Lady of the English

Thirty-eight

Lincoln, February 1141

W ill stood amid the throng of Stephen’s barons in the nave of Lincoln Cathedral where they had all gathered to celebrate the Feast of the Purification of the Virgin Mary. It was so cold that his breath emerged as white vapour. The only difference between here and outside was the absence of the bone-chilling wind and occasional flurries of icy rain. The interior of the cathedral blazed with the light of numerous candles and lamps as befitted a celebration of light. The honeyed scents of incense and beeswax overlaid the musty smell of winter stone with the haunting, evocative perfume of God.

King Stephen had been besieging Lincoln Castle for several weeks, and was making slow progress, but each painstaking advance was costly in terms of time and finances. With his architectural and building skills, Will had been commanding the siege machines that had been pounding the castle walls.

Thus far, the garrison was holding out. No great breaches had been made in the defences and it was clear that Chester and de Roumare had used the time to hoard men and supplies and were not for yielding.

This celebration of the Virgin’s churching had a deeper resonance than usual to Will because he had recently heard that Adeliza had been safely delivered of their second child, a LadyofEnglish.indd 327

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daughter this time, christened Adelis. As he joined the procession to carry a lighted candle down the nave to the altar, he fixed his prayers upon his wife, his new baby, and his small son.

In front of him, Stephen stumbled upon the trailing hem of his cloak. Molten candle wax dripped over the king’s hand and he dropped the candle on to the stone flags of the nave, where it broke in two and extinguished itself in a pale thread of smoke.

Men glanced at each other with unease. A young knight darted forward and handed his own candle to the king, and a chaplain hurriedly removed the broken one, but the damage was done and although Stephen shrugged it off as nothing, the tension was palpable.

The sense of doom was compounded moments later when the delicate silver box holding the communion wafers fell from its hanger chain, struck the side of the altar, and tumbled on to the steps, scattering the wafers abroad and breaking many.

Several members of the congregation crossed themselves and a low mutter of unease percolated throughout the nave. The hair rose on Will’s nape because this was God’s own house and the communion wafers were the body of Christ. He was not given to flights of fancy, but he was perturbed. Stephen, however, acted as if nothing had happened. He remained calm and prostrated himself before the altar in submission while priests hastened to rescue the pyx and the fallen wafers and bring new ones.

The remainder of the service continued without incident and the tension eased, but did not entirely dissipate. As they emerged from the cathedral into the bitter February weather, William D’Ypres remarked flippantly that Stephen should think about shortening the length of his cloak, but no one smiled.

Will returned to the siege machines and quelled the speculation among his troops. “A candle broke, and so did the link in a chain,” he growled. “Such small things happen around us every 328

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day and if we saw portents in them all, we would be paralysed by our fears.”

A squire brought him bread and cheese and he ate while watching the men setting up the trebuchet, their fingertips and noses red with cold. He imagined a roaring fire and Adeliza reading to him from one of her books in her gentle voice, or singing a lullaby to their son and the baby, and he felt heartsick and wished he was at Arundel.

A horn sounded on the town battlements, and then another, and another, all along the walls. Will swallowed his mouthful of food and sent the squire to find out what the noise was about.

He was buckling on the sword he had removed to attend mass when the lad returned in a high state of excitement.

“Sire, it’s the Earls of Gloucester and Chester. They’ve been sighted across the Witham looking for a fording place.” The youth’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “It’s the whole Angevin host—cavalry and Welsh levies and all!” Will stared at him. It was foolhardy to risk all on a single battle, but perhaps Robert of Gloucester felt it was all or nothing.

“It’s a sign from God,” one of the siege-machine crew gabbled. “First the candle and the pyx; now this.” Will rounded on him. “Gloucester was bound to come here; the only question was how soon. Get back to work until I say otherwise.”

Lowering his eyes, the man turned back to the trebuchet.

Having given interim orders to the men, Will went to join the king at Bishop Alexander’s lodging. By the time he arrived, a heated discussion was already in full flow. Stephen wanted to ride out and face the approaching Angevin force and bring them to battle. His barons did not.

“Sire, it is unwise,” counselled William D’Ypres, shaking his head. “Their numbers are greater than ours. Surely it is better to withdraw or stay behind the town walls and wait them out.” 329

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“No!” Stephen snapped. “I will not yield an inch of ground to Robert FitzRoy or Ranulf of Chester and his hellspawn brother. I am the anointed king and I am sick of these men.

Let God decide.”

“Sire, even God needs help,” said D’Ypres to nods of agreement from the other barons. “Perhaps what happened in the cathedral is a warning. You should reconsider.”

“I said no!” Stephen banged his fist down on the trestle.

“We will fight and put an end to this insurrection once and for all. I am the anointed king of England and I will be listened to!” His gaze flashed around the room, striking each man and nailing him to his duty. “Are you weak, superstitious fools and women that you baulk? Go and ready your men. If they cross the Witham, then we will meet them.” As the barons left the chamber to begin the muster, Stephen called Will to him. “I want you to stay back with the siege machines and prevent the garrison from assaulting from the rear…”

“Sire,” Will said and, with a grim set to his lips, left for his position.

ttt

“He’s going to make a full fight of it then,” said Adelard le Flemyng, Will’s senior serjeant, as Stephen led his assembled army away from the siege camp and towards the city gates.

