The Forsaken Monarch

by Amy Mantravadi

  Oh, why had I ever permitted my husband to ride north and reveal his position! I suppose I could not have stopped him if he was set upon his course, but I could have brought some pressure to bear. Suddenly, my greatest concern was not that I might not be able to take anything from Stephen, but that he was about to take something from me. With as much money as he had stolen from the king’s treasure, Stephen might have bought every able man in Christendom for his cause, and I feared what would happen were he to succeed in pressing into the small bit of Normandy we controlled, or even crossing the border into Angevin territory. My own life would be in danger as well as those of my children.

  I wrote to my husband again warning him of the traitor’s intention. More than all, I told him in no uncertain terms that the princes Henry and Geoffrey must be moved south, and that William and I must make our escape if it came to it.

  Count Geoffrey, I have received news that the usurper, Count Stephen, is marching to the south and west with a large company of men and that he means to either ambush you or make straight for my position to seize myself or our beloved William. I am most afraid for us both, and I do not intend to remain here and wait for that foul beast to spring his trap. If we hear that they have moved south of that line that might stretch from the abbey of Bec to Lisieux, we shall both flee from this place. I have written to our household in Le Mans and ordered them to move our sons to the fortress of Angers, and I advise you to do the same. I bid you, husband, if you encounter the army of Stephen, fight him with all the strength in your being, knowing that if you should fail, there will be little standing between him and your children.

  In the days before Easter, one of my spies reported to us that Stephen had indeed passed south of Lisieux and was just two days’ march from Argentan. I could not wait any longer. We arranged ourselves in two bands: one led by Alexander de Bohun that would carry Prince William and Adela to the monastery of Mount Saint Michael, and another with Drogo and myself that would ride for Aquitaine. Though our ally the duke of Aquitaine had lately died on pilgrimage to Compostela, I had reason to believe they might harbor me for the time being.

  I will never forget how I stood in the castle yard that morning, watching the men gather their things and mount their horses. I did not know how long we had before Stephen would arrive in Argentan: perhaps a day or two, or maybe only hours. The rising sun was not a sign of hope to me that morn. A carriage had been made ready for the transport of William, and at length Adela came out of the front gate of the castle with him lying in her arms, wrapped in a blanket. She walked over to where I was standing, and I could see that there were tears forming in her eyes even as they were in mine.

  “Have no fear, my lady,” she said. “You know I love Prince William as if he were my own, even as I love you like a sister. I will guard him with my life. We will make it safely to the monastery—you’ll see!”

  “Ever a fount of hope,” I replied, then pressed my forehead against hers and held them both in my arms.

  We stood there for a moment in the morning light, the fear and sadness flowing out of us in our tears.

  “You had best be going,” I finally said. “Here, let me take him while you climb in.”

  With great care, she placed him in my arms, and I looked down at his little eyes. He seemed happy: no lines of fear were written upon his brow as they were on mine. How precious was the life of that little boy! He was my sacred trust.

  “The wet nurse said she prefers to ride on horseback,” Adela told me, having taken her place in the carriage. “I suppose she must enjoy the wind in her hair!”

  Either that or she intends to flee the company at the first sign of trouble, I thought. I told myself it was no matter, for another wet nurse could be found if necessary. Everything was a source of fear for me that morning.

  “Be a good boy for Adela,” I said to William. “You go to live among good people who will safeguard you. When the time is right, I promise I will see you again. I love you, William.”

  I leaned down and kissed his forehead, attempting to create a memory of his sweet smell, then handed him to my maid. As the carriage pulled away and slipped through the gate, I placed my hands over my heart and wept. I feared very much that the only place I would see my son again was in the hereafter. But there was truly no time to stand there and weep, for the usurper was on the prowl. Within a few minutes, I had mounted my own horse and sat waiting to depart. Drogo rode up beside me.

  “I am so sorry that you were forced to part with another son,” he said quietly, so that only I could hear. “There have been too many separations of late. Are we ever to be free of the cruelties of life?”

  “We will have time to be philosophers later,” I told him. “Come, let us flee before Count Stephen is here to join our discussion.”

  Within a few hours, we had passed within the relative safety of the forest and stopped for a moment by a stream that would have been pleasant in other circumstances. The trees rose high above it on either side, their branches swaying softly in the wind, and a chorus of birds was chirping. It was strange to think that such a fine day should be the source of so much misery. Didn’t nature itself know of and share in my pain? Not for the first time in my life, I felt as if I was living in a kind of shadow world beside the real one.

  There were many rocks down by the stream. As the knights moved to gather water and their horses also bowed down to drink, I sat on one of the larger stones and tried to keep the men from seeing that I was crying once again, for I had no desire for them to witness such a display of female sorrow. How I hated my cousin in that moment! In my mind, I saw Count Stephen snatching my infant son and ripping his small body apart. This thought only caused me to weep with greater force.

  “Mother Mary, watch over him!” I prayed. “Kýrie, eléison! Chríste eléison!”

