The Forsaken Monarch

by Amy Mantravadi

  Still seated, I turned behind me to gaze out the window at nothing in particular.

  “I do miss him greatly at times—I admit it—and I worry about him. Then again, I have been worrying about him since before he was born. This business with his imperial highness, Thomas Becket …” I turned back to look at her. “I love the king, Adela, but when he gets something in his mind, that’s an end of it. He is as restless and determined as anyone I have ever known, and that is saying something.”

  She had provoked the logs into flame and moved to retrieve an ivory comb from a box that sat on my desk.

  “Well, he was always like that, wasn’t he? Even as a boy?” she said, sitting beside me once again and beginning to take apart my braids.

  “Yes, quite. He could keep himself busy for the longest time, unlike his brothers. He would hold all his thoughts inside; then suddenly, they would burst forth like blood from a wound. I thought he might change with time, but it never came to pass. Do you remember how he used to trick us all? Once, he caught some frogs down by the river and set them loose in the kitchen.”

  “Really? I do not remember that. Were the servants very upset?”

  “How could they be? He was their master even then. Then there was the time with the snake—”

  “Oh, I hate snakes!” Adela cried. She had just started running the comb through my tresses, and as she uttered these words, she pulled with real force and I struggled not to cry out.

  “He always loved them: dreadful creatures! He knew well enough not to leave them in my chambers though. Henry always saved his more harmless tricks for me, for fear of punishment.”

  “He has always been a jester—the king.”

  “Yes, now that there is no man who can tell him no, he gets away with murder.”

  “Except for the archbishop.”

  “Pardon?” I asked, turning to face her.

  She swallowed hard, perhaps struggling to come up with an answer that would not cause offense. “The archbishop can tell him no; at least, he tries to.”

  Adela had hit very near the mark with that comment. “Time will tell what is to become of the king. I do fear what would happen if I was not here to pray for him,” I responded.

  I turned back and allowed her to finish her task.

  “We do not have to worry about that for a good long time,” she concluded, applying the final strokes. “Come! Let us get you dressed and enjoy this day on which the Lord blessed us all with your birth … for on the day of your birth, there must be mirth! That is a pleasant rhyme, is it not?”

  “Not half as pleasant as you,” I said, thus flattering her without admitting that she was no minstrel.

  As she set to work gathering my clothes for the day, I found myself thinking not of my own birth, but of another: a story I will now share with you.

  In the waning days of February, in the year of our Lord 1133, I stood heavy with child before the door of the birth chamber, ready to be shut in. We had just completed the service of thanks giving in the castle of Le Mans, and it was there that I would complete the required days until the child within me sprung forth, either to life or to death. The door stood open before me, and inside was the small room, its walls covered with dark linen and the window blocked by wood boards. Many candles shone brightly upon their golden poles, and there was incense burning on a small table in the corner to ward away bad humors. Then there was the bed in which I would be forced to spend my days. At least the red sheets and the pillows looked comfortable.

  With me stood the four women who would be my constant companions for the next few weeks—the midwife Bertha and her fellows—along with the bishop of Le Mans, the seneschal, and my husband, Count Geoffrey.

  “Do not fear, my lady,” the bishop said, patting me on the back. “The very angels of heaven watch over you. Along with all the prayers of the monks, I shall daily add my own supplications to the Almighty that you may be brought through this without distress.

  “Thank you, Bishop Guy,” I replied, thankful for any assistance I could gain, divine or otherwise. “You cannot know how thankful I am for all the prayers made on my behalf—that is, on our behalf,” I added, pointing to my enlarged belly.

  Although I had been with child for many months, I still felt overcome with wonder whenever I glanced down or felt the kick of the child. Indeed, the first kick was a source of great hope for me, for having waited so long to become pregnant, I had greatly feared that I might miscarry. I had lived every day on the edge of a knife, and now I had come to the greatest test of all: one out of which many mothers and children were not delivered. Yes, the sight of the bed before me was a subject of fear as much as anything, for I recognized that the most dangerous moment was near at hand. All my hopes hung in the balance.

  “Take this blessed image of Saint Margaret,” the bishop continued, handing it to the midwife. “Place it by your bed and, should you have any cause for alarm, look to it for comfort. She is watching over you.”

  “Again, I thank you,” I said. “Now, if you all please, I would like a moment alone with my husband.”

  They obliged and left us there for a moment, the last that we would spend together until after the babe arrived. Since learning that I was with child, Count Geoffrey had been somewhat more kindly disposed toward me, and I in turn was more forebearing with him, but it was not what one would call affection. We had simply made a truce of sorts. It was a source of some pain to me that my beloved child should be the result of a union with an unworthy man who would likely try to make the babe like himself, but there was nothing for it. The child bound us together more truly than even our marriage vows.

  Geoffrey stood in front of me, his hands clasped behind his back, a smile upon his face. This was not to be his first child, but perhaps it was the first one he truly wanted. For all the disdain I had felt toward him, I did not doubt his genuine love for the child I hoped to bear.

  “Have you written to my father?” I asked him, rubbing my belly.

