The Forsaken Monarch

by Amy Mantravadi

  “Drogo?”

  He opened his eyes. “I think you should marry the Anjou boy.”

  “What?! Why?”

  “I want to drink this until I die.”

  With that completed, we made the trip up river to Windsor, prized hunting ground of the king. It was a pleasant enough holiday, though I might have enjoyed it more were I not forced to watch the lord and lady of Wallingford taking part in the carol dancing night after night, with everyone observing how wonderful they were together, how they were sure to have lovely children, et cetera. “What a comely face she has!” they would say of Lady Mathilda, though I noticed they made no mention of her intelligence. Alas, though I strove to keep Lord Brian from having power over me—even as my brother had instructed—I did feel jealousy springing up inside me, and I found that for no fault of her own, I loathed the lady of Wallingford.

  Shortly after Christmas Day, the two kings—Henry of England and David of Scotland—set out for London, heading there to speak with Archbishop Thurstan of York regarding the matter of Scottish bishops. This matter is surely of little interest, except that it brought me within the walls of London for the first time in my life. Now, I have often found that no matter which day one decides to travel—whether it be in winter, spring, summer, or autumn—the weather is sure to be far worse than normal. Such was the case then, for we had made it through late December without snow, until that day when we were forced to travel. Happily, it did not fall heavily, and the worst of it was the cold.

  We chose to travel by road on this occasion, hoping to avoid the ice upon the river. Along the western road, the journey can be made in one rather long day, passing north of Brentford until reaching that street called the Strand, or also Fleet Street after the river of that name. In truth, “river” may be too lofty a term for the Fleet. When we crossed, it was full of two things: barges carrying materials for the construction of Saint Paul’s Cathedral, and the refuse of all London. I imagined I saw a cat being carried along on a board, but perhaps this was merely the product of weariness.

  “Here is King Lud’s gate. Follow close!” my father called.

  We crossed over the ditch and through the wall, which was less thick than some I had seen, but still wide enough for two men to lie down end to end. Now came the crowds to greet us, standing ten and twenty deep on either side as we passed the cathedral and made our way on to Watling Street. Those homes were piled one on top of the other, so that I thought they might fall to the ground. A flock of geese was forced to abandon our path near Walbrook, and a careless shop keeper let out a bucket from high above, almost hitting the bishop of Lincoln. Recognizing his mistake, he ran from the window with the look of death in his eyes. All about us cried, “Long live King Henry! Long live King Henry!”

  Having finally moved east of London Bridge, we came with some effort to the fortress begun by my grandfather, known to all simply as the Tower. The late bishop of Rochester, Gundulf, oversaw its construction, making use of the walls to the east and south and surrounding the rest with a vast ditch and a ring of pales. The men of England stood in awe as the Tower first rose above the buildings of London, an eternal watchman upon the river.

  As magnificent as it was, I could not help but wish that we might have spent those days at the palace of Westminster instead, for the rooms at the Tower were inferior in every way. They were created primarily to hold men at arms rather than ladies of the court, and as such they were smaller in size and had few adornments. I was fortunate to find a place within the stone walls, just above the chapel of Saint John. Many poor men were forced to freeze in the tents. The bishops, of course, found lodgings within the city that were more to their liking.

  Upon our arrival, King Henry made his intention known to all: they must swear an oath that upon the hour of his death, whenever that might be, if he had not begotten a son, they would accept me as queen, being the only legitimate child of the king. This oath he required from the least to the greatest of them, the lords both secular and ecclesiastical. Of course, there was murmuring about this, with some saying it was too soon to require such a pledge, for Queen Adeliza was not yet at an age when we ought to despair of her fertility.

  Though they were unwilling to own it, there were others who would have preferred that the king name his nephew as his heir—that is, William Clito. Thus he might have done, were it not for my cousin’s continual rebellion against the crown, by which he forfeited any right he might have possessed. So the date was set, and the oath would be taken as soon as the king’s business was completed. I suppose I was happy that I was to be made the king’s heir, but every other feeling at that time was still clouded by the pain and fear I felt. My sense of purpose was floating in the wind, and I could not foresee how things would turn. I knew I did not want to marry the Anjou boy, or anyone else unworthy. I knew that I wanted to carry on the royal line of my fathers and mothers. Beyond that, I was at a loss. I felt numb.

