door. After a moment, she went to her devotional and, prostrating herself, prayed for the strength to endure and the grace to accept her lot, and, at least in public, play the role that was her duty.

When she had finished praying, she composed herself before summoning her servants back into the room, to finish their tasks. In silence the maids changed the sheet and remade the rumpled bed. Matilda took her cloak, beckoned to Uli, and climbed to the battlements to look out over the town and the wooded countryside. In the distance she could see people on the road, including a peasant leading a laden donkey. The last 133

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time she had stood on a wall walk had been at Northampton with Brian FitzCount. She felt a welling of sadness for what might have been if the road had been different, but immediately shook herself. What was the point in thinking upon roads not taken and pathways that had never existed in the first place?

She had to concentrate on the one she was travelling now.

The sky was darkening towards dusk and small drops of rain spattered her face as an isolated shower blustered in from the west. She left the battlements but by a different door that led her along a corridor and past a small chamber set into the thickness of the wall. Two women sat within. One was suckling an infant, her ample white breast poking through a slit in her gown. The other knelt beside a tiny little girl who was made in Geoffrey’s image, with his coppery curls and the same stubborn chin. She was stacking wooden bowls one inside the other and chattering away to herself.

On seeing Matilda, both women hastened to rise and curtsey, the wet nurse clutching the baby awkwardly to her bosom.

“These are the count’s children?” Matilda asked as a formality.

“Yes, madam.” The wet nurse lowered her gaze to the suckling baby.

“What are their names?”

“The babe is Hamelin, madam, and this is Emma, his sister.” The woman’s voice was tinged with anxiety.

“Have no fear,” Matilda said. “I do not persecute innocents.” She left the chamber deep in thought. With these children Geoffrey had proven that he could beget bastards with ease.

They would serve his bloodline as they grew up in the same way that her father’s numerous illegitimate offspring served him. Had she not been taking precautions, and given different circumstances, they could have been hers. She had almost died birthing her stillborn son in Germany and the pain and grief of that time would scar her for the rest of her life, as would the 134

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fear that she might die in the bloody struggle to deliver a child.

For Heinrich, she would have laid down her life in the effort to provide him with an heir. She had no such loyalty to Geoffrey, but the sight of the babies had filled her with a bittersweet pang of longing.

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Sixteen

Le Mans, Anjou, June 1132

S tanding in Geoffrey’s chamber, Matilda compressed her lips as she read the letter that had arrived from her father in England.

“Well?” Geoffrey arched his brow.

“He says he is considering,” she replied with angry disappointment. She felt betrayed. She had sent to her father asking him to hand over the castles of Argenten, Montauban, Exemes, and Domfront in southern Normandy, which were pledged as part of her dowry, but he had declined to do so and it was a slap in the face.

“There is nothing to consider,” Geoffrey snapped. “All the old spider wants to do is keep everything in his own hands and yield not one iota of power or control to anyone. It was the same when my sister was your brother’s widow. He refused to return her dowry. He swallowed everything into his stout belly and there it sits. When he dies, everyone will be tearing him open with knives to get at their share.” Matilda shuddered at the image. “He has ever been thus. My stepmother says we should be patient a little longer. She will do what she can on our behalf.” She did not add that Adeliza said her father was disinclined to hand over anything while she and Geoffrey had no heirs.

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“He will not heed her,” Geoffrey said curtly. “She does not have that kind of power over him. She is thistledown. Your father ignores people unless they sing his tune—and very few know what his tune is because he changes it at his whim, and tells no one what the notes are. He has had his barons swear to uphold you as queen one day, but be assured he will not have abandoned other plans.”

Matilda said nothing because Geoffrey was right. She did not trust her father, especially when he refused to hand over her dower castles, but where else was she to turn? To Geoffrey?

Their interests were mutual in many ways, but she did not trust him either. Her brother Robert might speak for her—he often knew her father’s tunes. And Brian might if he deemed it right, although he was strongly committed as her father’s man. But Robert and Brian were far away and her only influence was the written word, which would have as much impact as spitting in the ocean.

She made to leave and return to her own chamber, but Geoffrey caught her by the waist. “Perhaps he would be more amenable if we provided him with an heir?” Matilda pushed against him. “Not now,” she said impatiently. “I have things to do.”

“But surely none more important that begetting offspring to inherit,” he said. “If I ask you to render the marriage debt, you must obey.”

Matilda remained rigid in his hold for a moment, but as he began to kiss her, she set her irritation aside and gave in to him.