Will grimaced. “It appears so,”

Adelard looked dubious. “Is that wise?” Will shrugged. Stephen had never been one to sit and ponder the wise alternatives. They were the realm of his brother the Bishop of Winchester from whom the King had become estranged. When something bothered Stephen he would up and deal with it in a physical way. “Perhaps not, but Gloucester is taking a similar risk. His Welsh levies may give him advantage of numbers but they are not seasoned and they won’t stand.” 330

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“Even so, to risk so much…”

“The king will not retreat because of his father,” Will said.

“His father?” Adelard looked bemused.

“He was accused of cowardice while fighting in the Holy Land—of fleeing from a battle and not standing his ground.

Stephen would rather die than have such an accusation levied at him. Whatever happens, he will not yield.”

“But what if he loses?”

Will gazed round his camp. He had been thinking that himself. He was no deserter, but he was pragmatic and he had a responsibility to the men under his command, not all of whom were wealthy enough to be worth ransoms, should it come to that pass. It was as well to be prepared. “Tell the men to have their weapons and equipment to hand,” he said. “Make sure they have food in their packs and that their water costrels are full.” ttt

Brian was in the thick of the fight when a massive roar went up. Stephen’s centre had collapsed. The backbone that should have stood, including the forces commanded by William D’Ypres and five senior earls, had fled the field, leaving Stephen marooned on foot and horseless at the hub of an assault from all sides.

Brian brought his sword down in a slashing arc and as it bit through flesh, he felt sick; and because of that, he increased the pressure, trying to expunge the feeling and push forward.

Again and again his blade flashed and he urged his men on in an aggressive voice that disguised his fear and disgust but sounded like battle rage. It was as if he were outside his body watching a stranger in black armour trample and hack and destroy. It was like slaughter day in a butcher’s shambles. Blood ran down his sword blade and the men opposing him were as cattle. He was doing it for Matilda, he told himself, for a promise he had made that he had to keep. All this was happening for a purpose, for 331

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the greater good. And when it was over, he could wash his hands and the building of a proper reign could begin.

He swung his sword again. His stallion stumbled on a body; Brian grabbed the rein to steady him and, as the horse regained his balance, heard a massive roar erupt from the centre.

“The king is down, the usurper is taken!” He watched the royal standard toppling beneath a surge of troops. Stephen’s men were either falling or fleeing. Brian glimpsed Stephen on his knees, surrounded by the dead and wounded of his own side and by opponents he had brought down in a final, desperate flurry. Blood crawled from a wound under his helmet and his mouth was open as he gasped for breath.

Gloucester arrived to take him into custody and Stephen, dazed and mumbling, yielded to him. Having converged on the person of the king and his banner, the Angevin army began to spread out again, and the pursuit and punishment of the vanquished began.

Brian checked his men and was relieved to discover that the wounds were mostly shallow cuts, bruises, and broken fingers that would heal quickly. For himself, he felt as if a heavy darkness was pressing down on him, winding black tendrils through every orifice in his skull. The roars of victory only served to aggravate the burning nausea in the pit of his belly.

Miles FitzWalter joined Brian as he rode towards the city walls. “I sometimes think you a bit of a courtier,” he said, a hard grin on his face, “but you fought out of your hauberk just now.” Brian said nothing. Miles did not realise how close to the truth he was. Brian was still not sure he was back inside his hauberk, and in fact he didn’t want to be because of the terrible weight of it, as if it were a coat of sins.

“God has well and truly spoken. Did you see de Meulan and Bigod fleeing the field like cowards? And even D’Ypres?” Miles bared his teeth and laughed.

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Brian could almost see the battle heat rising off him.

“Stephen should have stayed behind those walls and waited for reinforcements,” he said.

“Useful for us that he did not. Now we must keep him securely locked up and see to it that the empress takes her rightful place as queen.”

“Indeed.” Brian’s thoughts turned to Matilda. Already a messenger would be galloping to Devizes with news of their victory. Would it light her with joy, or would the news settle a burden across her shoulders, like this hauberk across his own?

Miles rode off to see to his affairs, and Brian made his way into the town. The gates hung wide and the stench of smoke from blazing thatch filled the air. There was going to be retribution aplenty for the citizens who had supported Stephen and not the beleaguered garrison. Everywhere he looked people were fleeing, trying to avoid the incoming troops.

His destrier started to limp. Brian dismounted to look, and discovered the stallion’s knee puffy and hot from a strain sustained in the fighting. Not wanting to ride on and worsen the injury, Brian ordered his squire to fetch his remount from the back of the ranks.

A band of soldiers rounded the corner, their manner one of clandestine haste. Brian’s men drew their freshly sheathed swords and pointed their spears. So did the other group, their fear palpable. Brian stared at Will D’Albini, who returned the look and drew himself to his full height.

Brian swallowed his gorge and made a swift gesture. “Go,” he said. “We have not seen you. Stephen is taken and your cause is defeated. Make haste and watch your road because if Miles FitzWalter catches you, he will have you in irons or turned to corpses faster than the bishop of Winchester can say a paternoster.” D’Albini’s hazel eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why would you do this for me, my lord?”

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“Because I am not your enemy, Will. Before all this happened, we were friends. You allowed my lady to land at Arundel and that deserves acknowledgement and recompense. I have seen a surfeit of bloodshed today and victory is won. What difference will taking you make? Just go, and be swift about it!”

“Thank you,” Will said stiffly. “I will not forget.” With a curt nod, one soldier to another, he moved on.

