The Forsaken Monarch

by Amy Mantravadi

  “I was not the one who broke the peace,” I argued. “Let his sin be on his own head.”

  “Everyone falls into sin from time to time, my lady—even archbishops.” Here he winked, amusing me greatly.

  “You can say that again, with all due respect. I mean, you seem a very decent fellow, but I have known too many archbishops.”

  “Granted. But if the houses of Normandy and Anjou are to survive, your union must live on as well. Consider that no marriage is perfect. Can you not give him a chance to redeem himself?”

  He did have a point. Forgiveness was the Christian way, and my best path toward having children and a real future was still through Count Geoffrey. However, I had to somehow ensure that our marriage would at least be tolerable—that my husband would not bring shame on me at every turn.

  “And what will keep him from falling into error in the future?” I asked, as we both began to walk forward again.

  “The very knowledge that by doing so, he will endanger all you have worked to build.”

  “I still don’t know,” I said. “Archbishop, I respect your loyalty, but these are not my people. I am not sure that Count Geoffrey even knows where England is, let alone cares about it. He only cares for the dukedom of Normandy. I fear that all he sees in this marriage is the chance to better himself at my expense.”

  “Use caution, my lady!” he entreated. “I would sooner say that Count Geoffrey cares too much than that he does not care enough. He knows you are in this together, and he wants the same thing you do: for your children to rule over both Normandy and England.”

  I was forced to admit to myself that he had a point. I did at least believe that my husband wanted children who would rule, though I still felt he was too locked into the Angevin way of thinking to value England as it deserved.

  “Well, if I do give him another chance, and it goes ill, I hope you will return here so I can say I told you so!” I declared.

  “I pray there will be no need for that, Your Highness, but should the time come, I shall be willing to receive your censure. Even so, I will vouch for your husband that he has a good heart. Give him a chance to show it.”

  I hoped the archbishop was right: truly, I did. But at the same time, I doubted that there was much goodness within the heart of Count Geoffrey of Anjou. He seemed to care about himself far more than anything or anyone else.

  “Tell me, archbishop: did you bring any wine with you from Tours?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “I have one case, and will happily leave it behind if you desire it.”

  “Oh, it’s not for me. It’s for my knight.”

  “Sir Drogo? Yes, I met him. I was surprised to hear that he carries on a regular correspondence with the archbishop of Magdeburg.”

  “Archbishop Norbert? Yes, they met in Germany. I believe he made quite an impression on Drogo.”

  “How marvelous that he has stayed with you all these years! I wish I could keep a clerk for that long!”

  “Yes, but that is just the thing, archbishop: I have known great loyalty in men, so when it is absent, it offends me greatly.”

  “Understood,” he concluded.

  At the archbishop’s request, I did make an effort to forgive. Not that I wanted to, of course. It was a matter of cold necessity. I may have wished as Brünnhilda to plunge the world into flames and take the gods down with me, but there is a reason such tales only appear in mythology. We are not the gods and goddesses. We are frail creatures of dust, and we must make a life of it if we can. I needed a son to ensure my position: to earn me respect and grant me the authority to control my own affairs. And as terrible fate would have it, the only way for me to even have a chance of achieving that goal was to attempt to make something positive of my marriage—or at least to make it fruitful.

  So I went to my husband and we made amends, and everything continued on as it should have at the start. I had my doubts, certainly, but he did his best to assuage them. There was no repeat of the incident I had witnessed the past summer, and I was determined to at least bear with him, even if I could not like him. The months came and went, passing from autumn into winter and then back into spring. In time, my husband’s behavior was no longer my chief concern. Nor was I that worried about having to sleep with him, for I had learned when I was still young how to play the right tricks with my mind that would allow me to endure: I used to imagine that I was wandering through a field of lavender, my hair flowing freely in the wind, gazing upon mountains like the ones I had seen years before in Bavaria, with no one in the world to trouble me.

