Lady of the English

Eighteen

Rouen, May 1134

Matilda could hear a church bell tolling. A knell? A call to prayer? The sound rang and rang inside her head until it filled all the space and there was no room left for her.

She felt as if she were drawing breath through a stifling cloth.

A shroud, perhaps, of closely woven linen. There was a deep ache in her pelvis and the tender space between her legs. The birth of her second son had been rough. Her flesh had torn as she pushed him out, and she had lost a great deal of blood while delivering the afterbirth.

The bells ceased and she felt the blessed coolness of a moist cloth across her brow. A baby’s wail filled the space where the bells had tolled, the sound fractious and insistent.

Then a woman’s comforting murmur, and moments later the sound of snuffling and sucking. Matilda forced her lids apart. She was cocooned and supported by a mass of pillows and piled feather mattresses. Beyond the bed curtains cool spring air flowed into the room from an open window and the sky was an arch of sunlit blue. A bowl of frankincense burned on the coffer at the foot of the bed. Near the hearth a woman was suckling a swaddled baby and another nurse was tending to one-year-old Henry, keeping him busy with some wooden animals.

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“Matilda?” Adeliza leaned over her. “Are you awake, my love? Do you know me?”

What a strange question to ask. Matilda licked her lips. They felt as rough and coarse as old hide. “Of course I do,” she said and coughed. Adeliza held a cup to her lips and Matilda took a drink of a bitter-tasting herbal liquid and almost gagged. “Why should I not know you?”

“You have been rambling out of your wits. You did not know me this morning. You have a fever. Drink this, it will help.” Matilda did as she was bidden and shuddered at the vile taste.

“Am I dying?” she asked. “Give me the truth.” Adeliza set the cup aside, wrung out the cloth in the cold water, and replaced it on Matilda’s brow. “The truth is I do not know. You are very sick. Everyone is praying for you. You know me now, when you did not before, and that is surely a good sign.”

Matilda stared at the bed hangings. The twists of gold embroidery seemed to writhe like snakes. She could almost see the eyes and the scales. Coiling, winding, glowing with fire. She squeezed her lids shut to blot out the sight. “Even so,” she whispered, “I must make my confession. If I should die, I wish to be buried at Bec. My father will try and insist on the cathedral, but do not let him have his way—not in this. Promise me.” Adeliza pressed her hand. “Do not speak so. God willing, you will recover.”

“Promise me,” Matilda repeated fiercely.

“Yes, I promise,” Adeliza said with obvious reluctance.

“I want to make my confession and my bequests while I am in my senses. Will you bring Father Herbert to me, and a scribe?” Adeliza kissed her and left the bedside to give instructions.

Was she dying? Matilda sought inside herself and could not tell beyond the sapping heat of the fever and the strange, vivid flashes of colour behind her lids. Was it all for nothing? Did it 154

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end here? She felt a spark of resentment. She was not ready to die, even if she had to make preparations in case.

Adeliza returned and tenderly wiped Matilda’s face and hands.

“Father Herbert and his scribe are coming,” she murmured.

“I want you to care for Geoffrey and Henry should the worst happen,” Matilda whispered. “You will love them, and make sure they become fine princes and good men.”

“Of course I will do whatever I can,” Adeliza said in a choked voice.

“Do not go all foolish and cry on me,” Matilda snapped.

“What good will that do?” She closed her eyes once more because the embroidery on the bed curtains had started to writhe and glow again.

Father Herbert arrived to hear Matilda’s confession and Adeliza chivvied everyone into the antechamber. Taking the replete baby from his wet nurse, she sat down and cradled him against her heart, feeling a great well of grief and longing.

Henry arrived from his business, stamping into the room with his usual vigour. He glanced at Adeliza cradling little Geoffrey. “I see that the infant thrives,” he remarked. “How is my daughter?” Adeliza’s chin wobbled. It was all very well for folk to tell her not to weep, but she could not help it. It did not mean she was a milksop just because tears came more easily to her than they did to others. “The priest is with her, giving her comfort and confessing her,” she said.

“Confessing her?” Henry’s gaze filled with outrage. “She cannot be as sick as all that! She has the best physicians and care.

I refuse to believe it!”

“She says she desires to be buried before the altar at Bec-Hellouin,” Adeliza said in a constricted voice. “She asked me to take care of the children.”

“Did she indeed?” Henry stood very still for a moment, and then he started to pace, tapping his hands behind his back.

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“She said you would want her buried in the cathedral.”

“Of course I want her buried there. It’s where all the dukes of Normandy have their tombs, and it befits her status. I’ll have none of this ridiculous Bec nonsense!”

“But if it is her dying wish…” Adeliza protested.

Henry swung round to her, his eyes glittering. “Are you truly so much of a fool, wife? Do you not know my daughter better than that?”

Adeliza flushed at the reproof.

“She is stubborn,” he said. “She will fight me all the way for the right to be buried at Bec. While I refuse her, she has a reason to live. If I give her what she wants now, she might succumb. Once she is on the mend, I may yield to her wishes, but by then, it will not be necessary.”

“And if she does succumb?”

His expression hardened again. “Then she will go to Rouen, because my will prevails. Do what you are best at, wife. Pray and petition God that she survives.” Adeliza bowed her head and thought that God did not always hear her prayers. She tried to obey His will and be a good wife to her husband, but sometimes it was so hard.

She decided, as she returned the baby to his nurse, that she would indeed make her petition and offer up gifts—but she would make that offering at Bec, not the cathedral, and she would ask for mercy from the Virgin Mary, a woman who knew the pain of labour and childbirth.

ttt

Matilda sat enjoying the sunshine in the garden at her father’s manor of Le Petit-Quevilly. It was two months since she had almost died giving birth to little Geoffrey and her recuperation was steady, but slow. This past week was the first time she had felt more like herself than a shadow. She had her sewing basket at her side, and had brought her penknife, quills, and parchments 156

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so that she could write some personal letters. Earlier she had been out riding for the first time in five months. Her husband had written asking when she would be returning to Anjou, the words couched as a polite, political enquiry, rather than eagerness to have her back. He had asked after his sons and her health and sent her a box of books to read and a beautiful cross on a gold chain enamelled in blue and gold. She had replied that she intended staying in Normandy for the time being to consolidate her position at the heart of the court.