Geoffrey knew how to arouse her and the pleasure was often more intense when she was irritated or angry—like scratching an itch. He drew her to his bed, kissing her, awakening her desire. She felt his hand on her inner thigh, and then between her legs, stroking, rubbing, questing. Then he hissed through his teeth, but not with lust.

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“What’s this?” he demanded and, pulling back, held up the piece of moss she had inserted as a matter of routine that morning at her ablutions.

She stared, sick, horrified, and angry that she had been found out, but strangely relieved too. “Nothing,” she said. “It is a woman’s matter.”

“A woman’s matter?” he repeated. “I will know what it is, by God.”

“It’s a protection when the womb is delicate.”

“I know what this is,” Geoffrey snarled. “It’s a whore’s trick to prevent conception, isn’t it? I have heard of such things, but I did not think to find you engaged in such foul subterfuge!” He hurled the moss across the room.

Matilda swallowed and said nothing, waiting for him to hit her. He would beat her for this. Perhaps he would kill her, and that might not be such a bad thing. Or perhaps he really would seek annulment this time.

“Why?” he snarled, setting his hand around her throat and rolling over on top of her. “Why do you do this? To spite me?

Do you really hate me so much that you would deny me an heir? Do you think that God will forgive you for this? Who taught you these things? Your stepmother? Is that why she is barren? Is she a lying bitch too?”

“No!” Matilda gasped, choking at the constriction of his hand. “Adeliza knows nothing of this! It is of my own doing!” And yes it was in part to spite him and in the hopes of annulment, but she was not going to say so with his hand around her neck and his body shuddering over hers with incandescent rage. There was another reason too; one that made her eyes flood with tears. “I…my first son…He was…” She swallowed against his hand. “He was born deformed and I almost died in his bearing…I could not endure that again…” He removed his hand and bowed his head into the space 138

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between her shoulder and throat. She felt his body heaving against hers, and the slam of his heart against her ribs. “Your first husband was an old man,” he said after a moment. “I am not and my seed is potent, although you have been denying it ground to grow. If it is God’s will that you die in childbirth, then it is God’s will, but I will have sons of you. You will not deny me the right.”

He pushed her skirts out of the way and entered her in a swift, hard thrust. “You will bear my son,” he said.

When he had finished, Matilda lay on the bed and stared at the canopy while he panted beside her. She wasn’t sore because she had been ready, but she had taken no pleasure from the encounter. Did that mean she was safe this time? Did it mean her seed would not descend and mingle with his? Now he had found out, she was open and vulnerable. She had lost this particular battle and must prepare for the next one. If she did get with child, then she might die in the bearing, but at least it would be an honourable death, and while she was carrying, Geoffrey would not dare to touch her. The latter, at least, was an advantage.

He rolled over and sat up. “Take off your clothes,” he said, his eyes bright and predatory.

“What?” She looked at him in dismayed surprise.

He gestured to the open shutters. “It’s pouring down,” he said. “What better way for you and me to spend a wet afternoon than on the business of governance and making future policy?” ttt

Outside the lazar hospital at Fugglestone, built in close proximity to the nunnery of Wilton, Adeliza stooped to the final leper in the line and placed a loaf of bread in his bandaged hand.

The man bowed and thanked her with a crooked smile. A cloak of strong brown twill embraced his shoulders, fastened with a handsome bronze clasp. He had a new tunic, hose, and shoes, 139

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all of the queen’s bounty, and now bread to eat, and a jug of good ale awaiting him on a trestle outside the door.

Adeliza was the patron of the leper hospital attached to the nunnery at Wilton, and she had paid out of her own funds from her rents at Shrewsbury for the provision of more beds, care, and clothing for the patients suffering from the debilitating affliction. Her predecessor, King Henry’s first wife, had been wont to wash the feet of the lepers, kissing their sores and drying them with her unbound hair. Adeliza had never quite reached that level of piety. She believed it better to gift these poor souls with practical items such as clothes and food and a roof over their heads, and to pray for them to be healed.

Duty accomplished, she dined with the abbess at Wilton before retiring to the guest house. The nunnery was a peaceful spiritual retreat from the cares of the world. Henry was in the throes of an affair with a new mistress, the buxom flaxen-haired sister of Waleran de Meulan and his brother Robert, and Adeliza had chosen to look the other way and visit Fugglestone with her women while the affair ran its course. Henry would bed Isabelle de Beaumont, grow bored, and move on. He always did.