  Suddenly, as if it were an answer to prayer, we heard a cry in the distance. The men who had bent over the water quickly rose and pulled their weapons out of their sheaths, and a few of the horses also stood upright and raised their ears. The noise was off to my left, coming from the direction of the path we had just abandoned. By instinct, I began looking around for Drogo. I saw him behind me, lowering his helm as he ran up the incline with his sword drawn.

  “Who goes there?” he called. “Declare yourself!”

  Some of the brush below the trees moved, and a single rider broke out, clearly out of breath. He bore the standard of Count William of Ponthieu, and I recognized him as one of the men we had left behind that morning.

  “Lower your weapons!” I commanded the knights.

  The messenger alighted and handed the reins to Drogo, then walked down toward me.

  “Empress Mathilda,” he said, “I hoped I would find you. We received word just after you left: Stephen’s forces have turned back! They are not to march south after all!”

  “What?!” I cried, hardly able to believe it. “Why? Did they say?”

  “Apparently, they were all camped at Livarot when a dispute broke out between the Flemings and the Normans. Some men were killed, and now they say they will not fight together. They were forced to retreat, my lady. You are out of danger!”

  “Oh, thank God!” I said. “Thank God, thank God, thank God!”

  I dropped to my knees and gave way to the tears. Drogo bounded down and sank to my level—which was saying something for him— to embrace me. I felt very much as if I had been rescued out of the fires of hell.

  “Should I tell Count William you will return?” the messenger asked.

  I released Drogo and wiped the tears from my eyes.

  “Yes,” I replied, “and send word for my son William to be brought back as well. He shall be safe there, at least for now.”

  “Very good, my lady,” he concluded.

  Drogo helped me to my feet and we made ready to depart once again for the North. How much easier that journey would be without the phantom of death hanging over us all! As I was about to mount my steed, I reached in my s
atchel and pulled out the amber moth that I had placed there. For some time, it had been a source of frustration to me as much as comfort, but somehow I felt in that moment that it had helped to deliver me from danger, and I loved it again.

  “You bring good fortune after all!” I whispered, kissed it, and returned it to its place.

  XXII

  November 1166

  Rouen, Normandy

  I have written so much to you of my sons in their early days that it seems only right that I should record for you what took place today. You have heard of the births of my three boys—Henry, Geoffrey, and William—and the pain with which they entered this world, uncertain of their inheritance. It has been my unhappy lot to watch two of them pass from this world before their time, and now I am left with only my eldest: the boy for whom I sacrificed so much.

  No boy is he now, but a man among men. Even I must bow the knee before him, for that is what happens when you give birth to the king of England. He sits upon the most powerful throne in Christendom. I did not foresee it in those dark days, when everything seemed to be lost. Indeed, I did not foresee it even when the days became brighter, but he has made a name for himself that could equal Charles the Great, by the strength of his will holding together an empire that stretches from the northern to the southern sea.

  Yesterday, King Henry II came again to Rouen and sent word across the river for me to visit him. I rose from my bed as soon as the sun showed its face and made ready to depart, arriving at the castle in about the ninth hour—the same castle in which I first met Geoffrey of Anjou and gave birth to my second son. I entered the palace, where I spoke with the steward and bid him bring me to the king, but he replied only that his lord was in the middle of some delicate matter and must not be disturbed. He brought out a chair and I waited for half an hour in the entry way where I had once been shoved against the stairs by my father. Every stone of that place is filled with memory, which is part of why I usually avoid it: not all the memories are pleasant.

  I was finally led up the stairs and down the passage that contains the private chambers. We entered the king’s reception room—a place where I hardly set foot in the reign of my father—and I was told to have a seat while my son finished his business. As I sat there, I began to hear sounds that troubled me greatly: the distant cries of someone in great physical distress.

  I rose and walked back into the passage. Hearing the sound again, I moved toward the source of the noise, which seemed to come from my old bed chamber. I had not been in there in many years, for the room was not fine enough for Queen Eleanor and she had given it over for storage. However, based on what was happening behind the closed door, someone had clearly found another use for it. I was about to lean my ear against the wall, when the door suddenly opened and the king stepped out.

  The mere sight of my son is enough to set the fear of God in lesser men. He ended up quite tall, though I’m not sure how. He certainly does not get his height from me, and his father was not exactly a giant. Yet with his long limbs and bright red hair, he is the kind of man who would be the center of attention even if he was not wearing a crown. Still, he is my son, and when my son does something naughty, I do not simply let it pass.

  “Ah, mother!” he said, shutting the door before I could see anything. “You are here rather early.”

  “What was that noise?” I asked, an edge to my voice.

  He looked back at the door and then at me. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “No, there was a noise, just in there,” I argued, pointing toward the room whence he had come.

  “Perhaps your hearing is not what it used to be,” he said, stepping between myself and the door as if to make me forget it.

  I crossed my arms and gave him a stern look. “I would say my hearing is better than yours, but I suspect you have some reason to deny it. That wouldn’t be the papal messenger that everyone is talking about, now would it? The one who went missing?”