Her father continued to be obdurate about her dower castles, repeating that he would yield them when he deemed the time was right and not before. He had given the custody of Dover Castle to her brother Robert, who was her loyal supporter and kin, but Matilda knew it was as much for Robert’s aggrandise-ment and power as it was for building her a strong bastion of support in England.

Her women were playing a game of hoops and skittles on the path between the beds, taking turns to throw rings made of braided straw over the necks of the wooden posts. Two little girls belonging to the women had joined in too and their giggles filled the air. Henry, a little past one year old, was watching the activity keenly. Wriggling free of his nurse, he toddled forward on his chubby little legs. The woman started after him, but Matilda called her back, because she wanted to see what Henry would do. He picked up several of the withy rings, stooping with laborious determination, and then tottered over to the skittles and carefully dropped a hoop over the top of each one, before turning round to his audience with a beaming smile. Laughing, Matilda applauded him and went to pick him up and hold him on high. “Bravo!” she cried. “See, here is the winner of the game!” And then she kissed his cheek and said softly into his neck, “That’s right, that’s how you win. You go directly to the centre of what you must do and let others strive as they may.” 157

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Nineteen

Rouen, July 1135

T hat hellspawn husband of yours has burned Beaumont to the ground and given succour at his court to barons in rebellion against me!” Henry snarled at Matilda. He shook the piece of parchment he had been reading under her nose. His voice was thick with rage. “Talvas and de Tosney. I will not have it!”

It was a hot summer evening and the shutters were open to a pale twilight woven with birdsong. Matilda had been summoned to her father’s presence shortly after a messenger had arrived bearing news that Geoffrey had been aiding and abetting Normandy’s rebellious barons. The chamber was sparse because Adeliza had been packing ready for a return to England. There were threats of a Welsh uprising that her father needed to deal with. The fact that Normandy and Anjou were suddenly bucking under him like a pair of untamed horses had turned his impatient bad temper to rage.

“I told you this would happen if you did not give me my dower castles.” She watched him pace the chamber like an angry bear. “Even now, if you handed them over, you could prevent this.”

“No man threatens me!” Henry whirled on her. “And no woman tells me how to conduct my affairs!” LadyofEnglish.indd 158

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Adeliza glanced up from supervising what was going into the travelling coffers, and bit her lip.

“I have no intention of giving up my castles to a man who plays host to my enemies in an effort to extort concessions from me,” Henry growled.

“Every other avenue appears to have failed so far,” Matilda said.

“Keep that tongue of yours behind your teeth, or by God I will lock you in a scold’s bridle, my daughter or not. Do you hear me?”

“Better than you hear me, my father,” she retorted because her blood was up. “You call my husband ‘hellspawn’ now, but when you forced me to marry him, he was a gift from God and could do no wrong. You rage as if it is my fault that this thing has happened, when surely it is all of your own doing.”

“By God, you go too far!” He seized his jewelled staff from the side of his chair and advanced on her.

Adeliza was suddenly between them. “No!” she cried.

“Please!” She dropped to her knees in front of Henry, head bowed and one hand extended in supplication. “I beg you, sire, do not!”

Matilda swallowed, feeling ashamed and sick and furious.

Her father stood with heaving shoulders, glaring at her, and then he lowered the rod. “Be thankful that your stepmother has invoked her right as a peacemaker,” he said. “She at least knows her place and her duty.”

Matilda refused to drop her gaze. “Do I have your leave to retire and think on this news?”

“You have my leave to retire and consider your position,” he said. “As my daughter, I expect you to know where your loyalties lie.”

Matilda made an abrupt curtsey and swept from the room.

Adeliza was still kneeling at Henry’s feet and Matilda was 159

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mortified. Adeliza had deflected the blow meant for her and that was something she had never intended. She wanted to shout at Adeliza and embrace her at the same time. And she wanted to take her father’s jewelled rod and break it over his head again and again.

ttt

Adeliza bounced little Henry in her lap, watching as Matilda locked her jewel casket and placed it in a larger wooden chest.

“You should not have put yourself in his path,” Matilda said crossly. “There was no need.”

Adeliza kissed Henry’s ruddy curls and, as he started to squirm, set him down. He trotted over to look in a coffer that a maid was packing. “There was every need. Things had gone far enough. Who knows where it might have ended.”

“But it was for me to deal with, not for you to intervene.”

“It is the prerogative of a queen to intervene,” Adeliza said with gentle assertion. “Would you rather he had struck you?” Matilda tightened her lips and added her cosmetic pots to the chest. Adeliza sighed. “I wish you would not part on a quarrel.”

“That is up to my father. I have stayed here for too long. It is time I returned to Anjou. If it eases your path, tell him I am leaving to be a peacemaker with my own husband.”

“And are you?”

Matilda said nothing but continued with her packing. After a moment, Adeliza rose and kissed her and left the room.

ttt

Geoffrey eyed his namesake. “He looks like you,” he said as he chucked the infant under the chin. His second son eyed him out of solemn grey eyes. His bonnet had been removed so that his father could see his hair, which was soft dark brown, sticking up in comical tufts. “Perhaps a daughter would be useful next, or even two, and then a further pair of sons to secure the inheritance.” There was a sardonic gleam in his eyes. “What do you think?” 160

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Matilda refused to be drawn. “I think you would be a fool to plan ahead in such a fashion.”

“Oh, but I do need to plan ahead, because otherwise I will not be ready when the time comes.”

“I said ‘in such a fashion,’ not that you should not plan at all.” He conceded her the point with a look of irritated amusement.

“You are going to tell me now that you almost died bearing this one and it would be too dangerous for you to have more.” She arched her brow. “If I died, it would make your situation with regard to your power beyond Anjou more awkward than it already is. You need me whole and well for the time being.”

“Indeed, and I am flattered you chose to return to me rather than stay with your father—or did he send you to make peace?”

“You do not know my father.”