She sat down on the padded window seat and looked out at the abbey buildings. Sometimes she dreamed about wearing the veil and habit of a nun, a crucifix on her breast and an open prayer book in her hands, and at those times she felt immensely sad, but peaceful too.

As usual, William D’Albini had headed her escort on her journey to Fugglestone. She had heard him outside talking to the soldiers, and now he entered the guest hall, followed closely by his small black and white terrier dog, Serjeant. He glanced in her direction and bowed, but did not join her, and she was grateful because for the moment she was content to be solitary and she had a letter to read.

A messenger had arrived with a missive from Matilda while 140

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Adeliza was at the leper hospital. Adeliza had set the news aside until her duties were finished, because letters from Matilda were always a treat. Savouring the moment now, she broke the seal, opened the parchment, and began to read. A few moments later, she gasped softly and sat upright on the window seat, pressing one hand to her flat belly. Matilda wrote that she was with child and that it was due in the early spring. Tears filled Adeliza’s eyes.

She was joyful for her stepdaughter, but felt grief for herself and even a touch of resentment that Matilda had quickened while she remained barren. Her envy made her feel guilty and sinful.

“I am so pleased you have been blessed,” she said aloud, to try and banish the negative emotions washing over her.

“Madam, are you unwell?” asked Juliana, one of her chamber ladies. “Do you want something?”

Adeliza shook her head. “No,” she said, waving her away. “I will call if I have need.” Juliana retreated, looking concerned, but Adeliza was too preoccupied to notice. Henry would be delighted, she thought. Finally his plans would begin to move forward. She knew he was considering other candidates to succeed to the throne as month on month there had been no news from Anjou. He had made men swear to Matilda, but he had put his eggs in numerous baskets just in case his daughter proved as barren as his wife. Adeliza pressed her lips together.

She had come to Wilton to do her duty to the leper hospital and seek spiritual refreshment. Matilda’s news was joyful; she would fix on that and she would write a reply filled with love and congratulation. But still Adeliza felt sadness settle upon her, like a layer of fine, grey gauze.

ttt

Matilda closed her eyes, gripped the hands of the birth attendants, and pushed as the next contraction surged through her body. She knew the sensations because she had experienced them before in Speyer when she had laboured for two days to 141

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birth her deformed and stillborn son. She was terrified now, but not showing that fear to anyone. During her pregnancy and confinement she had read as many books and treatises concerning matters of childbirth as she could persuade physicians and churchmen to part with. She had studied the Tractatus de egritudinibus mulierum, the Liber de sinthomatibus mulierum and the De curis mulierum. She was determined to know as much detail as her physicians did, because such knowledge might aid her survival. An experienced soldier did not go into battle without armour. If she was going to bear this child and survive, she had to be as prepared as possible. On the day Geoffrey had discovered the piece of moss in the passage to her womb, she had had to adapt and change her focus. This child, if it lived, would be heir to Anjou, Normandy, and England and she had to do her best.

During the last three months, she had eaten a diet of light, digestible foods: eggs, chicken and partridge, plenty of fish. She had taken constant baths in sweet-scented water and anointed her skin with oil of violets to keep it supple. Having accepted the inevitability of her pregnancy, she had done everything within her own power to ensure that the carrying and bearing of this child went to plan. The rest was in God’s hands. She had been labouring since the early hours of the morning, and it was now a little past noon. Outside she knew Geoffrey was pacing. He kept sending a servant to find out how the birth was progressing. She knew it was not concern for her that drove his anxiety, but for the safe delivery of his heir.

Her entire lower body felt as if it were being wrung inside a giant fist. She wondered how the baby felt, being squeezed and pushed towards the moment of birth.

Geoffrey’s servant knocked again. Matilda closed her eyes and endured the contraction, pushing down with all her might, grunting and straining. Vaguely she heard the midwife’s 142

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attendant telling the man that the babe was almost born. Within the hour, if all continued well.

Matilda gave a humourless laugh. “He is afraid I will birth a girl child,” she gasped. “Before I entered my confinement he was constantly worrying at the possibility like a dog with fleas.

He says I would do such a thing just to spite him and my father because I am contrary. It would serve them both right if I bore a daughter.” She bit back a cry as the next contraction started to build. “The books say that a woman is a vessel in which the man plants his seed, so how can a woman be to blame for the sex of a child?”