  “Yes, I sent word earlier today that you were to begin your lying in.”

  “Is there any chance that he will come for the birth?”

  “In the last letter I received from him, he mentioned a host of ecclesiastical disputes and said he should be detained for some time. However, he stated in the most passionate terms how eager he was to meet this new child, how his dearest wish was about to be fulfilled, and how he could not think of anything more pleasing.”

  “That at least is something, I suppose,” I said softly.

  For a moment, I thought of everything that had taken place between my father and me since my return from the empire. I remembered how he had cast words at me like vitriol and seen no worth in anything but my womb. Now that my womb held a child, I was of some value to him. He might finally receive what he desired. But what was I to him or to the world? Still nothing—still without love. But oh, how I was ready to give love! I would shower love on my child. I would do what my father had not.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  This is a nice change of manner, I thought, my face breaking into a small smile. “Not too bad. It is just as well that I should lie down, for I can hardly walk as it is.”

  “And the child? Does he feel strong?”

  “I wish you would not say ‘he,’ for it may be a girl.”

  “What harm is there in hoping?”

  “Only this: that you may well have your hopes crushed, and we should all hate to see that.”

  He shook his head. “I can never satisfy you. But he—that is, the child—is strong?”

  “Well, my belly has been kicked so much it is likely to burst,” I remarked with a sigh. “I am not sure if that tells you what you wish to know.”

  “It’s just, I am so eager, so very eager for everything to go well.”

  Now, I have told you that our marriage had improved slightly while I was with child, but we had still not spent much time together, for I dared not travel in my condition. I had also natura
lly eschewed all physical relations, and as I was already pregnant, my husband had no reason to pursue them. I suspected he had gotten his fill elsewhere. Nevertheless, in this moment, I felt that I was seeing the best of him. He was not an entirely changed man, but perhaps he deserved to be closer to his son.

  “Here,” I said. “Feel for yourself.”

  I took his right hand and placed it upon my belly. It did not take long for the child to move, and Count Geoffrey’s eyes grew to twice their usual size.

  “By God! I can feel him! He is strong indeed!”

  “Or she.”

  “Yes, or she. Oh, but it must be a boy!” he declared joyfully. “That was the kick of a warrior—at least, a very small one.”

  For a moment, we stood silent while he continued to feel the child’s movements. He was looking down at my belly, but I was looking at his eyes, wondering what he was thinking. Finally, he raised those eyes to meet my own.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “For what?” I asked.

  “For coming back. For giving me a son.”

  Had I wished to cause injury, I could have pointed out that he already had a son born out of the bonds of wedlock, but that hardly seemed right.

  “I am ready now,” I said. “Call the ladies. I shall withdraw.”

  I then entered the chamber in which I would meet my destiny, whatever that might be.

  For almost a month, I remained in that dark room, waiting for the day I both longed for and dreaded. My first aim, of course, was to deliver a hale child. My second was to survive the experience, not only because I desired life, but because I hated to leave my child to the Angevins. I assure you that, by the time I did feel the quickening of my heart and the contraction of my bowels, I was so tired of seeing those same four people that I might have reached in and pulled that child out with my bare hands just to make an end of it!

  The midwife Bertha stood beside the bed where I lay, clutching my hand, bidding me breathe in and out. When she determined that the child was indeed coming, she said to one of the girls, “Quickly! Go inform the steward that the countess is in labor.”

  “It’s the emp—” I started to say, but was unable to continue on account of a new pain in my belly.

  “Would you like me to rub more oil on your legs?” one of the ladies asked.

  I had it in mind to tell her what she could do with her oils, but I was too weak to protest and allowed her to lather me. I was already drenched with sweat, so I am not sure what she intended to accomplish. I looked to my left at the image of Saint Margaret that sat on a table in the corner, but it lent me no strength. I thought instead of she who had borne me into the world: a world full of suffering and darkness, where a single flame of hope still burned. I clung to that hope and to her memory. I prayed to her as if she were a saint. Help me, mother. Help me to do well.

  “Here, let’s take your hair down,” Bertha said. “It may help to ease the pain.”

  “How?” I asked, in between breaths.

  Rather than answering, she continued with her work, knowing full well that I would soon be robbed of speech again.

  “How do you feel now?” she asked, once my tresses had been released.

  “Like my entrails are being pulled out of me one by one and my back is on fire,” I groaned with some difficulty.

  “Oh good! Not long now!”

  It was a few more hours before I was being held up near the edge of the bed while the midwife squatted below with a pile of cloths in her lap, ready to receive the child.

  “Let us say one last prayer to Saint Margaret,” one of the ladies offered.

  “No time for that: the child is coming!” Bertha cried. “Now, push again for me, my lady! Push with everything you have!”

  “Please, Lord, let us live!” I prayed aloud, no longer caring the least bit what any of the ladies thought of me. “Let us live to sing your praises!”

  I drew upon every ounce of power in my being. My poor body was so tired, I do not know where I found the strength, but somehow I was able to push just enough so that the midwife’s skillful hands could pull the child out. I was overcome with the pain of many years just as much as the pain of the moment. My eyes were so filled with tears that I could hardly see. Then suddenly, I was not the only one crying.