“To the contrary, I know the old spider very well indeed.” His attention diverted to the nurse who was bringing Henry forward. “Last I saw he was a babe in arms, now look at him!” His expression bright with pride, Geoffrey squatted to be at eye level with his son. He was used to very small children—

Aelis’s two were in the nursery and there was not so great an age difference—but even so, this was his heir, the future Count of Anjou, and there was something about Henry that sent a pang of uncharacteristic tenderness through Geoffrey.

Matilda had carried him in her womb, but he had set the life spark inside her body and it had been against the odds that he did so, some of them stacked by her. He stood up and lifted Henry in his arms. Holding an infant was not a suitable role for a grown man of great estate, but in this instance, it showed the world that here was his acknowledged flesh and blood, destined to rule.

Henry laughed, showing his pearly milk teeth, and pointed to the design on his father’s blue tunic. “Lion,” he said loudly.

“My lion.”

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Geoffrey looked quizzically at Matilda. “‘My lion’? Who has been teaching him that?”

Matilda flushed. “I tell him he is my little lion. He has a wooden one for a toy and a cushion with a big golden one embroidered on it. One day he will be a king. Why should he not acknowledge the symbols of kingship?”

“Oh, I agree,” Geoffrey said. “We must foster that in him.

Next teach him ‘crown.’”

“He already knows that one.”

“Crown,” Henry said in validation of her remark, and pointed at Geoffrey’s cap with its band of gold braid. “Lion.

Crown. Mama.”

Geoffrey chuckled and shook his head. “Indeed, I can see you have been teaching him well, but I must train him further.

I suppose you have not taught him to say ‘Papa’ in any of this.”

“I am sure he will learn swiftly enough,” she replied, concealing a pang of jealousy because Geoffrey was so at ease holding their son.

“Papa.” Henry bounced in Geoffrey’s arms, and stared round with alert, bright eyes.

Geoffrey laughed. “You are right again,” he said to her.

“Usually I would hold that against you, but not today.” ttt

“Well then,” Geoffrey said later when the children had been taken away to the nursery and Matilda was settling into her chamber while the servants unpacked her baggage. “It seems no matter what we do, your father has no intention of handing over your dower castles.” He sat down near the hearth and stretched his legs towards the fire. “Neither war nor diplomacy will shift his stance.”

“He will not relinquish one iota of his power while he lives.

He will play factions off against each other and keep us all like flies trapped on his web. I tried all ways to persuade him and he 162

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would have none of it. Every time I raised the discussion he said it wasn’t the time, or he found other business.” She frowned at him. “And then you went and burned Beaumont to the ground and aided Talvas and de Tosney to rebel.”

“I was reminding him how much trouble I could give him.

Normandy is not the stable ground your father would have us believe and we are not the only ones chafing under his hand.

I refuse to be played for a fool. Your father may be a spider, but he cannot spin webs from beyond the grave. What if your barons renege when he dies? He is hoping he will live long enough to see his grandsons into manhood, but is that likely?

We need those castles. We need that foothold.” Matilda made an impatient gesture. “So what are we to do?

It is a dangerous game to stir up a wasp’s nest. My father was going to sail for England, but he has deferred that business now to deal with Normandy.”

“I know what I am doing,” Geoffrey said with irritation.

“This strife will act as a warning to your father and perturb him sufficiently to capitulate and give us our castles.”

“I doubt you will win,” she replied, thinking that he did not know her father very well at all.

He sent her a calculating glance. “I pity your lack of faith.

Your father has spent a lifetime building up his kingdom, but buildings crumble and new ones have to be erected in their stead. I may not match him yet in terms of experience and guile, but I am younger and stronger, and I have the time that is running out for him. I know he does not intend me to wear a crown—in truth, I do not much care to wear one either. You are welcome to it. But Normandy is a different matter and, sooner or later, I always get what I want.”

“Normandy is as much mine by right of inheritance as England,” Matilda said, tensing her body. She hated his arrogance.

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“Yes, but when you are queen and duchess and countess, how can you be everywhere at once? It stands to sense that I should be your deputy in this—and surely you do not want me in England.”

“No.” She almost shuddered.

He came to her and began to remove her garments, his touch as delicate as a woman’s. “Give me free rein in Normandy until our sons are of age,” he said, his voice persuasive and smoky with desire. “And I will gain our castles and deal with your father and prove my worth to you.”

“And what worth would that be?” She felt the familiar coils of reluctance and craving snake through her body. “First you ask for castles, and now you seek a duchy.”

“Is it wrong to be ambitious? Do you not desire a kingdom?” He cupped her breast and rubbed it through her chemise, stroking his thumb across her nipple until her flesh stiffened and she gasped.

“It is my duty,” she said.

“Ah yes, duty.” He drew her to the bed. “But duty and desire can sometimes be bedmates, no? I will show you what I am worth.”

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Twenty

Winchester, Hampshire, October 1135

H enry of Blois, abbot of Glastonbury, bishop of Winchester, picked up the large ruby sitting on the trestle and held it up to the light for a moment, before handing it to his visitor, Roger, bishop of Salisbury. Outside a chill autumn rain was steadily falling, but here in Henry’s private chamber, a warm fire and hot spiced wine were keeping the cold and damp nicely at bay.

Salisbury examined the gem with an acquisitive eye. “How much is this worth?”

Henry shrugged. “It depends on the value the owner sets upon it, and what its function is going to be. Perhaps it might decorate a cup, or embellish a reliquary.” He studied his folded hands for a moment. “Perhaps it might be used as the centrepiece for a new crown.” He fixed Salisbury with a knowing stare. “I leave you to do as you will with it. I need not know the fine details.”

Salisbury drew his purse from beneath his robes and dropped the jewel inside. “Of course not, my lord,” he said, returning the look. “But you will want to be told the outcome in due course.”

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visiting the pope. “Of course,” he said. “I will be waiting in Winchester to hear.”

“And your brother?”

“Stephen is close by Wissant. He knows to ride the moment he receives a messenger from the court. Martel will make sure to inform him. Everyone of consequence knows their place and what to do.”

Salisbury nodded. “But Stephen has no notion?” Henry snorted. “Stephen’s conscience is tender. He wants the meat without seeing the blood, so I have spared him that.

Do not worry. I can deal with him—and Theo.” Salisbury pursed his lips. “It still never does to underestimate anyone.”