  Rather, I was saddened that I was not with child. A whole year, and no offspring to show for it! I wondered if the rumors were true: if I really was barren after all. My father left Normandy and returned to England, and I could not help but wonder if he had given up waiting for an heir to be born. I prayed it was not the case. If my father became convinced that I was barren, then not only would I be an object of ridicule, but he might change his mind and appoint someone else as heir: someone who had already demonstrated the ability to produce offspring. All I had endured for the sake of my marriage would come to nothing. These grim possibilities were a torment for my mind.

  The one person who was a good support, as always, was Drogo. He helped to introduce me to the other household knights, and when the weather was properly warm, we had an archery tournament: nothing official, but enough to raise the spirits. Count Geoffrey took part as well, as did Lady Agnes and others of the ladies in waiting. I do not remember who won, but the preparation allowed me to improve my shooting to the point where I gained a bit of confidence.

  In August 1129, my husband announced that he would be making a journey to Fontevrault Abbey to visit his sister. I thought nothing of it at the time, even when he did not ask me to accompany him, for the counts of Anjou have long favored that establishment. As it so happened, he had not been gone a day when I decided I might like to join him and instructed Lady Agnes and Drogo to ready my things for travel. It had occurred to me that accompanying my husband on official visits was probably the sort of thing I ought to do if I hoped to have a good marriage. It was less than two days before we reached the abbey, and we quite surprised them all when my carriage arrived in the courtyard along with six knights on horses.

  As we had not sent a messenger ahead, there was no one in the yard in front of the church save for a company of nuns, perhaps on their way to prayer, who paused for a moment to observe our arrival but then carried on with their task.

  “Not much of a welcoming party,” Drogo noted, as I climbed out of the carriage. “I should have sent someone ahead. I am sorry, my lady.”

  “Think nothing of it,” I assured him.

  In front of us stood the church. There was a building to the right, which judging from the smoke rising from a chimney likely contained the kitchens and refectory. Connected to that was one of what I assumed were a pair of cloisters holding the rooms of the monks and nuns, for Fontevrault was a joint community.

  “Perhaps we should just enter the church and see if we can find Abbess Pétronille,” I said to Drogo, then turned and told the rest of the knights, “Take the horses to the stable, but leave two here for a moment in case there is a need to fetch anything in the village.”

  As the rest of them busied themselves with my commands, Drogo and I walked forward into the abbey church, then departed to the right into the first cloister that was attached to the kitchens. We had just entered the square walk when we saw Abbess Pétronille rushing toward us from the left. She had evidently been informed of our presence.

  “Countess Mathilda!” she cried, attempting to catch her breath. “We did not know you were coming as well!” Here she clasped her hands together and bowed.

  “Forgive me, dear abbess, but I got it in my head to visit your fine halls, and we came so quickly that I saw no point in sending a herald. Also, if you do not mind, it’s Empress Mathilda.”

  “No, I do not mind—either the title or the su
rprise,” she assured me. “Indeed, it is a lovely surprise. Allow me to show you to our guest rooms.”

  She placed her right hand upon my left shoulder, while her left hand gestured toward the passage that led down to the refectory.

  “First, where is Count Geoffrey?” I asked. “I should let him know I am here.”

  “We can send someone for you. There is no need for that,” she said hastily.

  “But my ladies will take my things—”

  “Really, madam, he cannot see you right now.”

  These words were more direct: almost forceful. The abbess still had a smile on her face, but it had grown rather strained.

  “Why ever not?” I asked, growing annoyed.

  She paused for a moment. “He is at confession.”

  Now, I had no doubt in my mind that Count Geoffrey had done many things worth confessing, but the amount of time it took her to come up with that answer was nothing short of suspicious. I cast my eyes to the left, in the direction from which the abbess had come, and noticed the fear that appeared in her eyes.

  “Sir Drogo, come with me,” I commanded.

  “But my lady, I really must protest!” the abbess called after us, as we took off down the passage.