“Sometimes a woman’s seed is stronger than the man’s, and then the baby is a girl,” said the senior midwife. “That is the lore.”

“In that case, all my children will be daughters!” Matilda panted.

On the next contraction the baby’s head crowned at the entrance to the birth passage and emerged, followed by slippery little shoulders and crossed arms. Matilda closed her eyes, pushed again, and felt a warm, wet slither between her parted thighs.

“A boy!” The midwife beamed from ear to ear. “Madam, you have a son, and he’s perfect.”

An infant’s thready wail filled the chamber as the woman lifted up the bawling, mucus-streaked baby for his mother to see. Matilda felt no immediate burst of maternal love, but there was satisfaction at a task accomplished and enormous relief that she had borne a living baby this time, whole of limb and wailing with lusty lungs. That was what brought a sob to her throat.

Two women cut the cord and took the infant aside to bathe him in a bowl of warm water, while two more stayed with Matilda to attend to the delivery of the afterbirth. She was so tired that it was difficult to raise the strength to expel the dark, liverish mass, but she managed. The women made 143

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her comfortable, removing the soiled bedstraw on which she had laboured, binding soft linen rags between her thighs to absorb the bleeding, and making up the bed with clean linen sheets. Matilda drank a small cup of hot wine infused with fortifying herbs and closed her eyes. She heard the soft splash of water as the women bathed the newborn in a large brass bowl, and the senior midwife cooing to him as she wrapped him in swaddling bands.

The peace of the moment was broken by a commotion at the door and Geoffrey burst into the room like a storm. “Where is the child?” he demanded. “Let me see him. Where is my son?” The midwives gasped and clucked at the unseemly intrusion, but Geoffrey ignored them and strode over to the freshly swaddled baby lying on his fire-warmed blanket. “Unwrap him,” he commanded. “Let me see that he is a boy with my own eyes.” Through her exhaustion, Matilda was filled with amused scorn and indignation. “Where would be the advantage in lying to you?” she said. “Do you really think we would say you have a son if it was a daughter?”

“I would put nothing past you,” he growled, his complexion high.

“I have laboured long to bring him into the world,” she said.

“And before that, I carried him inside my body. I am glad to have borne a boy because he will have an immediate advantage in this world. Why should I bear a girl to spite you, when I would be spiting her too because of her very sex?” Geoffrey looked at the unwrapped baby, taking in the evidence with his own eyes. He reached out a forefinger and touched his son’s soft cheek. The infant turned his head in a rooting motion that made him smile. “I own him as mine,” he said. “He is indeed a fine boy. Now we can begin to make real plans for the future. Name him Henry.” With a brief nod in Matilda’s direction, he left the room as briskly as he had arrived.

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Matilda slumped against the pillows and fought not to cry as a maid closed the door behind him. “Bring my son to me,” she said. “Let me see him.”

The midwife rewrapped the baby in his swaddling and carried him gently to Matilda. She rested him in the crook of her arm and gazed down at this child whom she had not wanted to conceive because of fear, because of anger, because her life was a battleground over which she had so little control. Now the field had changed. Her fight was for him now, and she felt as if a part of her that had been hollow and hungry for a long, long time was full and warm and satisfied. “You have done well, little one,” she whispered to him. “Henry.” Although Geoffrey had spoken as if the naming were his sole prerogative, their son could have been called nothing else, and she was content. “You will be a great king one day,” she said. “Greater even than your grandsire.”

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Seventeen

Rouen, Christmas 1133

A deliza knelt on the sheepskin rug and gently rolled a ball of coloured felt strips towards the delightful red-haired baby sitting in front of her. He laughed at her, showing four teeth in each gum, and his eyes sparkled.

With deliberation he leaned forward, picked up the ball, and bounced it back to her. She laughed in return and praised him, feeling joy and an underlying sadness and sense of failure. By marriage she was his grandmother, when, given God’s grace, this could have been her own son. She was glad for Matilda and for Henry, who doted on his grandson, but she ached to know the kick of a baby’s feet against the walls of her own womb. Henry’s recent mistress, Isabelle de Beaumont, had borne him a daughter a month ago and Adeliza tried not to think about it.

Hearing a sound from the curtained-off bed behind her, she looked round as Matilda parted the hangings. Despite having slept for several hours, her stepdaughter’s eyes were dark-circled and she still looked exhausted. She had removed her headdress in order to sleep and her long dark hair fell in two loosely plaited ropes to her waist. Adeliza sent a maid to fetch a hot tisane. “You still look tired out,” she said with concern.