“I don’t,” Henry replied.

He saw his visitor on his way. Walking past the rain-drenched gardens, Salisbury paused to study the marble statue of a man clad in sweeping layers of fabric and a muscled breastplate. He was posed with one arm raised in mid oratory and his bare gaze was fixed on the horizon.

“Julius Caesar,” Henry said.

“Some might cavil at your pleasure in decorating your home with pagan images,” Salisbury remarked, brows drawn together.

Henry thought that the old man was probably secretly admiring his statues and plotting how he could obtain a few himself for either the palace at Salisbury, or his castle at Devizes.

Certainly if his mistress knew, she would want one, the acquisitive bitch. “Indeed, some might, but I pay them no heed. There are always those who complain at the slightest opportunity, as well you know. I bought these in Rome, the city of the pope, where people have them in their homes and gardens as a matter of course. Rome once had a great and powerful culture and these statues spur me on to the service of England. Julius Caesar might not have been a Christian, but he was an emperor.” 166

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Salisbury grimaced. “So you gain inspiration from him?”

“I do, my lord, but of course never as much as the Church.

My greatest duty is to God on high.”

“Indeed,” Salisbury said and walked ponderously into the courtyard, where an attendant had brought his horse.

“Who knows, perhaps one day we will see you installed at Canterbury.” He heaved himself into the saddle with the aid of a mounting block and a boost up from an attendant. “I will set this business in motion immediately.” He placed his hand lightly over his belt area where the ruby nestled in its pouch.

Henry nodded and felt a churning sensation in his own belt area that was part excitement and part tension. The deed was set in motion. There was no going back now. He retraced his steps and considered his prized statue of Caesar. Its purchase and transportation had cost him the best part of a hundred marks, but it had been worth it because in England it was a rarity, often remarked upon by envious visitors, and to him a symbol of ruling power.

Henry continued back to his chamber and knelt at his small, personal devotional. Gazing upon the crucified Christ he lit a candle and prostrated himself. Sometimes for the greater good, a king had to die.

ttt

“Here,” said Adeliza. “I made this for you.” She held out to Henry the hood she had been sewing for him to wear when next he went hunting. “Will you try it and see how it fits?” She saw his impatient expression and felt cold. Of late it was so difficult to reach him. He was preoccupied with the business of government. His visits to her chamber had grown even less frequent and when they dined together with the court, he was brusque and distant. He seemed to have decided that since he could not beget a child on her, there was no point in bothering.

Something must have shown in her face because he checked 167

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himself and grimaced. “It is finely made,” he said, “and sure to keep my head warm if there’s a cold frost.” He tugged the hood on and allowed her to arrange the lower part around his shoulders, but she could feel his tension. He was eager to be away to his hunting and political meetings at his lodge at Lyons-la-Forêt. Women, other than court concubines and laundry maids, were not part of the arrangement.

In the antechamber a squire dropped a couple of boar spears with a loud clatter and was reprimanded by a chamberlain.

Henry removed the hood and directed another servant to pack it in his baggage.

“You should begin preparing your own things,” he said.

“I want to be in England by Christmas if the weather holds fair and I can finish sorting out the difficulties that wretched daughter of mine and her husband are causing me.” His expression soured for a moment.

“I hope you can,” Adeliza said in a heartfelt voice. “I wish you good hunting, and good resolutions.” She curtseyed to him.

“If there is not good hunting at Lyons, then I will replace my gamekeepers,” he growled. “And as to the resolutions…

one way or another, I will determine the matter.” He kissed her and patted her cheek. “Put on your ermine and come and speed us on our way.”

As he strode from the room shouting to his attendants, Adeliza bade her women fetch her cloak. She was in a pensive mood. The continuing rebellion in south Normandy was a serious thorn in Henry’s plans and his temper was vile. Matilda and Geoffrey showed no sign of backing down, nor did Adeliza believe they would. Those four castles had become a solid barrier across the road to progress.

Wrapped in sleek, soft ermine, she left the warmth of her hearth for the bleak chill of the November morning. This was always a difficult time for Henry, marking as it did the 168

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anniversary when his legitimate son and heir and many of his other offspring by various mistresses had died on the crossing from Normandy to England. Henry had said little in public, but she knew how long he had spent on his knees in prayer and how much he was fretting about not being at Reading for the anniversary mass. His chaplain had told her that the king had been suffering from bad dreams too, in which he was murdered by a conspiracy of knights, bishops, and ordinary servants.

The yard teemed with men, horses, and dogs. Slender gazehounds with broad leather collars, snappy terriers stiff-bodied and belligerent, loose-jowelled slot hounds with floppy ears, eager bratchets straining at their leashes, and all the dogs making a terrible din. Henry reached for his bridle, set his foot in the stirrup, and gained the saddle with ease. Seeing him laughing and joking with his courtiers, still hard, still tough, it was difficult to believe he was almost seventy years old.

Walking around the periphery of the throng to avoid muddying her shoes, she noticed a group of men talking together as they waited for their grooms. Something about the way they were hunched towards each other set her on edge, but she did not know why. There was Hugh Bigod, lord of Framlingham: a short man as snappy and belligerent as the terrier dogs causing fights in the yard. She did not trust him and she knew Henry kept a close watch on his doings. With him were William Martel, one of Henry’s stewards, and also Waleran de Meulan. The latter was cocking his head to listen to what they had to say, which was unusual, because although he was of their affinity, his tastes were generally more refined and intellectual. She caught Martel’s eye. He bowed to her and as she inclined her head in return, the others turned, made their obeisance, and dispersed across the yard. Her feeling of unease increased, although it was nothing she could name.

ttt

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Adeliza spent the next few days packing her baggage for a sea crossing to England and hoped it would come about this time.

She had suggested to Henry before he set out for his week’s hunting that perhaps he should hand over just one of the disputed dower castles as a token, and he had grumbled that he required no advice from her about how to rule his dominions.

However, later, she had heard him voicing the same thing to his eldest son, Robert, and of course, by then, it was Henry’s idea. Naturally he expected concessions in return and peace from Geoffrey, but at least it was a step forward. Now, if only Matilda and Geoffrey would accept the olive branch and cease pressing Henry so hard, perhaps they might have peace to celebrate Christ’s mass, in England.