“Will they escape?” asked a knight.

“I do not know, but I have given them their chance.” Brian heaved a troubled sigh. “I have often shared bread and company with Will D’Albini, and we were companions sent to meet the empress when she came home from Germany. I will not raise my sword against him now, nor barter him for ransom. Enough is enough. I gift him to his wife and his family.” A little of the darkness eased, but only to grey, and the weight remained.

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Thirty-nine

Lincoln, February 1141

S tephen was put on a horse the day after the battle and taken south to Gloucester. He was concussed, bruised, and shivering, even though wrapped in a heavy fur-lined cloak.

There had been serious debate as to whether he should ride in a cart, but that would have slowed the journey and Robert wanted him in their stronghold territories as swiftly as possible.

Stephen too had insisted he would ride because only women, the infirm, and servants rode in carts. In the end, they had given him a bay gelding, strong and sturdy with an even stride.

“I am an anointed king,” Stephen told Brian, who was riding beside him to make sure he did not fall. He was certainly in no condition to attempt an escape. “Whether you kill me or imprison me for life, it does not alter that fact. Nor that my army is still intact and will regroup to sweep you aside.”

“They deserted you,” Brian said.

Stephen gave Brian a shrewd glance from a livid purple eye socket. “They expected me to leave the field too,” he said.

“They will continue the fight, and so will my wife. Your empress will never cast down the crown from my Maheut’s head. I may be your captive, but this is far from the end of the matter.”

“It is a matter that should never have begun in the first place, sire. I do indeed pray that this is the end.” LadyofEnglish.indd 335

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Stephen looked scornful despite his battered countenance.

“You do not like to soil your hands, do you, Brian, but warfare is a dirty business. My cousin will use you up until you are dust trickling through her fingers, and then she will say it was only her due, and you will have no one to blame but yourself for your choice.”

Brian said nothing, but he was unsettled by the prophetic wisdom in Stephen’s words. Yesterday’s battle was still working its way through him both physically and mentally and his thoughts remained bruised and dark. When he told himself that this was the beginning of Matilda’s rightful rule, he felt satisfied and vindicated, but when he thought that it might be the beginning of even harder fighting, he felt sick. He had promised to give her his life, but sometimes he wondered what he had set upon himself.

ttt

It was dark outside; the February dusk had closed in an hour since and in the chapel of Gloucester Castle, the pools of candle flame were the only source of light. Matilda looked up from her prayers to Saint James, Saint Julian, and the Blessed Virgin Mary and regarded her chancellor and chaplain, William Giffard. His face was naturally laconic and difficult to read even without the candle shadows casting deep hollows in his cheekbones and eye sockets.

“Domina,” he said, “there is news from Lincoln. The Earl of Gloucester’s messenger is here.”

She was aware of the cold tiles beneath her knees, the heat of the candle flames, and the chill beyond their ovals of light.

Her heart began to bang against her ribs. Ever since Robert and her commanders had taken the road to Lincoln, she had been poised on the edge of a precipice.

“Domina, he says the Earl has won a great victory and Stephen is taken prisoner. He is being brought to you.” 336

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“A great victory?” Her voice caught in her throat.

“Yes, domina.” A faint smile broke across his features. “The king’s earls deserted him. Even William D’Ypres fled the field, but Stephen would not, and he was struck down and captured.” The words filled her mind but grasping their meaning beyond the superficial was impossible. Robert had won. Stephen had lost. For a moment she stood in a void. She had been striving for so long, pushing and pushing, and now suddenly, out of her sight and her presence, victory had been secured and a crown was hers for the taking.

“Domina?” Giffard touched her arm in concern.

She drew herself together. “Bring the messenger to my chamber,” she said. “And gather the household together in the hall so that I may talk to them.”

When he had left on his errand, Matilda lit another candle to add to those already burning, and knelt to give thanks and pray for the strength she would need in the months to come.

ttt

Robed like a queen, her gown glittering with precious stones, her imperial crown set on her head, and her father’s sapphire ring glowing on her finger, Matilda gazed down at Stephen who had been brought to kneel before her in Gloucester Castle’s great hall. His head was bowed and she could see where his hair was thinning at the crown, exposing the freckled pink scalp. The bruises from Lincoln mottled his face in varied hues of purple, magenta, and yellow. He was robed in a plain tunic of brown wool and the only jewellery about his person was a gold cross at his breast and the garnet brooch pinning his cloak.

He was a man, just a battered, ordinary man, and he was in her power. She sat above him on a throne and he was at her feet.

This was a moment she had been anticipating yet somehow the reality did not measure up to her expectations. Somehow she felt as if she had been waiting too long. This diminished, 337

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bruised man evoked little emotion in her beyond irritation and contempt, yet she had wanted to feel so much more.

“God has spoken,” she said imperiously to Stephen. “You took what was not yours, and when offered a treaty, you refused the terms that would have secured peace. Now, by the will of God, you are brought before me in your defeat.” Stephen slowly raised his head. “I am justly humbled by God for my sins,” he replied in a rusty voice, “but accepting the crown of England is not one of them. God has shown his displeasure in my deeds as king by delivering me to my enemies, but I have faith that He will yet have mercy and that He has spared my life for a purpose.”

“Perhaps to repent for the rest of it,” Matilda said coldly.