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court for the Christmas feast in Rouen, bringing baby Henry with her. Geoffrey had remained in Anjou to see to his affairs.

Adeliza suspected that the separation was a relief to both parties.

Having arrived that morning, Matilda had pleaded weariness from long days on the road, and had gone to lie down, which was very unlike her.

The baby held out his arms to his mother and squealed for her attention. She picked him up and kissed his fluffy copper curls. “I am with child again,” she said.

Now that she had spoken, the slight swell of her belly was plain to see. Adeliza swallowed a sick feeling of envy. “I am so pleased for you.” She forced herself to smile. “You see I was right about marrying a younger man.” Matilda shifted Henry on to her hip and, grimacing, said nothing.

“When is the new babe due?”

“Somewhere around the feast of Pentecost.”

“In the full spring then. That is always a good time to birth a child. Will you return to Anjou?”

“Not if I can remain in Rouen.” Matilda put Henry down to play with his ball. “Geoffrey and I…” She heaved a sigh. “Let us say we will not miss each other. I have borne one son in Anjou.

It will be a good thing to birth this one in Normandy.” Adeliza continued to smile, although she could feel the strain at her mouth corners. By the time Pentecost came she would be used to this, she thought, and to the fact that, in all likelihood, she was looking at the future king of England. “You know your father intends the Norman barons to swear to you again at the Christmas feast—and to this little one.”

“Yes, he wrote to say so. That was one of the reasons Geoffrey wanted me to come to Normandy. We may not agree on many things, but in matters of policy we are as one, especially where our son is concerned.” She rolled the ball towards 147

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Henry and he picked it up in his chubby little hand, and held it like a coronation orb.

The servant returned with the tisane and Adeliza made Matilda sit down and put her feet up on a cushioned stool.

“You will be well cared for,” Adeliza said firmly. “I want to see those shadows banished from your eyes, and roses blooming in your cheeks.”

“Yes, Mother.” Matilda’s face warmed with a smile as it always did when she addressed Adeliza thus. Adeliza merely looked pained.

ttt

Henry sat at a trestle table in his chamber, eating small sweet cakes off a linen napkin. He had broken a piece off the one in his hand and given it to his grandson, who was mumbling it between his recently acquired front teeth.

“He’s a fine boy,” he said to Matilda and gave her a shrewd look. “And I hear you are with child again.”

“Yes, sire.” The news did not take long to travel, she thought. Her father had been eager to meet his grandson, and proud, but she had sensed a strange reserve in him too. As if his infant namesake were almost a threat because he was a reminder of the march of time.

“I also hear you are going to stay in Rouen for your confinement.”

She nodded. “It will give me time to renew my connec-tions with the court and to study matters of government at your side. It will be sensible also if I stay for a while after the birth, and return to Anjou in full summer when the roads are good.” She hesitated. “I need to talk to you about my dower castles too.”

Her father’s expression hardened. “This is not the time for business,” he said. “We can talk another day. For now I want to enjoy the pleasure of ordinary company and conversation.” 148

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Matilda narrowed her eyes. It was different when he wanted to discuss serious matters and others were at their leisure. She knew he was trying to slip out of a discussion on the subject, and it did not bode well. “As do I, my father,” she said, “but I cannot do so until this matter is settled. I am asking you to turn over the castles that were due to me when I married Geoffrey.

Exemes, Argentan, Domfront, and Montauban.” He fed his grandson another morsel of cake. “I know full well their names and what they are.” He gave her a warning look. “You do not need to enumerate them to me as if I am some witless old man.”

She fixed him with a steady gaze and refused to be brow-beaten. “I am glad of that, sire, but anxious too, because it makes me wonder why you are withholding them from me and my husband.”

“I withhold nothing,” he snapped. “The Angevin had good English silver for your dower and riches beyond measure in the items you brought with you to your marriage. Those castles were indeed vowed to you, but you will receive them at a time of my choosing, not yours.”

Matilda lifted her chin. “You manage to give crumbs of cake to your grandson; can you not see fit to do the same for me? If you do not honour my marriage agreement, then what else will you not honour? How can you expect men to keep their vows to me if you do not stand by your word?” His complexion darkened. “Have a care what you say to me, daughter. I will not stand for your haughty words and high-handed behaviour. You shall have those castles when I see fit and not before. You have no notion what you are asking of me. It will mean displacing people. It will mean having to make new arrangements and deal with consequences.”