  Ah! I had caught him out: I could see it in his face. He had the same look in his eyes that he used to get as a boy when I caught him and Geoffrey with their fingers in a pie.

  “So what if it is?” he replied.

  No sooner had he asked the question, than I heard a cry from inside the room that sent a chill through my bones.

  “Good Lord!” I said. “What have you done to him? It sounds like they must be plucking his eyes out!”

  “Nothing of the sort! They are merely scalding him a bit,” he explained, as if it was a point of no consequence.

  I shook my head. “And what do you hope to achieve by that? A boy of ten, perhaps eleven years, no? What could you learn from him?”

  “He already gave up the man who sent him, a Master Herbert something or other. But of course, he is in the pay of—”

  “Thomas Becket. Yes, I could have told you that without being scalded. What crime is this boy said to have committed?”

  “He irks me,” he said rather weakly. From the slight droop in his shoulders, I could tell that he knew just as much as I that it was a poor justification.

  “My lord, had I cut off one of your toes every time you irked me, you would have been lame before you could walk. Now, I bid you, let this boy go. He is not the enemy.”

  “You cannot command me!” he whined, sounding not unlike his three-year-old self. “I am your king!”

  “Yes, and I am your mother. You love your mother, don’t you?”

  Ah, maternal guilt! The most powerful force for good on this earth! That look of defiance gave way, and with one last roll of the eyes, he opened the door and called, “Germain! Let him be for now. We can hang him by the thumbs tomorrow.” He then turned back to me and asked, “Happy?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Here, let’s go into the other room,” he said, closing the door. “I hate the sound of that groaning.”

  He led me back into the chamber I had been in earlier, which had only two chairs and a table next to the hearth. We sat and I poured some wine for both of us, then handed it to him.

  “I am so glad you have come. Will you be staying long?” I asked.

  “No, I make for Aumale, where I am to fix an annuity upon Count Matthew of Boulogne.”

  I almost spit out the sip of wine I had taken. “Why should you pay money to that weasel?”

  “Because the count of Flanders demands it.”

  “I thought no one could command you,” I replied with a smile.

  “Yes, but as you know, he married Countess Marie of Boulogne.”

  “You mean Sister Marie, the nun whom he seized from her abbey and forced into marriage.”

  “She had no dowry, so it falls to me to provide him with a source of income.”

  He leaned back in his chair and drank deeply from his goblet. I was quite offended, for I did not see why men who stole brides should receive anything but a blow to the head. Indeed, when my second son, Geoffrey, had tried such a thing, I refused to speak to him for a few months.

  “I see. And how much will we be paying the rapist?” I inquired.

  “A thousand pounds a year.”

  “A thousand pounds a year?!”

  “Yes, that is what I said.”

  “I do not see why he should be rewarded for such a barbarous act,” I complained, shaking my head in dismay.

  “The theft of wealthy brides is one of the foundations of the modern nobility.”

  “Yes, well …”

  Here I should mention that the woman my second son attempted to abduct was Eleanor of Aquitaine, right at the time she had been lately divorced from the French king. Yes, that is the same Eleanor who my first son married shortly thereafter—the same woman who became Queen Eleanor of England and brought all her lands into the Angevin Empire.

  “I did not steal Queen Eleanor!” the king declared, showing a flash of anger. In general, my Henry is not given to rages, but when he does become angry, there is no one within a hundred leagues who doubts it. “It was your other son who tried
to do that. She was eager to marry me, and why not? Who wouldn’t want to be queen of this fair realm? Of course, you never liked her.”

  “That is not true!” I objected. Indeed, it seemed a rather harsh blow, well past anything I had earned.

  “You never liked her because she got her pick of a husband and you did not.”

  “How could you say that?!”

  “She got her divorce. You were left in misery.”

  “You are so far off the mark, you are in danger of shooting your own horse!” I charged, though in truth he was quite close to the mark.

  He laughed loudly. “Oh, my dear mother! Have I irked you? Perhaps you wish to lock me up?”

  “Fine,” I said, crossing my arms firmly across my chest. “I admit that Queen Eleanor and I have not always been the best of friends. But what about you? When was the last time you saw your wife?”

  “When I sent her back to England with Prince Richard. She was none too happy about it. I can assure you of that!” Here he seemed to smile, as if he delighted in causing her annoyance.

  “Why did you send her away? The two of you hardly speak any more.”

  “She was angry that I wished to settle Aquitaine upon Prince Henry.” Here he meant his eldest son.

  “And she wants it for Richard?” I asked, a bit surprised.

  “Yes. She would give everything to that boy if she had the chance. I don’t know what she sees in him that is any better than the others.”

  “Well, mothers do tend to have one son who is most favored.”

  “Yes, we know William was yours, though you did him an ill turn by denying him Ireland.”

  “Do not speak of him, I beg you!” I pleaded.

  He creased his brow. “Why ever not?”

  My mood had shifted rather quickly, and I was feeling again the pain of loss. “I still mourn William. He wanted to marry Lady Isabel more than anything and Archbishop Thomas forbade it out of spite. You could have fought for him, but you did nothing.”