  There were ten earls at the time who held the greatest power in England, and it was to these lords that the lesser nobles would look for their lead. It was therefore essential that they be won over to the king’s cause. As the king’s chief justiciar and one of the richest men in England, Bishop Roger of Salisbury’s support was also of particular import. The Church would likely follow in his steps, and thus I did everything I could to please him.

  No woman had ever succeeded to the throne of all England in her own right. The very laws of nature seemed to forbid it, to say nothing of the laws of God. Yet there was no man linked by blood who was not either a traitor to the House of Normandy or descended through a woman. Thus, my father aimed to impress upon them all the righteousness of my cause and make them swear fealty before Almighty God. Such an oath would bind them upon pain of death and the damnation of their soul.

  As the day drew nearer, the lords seemed to make their peace with this new situation, knowing that any other choice would lead to war either before or after the king’s death. I had good reason for confidence, yet I could still hear the voice of Godfrey de Bayeux, the tutor of my youth, quoting from Saint Paul: “I permit not a woman to teach, neither to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence. For Adam was first formed, then Eve.” These words seemed to haunt me, and I therefore remained on my guard. Like Thomas, I would not believe until I had seen.

  Finally, the day came on which everything depended. What does one wear on such an occasion? What does one say? After some consideration, I resolved to wear the finest raiment I possessed and speak as little as possible. This had at least the semblance of wisdom.

  We gathered on the main floor of the Tower, which is to say the middle level, for one does not enter from the ground. At the time, there was a single open space surrounded on two sides by curtains and on the other two by the Tower walls. There was a dais at the north end with two thrones. The only other furnishings were a set of iron lamp stands in which fires were lit every eve.

  As the lords gathered, I waited just to the side, peeking through the curtains. There must have been over one hundred persons in there. I reached up to adjust the crown on my head, which had been loaned to me by Queen Adeliza for the occasion. It was not the official crown of the queen of England, but a special one set with rubies and emeralds that the king had given to her as a token when they were betrothed. In most cases, I hated to wear such an object of discomfort, preferring a simpler adornment, but it seemed necessary to enhance my authority. The gown I wore was from my time as empress, crafted from materials I had purchased in Venice. It may well have been the most costly thing I owned, composed of purple silk and cloth of gold. I wore the same crucifix that had borne me through the streets of Rome, my mother’s rosary, the pearl ring that Emperor Henry had given me on our wedding day—anything that might bring good fortune. I was sure to need it. I still struggled to believe that it could be so easy: that I, a woman, could walk in there and have all great lords swear to honor me and make me queen. Could it really be so?

  My insi
des seemed to churn, and I thought I might be sick. But there was no time for such things, for my father the king had walked up next to me quite suddenly, and almost before I knew what was happening, he had put his arm inside mine without a word and pulled back the curtain. I squinted slightly as the brighter light hit my face. The herald announced our arrival and the trumpets played. We walked in—or rather boldly strode, as my father was wont to do—mounted the dais, and sat upon the two thrones that were meant for the king and queen. On this occasion, I was the one sitting beside my father.

  Bishop Roger of Salisbury was set to begin the proceedings. He mounted the two steps with his head held high, holding the scroll in his hands that contained the words of the oath and a roll of all the lords, bishops, and abbots in the kingdom. My heart was by this time beating quite quickly. I saw many pairs of eyes fastened upon me and searched for my few true friends, hoping to gain strength from their smiles. Despite having been back in the land of my birth for more than a year, I still did not feel entirely comfortable with the vast array of persons at court, let alone those who had arrived from further afield. I was something of a stranger in my own home, and therefore my eyes sought the ones whom I could trust. Before I could find any of them, Bishop Salisbury had turned to face the crowd and began his proclamation.

  “My lords, your king has called you here today to declare your obedience to his chosen successor: his rightful daughter, the Empress Mathilda.”