“But there will be consequences too if you do not hand them over.” She scooped her son into her lap. He laughed and 149

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reached to the platter of honey cakes. Laboriously he grasped one, took a bite, and then offered his mother the rest.

Her father wiped his hands on the napkin at his side and threw it down on the table in a screwed-up heap. “I told you, this is not the time to speak of such things,” he growled as he stood up. “We will debate on a more appropriate occasion.”

“In other words you are refusing to turn over those castles to me and Geoffrey. You are reneging on your promise.”

“Daughter, I am telling you I will do so in my own time, not when you and that meddlesome husband of yours dictate.” He stalked off, shoulders back and expression pugilistic. Matilda sighed heavily. She had not expected him to agree; this was only the first bout and she had months in which to keep at him, like water wearing down rock. He had to be made to see that the situation would only degenerate if he did not deal with it.

He could not rein back time for ever.

ttt

A third time the barons knelt and swore fealty to Matilda and on this occasion to her baby son too, perched upon her knee, his coppery hair gleaming on his soft round head almost like a halo or a crown. The Madonna and child was a potent image that Matilda exploited for all it was worth. The gathering was smaller than the previous two and consisted mostly of Norman barons, although Robert of Gloucester and Brian FitzCount had arrived from England on the morning of the ceremony and had added their vows and their voices to the other oath-takers gathered in Rouen Cathedral.

“So this is England’s future king,” her brother said, chucking Henry under the chin. “You and I should become better acquainted, young man.”

“Indeed he is,” Matilda replied firmly. “He will receive a full education as befits his destiny, and learn from the men who will guide and support him. He will know the law and all he needs 150

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to protect himself and his lands. He will learn to know friend from foe, and good counsel from bad.”

“You speak fiercely, sister.” Robert said, smiling.

“Because I must,” she answered, and looked at Brian, who was gazing at Henry with a pained look in his dark eyes. “I am hoping he will learn judicious matters of exchequer from you, my lord FitzCount,” she said, adding playfully, “but I will have others teach him how to raise a tent.” Brian’s expression lightened. “I thought I succeeded rather well, given the circumstances, and I learn from my mistakes. I could give him the benefit of my experience.” Matilda’s face grew warm. “I am sure there is much of value he can learn from you,” she said.

Brian inclined his head. “Whatever you deem he needs from me, I will be honoured.” He bowed and moved away to speak with some barons he had not seen in a long time.

Robert gazed after him. “It is a pity he has no heirs of his own.

His wife is too old now to bear him sons or daughters.” He gave her a cautionary look. “Be on your guard with him, Matilda.” She stiffened. “In what way? I hope you are not suggesting…”

“No, no, of course not.” He raised his hand to stay her indignation. “He is a good friend and a powerful ally. He cares for you deeply, anyone can see that, but he is loyal to his position and he has great personal integrity—you both do. Keep within those bounds and all will be well. Give no one cause to talk of scandal—because they will if they get the opportunity.” Matilda drew herself up, prepared to be furious with him, but her thoughts were swift and by the time she exhaled she was more pensive than annoyed. “When you say ‘no one,’ do you mean anyone in particular?”

Robert moved closer and dipped his head towards her ear.

“You know I do, and they will bear watching because they will do their best to discredit your suitability to rule England.

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You must be above reproach.” He glanced at a group of nobles talking behind her. Matilda did not follow his gaze but knew he was referring to Waleran, lord of Meulan, who had supported le *o and been Brian’s prisoner at Wallingford until after le *o’s death. She also knew that the bishops of Salisbury and Winchester would have their spies here, watching her every move, whom she spoke to and for how long, and reporting back to their masters. It made her skin crawl. Brian must know this too. “They will find nothing,” she said, “because there is nothing to find, and I will not let them make filth out of service and friendship.” Robert nodded. “Good, but I had to warn you.”

“And I thank you.” She touched his sleeve. “While you are here, I need to ask a favour. I want you to talk to our father about my dower castles. He is still refusing to hand them over.

If he does not, Geoffrey is within his rights to enter Normandy and seize them. If that happens, it will start a war, and that will jeopardise my claim to England and Normandy.” Robert looked dubious. “You know how stubborn he is.”

“I am stubborn too when I know I am in the right. I have to press him now, because it will go beyond words if he does not yield, and if that happens, whatever the consequences, I will have to support Geoffrey.”

He shook his head. “I will see what I can do, but I make no promises.”

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