She sat down in the window embrasure to compose a letter to Matilda, counselling her to be tactful and conciliatory with her father. She enquired after little Henry and Geoffrey too.

She had embroidered smocks for both infants, picking away at the tiny stitches when the light was good enough at midday.

But sewing gowns for another woman’s children was a labour of love that left her hollow with yearning.

She was dipping her quill in the ink when she happened to glance up and, through the open window, saw a horseman galloping through the gateway and dismounting almost before his horse had stopped. She recognised his broad figure as he strode towards the manor and wondered what brought William D’Albini to her in such haste. Her heart began to thump and, calling to Juliana, she abandoned her letters and hurried to the hall.

He stood by the fire, clutching his hat in his hands and rotating it by its brim as he might count prayer beads in church.

His tangled dark curls had obviously not seen a comb in a while and his garments were heavily mud-spattered. The expression in his large hazel eyes filled her with alarm.

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“Madam,” he said as he saw her, and fell to his knees.

She gestured him to rise and bade a servant bring him wine.

“Your news can wait until you have wet your throat,” she said, and was proud of her control. Whatever it was, she knew her life was about to change.

She watched him take the proffered cup in his large right hand, raise it to his lips, and drink thirstily.

“Thank you, madam.” He returned the cup to the servant and hesitated, glancing around. “Perhaps this is for your ears alone for the moment.”

She waved the man out of earshot; Juliana too. “What is it?”

“Madam, you should prepare yourself for grave news. The king was stricken with sickness and fever five nights since. We thought it was but the result of dining too heavily, but he worsened, and this morning he joined his Holy Father in heaven. I offered to bear the tidings here, although I regret with all my heart that I should cause you grief.” Adeliza stared at him, disbelieving. His words seemed to have stopped her own breath. She opened her mouth to question and deny, but no sound emerged. The edges of her vision darkened and she swayed.

“Madam!” She heard his exclamation and felt the strength of his arms as he caught her. He shouted for help and supported her to the bench by the fire while Juliana hastened to attend her. Adeliza knew she was breathing again, for the vile taint of burning feathers assaulted her nose. She tried to sip from a cup of hot, honey-sweetened wine that someone placed in her hands, but her jaw was chattering too much. This would not do, she told herself. This just would not do.

“I have sent for your chaplain, madam,” Will said.

She nodded, feeling nauseated. “Tell me again. I cannot believe it is true. He was taken sick, you say.”

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dined well…we all had, especially my lord. It was lampreys, his favourite dish. He must have eaten a bad one, because he sickened in the night with purging and a fever. His physician said that lampreys had never agreed with him…”

“They used to make him belch,” Adeliza said in a distant voice. “But he was never ill beyond indigestion.”

“His condition worsened and it became clear that his life was in the hands of God, who chose to take him to His bosom.

There was nothing anyone could do.” Adeliza’s gorge rose. Clapping her hand to her mouth, she excused herself and was violently sick down the waste shaft of the latrine chute built into the thickness of the wall.

“Madam, are you all right?” She felt Juliana’s arm slip around her waist.

Adeliza nodded. “No more feathers,” she said, swallowing hard. Henry was dead and it was as if something had been ripped out of her. “I wasn’t there to comfort him. He died and I wasn’t there.”

“Madam…”

She shook her head at Juliana and, having smoothed her dress and rinsed her mouth with wine, returned to the hall.

William D’Albini was sitting on the hearth bench with his back to her and she saw him rake one of his hands distractedly through his tousled curls. There was more she needed to know, but not here. “Bring him to my chamber,” she said to Juliana.

“I will speak with him privately.”

ttt

Adeliza sat down in the window embrasure where the daylight was still bleak and clear, and folded her hands in her lap beneath the thick fur covering of the ermine cloak. Will D’Albini was ushered into the room and hesitated near the door. Then he cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and came to kneel to her, his manner one of dogged resolution.

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She bade him rise and take the seat on the other side of the embrasure.

“I am sorry for your distress, madam.”

“I should have been there,” she said.

“There is nothing you could have done, and he had the best of care. He expressed his wish to be buried at Reading, and the earls present swore to escort his body there and remain together until they had discharged their duty to him. They are bringing him to Rouen first.”

“Has a messenger been sent to the Countess of Anjou?”

“As far as I know, madam.” He looked towards the window, his shoulders tense, then turned back to her. “Madam…the king did not name his daughter the Countess of Anjou as his successor.”

Adeliza stared at him in astonished dismay. “Then whom did he name?”

“I do not know, madam. All Hugh Bigod said was that he heard the king absolve his lords of the oaths they had taken to uphold the countess and her son.”

“Hugh Bigod?” Adeliza quivered. “Why would the king say such a thing to him? He is just a courtier, not a close confidant.

If my husband was going to make such a change, even in extremity, he would do it through a priest and with witnesses such as the Earl of Gloucester to hear him.” Will’s colour heightened. “Different people took it in turns to keep watch over the king. He said openly in council that the Count and Countess of Anjou had vexed him greatly and he was rethinking his plans for the future.”

“But he did not say what these plans were?” Will shook his head. “Many desired assurances that the Count of Anjou would have no part in ruling Normandy and England, and I believe he was trying to placate them. I do not know what his will was in this.”

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Adeliza gnawed her lower lip. She was not sure that anyone had known Henry’s mind except Henry himself. She felt as if she were falling down a deep, black hole. “So what is to happen now? Who is to take the reins?”

“I do not know, madam. When I rode out, a council was gathering to discuss what to do and how much store to set by the word of Hugh Bigod.”

Adeliza swallowed. Hugh Bigod would sell his own mother; everyone knew that. The decision for men would be whether to go with his word and be absolved of the oaths sworn to Matilda and little Henry, or stay true to what they had vowed.

But if her husband had not named a successor on his deathbed, then the aftermath would be like a host of kites circling and descending to feed on a kill. “You heard and saw nothing?” He looked uneasy, but held her gaze. “Madam, I did not…

but as I was leaving, I saw William Martel preparing to ride, and I do not think he was going to Anjou. More than that, I cannot tell you.”