“You are to be taken to Bristol and kept there for the rest of your days, however long or short that span might be.” She could see Stephen’s body shaking with rigors and his complexion under the rainbow of bruises was grey. “You will be given what you need for sustenance and prayer.” His lip curled. “Do not be misled by the sight of my condition. It is only temporary and will abate sooner than you think.

I am answerable to God, not to you, and I am an anointed king, chosen by the barons of this land. You will not move me from that position whatever you do to me.” Matilda looked at her father’s ring on her hand and felt the weight of the diadem on her brow. These had far more meaning than Stephen and his empty words. He was unimportant. She was a queen now, and she would use the formal force of the law to deal with this. “You will leave on the morrow for Bristol,” she said, as if he had not spoken, “and there you will stay—for the remainder of your days.” She looked at him and then straight through him, and, rising from the throne, walked majestically from the room, not waiting to see him taken away.

ttt

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Henry FitzEmpress, almost eight years old, was testing the paces of his new mount, Denier. The dam’s Spanish breeding had given the little chestnut fire in his feet. Henry loved the feel of the wind streaming past his face, even though it was cold enough to sting his eyes, because it gave him a feeling of speed.

On a swift horse, he was invincible.

His father had started taking him hunting, and Henry had also begun his military training, fighting with a shield made to suit his size, and a wooden sword. He loved every minute.

Indeed, the only thing he ever found difficult was staying still.

It was always a trial when he was in church and expected not to fidget in the presence of God. By contrast, flying on a horse was easy.

His father was waiting in the stable yard to greet him when he returned from his ride, his groom following several paces behind. Henry showed off by drawing rein in a dramatic slide of hooves, and leaped from the saddle almost before the pony had stopped. He flashed his father a broad smile, exposing gaps at the front where new teeth were growing in.

Geoffrey’s lips twitched. “That was fine riding, my son.” He plucked a burr out of Henry’s cloak.

Henry flushed with pleasure. “Yes, sire.” Much as he was enthralled by the swiftness and grace of Denier, what he really wanted to ride was a destrier like his father. His new pony was just another point on the road towards that accomplishment. “I could have made him go faster, but Alain wouldn’t let me.” He scowled over his shoulder at the groom.

“Alain was wise; you should listen to him,” Geoffrey said.

“And to your horse. Always be bold; never be heedless.” Henry pursed his lips and said nothing.

His father folded his arms. “I have been waiting for you because I have received some great news from England, from your mother. Stephen the usurper has been defeated in battle 339

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and captured by your uncle Robert and others of your mother’s kin and allies. Your mother is to become queen.” Henry stared at his father while his stomach gave the same kind of swoop that it had done while he was galloping Denier.

He had not seen his mother in almost a year and a half and memory of her features had blurred at the edges, but she wrote to him often and sent him things from England: a writing tablet with an interlaced design on the ivory cover, and a fine penknife. Things she had sewn, which held her scent. Bells for his harness. Numerous books. And always the promise that one day he would be a king because England was his.

“Can we go there?” He was suddenly consumed with eager impatience. Had a ship been present in the courtyard, he would have boarded it there and then.

“No, no, no,” his father laughed. “Rein back your horse a little. It is early days yet. Your mother will send for you when it is time.”

“But when will that be?”

“Soon,” his father said. “But not quite yet.” He ruffled Henry’s hair. “One battle does not a victory make, even when the enemy has been captured. Once your mother has been crowned, she will send for you.”

Henry frowned and wondered how close “soon” actually was.

When adults said such things, it was usually simply to pacify—

and it was always a long time. He did not see why he could not go immediately. He knew he could help, and it was his destiny.

His father said, “My first task now your mother has succeeded is to go into Normandy and secure the duchy. Many barons will want to pay homage to the winning side.” He looked at Henry. “And no, you cannot come there either for the time being. Your task is to stay safe and learn and become a man.” Henry grimaced, but knew better than to protest. As far as he was concerned, he was a man, and years were only numbers.

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Following a night of blustery wind and rain, a bright March morning dawned over the city of Winchester. Matilda knelt to her cousin, Bishop Henry, in the great hall of the castle, and kissed his papal ring, her emotions a mixture of relief and wariness. Yesterday he had agreed a pact of peace with her and promised to hand over the castle and the treasury. These were fine concessions, but she still did not trust him and suspected he had yielded because either he was unprepared to fight, or because, like all the others, he thought he could manipulate her because she was a woman.

She had conceded to him that all ecclesiastical appointments in England would be under his sway and she would be governed by his counsel. In exchange he had sworn to uphold her right to the throne and announce in public that she was queen designate. He had promised also to bring the rest of the Church into allegiance and had formally given her custody of the castle.

Now, as he raised her to her feet, his knights came forward, bearing the treasure chests. For show and ceremony, the most magnificent articles had been placed on silk cushions: an orb and sceptre; rings set with precious stones. A ruby the size of a hen’s egg, and two enormous teardrop pearls. A staff set with garnets and sapphires; a goblet of gold and sardonyx; and a pyx enamelled in blue and crimson. The chests contained embroidered robes of cloth of gold, and one in royal purple, heavy with pearls. There were sacks of money, and a pair of swords with ornate fittings. Superficially it was a glorious sight, but Matilda suspected that much had been creamed off into the coffers of her legate cousin. He was already wearing a fortune on his back and his fortified palace outshone the castle.

“I expected more,” she said.

“I am sorry for that,” he replied blandly. “This is all that remains.”

