The Forsaken Monarch

by Amy Mantravadi

  “He should not have been speaking with her in the first place. It shows a lack of respect for me. At the very least, he is careless.”

  “Well, that is perhaps a lesser sin. Come, let us watch the games and speak no more about it.”

  I did as she asked, but I assure you it was not the tournament that occupied my mind.

  So my father gifted the imp with lions, I thought to myself. It must have been a curse after all.

  Having made a knight out of young Geoffrey, there was naught to do but proceed with the marriage. The very next morning, we moved south with some real speed, for the wedding was to take place in just a week’s time. We made a brief stop at the abbey in Bernay and another to collect Bishop John of Sées. Between that and the endless forest, it was all we could do to get to Le Mans with a day to spare.

  It may seem odd that the marriage was to take place in Le Mans, for it was not a Norman town. However, it was precisely for this reason that it was chosen, for Le Mans was the chief city of the county of Maine, which had been the subject of dispute between Normandy and Anjou far longer than anyone living could remember. The marriage would bring this Angevin possession within the sphere of Normandy, and thus of England. What better place for King Henry to celebrate his triumph?

  For the extent of our journey, my father aimed to speak with young Geoffrey as much as possible, which made it rather difficult for me to have anything like a private conversation with the man I was to marry. I wished very much to make a better study of his character and establish some affinity with him before we were to enter the bonds of wedlock. Even on the eve of our wedding, as we all sat feasting in the hall of the comital palace in Le Mans, my attempts to speak with Geoffrey were constantly repelled. Every man hoped to curry favor with his future lord, or at least to determine whether he was worthy of respect. To make matters worse, we had been joined by young Geoffrey’s father, Count Fulk of Anjou, soon to depart for the Holy Land. I say it was worse, because whatever moments might have been left to us after the nobles were through with him, Geoffrey was forced to spend in discussion with the father who was about to depart for ever. All of this made me rather uneasy.

  Having failed on that front, I chose instead to make the acquaintance of my cousin, Count Theobald of Blois, properly count of Blois, Chartres, Champagne, and Brie. He was the older brother of cousin Stephen, though not the eldest: that was the pitiable Count William of Sully, who for want of good behavior was denied his birth right by my aunt, Lady Adela of Blois. One can only imagine what that family was like in private! I hoped very much that Count Theobald could provide me with some news from Boulogne, his own opinion of my marriage in comparison with Stephen’s, and perhaps a few other things as well.

  I approached Theobald as he was standing on the far side of the hall, near the high walk that led to the palatine chapel. He was bending down to fill his goblet from one of the wine barrels. As I approached him, he stood back up to his full height, which I observed was considerably taller than his brother, Stephen. Although the hair on his head was brown, much like mine, his beard was as red as my uncle David’s. This was rather strange to me, as Stephen’s hair was far darker, whether on his head or his face. Even so, there was no mistaking the connection between them: their noses were the same shape, and they both had bright green eyes. Those eyes were now looking directly at me, and he bowed his head in respect.

  “So you are the famous Count Theobald,” I said. “It is good to finally meet after hearing so much about you.”

  “Empress Mathilda, I too am honored to speak with you,” he replied. “Would you like a drink?”

  “No, but you are kind. I hate to get to the point so quickly, but have you heard anything from your brother?” I asked.

  “Which one?”

  This was a good point, for as I noted, there were four brothers of Blois in total.

  “Ah, right you are. I should have said, have you heard anything from Boulogne? I am most eager for news of the action in Flanders.”

  “No more than you must have heard,” he replied, after taking a drink from his goblet. “Count William is hoping to draw Thierry into battle. He has laid siege to Bruges in the hope of drawing him out. Last I heard, they were somewhere near Ypres.”

  “Yes, that is what I heard as well,” I said, feeling a bit let down. “What a shame that we are no longer in Rouen, for we should have received the news faster there!”

  “Perhaps they lie in wait for news from Maine.”

  “I doubt that. Everyone knows what will happen here. But you must be glad to come to Maine, being a member of the House of Blois. You have been trying to get here for years, have you not?”

  He did not laugh at this jest about his family’s ambitions, and I wondered if I had gone too far in bringing up old history.

  “I am sorry, my lord. Have I offended you?” I asked, leaning a bit closer and lowering my voice.

  “Oh, no! I am sure if you really hoped to wound me, you could mention my brother William’s misdeeds.”

  “I hope you do not think I would stoop to that level! In any case, you can hardly control your brother.”

  “In truth, he is not as bad as everyone says,” Theobald explained, moving the goblet around with his hand as if to support his point, “but he is a source of some discomfort to our dear mother, Lady Adela.”

  “How is she?” I asked. “Still at the abbey?”

  “Yes, she loves it there. The life suits her, and she can keep a watch on her sons from afar.”

  “And your younger brother, Henry—she must desire great things from him. What a pity that he could not join us either!”

  “Well, he could hardly abandon the monks of Glastonbury.”

  “It is a great honor for him to be made abbot of that house at such a young age,” I agreed, nodding my head. “I am sure the king intends to raise him even higher.”