In her mind’s eye, Adeliza could see William Martel on a galloping horse. He would go to Boulogne, she thought. To his great friend and lord, Stephen of Blois, Count of Mortain.

Where else would he ride in such haste? She must write to Matilda and warn her. But what if Henry truly had cut his daughter out of his plans and Hugh Bigod was telling the truth?

Dear God, already they were a rudderless ship.

Her stomach was churning. She would never hold Henry’s child in her lap. She would never sit in state beside him again.

She was a widow, a queen without a king, bereft of her throne.

In one fell swoop that part of her life was over. She wanted to hide in a dark corner and nurse her grief, and knew she could not. There were things that needed to be done for Henry. A fitting funeral. Prayers for his soul. And surely her role of peace-weaver was more necessary than ever, even if other functions 174

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had abruptly ceased. She must take this one step at a time. “I thank you for bringing this news to me so swiftly,” she said.

“Please, take your ease and ask my stewards for anything you need, but you will excuse me. I have matters to attend to and letters to write, and my mourning to consider.”

“Of course.” He rose and bowed. “If I can help, you have only to say…”

“Thank you,” she said, knowing that there was nothing anyone could do.

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Twenty-one

Le Mans, December 1135

M atilda closed her eyes and enjoyed the sensation of warm, scented water lapping around her feet and ankles as she took a footbath. She was briefly relaxing in her chamber after a long day working on various religious grants and charters but there was more still to do. Geoffrey wanted to talk to her about Normandy, where he continued to support the rebellion against her father, although of late he had distanced himself.

They had heard a rumour last week that her father might hand over one of the dower castles, but Matilda would only believe it when the keys of the keep were actually in her hand.

Emma combed Matilda’s long, dark hair, intermittently dipping the tines in a solution of nutmeg and rose water, filling the air with a marvellous perfume. In the background, Henry was chattering to his nurse. His vocabulary was prodigious for his years and already he had a fierce intelligence and a temper to match. The screaming tantrums when he was not allowed his own way were devastating. There was no placating him; he just had to be allowed to thrash them out, and then he would sleep, exhausted. The physicians opined that it might be caused by his beacon-red hair, which was a sign of an imbalance of his humours, but there was nothing to be done about that. He was what he was. In between tantrums, he had a vast, sunny nature LadyofEnglish.indd 176

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and an enquiring mind that absorbed information at a gargan-tuan rate. He was sturdy and robust with his royal grandfather’s build and stamina, and copious amounts of energy. Matilda foresaw that when the time came for his lessons it would take stern use of the rod to keep him in his seat. His baby brother was somewhat more placid, although since learning to walk had to be constantly watched. Her monthly time was overdue, but it was too soon to be certain of a third pregnancy. She hoped not, but suspected that hope was going to be thwarted. Her breasts were sore and the taste of mead made her feel nauseous.

There was a sudden commotion at the chamber door, and her young half-brother Reynald burst into the room.

Matilda sat up so rapidly in alarm that she sent the perfume bowl flying off the maid’s knees, splattering the aromatic contents far and wide.

Reynald was mired from travelling the winter roads and red-cheeked from the abrasion of the wind. She rose to face him, her hair unbound and tumbling down her back. She was only wearing a chemise and swiftly picked up her cloak to cover herself. “What is it?” she demanded. The last time she had seen him had been in Rouen, living in comfort as a hearth knight in her brother Robert’s retinue, and for him to be here now meant something terrible must have happened.

Beneath the windburn, Reginald’s complexion was grey with exhaustion as he knelt to her. “Sister, I am sorry to bear grave news, but our father is dead of a sudden sickness while at his hunting lodge.” He twisted a ring from the middle finger of his left hand and held it out to her.

Matilda stared at the great blue sapphire that was one of her father’s favourite jewels. She felt her breath stop and then start again, stop and start. Her legs buckled and her women reached for her, but she forced herself upright again, shaking them off; refusing wine; refusing to sit down. “Tell me,” she said.

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Reynald relayed what he knew, which was not a great deal because, although he was Henry’s son, he had been on the periphery of what was happening, but it was enough for her to know that her father was dead and traitors were claiming he had absolved them of their oaths to her and her son as he died. Yet more damning was the fact that it was Reynald who brought the news and not an entourage intent on offering her the crown of England and the duchy of Normandy. While it might yet happen, the omens did not bode well. All she had was her father’s ring, and that was a frippery.

“Why did no one send to me when he first fell sick?” she demanded.

Reynald shook his head. “At first we thought he might rally…and then—well, I do not know.” He lowered his gaze and looked shame-faced.

“I do,” she said with angry contempt. Amid a gathering of men all fighting for position, the rights of a woman in Anjou and an infant prince must seem small and distant—a godsend when other agendas were at work. Turning away from Reynald, she paced the room, trying to think, but her mind was a labyrinth leading to dead ends.

“There is more,” Reynald said unhappily. “William Martel left the court on a fast horse within an hour of our father’s dying.”

Matilda stopped pacing. For a moment her mind went blank as even the labyrinth ceased to exist. She felt the hard gold pressure of the ring inside her palm.

“Sister?” Reynald cleared his throat.

Awareness returned like the sun bursting out from behind a cloud, flooding everything with harsh clarity. “Where is Stephen?” she demanded, and knew the answer already. From the port of Wissant in Boulogne, it was only a short sea crossing to England.

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Reynald said diffidently, “Martel might have been taking the news to Count Theobald.”

Matilda threw him an exasperated look. “Is it likely? Let me ask you another question. Where is the bishop of Winchester?

Where is the bishop of Salisbury? Where is our father’s treasury?” Her half-brother swallowed. “Surely not.”

“‘Surely’?” Matilda scoffed. “I can think of nothing more likely.” Her first impulse was to pack her baggage and ride straight for Rouen, but she knew it was important to think matters through. If Stephen had preempted everyone and made a grab for England, then she had to work from a firm foundation. She had to organise and prepare. She had to know who her allies were and what support she had. “First I must find out what has happened,” she said. “And secure what I can. If Stephen has made a bid for England, then it leaves Normandy open, does it not?” Turning, she went to Henry and picked him up. “My son is the true heir to England and Normandy, sworn three times before God, and his right comes through me. My father would not disinherit his own grandson. I will let no one take my son’s right away—no one.” She sent Reynald a fierce look.