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She pressed her lips together and looked instead at the final cushion. A crown was set upon it, the one her father had worn at his coronation, and that Stephen had usurped. Gems glittered about the band and the finials were adorned with small golden spheres. She took it in her hands as she had once taken Heinrich’s crown in Speyer. She felt Henry’s watchful stare, as if he expected her to put it on her head. How little he knew her. “I am not your brother,” she said curtly. “I know the proper ways.”

Winchester’s cheek muscle twitched. “I know you will govern with wisdom and the sound advice of your councillors.”

“I will do my best to honour the role that my father intended for me.” Her voice gained depth and authority. “But I will not be a cipher for power-hungry men. I have seen what happens when a sovereign is weak.”

“Indeed,” Henry replied, his tone neutral and his expression guarded.

In slow and dignified procession, they walked from the castle to the market cross in the High Street, the bishop and Matilda side by side under a palanquin, supported by Brian FitzCount, Miles FitzWalter, Robert of Gloucester, and Reynald FitzRoy.

A crowd of citizens had gathered to listen to what their bishop had to say and Henry’s knights opened a path through the people so that he and Matilda could mount the steps beneath the cross and be seen by all.

Henry struck his crosier on the ground three times and filled his lungs. “Here before you stands the Empress Matilda, daughter of King Henry and the only surviving child born to him of his Queen Edith, of an ancient royal house!” he cried in a powerful, charismatic voice. “Here she stands among you! Give allegiance to your rightful queen!” He stooped to the lower step to take the crown from the priest holding the cushion. “Behold,” he said. “Matilda, the Empress, King 342

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Henry’s true successor, and Lady of the English!” With slow exaggeration, he placed the diadem on Matilda’s head. The gesture was symbolic and not a true crowning, but nevertheless it had a potent impact. “Let us do proper homage to her power that she may bring peace to our lives and bounty back to our lands. Let her come to us redoubled in glory for the courage and fortitude she has expended and let us follow her that we may be blessed. And let her take wise counsel and rule in justice and wisdom and grace!”

The sound and sight of a thousand people kneeling all at once filled Matilda with triumph, yet at the same time she was irritated at Henry of Winchester’s orchestration of the event, playing at kingmaker, even if she needed him. Winchester might be the old capital of England and the place where the treasure was stored—such as it was—but Westminster was the new hub, and not until the full ceremony had been performed at the abbey there and her brow anointed by Theobald, archbishop of Canterbury, would she truly be queen, whatever was said and done today.

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Forty

Arundel, April 1141

A deliza sat by the fire in her chamber, embroidering pearls on to a cope intended for Bishop Simon of Worcester, who had once been her chaplain. Juliana was reading aloud from the copy of Aesop that Will had given her, but Adeliza was not really listening. Outside the rain was fierce.

Although spring had supposedly arrived, the season had turned back to winter for several days.

It was two months since the Battle of Lincoln: a disaster for Stephen’s forces and a triumph for the empress. Receiving the news, Adeliza had felt as if she were stranded on a shore at the water’s edge, neither on dry land nor in the sea. Will had not returned to Arundel, although she had received a disjointed letter from him to say he was safe and lying low at his keep at Buckenham. She was to remain vigilant but do nothing and they would wait and see what demands were made. As yet there had been no word from either side, but she knew that state of affairs would not last. Either the tide would roll in or it would recede. She had heard that Stephen’s wife was rallying supporters and William D’Ypres, deeply penitent at having fled from Lincoln, had vowed to restore his honour and was commanding her troops. Stephen might be a prisoner, but the war was far from won.

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Adelis whimpered in her cradle and Adeliza went to pick her up. Her complexion, eight weeks from her birth, was pink and cream like new roses. She blew bubbles at Adeliza and gurgled.

Adeliza laughed and tickled her chin, thinking what a miracle she was.

Her chamber door opened to a knock and Rothard her chamberlain put his head around it. “Madam, the earl is here,” he announced, and had barely finished speaking when Will pushed past him into the room. Adeliza gasped because he was dripping wet, his clothes hanging on him like sodden sacks.

“Dear God, why did you not send word?” Replacing Adelis in her cradle, she turned to her women. “Towels and dry warm clothes for my lord immediately.” She went to him but stood a few paces off because he really was soaked to the skin.

“Because I…” He made a pleading gesture. “Because I was unsure of my welcome and because it was safer not to broadcast my movements. We have been travelling by back roads at night and picking a careful route. I…” He palmed his face. “I was not sure until I rode through the gates that I was coming here, and even now I do not know if I should stay.” Adeliza’s gaze widened. “What do you mean, you do not know if you should stay? Where else would you go? Come, get out of those wet clothes before you take a chill.” She unfastened his cloak and handed it to a maid. His tunic and shirt were damp too, and his boots, light fawn when dry, were the colour of ancient oak and slick with water.

“My presence here might endanger you.” He pressed the napkin to his wet face and she wondered for an appalled moment if he was crying.

“Come,” she said again briskly, “let me have your boots, and get you into some warm shoes.” She knelt to remove his footwear, tugging at the sodden lacings.

Adelis wailed in her cradle. Will lowered the napkin and 345

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looked round like a deer hearing a hunting horn. Then he went to the crib and gazed down at his daughter, unborn when he had ridden out to Lincoln. Water dripped from the tips of his hair on to her swaddling. He leaned over and touched her cheek with his forefinger and she rooted towards it hungrily and gave a fretful cry. Beyond the crib, a nurse held the hand of his son who was out of smocks now and wearing a miniature version of an adult tunic. He was staring at Will with big eyes, and sucking his lower lip uncertainly.