  “What are we looking for?” Drogo asked me.

  “I’m not sure, but they will be most unhappy to see us,” I replied.

  We made it to the other side of the cloister and entered what seemed to be the infirmary wing. Sure enough, as we turned the corner, we almost crashed into a rather startled nun carrying some bloody cloths.

  “Countess!” she cried, not stopping to bow. “Surely you do not want to go down there! Are you lost?”

  I took one look at the cloths in her hands and made up my mind.

  “No, that is precisely where I want to go, and it’s Empress Mathilda!” I declared. I then turned back to face Drogo. “He’s in the infirmary for sure.”

  “Are you sure you want to see what is in there, my lady?” he asked.

  I scoffed. “Honestly, Drogo, how long have we known each other?!”

  At this, he nodded his head. “Very well, lead on! Let’s catch the bastard at it!”

  We passed by a few more people who begged us to turn back, which confirmed my suspicion. Then I heard a familiar voice, and opened a door behind which I assumed I would find my husband deflowering an entire flock of sisters. What I found instead was far worse. Upon the bed lay a young woman whom I had never seen before, having clearly just given birth. Beside the bed stood my husband, with a babe in his arms.

  In that moment, I felt as if I had been pierced with a dagger. Truly, if my husband had been intending to wound me, he could hardly have picked a better way to do it. He had hit me at precisely the point of pain. For more than a decade, I had longed to have a child. I had felt the shame of not producing one. I had resigned myself to a marriage I never wanted all in the hope that I could at least have a child. And there my husband was, standing there holding a child, but it was not mine. I wanted to scream, weep, flee, fight. There was a fury inside me that wanted to wound as I had been wounded.

  “What is this?!” Drogo cried, his eyes filled with anger even as my own.

  There was no need for the question, for the answer was plain enough. The young woman rolled over weakly. “Are you the empress?”

  “Are you the whore?!” I replied, though in truth that was less than gracious. She had at least called me empress.

  “Is that your child?!” Drogo yelled at my husband.

  “Yes, it is my son,” he replied.

  Count Geoffrey looked afraid: more afraid than he had been the night I caught him with the two strumpets. He must have seen the fire in my eyes—either that or he was rightly afraid of Drogo’s fists. He handed the babe to its mother and stepped between them and us. He need not have worried: I had but one target.

  “How could you?!” I cried as loud as I could, not caring who heard. “After I forgave you—after everything I have done! How could you do this?!”

  “I did warn you not to come,” said the abbess, who I saw had found her way into the room and was standing behind me.

  “Yes, thank you, Mother Pétronille. I am pleased to see that the nuns of Fontevrault have nothing better to do with their time than provide harbor to adulterers!” I replied with contempt.

  “That is not fair. I sent her here so that she would be cared for, and they showed her great mercy, even as they have shown to me,” Count Geoffrey argued.

  I looked back at him again. His lips were pursed and he was breathing heavily, as was I. Here was a boy who could barely grow a beard, and yet he had hurt me so deeply that I felt as if I would explode. I hated him. I hated that he was able to hurt me, but most of all I hated that I was bound to him. He had violated his vow to be faithful to me. He had broken the covenant of our marriage, so much so that I despaired of it entirely.

  “Such a strange word, mercy,” I said. “How many times have I pleaded to God for mercy, only to be denied? How many times did I beg him for a son? How many times did I beg him to spare me from this hateful marriage? I granted you mercy, and you have returned it with treachery. Now that you have your son, you clearly have no need of me, so I will be going. Take a good look as I walk away, for this is the last time you shall ever set eyes on me!”

  “What do you mean?!” he cried.

  “I will write to Pope Honorius and demand a divorce!”

  “God forbid!” the abbess protested.

  “You wouldn’t dare!” Count Geoffrey said.

  “Oh, yes I would!” I declared. “Come, Drogo! We are leaving.”