“No one!” Henry repeated in a loud shout.

Reynald took a step forward and knelt at her feet. “You have my allegiance,” he said.

She set her free hand on his shoulder. “I will make you an earl when I am queen. This I swear to you, but I have a boon to ask of you now.”

“Name it and it is yours,” he replied, his expression fierce with eagerness, chagrin, and youth.

“I need you to go back to Rouen,” she said, and then she told him why.

ttt

Geoffrey sat Henry on his knee and bounced him up and down.

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“We have to take Domfront, Montauban, Exemes, and Argentan now, and swiftly,” Geoffrey said. “We dare not delay.” Matilda felt light-headed with exhaustion, but she couldn’t lie down or rest. There were still letters to write, allies to muster, lists to tally, strategies to devise, and baggage to pack.

Reynald had already left on his errand, taking the swiftest courser in the stables. “I agree,” she said, “but what if they refuse to open their gates?”

Geoffrey paused to bounce Henry again and make him laugh, then he said, “They will acknowledge you because they are too close to the borders of Anjou and they do not want a hostile army under their walls. You have your father’s ring, and if we move swiftly, there will be no time for our enemies to send a countermand to the constables. Warrin Algason has overall responsibility for those castles and he is predisposed towards us anyway.”

She made herself concentrate. Geoffrey was speaking sense.

There were times when she hated him with every fibre of her being, but he had become an astute battle commander and skilful strategist. He had been as dismayed as she was about what had happened at her father’s deathbed, but he had not been surprised. “The house of Blois was always going to have plans,” he said. “And so will others. There will be more schemes abounding just now than lumps of gristle in siege-time soup.”

“My father would not absolve men of an oath he had made them swear three times,” she said, her eyes dark with anger.

“It does not alter the fact that the lords of Normandy and England are prepared to go along with the lie for the moment.”

“Henry and I have to go to Argentan alone.” He arched one tawny eyebrow.

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me. That is the best policy.” She steeled herself to argue, but Geoffrey merely looked thoughtful.

“You are right,” he said. “And there is no point us being together when split up we can do more. You take the homage of Argentan, Montauban, Domfront, and Exemes. I will ride as far as Alençon with you, then go on to Mayenne and enlist the support of the lord Juhel, and join you later.” He fixed her with a clear blue-green stare. “Our differences often run deep and wide, but we have a common purpose in this that binds us beyond our quarrels. If our son is to have Normandy and England when he is a grown man, it is up to us to obtain it for him.”

She gave him a hard look. “They will be mine, first.” Geoffrey’s expression filled with exasperated amusement. “As you will, but you have to win them, and you cannot do that without my help. If you are to rule England and Normandy, you will need an able deputy and, whether you like it or not, you will have to delegate. Normandy does not come with a crown, but it is the key to unlock everything else.” He gestured to the bench at his side. “Christ, sit down before you fall down, woman. There is nothing more you can do until the morning.” She remained upright. “Yes there is,” she said. “I must pray for my father’s soul.”

Geoffrey curled his lip. “Your father’s soul may need all the prayers it can garner, but you will be no use to yourself or anyone else if you do not take some respite.” She did not answer him, but left the room and made her way to the chapel. Geoffrey was right, but she was stubborn and this was her duty. The December night was cold and she shivered as she prostrated herself before the altar. The only source of heat in the chapel was from the candles burning on the altar and in the devotional sconces and her breath rose in white vapour.

Gold shimmered in the reflection of the flames from the 181

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jewelled cross on the altar and the enamelled triptych depicting the Virgin and Child enthroned. The tiles of the chapel floor were cold under her knees. Her stomach was queasy because she had not eaten all day. “Why?” she asked. “Why, my father?

Did you truly absolve men of their oaths? Did you ever intend me to be queen, or was it all just another game to keep us on a leash?” She remembered him dandling Henry on his knee, smiling fondly, calling him a fine little king, but with that look in his eyes that said no one was a king but himself. Now he was no longer a king in the living world, just a naked soul in the afterlife. The grip had left the reins, and those who would ride would have to fight tooth and nail to mount the horse and stay in the saddle. Her heart ached, her chest was tight, but she did not give in to tears, because tears were a sign of weakness and she had to put aside all such chinks in her armour. She had a kingdom and a duchy to claim. Arms outspread, body prostrate, she prayed to God and His Holy Mother to give her the strength to carry this thing forward and see it through to the end.

ttt

By the time the walls of Argentan came into view, Matilda was wilting in the saddle. Ten days ago, she had thought she might be with child again. Now she was certain, because the sickness was fully upon her and a deep, weary exhaustion. She could not afford to be ill with this pregnancy. She had to secure southern Normandy and show she was a force to be reckoned with, because if they dismissed her, they dismissed Henry too, and all her future lineage.

Geoffrey had escorted her as far as Alençon, and then ridden eastwards to secure the support of Juhel de Mayenne, first giving her a strong escort of heavily armed knights and serjeants. However, she had met with neither resistance nor hostility. Travellers she had encountered were wary and deferential. The peasants had kept 182

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their distance. Lords of estates and small castles had come to pay their respects and homage, which was encouraging.

As she approached the town walls, she banished a thread of trepidation and straightened her spine. Argentan was hers by right. She came not as a supplicant, but as its sovereign lady.

Word must have gone ahead, for the gates stood wide and an entourage of knights bearing banners came trotting out to greet her two by two. At their head rode the marshal, Warrin Algason, a dour-faced man of middle years as solid as his strong dappled horse. “Domina, I bid you welcome.” Dismounting, Algason knelt to her, his knights following in a jingle of mail and weaponry. Held out across the palms of his hands were the castle keys.

Matilda bade him rise and come to her, and then stooped to give him the kiss of peace and accept the keys from him.

“What news?”

Algason shook his head. “There is no word from Rouen, domina, beyond that of your lord father’s death.” She said nothing, preferring to wait until she had been escorted to the fortress and shown to a well-appointed private chamber. Her women fetched warm water so that she could wash her hands and face and Algason had wine and pastries brought. “You should know, domina, that your lord father left instructions that in the event of his death, I was to hand over your dower castles.”