Abruptly Will turned and strode from the room, his shoelaces trailing dangerously. Adeliza stared after him with concern and astonishment. Then she rallied. Telling her women to continue with the preparations for Will’s comfort, she grabbed her cloak off the wall peg and ran after him.

ttt

Will knelt in Arundel’s chapel, shivering so hard that his stomach ached. He felt wretched; he knew he should not have come here. He had taken refuge at Buckenham after the battle while he awaited developments. News had been scanty, but what had arrived was demoralising and suggested that the empress was consolidating her grip. He had desperately needed to see Adeliza, but knew that, with her sympathies towards the empress, she was in a better position at Arundel to negotiate without him. The ground had fallen from under his feet and he felt powerless, and that made him a lesser man in his own eyes.

“I am facing my own nothing,” he said to the painted wooden image of the Virgin and Child standing on a marble plinth to one side of the altar. “I know you can take away just as you bestow. I want to do what is right, but how can I when I do not know what is right any more?”

“Husband?”

He turned at the sound of Adeliza’s voice. “Leave me alone,” he said. “Do I interrupt you when you are at your devotions?” 346

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She came and knelt beside him and clasped her hands.

“Whatever has happened and whatever is to come, no burden is so terrible that God will not listen.”

“Was I so wrong?” he asked after a moment, his head still bowed. “I followed my honour and did my best, and now I am lost, because my best was not good enough. I feel as if I am falling down a long, dark tunnel with only more darkness at the end of it.”

“Never that.” She was shaken to see him so defeated and low when she was accustomed to his bluff optimism “Never think that!” She set her arms around him protectively, uncaring now of his wet garments. “You are a fine man, a good man.” He clung to her, his body shaken by tremors, and she held and shushed him as if he were one of their children until eventually he pulled away and cuffed his eyes on his sleeve. “I do not deserve you,” he said hoarsely. “I have never deserved you.”

“Hush.” Adeliza kissed his cheek and rose. “Let there be no such talk between us. Say your words to God and seek His help and forgiveness, then come and bathe and eat and sleep.

Tomorrow is time enough to decide what we must do.” When she had gone, he clasped his hands and bowed his head again and tried to concentrate on the smiling Virgin in her blue robe, but nothing came into focus beyond his sense of failure.

ttt

“Why did you marry me?”

Adeliza looked across the hearth at Will. He had eventually come from the chapel, grey with cold, shivering and barefoot, his shoes in his hand. She had renewed the bath with fresh hot water and made him eat a bowl of mutton and barley pottage washed down with hot spiced wine. Colour had gradually returned to his face and although his eyes were still heavy, they were less haunted. She had dismissed their attendants and they 347

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were alone in their chamber with the hangings drawn across the shutters and the fire a comfortable glow of ruddy embers in the hearth. Teri, his favourite dog, stood on his hind legs and sniffed at the almost empty pottage bowl. Will held it for the dog to lick out, which told Adeliza he must be feeling more at home with himself.

“Because I chose to,” she said.

“But why?” He fixed her with a puzzled stare. “You were a queen. You could have had anyone you wanted.” He put the bowl on the floor.

That was not quite true, she thought. Any man she took as a husband would have had to have Stephen’s approval. “You offered me an alternative life,” she said. “You made me realise that I was not quite ready for the cloister.”

“I never thought you would consent. You are as far above me as the stars.”

“But you dared to ask—and I dared to answer, and I do not regret it. You have given me gifts of far greater worth than any number of crowns.”

“I thought it was another gift to stay away from you,” he said in a low voice. “That is why I said I should not be here.

My absence will keep you and the children safe. If I am not at Arundel, there is no cause to besiege it.” Adeliza raised her brows. “You are not going to acknowledge the empress?”

“I swore my oath to Stephen. Should I disavow it because he is a prisoner? What does that say about my honour? Until he renounces his kingship I have a sworn duty to support him.

Yet if he is truly overthrown, I have a sworn duty to protect my family also.”

Adeliza bit her lip. “No one has come to Arundel of either faction yet, so I say we do nothing and wait and see. We should tend our estates and keep them orderly and secure. We should 348

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succour those who have suffered through no fault of their own.” She took his arm. “Come, it is late and this can bide until the morning.”

She led him from the hearth to their bed and helped him to disrobe, kissing him as she unfastened ties and laces, offering him reassurance and comfort, encouraging him with little touches and signs. Then she removed her own garments and pressed her body against his. “Husband,” she said tenderly. He uttered a soft groan and his arms tightened around her and suddenly, with appetite awakened, he started to kiss her in return.

She had had her women remake the bed with clean, fresh sheets, scented with lavender and thyme, knowing that to him, the perfume was associated with her and with home—with coming home. She drew him into her with desire, with compassion, and with the urge of a nurturer to make him whole again in any way she could. At the climax, Will pressed his face into her neck and gasped that he loved her and needed her. She was his heart and his world. She was his queen. Adeliza held and soothed him while he fell into a deep, healing slumber on her breast, and then she wept a little too, and, despite her reassurances to him, wondered what indeed was going to happen to them.

ttt

Matilda set her hand upon her father’s tomb in the choir of Reading Abbey, her composure as hard as the chiselled stone.