  It is a testament to Drogo’s character that despite everything that had just happened and the extreme nature of my proclamation, he did not hesitate to follow me out of the room. He never thought for a moment about abandoning me in that dark moment. Yes, it was his duty, but in contrast to the behavior of my husband, it meant something. We both departed the room and began walking back the way we had come, surprising several nuns who were folding cloths.

  He leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Will you really seek a divorce?”

  “As God is my witness! This marriage never should have happened. It is a tragedy. No, a humiliation!”

  “Yes, but will the pope grant it to you?” he asked, as we made the turn into the cloister.

  “If there is any justice in this world. But even if he will not, I would rather rot than come back here again!”

  Nuns continued to pass us, their eyes wide, but I could not care less what they thought. The business would be public soon enough.

  “But where will we go?” Drogo asked, as we entered the church once again.

  “To Normandy: Argentan first, then perhaps to Rouen. I need to get out of Anjou and return to the land of my fathers. If I stay here, they will try to control me.”

  “I fear your father will not approve,” he said, perhaps attempting to warn me that there was another who sought to control me.

  “He never approves of anything I do, but enough is enough! The worst he can do is choose another heir. I admit that would be terrible, but nothing is worse than this!”

  We had made it back to the yard and were approached by another one of my knights. “We put everything away, my lady, just as you asked!” he announced with a smile on his face.

  “Bring my personal items back!” I declared. “We are leaving this instant.”

  “All of us?” he stammered.

  “No, Sir Drogo and myself, on those two horses there.”

  Yes, happily the two animals were still standing in the yard, just as I had commanded.

  “Are you sure about this, my lady?” Drogo asked.

  “Yes, and if you don’t stop asking questions, I will go on my own!”

  It was one of the few times I had seen fear in Drogo’s eyes, for like me he had no idea how things would turn out.

  “Do you wish to stay?” I inquired.

  “No, my lady,” he replied. �
�I would follow you into the fires of hell. I just hope I am fit for the task.”

  Within minutes, we left that place and set out to the north. It would take a few days to reach Argentan, and after that nothing was certain.

  “Mercy,” I muttered to myself. “Mercy is for the humble.”

  XVI

  When I departed from the abbey of Fontevrault in great haste, with only Drogo at my side, I was in such a state of anger that I had not given much thought to how my departure would be perceived or what threats there might be to my safety. All I knew was that I had to leave Anjou, and I had to do so at once.

  My first thought was to ride for Alençon, the most southern of the castles in Normandy. However, this would require us to pass through the whole of the county of Maine, that region which had been so often contested by the houses of Anjou and Blois. Even were we to go at a full run, stopping only to sleep each night, it might take us three days to get there. My primary concern was to flee the Angevin lands before news of my departure did, for once it was told far and wide that the heir of the king of England and duke of Normandy had left her husband and was riding abroad without a proper guard, a host of persons with ill intentions might find reason to pursue me: either to force me back to my husband or kidnap me for ransom.

  It was therefore necessary for us to escape the notice of others as much as possible until we were out of the Angevin lands, and to move at a quick pace that would keep us ahead of any messengers. Fortunately, among the few items we had grabbed to take with us before our flight were a few spare clothes and a pouch of gold. We stopped to change in a wood after about two hours’ ride, and then used the gold that eve to rent a pair of rooms at a small inn. Our hosts were no doubt curious as to why a noble woman should be traveling alone with a single guard, but I told them I was a lady of Dieppe who had made a pilgrimage to the cathedral of Tours.

  We continued on in that manner, not stopping at the royal palace of Le Mans. I might have sought the refuge of an abbey, but there were none along our route. After some bad weather, we came into the duchy of Normandy on the fourth day and begged the hospitality of the castellan of Alençon. I told him I had been so eager to see my home land again—indeed, sick with longing to the point of weeping—that I had taken off without any preparation. I do not know if he truly believed me, but he feared me enough to offer a dozen of his own men to accompany me to Argentan, where I finally stopped to properly rest.