“A pity that he set such terms when he could have done it in life,” she replied tartly, but felt vindicated that her father had given his border marshal such an instruction, because it meant he had still intended the crown to be hers.

Algason looked uncomfortable. “It was my duty to obey him, as now I obey you.”

“And if he had ordered you to close the gates against me, would you have done so?”

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“I am a simple man, domina. I follow my orders and I remain loyal to my liege. My life is yours now.” She reassessed him with a tactical eye. He said he was simple, and perhaps in certain ways he was, but that did not mean unintelligent. He was a marshal and that meant he was an astute and accomplished soldier, well able to cover many tasks at once.

She believed him when he said he would remain loyal.

The weariness she had been holding at bay seeped over her now that she was safe and her dower castles claimed. She could do nothing else until she knew more. Just watch and wait, prepare and rest, so that when the moment did arrive, she was ready.

ttt

Two days later her brother Reynald arrived at Argentan, his horse stumbling with exhaustion. Concealed under a blanket on the crupper were two decorated leather cases, and although his face was smudged with weariness, he was triumphant.

“I thought I was too late,” he told her as he brought the items to her chamber. “They were gone from the abbey treasury when I arrived in Rouen, but Queen Adeliza had them safe in her keeping and she was glad to give them to me. She said you and your son were the rightful owners, no matter what was decided, and that no one else should have them.” He made a face. “She gave them to me in her private chamber and bade me leave straight away. I had to hasten from the city as the gates were closing for the night, but the queen gave me a letter of safe conduct with the old king’s counterseal and the guards accepted it. I rode all night, changed horses, and rode again all day to get myself clear.”

Matilda ran her hands over the polished, embossed leather of the casings. “You have done well,” she said. “I was unsure if you would succeed.” She swallowed a knot of emotion. “I am grateful to Adeliza. It can have been no easy task to obtain these from the treasury in the first place, and there will be repercussions…” 184

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“She has sent you letters,” Reynald said. “I have them in my satchel.” He gave her an eloquent look. “They are going to offer England and Normandy to Theobald of Blois. They were talking about it in Rouen as if they had already decided.”

“They?” Matilda raised her brows.

Reynald dropped his gaze. “The archbishop of Rouen, the Earl of Leicester, Waleran de Meulan, and…our brother Robert.” The words were like a blow to her solar plexus. “Not Robert,” she said.

“I do not believe he had much choice,” Reynald looked miserable. Matilda felt sick. Not for the first time she wished she could crush to dust these men who thought her a lesser being. Even her own brother, her supposed backbone, was prepared to turn away from her.

She unfastened the straps on the nearest leather casing. Inside lay the hinged panels of the imperial crown she had brought back from Germany. As Matilda touched the great ruby set in the front section, Warrin Algason arrived, his chest heaving from his run up the turret stairs. “Domina, sire!” He sketched a swift bow. “I have news. Stephen, Count of Mortain, has claimed the throne of England and been handed the treasury by the bishop of Winchester.”

Matilda felt the initial jolt of the words, but the impact was not colossal because she had braced herself to receive just such tidings. Ever since the death of le *o, Stephen had been her closest rival for the throne, and the faction that gathered around him had long been ready to pounce. While she had been playing a waiting game and arguing over these castles, they too had been biding their time, but closer to the hub of the wheel, and so secretively organised that even Theobald, head of the Blois family, had been kept in ignorance. Having assembled the crown, she held it between her hands as she had done in Germany. “So,” she said, “I am brought a diadem, but no country.” 185

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“If we muster swiftly and ride north, we can nip this thing in the bud.” Reynald’s young voice cracked with eagerness.

Matilda shook her head. “It is too late for that. If Stephen has indeed claimed the throne and has access to the treasury, he is already too strong.” Distaste entered her expression. “He will buy men and goodwill with my father’s wealth, but when it is all squandered, they will abandon him.” She stood the crown on top of the case. “What we must do is bide our time and make ready.”

When Reynald had gone, she summoned her scribe and while he prepared his inks and parchment she showed Henry the imperial crown and the one from the second case of filigree and gold flowers. “One day these will be yours as king of England and Duke of Normandy. This I swear to you, my son.” The vow was a lifeline to hope, but it was one thing to swear an oath, another to bring it to fruition. She had found the first strand of grey in her hair last night as she combed it and wondered how many more there would be before she was an anointed queen.

ttt

It was very late when Matilda eventually retired. Her new pregnancy was making her nauseous, and her eyes were sore because she had been awake for too long, and had held back too many tears. She was exhausted but too keyed up to sleep.

She had drafted letters to allies and vassals, to the pope, to her uncle King David…to Brian. The wording would need to be considered and altered, but they were begun. Now, propped against a pile of pillows and bolsters, she opened the letter Adeliza had enclosed with the crowns.

The message was in Adeliza’s own hand, and although she used the formal language of the queen of England, there were clear indications of the suffering woman beneath. Matilda had been unable to cry for herself or for her father, but now the dry 186

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burning of her eyes became a flood of scalding tears and she had to set the letter aside as drops fell upon the ink and smudged the words.

By the grace of God and because it was the right thing to do, Adeliza was sending her these crowns. She wrote of her grief at Henry’s death and wished she could have been a better wife in the time allotted. She wrote that for the sake of Henry’s soul and her own, she intended to go to Wilton and live there in retirement, perhaps eventually to take vows.

“He did not deserve you,” Matilda said, wiping her eyes on the heel of her hand. “Why do you not see your own worth?” She was angry with Adeliza for choosing the path of retreat and contemplation, because it was not an option open to herself, even had she desired it, and she was furious with her father.

And grieving, too, because now she would never be able to tell him what she thought, or show him that she was more capable of ruling than any son he had begotten.

She picked the letter up again and looked at the smeared writing that moments ago had been so delicate and clear.

Adeliza would hate to see it in this state. Matilda folded the parchment and set it on her bedside coffer. Her stepmother might retire to a nunnery, but she was still a dowager queen.

She was still young, and grief was not everything. Grief was just the moment before you tied off the thread and began the next one. That was when you made your choice about what you were going to sew next.

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