  Here there were some calls of support from the crowd, which did my heart good, but I could not help but notice a few faces that looked less than pleased. Mother Mary and all the saints, let this go well! I begged.

  “I need hardly inform you of her pedigree,” the bishop continued. “Daughter of King Henry, granddaughter of King William the Conqueror, in whose debt we all stand, niece of the second King William called Rufus. Through her mother, the late beloved queen, she is descended also from the ancient line of kings—Edward the Confessor, Alfred the Great, and thus on back to the time of the Romans. In her are the houses of England and Normandy united, and in no other.”

  That is not strictly true, I thought to myself. Countess Mathilda of Boulogne also possesses such blood, though she is not daughter to a king or queen. Oh well. No need to mention that.

  The bishop continued, speaking loud enough for those in the back to hear. “Through her offspring, that line which has built this kingdom may be preserved, and its greatness will continue. Therefore, your king bids you stand and take the oath of obedience to her and her descendants, that you will remain faithful and true in your service, and that peace will be maintained in this land. It is his absolute will that she should inherit upon his death.”

  My eyes continued to scan the crowd. I saw Queen Adeliza standing near the front, a broad smile upon her face. The Beaumont contingent was not smiling, but they seemed peaceable enough. Brother Robert winked at me—God bless him! Another brother might have challenged my right, but not him. Then I saw Brian, who was clearly pondering the bishop’s words in all seriousness.

  I hope you are more faithful to me in this, I thought.

  King Henry then stood and spoke in his deep, bellowing voice that sent a shudder through my bones. “I trust that every man of you knows his duty and will take the oath without faltering. If you love me, you will do so without delay and hold to it. Remember, the king does not bear the sword for naught. Now, Bishop Salisbury, call them forth.”

  Bishop Roger obliged him, unrolling the scroll and holding it open with both hands. “The archbishop of Canterbury!”

  Archbishop William de Corbeil stepped forward with some effort, as he suffered from gout. As he did so, Bishop Roger motioned to one of the servants standing off to the side, who also came forward bearing a small wood box. The younger man beat the archbishop up the steps and stood next to Bishop Roger, lifting the lid on the box to reveal a small piece of wood—a splinter, really—resting upon a bed of silk the color of wine. This I knew to be a piece of the Holy Rood of our Lord Jesus Christ: a precious relic that the bishop of Salisbury had acquired with his wealth and brought to London just for the occasion.

  “Are you willing to take the oath?” Bishop Roger asked, when Archbishop William had finally made his way on to the dais.

  “I am willing,” the archbishop replied.

  “Very well. I bid you kneel and place your hand upon this piece of the Holy Rood, knowing that the very blood of Christ holds you to your oath.”

  He did so, kneeling with no little effort, then repeating the words.

  “By the Lord before whom this relic is holy, I shall to the Empress Mathilda be true and faithful, taking her as my lady, loving all she loves and shunning all she shuns, according to the laws of God, the kingdom of England, and the duchy of Normandy. I pledge this day that I will not offend in word or in deed, nor shrink from due obedience, nor deny her service, submitting myself to her rule and that of her descendants without deceit. And should I fail to keep this oath, I shall receive the due punishment for my actions. May she live and reign.”

  The first oath was taken, and as the archbishop came over and kissed my hand, I felt a great sense of relief. Indeed, I may have even let out a sigh. Surely, the other lords of the Church would follow, and they did: first Archbishop Thurstan of York and then all the others, including poor William Warelwast of Exeter, who had to be led by the hand as he was completely blind. I had just enough time to marvel at the ease with which this was all taking place, when we reached our first obstacle. Once the bishops had all sworn, Bishop Roger of Salisbury glanced again at his scroll.

  “His Highness, King David of Scotland!” he called out.

  “Brother Roger, wait a moment!” someone interrupted.

  Oh no, I thought. It’s happening!

  I looked at once to see which of the earls was fool enough to betray me openly, but it was only Abbot Anselm of Bury Saint Edmunds. He was a rather short man, and perhaps because of this he had made his way to the front to see the action. Along with his words, he had raised up a finger to register his comment.