  “That would certainly please our mother!” he said with a laugh.

  I paused for a moment to consider my next words carefully. I had not seen my cousin Stephen in more than a year, and we had not parted on good terms. He had declared the objection of the House of Blois to my marriage with Geoffrey of Anjou. Theobald’s presence seemed to signal that not all the family was opposed, but appearances can be deceiving. I therefore proceeded carefully.

  “Count Theobald,” I began, “when last I saw your brother, we were at Westminster Hall. I believe he was very sore not to have been approached by King Henry about the alliance with Anjou, as he has normally been kept in confidence these past few years.”

  “Yes, he mentioned something about that to me, but I wouldn’t lose sleep over it,” said Theobald. “He has a temper on him. That much I will admit. But at the end of the day, he seldom acts unless provoked. No one in the House of Blois wishes to see a division over this issue, I assure you.”

  “It’s just—the support of both your brother and you, not to mention Lady Adela, is of great import to me, not only in terms of kings and kingdoms, but also personally. I would hate to think that any of you felt cheated by King Henry or myself.”

  “No one feels that way, I promise. But since you have been asking about all of us, what about you, Lady Mathilda? Are you ready for the wedding tomorrow?” he said, motioning toward the dais, where young Geoffrey still held court.

  “As ready as I am ever likely to be. I have been trying to talk to him for the past week, if only to learn if we have some common interest, but without any luck. It worries me. I knew my first husband for four years before we formally took vows, but I still feel like this one is a stranger.”

  “There will be plenty of time to talk after the wedding,” he offered.

  This was an answer I liked not, so I decided to change the subject. There was a final reason I had hoped to speak with my cousin, and it involved one of the chief subjects of gossip in Christendom. The barrels of wine were all sitting on a table, with a collection of goblets beside them. I picked one up and lifted a lever to release the
precious liquid.

  “I hear that you have provided sanctuary to Pierre Abélard in Champagne,” I said, my eyes still fixed on the pouring wine.

  “I wouldn’t say that. He founded a monastic house, yes, but he intends to turn it over to the Lady Héloïse.”

  I ceased what I was doing and turned around to face him again, my eyes wide with surprise.

  “Not the one he was caught with?!” I cried. “The one who bore his child? The scandal of all Christendom?!”

  “She’s not as bad as all that.”

  Ah! Here was some real news. Abélard and Héloïse were the most famous lovers of the day, and their tale was hardly one of righteousness. I longed to hear about this woman who was spoken of by everyone.

  “So you’ve met her then? What is she like?” I asked, taking a drink from the half full goblet.

  “Very normal, actually, except that she is most intelligent for a woman. She will make a fine abbess.”

  “What a strange love they have! Do you believe what people say: were they married?”

  “Oh yes! That is true,” he said with a nod.

  There was something else I wished to ask, but I was almost ashamed to do so. I decided to whisper it to him.

  “And is it true that Master Pierre is … you know?” I asked quietly.

  “Without his manhood? Yes, that is also true. He says it ensures that his mind belongs to the work of the Lord.”

  I laughed. “I suppose that is one way to look at it. I admire him in a way. There is not one in a thousand men who would hazard that kind of wrath for the love of a woman.”

  “I should think not!” Theobald scoffed. “What good is a man without his manhood? He hardly deserves the name!”

  I glanced back at young Geoffrey and sighed. “There are many things that make a man, cousin. I have met few true men in my day. Far too few …”

  I went to bed a bit early that night, hoping to get plenty of rest before the day ahead. How different it felt from my first wedding! Then I was still a girl, ignorant in the ways of love, afraid that I could never match my husband in stature. Now I was a woman, all too aware of love’s painful sting, and certain that my husband could never match me in stature. Upon our marriage, Geoffrey would be made count of Anjou, and I his countess. What a trifle to offer an empress! I had no intention of ever using that title. This much I could say, though: as much pain as the marriage was likely to cause me, it was as nothing compared to the marriage of Pierre Abélard.

  I was awoken quite early by the ladies and placed in a bath of rose water. Under other circumstances, this would have been lovely, but I was in a rather poor mood. Lord Geoffrey may have earned the praises of everyone else at court, but I felt I did not know him at all. More than that, I feared he would never truly know me. Was it wrong of me to want a husband with whom I felt some kind of bond of the soul? It is all well and good to say that a thing is one’s duty, but duty does not warm the heart. It does not give hope to the person who is about to make a sacrifice of themselves.

  When I was dry and a comb had been dragged through my hair at least a hundred times, they began the process of braiding, placing my tresses in knots from top to bottom. So many memories passed through my mind as they did this: Lady Beatrice attempting to make me presentable in my youth, the thousand pins that had been used at my first wedding to create a perfect holder for the royal crown, Lord Brian stroking my hair as he kissed me. A tunic of white cloth was pulled over my body, followed by a red gown. Neither of these were of particular import, for they were to be covered. My white veil was held in place with a gold band. These were lovely garments, but then again, prisons often appear lovely from the outside.