  “There you go, love. That’s perfect,” I could hear the midwife say.

  The women laid me on my back and did their best to soothe me, wiping my forehead with a damp rag and rubbing my legs. The babe was still crying, which I took to be a good sign. There were so many questions that I wanted to ask, but I was too tired to form the words. Fortunately, there was no need.

  “Empress Mathilda,” Bertha said, walking over to me with the child wrapped in her arms. “This is your son.”

  “My son? Truly? I have a son?” I asked.

  “A most hearty son,” she replied, her face beaming.

  She leaned down and pulled back the cloth a bit to reveal the very rosy head of a tiny boy, his eyes closed tight and the entire face looking as if someone had pressed against it, which of course was the case. He was a strange looking, alien creature, and yet he was perfect—so very perfect that I was filled with a delight far beyond all the words I knew in Norman, English, Latin, and German. There are no words sufficient for perfect joy.

  “Can I hold him?” I asked, desperate to touch this miracle that had come into my life.

  “I should think so, yes.”

  The ladies helped me to sit up and then, with the greatest of care, Bertha placed my son within my arms. He was so light! Yet already I felt the weight of the world was on him, even as it was on me.

  “He has red hair,” I observed, stroking it with care.

  “Just like his father!” one of the ladies said.

  “Just like my mother,” I quickly added, for I much preferred this comparison.

  “What will his name be?” Bertha asked.

  Much as I hated to do so, I tore my eyes from my child and looked up at her. “His name?”

  “Yes, at the christening: what will he be called?”

  It may seem strange to think that I had given this question little consideration. After all, royal names are a matter of great import. I had simply been so intent on delivering a child—any child, male or female—that little else had passed my mind over the last seven months.

  “I will have to speak with Count Geoffrey,” I said, but then looking back down at that precious face, I answered, “Henry. His name is Henry.”

  “After your father?”

  “And my husband—that is, my first husband.” I said this because I had respected the emperor far more than I did my father in that moment.

  They all agreed that it was a most excellent name, then at my request they left me alone with my son. When the door had closed, I leaned down and touched my lips to his warm forehead. He smelled like—well, not like anything I knew, but it was a wonderful smell. I suppose it was the smell of Henry.

  “I love you, my son,” I whispered. “I love you more than anything in this world.”

  He made no response, but I was willing to forgive him for that. I continued to stroke his head as he shifted to the side and his breathing became more even. He seemed to be just as weary as I was.

  “Go to sleep, little one. I don’t mind,” I said.

  As if he understood my words, he proceeded to fall asleep in my arms. How sweet was that face! I felt I could gaze upon it for the rest of my days.

  “Just so you know, Henry,” I whispered, “from this day forward, everyone on earth will try to claim you, for you belong to all of your people. Very soon, they will take you from me and make you into a knight, a scholar, a king—and that is what I want you to be. But remember always: you are my son. You have the blood of the Normans, the Angevins, and the royal house of England, but you are my son, through and through, and no matter what happens, that will never change.”

  The news of my son’s birth was treated almost as the second
coming of our Savior. The people took to the streets with great rejoicing and the church bells rang throughout the evening. Drogo had somehow been able to purchase a box full of fruit from the South and presented it to me as a special winter treat in honor of the occasion. In the hall below, there was such a feast as had never been seen in Le Mans. I heard there were some people weeping with pleasure, which I might have deemed rather foolish were I not so overwhelmed with joy myself.

  I was forced to remain in that room for another week, right up until the christening, but it was more pleasant as I had two daily visits with Henry. The ladies were so intent on keeping him free of disease that the first time Count Geoffrey saw the boy was when we were about to take him to the cathedral of Saint Julian. He demanded to hold little Henry throughout the procession, much to the midwife’s dismay, and when the boy was raised from the font, it was his father who cried, “Behold, the future ruler of England, Normandy, and Anjou!”

  Those were happy days, and for once my husband and I were on good terms, united in our joy at Henry’s arrival. I had received warnings that things would not be as smooth after the birth as I supposed, but it did not come to pass. I had the nurse and Lady Agnes to help me, and there was little else to occupy my time unless I desired it. My spirits were as high as they had ever been. I treasured the moments I had with my son, and I must admit, I loved how people seemed to treat me with a good deal more respect after I had done the one thing women ought to do.

  I soon received word from King Henry that he wished me to ride north as soon as possible, for he was most eager to see the child with his own eyes. Therefore, I consented to make my stay in Normandy for a time, and along with a small company led by Sir Drogo, I arrived in Rouen before Michaelmas. Because I had the child with me, I spent the whole time in a carriage with Lady Agnes and the wet nurse, Joselyn. I had enjoyed no private moment to myself for a fortnight, so when I saw the streets of Rouen passing by out the window, I said a silent prayer of thanksgiving to God.

  The carriage entered through the castle gate and pulled into the courtyard, along with the knights who had accompanied us. I clutched young Henry in my arms. He was dressed in white linen and had by that point filled out a bit and taken on a more normal color. I was also able to see the green of his eyes.