  Bishop Roger lowered the scroll slightly and glanced over it at the diminutive abbot. Although the difference in height between them was not so great, the bishop’s position on the dais made him appear rather a force of nature in comparison to the poor abbot, not to mention the humility of the abbot’s monastic garments in relation to the bishop’s sumptuous attire, which certainly cost no less than my own.

  “What is it?” Bishop Roger asked rather slowly, putting so much stress on each word that one could not help concluding that he must be annoyed.

  “Should not the abbots swear first?” Abbot Anselm asked. “It seems that that should be the way of things.”

  Oh, thank God! I thought. It is simply a matter of precedent, not an outright rebellion.

  “You will have your turn,” Bishop Roger assured him. “Now, King David, please come forward.”

  As the abbot crossed his arms and frowned, my uncle climbed the steps and knelt down, placing his hand on the relic. As he did so, he smiled at me with those eyes so like my mother’s, and I thought of her for a moment—of all she had endured to make my position possible. What would she have thought to see me then? Would she have been proud to know that the line of Wessex might have a future even though my brother had perished? Or did she fear even as I did that my womb might never produce a child to carry on the dynasty? I hardly knew, but as my uncle David knelt before me and kissed my hand, he whispered something to me.

  “I believe your mother, my sister, smiles down on us all today.”

  Had he been reading my thoughts and sought to allay my fears? I did not know, but I felt gratitude all the same. This happy feeling was not to last for long. The Scottish king had only just made his way back down the stairs, when Abbot Anselm once again interrupted.

  “Lord king, such a thing cannot be allowed! The secular lords must not be given precedence over the clergy! All my brother abbots agree!”

  Things
were getting out of hand fast, and my father was in no mood for such debate. He rose from his seat.

  “Every man is to hold his peace! What has been done cannot be undone. I don’t care which of you goes first or last, and neither should you. All that matters is that you show proper fealty to your lords, and last I checked, I was lord of England. Now stand back, brother Anselm, and shut your mouth, or I will have you removed from this assembly and thrown to the dogs … or worse!”

  Well, that was the end of that. It may seem rather absurd: why should it matter who went first or last? Because there was more than one game being played that day. Yes, everyone had gathered to swear fealty to me as King Henry’s heir—that much was true. But the lords secular and ecclesiastical had as much interest in advancing their own authority as they did in supporting that of the throne. They knew that whoever swore first would be perceived as greater in rank and therefore greater in power. My own concern was not so much that the order be strictly followed, but that the occasion would not descend into rancor, for that would surely reflect poorly on me.

  Bishop Roger began calling out the roll again. “Stephen, count of Mortain and Boulogne!”

  The king’s nephew before the king’s son? That did not seem right to me, and by the look on Robert’s face, he clearly agreed.

  “I think I should go first, being the empress’ brother,” brother Robert said, as Stephen took a few steps forward.

  Bishop Roger did not answer but turned instead to the king. On this occasion, my father seemed a bit at a loss, which gave Stephen time to speak.

  “Earl Robert, he has already called me.”

  “Yes, but I am sure you would not begrudge me this,” Robert replied.

  Stephen smiled a bit perversely. “Yes, cousin, but the manner of your birth …”

  There was a marked change upon my brother’s face: such anger in those eyes! It looked as if the two men might come to blows. I did not blame Robert for being offended, for I felt offended on his behalf. Yes, it was true that my brother was born outside the bounds of wedlock, but what an awful thing to bring up in front of everyone, and only to shame him! Robert was still the king’s son, an earl, and a great warrior. He did not deserve to be treated so by Stephen, but I suppose it should not have surprised me. I had seen since my return how Stephen had latched himself on to the king like a leech, sucking good will from him day by day. He had risen high in the king’s regard, so much so that he clearly felt himself superior to the king’s natural born son. Might he even feel superior to me? I wondered. Will he refuse to swear? Will he break faith with all of us? These thoughts passed through my head so quickly I barely had time to know them. Just then, the king spoke.