She was cold and her stomach was hollow with hunger both physical and mental. She had faced death many times but confronting her mortality in the shape of her father’s tomb, knowing his remains were under her hand, intensified her awareness. She needed to make good use of every moment on this earth that God gave her. The last time she had been in her father’s presence, they had argued fiercely over her dower castles. Not wanting to dwell on that memory, she thought of 349

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her childhood instead. She had a vague recollection of running to him and how big and alive he had seemed. How real. How he had picked her up and carried her through the court in his arms, proud of her. He had given her a honey sweetmeat to eat and silver ribbons for her hair…and then told her she was to go far away to her marriage. When she tried to think of him after her return from Germany, the sting of grief and bitterness was so strong, she could not visit those memories.

He had the resting place he desired and the monks to pray for his soul. She too would lie in a tomb one day and she had much to accomplish before that time. Easing to her feet, she crossed herself, and left the church, her pace dignified but decisive, and she did not look back.

From here, from her father’s resting place, the road now lay towards London, and Westminster…and her crown.

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Forty-one

Westminster, June 1141

I n her chamber at the Westminster complex close by the abbey, Matilda prepared for a formal feast to celebrate her forthcoming coronation. Her ladies were combing her hair with scented lotion. She was aware of the wiry grey strands coarsening what had once been a shining, dark waterfall and knew she was no longer a young beauty but a woman entering her middle years, with lines of strife and tribulation carved for all to view. These days she preferred not to look in a gazing glass and see what time had wrought.

The women patted her hair dry and rubbed it with a silk cloth, before combing it and plaiting it tightly. Then they covered it with a fine white veil, edged with pearls and gold.

Her gown was embroidered blue silk; her cloak was lined with ermine as befitted a queen and an empress. The trappings of royalty. A headache throbbed at her temples. Her flux was imminent and she was irritable and on edge. Men had no such burdens to bear.

A few weeks earlier, the Londoners had refused to acknowledge her as their queen, but had changed their minds when Geoffrey de Mandeville, custodian of the Tower of London, had switched allegiance and agreed to support her, bringing with him de Vere of Oxford and Gilbert, Earl of Pembroke.

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The citizens had tendered their grudging submission, but she knew there was a large faction among them still eager to have Stephen back on the throne. They had only capitulated because they had no choice. It galled her that they snubbed her and refused to pay tribute, yet they had eagerly welcomed Stephen as king when her father had died and had paid him without demur. She despised them, and since pretence was not within her scope, she was finding it difficult to conciliate. They had even given Stephen’s vile little terrier of a wife the money to hire mercenaries. Those troops were now pillaging the lands outside London, and the citizens were wringing their hands and blaming Matilda for it rather than themselves and the woman who was actually responsible.

“You should not frown, domina,” said Uli. “You will create more lines.”

Matilda fought her irritation. She was certain that no one had ever said that to her father, or to Stephen. As if a smooth forehead were the ultimate goal. Even with England’s crown on her head, she knew she would have a constant battle to rule. The earls and barons who supported her took decisions among themselves and held their own meetings, treating her as a figurehead rather than heeding her voice. Their bluff, masculine camaraderie excluded her by the very fact of her gender and was something she could not change. They saw her as a member of the weaker sex, too soft to rule; yet when she showed a hard face and acted in a stern manner, they muttered that she was going against nature. Whatever she did, she was damned, and it led her to think damn them all too.

She completed her adornment by wearing her favourite German crown with the gold flowers. Gathering her women around her, escorted by knights and ushers, she left her chamber and processed to Westminster’s great hall. It had been built by her uncle King William Rufus more than forty years ago, incorporating the 352

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existing hall of the time. Her uncle had complained that the structure, despite being more than 240 paces long and the largest in Christendom, was too big for a chamber and not large enough for a hall. She could remember running between the bays as a little girl, and admiring the bands of chequered masonry along the walls. She had played hide and seek with her brother, and skip-ping games with girls whose names she had long forgotten. Later, on her return from Germany, she had sat in this hall and dined at her father’s side in the place of honour at the high table. But this was the first time in her life that she would sit here and preside as lady of the English and queen designate.

Fabric hissed and belt fittings clinked as people knelt to her.

She took their obeisance as her due but noted amongst all this fine rustle of silk and cloth of gold that there was no sign of the bishop of Winchester’s elaborate cope, even though Bath, Ely, and London were represented.

“My lord of Winchester appears to be still sulking,” Brian murmured to her as he assisted her to her seat on the dais.

“Apparently, he has not been seen this morning.” Matilda pursed her lips with irritation. She had had a long argument with her cousin of Winchester about her decision to appoint her uncle David’s candidate William Cumin to the see of Durham. Bishop Henry had disapproved of her choice, saying angrily she had promised him full jurisdiction over Church affairs and he had a different man in mind for the task.

But she owed much to her uncle David and felt more beholden to him than Cousin Henry. Besides, it would not hurt Henry to be put in his place. “Let him sulk,” she said curtly.

“Better to have him in your sight,” Brian warned.

“I do not care if he is here or not,” she snapped as she settled in the chair. It had once been her father’s in the days when he had presided over feasts here. That Stephen had sat upon it too, she put from her mind.

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“Even so, it might be wise to conciliate with him for now.”