  After I had been properly covered in jewels, they brought forth the last element: a great robe of many colors which had been produced by a weaver in Bayeux and his many apprentices. It was a thing of beauty, covering me in warmth and letting off a kind of glow on account of the gold thread woven into the fabric. It had a high collar that came up behind my neck and made me look entirely royal. However, as I glanced at myself in a mirror, I wished for all the world that I could trade places with someone common and not be forced to marry into Anjou. What did I know of Anjou? What did I care for it? This was the will of the king.

  “How lovely you look!” one of my ladies said.

  “Yes, I thought it only fitting that I should look my best for the funeral,” I jested.

  “Oh, my lady! I know you meant to say ‘wedding,’ but you’ve gone and said ‘funeral.’ You must have so many things on your mind!”

  “I meant what I said,” I replied, leaving her rather perplexed.

  When I stood before the door to the cathedral, waiting to enter at the sound of the trumpets, I thought of my mother. Had she been alive, I believe she might have attempted to prevent the marriage, or at the very least to spare me from my father’s wrath. Had William lived, the marriage never would have been necessary. Had my first husband never had cancer, I might have still been living happily in the empire. Had I been a mere peasant girl, I might have been able to wed the man I loved. All of these wounds were still within me, some less healed than others. The last thing I remember thinking about before the doors opened was how I had sworn to my father that I would never marry Geoffrey of Anjou. I had taken a beating for it, and still I had gained nothing.

  I will never forgive him for that, and I will never forgive him for this, I thought.

  Within the hour, I had allowed my hand to be taken by Geoffrey of Anjou and pledged to remain faithful to him until death. I really see no need to mention much else about the ceremony: suffice it to say, the deed was done. I kept my eyes on the bishop the whole time and did my best not to glance at Brian fitz Count when I walked down the aisle. For his part, the new Count Geoffrey of Anjou spoke his vows with conviction, but there was no sign of actual affection: a smile, a word, a touch. Sadly, I could not help but see the smile on my father’s face. He clearly wished to make up for the lack of joy on the faces of the bride and groom. When the priest declared us to be husband and wife, and bid us kneel for the Mass, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to shed a few tears—silently, of course.

  I do not think I said ten words at the wedding feast. I performed my duty, and that was all. When they said “dance,” I danced. When they bid me raise a glass, I did so. But if they wanted me to be happy about it, well, that was something I simply could not do. When the eve was at its close, I made for my chamber in the upper level of the palace to brace myself for the work that lay ahead. The prospect of spending the night with young Geoffrey might have excited most of the ladies in the county, but I was not most ladies.

  At least I know what is coming this time, I thought.

  My father was determined that there be some proof of consummation, thus removing the possibility of annulment if things should go ill. Some poor woman named Emma was selected to serve as witness to the deed. How she came by that awful task, I can only imagine. I suspect they drew lots. So in the end, I am not sure who wished to be there least: myself, Count Geoffrey, or the unhappy Emma.

  There was a small ceremony in which we were all seen to the bed chamber at the end of the passage and the lords and bishops bid us good night. I assure you that every moment was misery. Then it was only the three of us locked in that room with two pieces of furniture: a large bed covered in rose petals and perfumes, and a chair for Emma. Perhaps the door was not actually locked, but it might as well have been. The first night I spent with Emperor Henry ended with me fleeing into the darkness to retrieve the physician. I could only hope and pray that things would go rather differently the second time around, for as much as I loathed the marriage, I desperately wanted children. The things we women must do that our kind might live on!

  So as it happened, the first private conversation I held with my second husband—that is, as private as a conversation can be when there is a mute observer sitting in the room—came at a time when prudence might have dictated that one should
say nothing at all. We were standing a few feet apart from each other, each dressed in a simple cloth sleeping tunic blessed by the bishop of Le Mans.

  “So, just the two of us then,” he said, pointing his finger back and forth.

  “Surely you mean the three of us?” I noted, pointing to poor Emma sitting in her chair in the corner.

  “I’m not here,” she whispered, rather against the laws of reason.

  “I don’t mind,” young Geoffrey said, moving a step closer. “Do you need anything before we begin?”

  “You are brimming with confidence for one so young,” I observed. “May I ask you something?”

  “Of course,” he replied, his face breaking into a smile.

  “Have you ever done this before?”

  He laughed. “Yes. Why? Have you?”

  I was taken aback by his question. “I assume you know this is my second marriage,” I said, beginning to doubt his intelligence.

  “Yes, but you do not have any children, so—”

  “So you thought I was still a maid?!” I scoffed.

  His eyes shifted quickly away from me and then back again. He was evidently attempting to devise a response that would justify his question. Finally, he smiled.

  “I only meant that I should hate to make assumptions about a lady’s affairs.”

  “It was not that kind of marriage, I promise you! He was sick—very sick toward the end. It made things difficult.”

  “Well, rest assured: the women I’ve been with have all sung my praises.”

  What a thing to say! I could hardly believe my ears.

  “If that is an example of the type of humor you intend to bring to this enterprise, then I recommend you think again!” I declared, crossing my arms in front of me.

  “Please! I only meant to say that whatever it is you like, I am more than happy to oblige.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” I wailed.