“Brian is right,” said Robert, who had been listening to the conversation with a troubled expression. “We should keep him sweet at least until you are more established.”

“I do not see why we must pander to his every whim,” she said bad-temperedly. “Taking his advice is one thing, but giving in to him all the time just to prevent him from stamping his feet is another. I will not ruin this feast by talking of him.

There are plenty of other churchmen present to say grace.” Stewards brought bowls of warm water and towels to the dais and she washed and dried her hands, her movements vigorous and annoyed. In lieu of the papal legate, Bishop Nigel of Ely gave the benediction and the first course was served. There were dishes of delicately spiced frumenty and crisp fried elderflowers, quails’ eggs, dyed different colours, and small spicy cheese tarts; all dainty items, designed to whet the appetite for the roasts to come. Matilda began to relax a little as she gazed out over the diners and listened to the babble of eating and conversation.

“I have a gift for you,” Brian said. Taking her hand, he placed in it a small silver coin, the size of her index fingernail.

On one side was depicted a woman’s head, and around the rim the legend read, Matilidis Imperatrice, Domina Angliea, Regina Anglia. Wallig.

“I had the die made and the silver stamped at the mint at Wallingford,” he said. “I wanted you to have the very first one, but soon there will be many more because this will be the currency of all England.”

Matilda gazed at the silver disc in her hand and her throat was suddenly tight. “Thank you,” she said hoarsely.

He flushed and made a small gesture of negation. “All of my garrison there have your name on their pay now.” She started to answer him, but paused as the clamour of numerous church bells ringing came through the window 354

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aperture. Others were raising their heads from their food and looking round.

“Probably practising for the coronation,” Brian said noncha-lantly, although his gaze flickered. Now that the sound had intruded on their dinner, there was no ignoring it. The bells, some near, some distant, were being rung with vigour.

Moments later, John FitzGilbert her marshal walked briskly up the hall to the dais table. “Domina, the Londoners have risen against you.” His voice was low pitched but terse. “There is an armed mob on its way to Westminster from the city. For your safety, we must leave.”

Matilda closed her fist over the silver coin in her hand and felt the thin rim bite her flesh.

Brian leaned towards FitzGilbert. “Perhaps the bells are ringing in salute and rejoicing.”

“No, my lord.” The marshal’s blue gaze was hard and direct. “The reports of a riot come from our supporters in the city, who are fleeing before the mob. The bells are ringing to muster the people and to tell Stephen’s wife that she may enter London with her army of Flemings and receive support. I have given orders to saddle the horses. If we do not leave now, we will be overrun.”

Feeling sick with fury and frustration, Matilda glared at her marshal and vented her spleen on him because he had direct command of her household knights and responsibility for military order. “I refuse to be driven out of my rightful territory—my own father’s hall!—by a mob and a rabble army of mercenaries. Any man who says we must leave is a coward.” He stood ramrod straight. “Domina, I would kill any man who called me a coward. I deal in reality and I tell you we cannot stay here. We are not equipped to fight and when Stephen’s wife arrives we will not hold our enemies. Better to pull back to Oxford or Devizes and deal from there.” 355

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Matilda jutted her jaw. “No,” she said.

“Are you certain of this?” Brian demanded. “This is not just idle rumour that has got out of hand?” The marshal looked at him with incredulous contempt.

“Sire, if I doubted the information, I would not have interrupted your dinner.” He made a sweeping gesture towards the door. “However, if you want to talk to a mob, then do as you please, but you will find they desire to parley with spears and swords.”

Robert, who had been listening closely to the exchange, rose to his feet. “We should heed the marshal’s concerns,” he said to Matilda. “As he says, we are ill equipped for a fight and we cannot afford to have you captured. John, you will ride rearguard?”

“Sire.” The marshal bowed, and even as he left the dais was shouting orders.

Shaken, utterly furious, Matilda removed her coronet and folded it up with her golden cup and spoon into the embroidered cloth at her place, including the silver penny that Brian had given to her. She could not believe this was happening. As Robert and Brian bundled her out of the hall, she refused to look back because that would have been like bidding farewell.

In the city the church bells tolled and tolled. From every parish and quarter, they rang their rejection of her.

A groom had readied her mare and Brian helped her into the saddle before turning to Sable. All around them people were grabbing their hastily saddled horses and making their escape.

Servants fled, some astride, some afoot, many of them clutching aprons and knotted cloths full of the food that had been intended for the banquet. Matilda could still barely comprehend this was happening, but her marshal was in deadly earnest as he whacked her mount’s rump, and Sable’s, making both horses leap into a startled canter. Matilda swayed in the saddle, grabbed the reins, 356

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and clung on. In the distance, there was a shout and an ominous clash of weapons, followed by a scream.

“I will not let them push me out. I will not,” she said through clenched teeth, even as she shot out of the gateway on to the road. She imagined turning her mare around, but the plan went no further than her mind, because she could not row against the tide.

The marshal rode up, forcing his sweating white stallion alongside the mare. “Madam, we must increase the pace!” he shouted above the pounding hooves. “If we do not, we will soon be engaged in bloody battle.”

“I will not ride out like a fugitive from my father’s hall and what is rightfully mine!” she spat.

“Then you will be captured, and every man with you. Is that what you want?”

She threw him a fulminating glance, but struck the reins down on the mare’s neck to urge her on. The greater speed made it impossible for her speak because she had to concentrate on her riding, but inside she was sick with rage.

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