The king did not respond at once, but stopped to fill both our glasses again. He then sat back and breathed deeply. “What could I have done? There was the problem of consanguinity.”
I scoffed. “It would not have been difficult to get the papal dispensation. Oh, how William loved that woman! It broke his heart, I tell you. That is why he is dead now.”
We had waded very deep into my own heart. At the beginning, when he was only my son’s chancellor, I had loathed Thomas Becket because I thought him too worldly and hungry for the kingdom of this earth, much like several bishops I had known in former days. When he was made archbishop of Canterbury by my eldest son and then refused the marriage of my youngest son, I was given a second reason to loath Thomas Becket. To me, he was not a guardian of the Church, but a man thoroughly convinced of his own import who would stop at nothing to conserve his own power.
“I do not blame you for hating Archbishop Thomas,” King Henry said, rather avoiding the issue.
“I do not hate him,” I said, though it was more a lie than the truth. “That I leave to you: you who were so intent on promoting him, even though he was not fit to wear the cloth. I warned you, Henry. I warned you! And now he has excommunicated half your counselors and would have done the same to you were you not on your sick bed!”
“I was not really sick,” he said, winking at me.
“Yes, a clever ruse, but he will soon be wise to your methods. Tell me, my son: what are you going to do? Remember what happened to my first husband! You do not want to place your eternal soul in danger, not to mention your kingdom.”
He nodded in agreement. “I have sent John of Oxford, the dean of Salisbury, to meet with Pope Alexander and have his office restored. Then I will have him gather evidence against Maître Becket. Bishop Gilbert is working with me as well. None of the English bishops favor Thomas. They see through his words and judge him by his actions.”
I watched as he took another drink. So many thoughts and feelings passed through me. I hated that this boy that I had raised had ended up in this position, at war with a powerful man of God, if indeed he was not a man of Satan. I longed for peace in my old age, but I suppose such things are not granted to mothers of kings. Where had I gone wrong with my sons? Had I left them alone too long? That was always my fear when I entered the fight against Stephen. I had gone to defend their inheritance, and they turned into Angevins rather than Normans. Well, perhaps Henry has a bit of the Norman about him, but there is nothing of my own mother: nothing English.
“Well, I hope you are right,” I concluded, “but I bid you safeguard the integrity of the Church. It is the archbishop who is in the wrong, not the Church itself.”
He bowed his head. “As always, empress mother, I shall cherish your counsel.”
In his own way, I knew that he was telling me to cease giving advice. “Come here and give your mother a kiss,” I said, extending my hands.
He leaned in to embrace me, then returning to his chair, I noticed a sadness in his eyes for which I could not account.
“What is it?” I asked. “Is something the matter?”
He folded his hands and stared at the floor, evidently considering whether or not to confess. This caused me to fear the worst, and I was a bit relieved when he said, “I met a woman.”
“A woman?”
“Yes, at Woodstock: the fairest thing on God’s green earth.”
“Oh, Henry. You’re not sleeping with her, are you?”
“Well, not now! I’m in Normandy!” he replied, thereby confirming that he had had her many times over.
“I wondered,” I said, shaking both my head and my finger at him. “You and Queen Eleanor have always been together for the Christmas feast, but not this past year. I should have known something was amiss. You know, she told me of her suspicions.”
He raised his brows. “When?”
“Last year, before your daughter was born.”
“No, that must have been someone else.”
“What?” I was beginning to wonder exactly how many women he had bedded.
“I only met Rosamund this year.”
Rosamund: there was a name with little promise. As we spoke, I was fairly certain that half the Rosamunds in the world could be found in the arms of a bishop.
“You have too many women—just like your father,” I concluded. “I do hope you can keep them all straight.”
“No, Rosamund is different: I love her!” he said earnestly, gripping the arm of his chair.
“Oh, you do not!”
“Yes, I do!” he cried, rising to his feet. “I burn with passion for her!”
My, what lust does to us! I thought, staring at the absurd figure of my son, gone mad with yearning. I motioned for him to sit down.
“My lord, you spend far too much time around the queen’s poets, and now their drivel fills your head!”
“Why not? Why shouldn’t I have her? I am the king!” he cried, pounding his fist into the arm of the chair.
“Your wife is about to give birth as we speak. Have you forgotten her?”
“There are times when I wish I could,” he muttered.
“Is that so? Well, perhaps I should write to King Louis and let him know that you wish to return his wife. Oh, wait! He has been married twice over since then, and now he has his son. He has played the game better than you.”
“I should think not! I have three sons already—soon to be four—and I have Aquitaine!”
I laughed. “Your wife has Aquitaine, and should you forget her, they might be willing to forget you.”
He pursed his lips and breathed heavily. “I will not give up Rosamund. She brings me more pleasure than anything in this world. Except my sons, of course.”
“Yes, of course. That is why you sent Prince Richard away and denied him any inheritance. I beg you, my liege, when I am dead and gone, think more kindly of him.”
“What is this?” he asked, his mood suddenly changed. “You aren’t really dying, are you?”
I let out a sigh. “I am certainly not getting any younger. You may soon have to do without me.”
He knelt before my chair and touched my hand. “Let me have my physician examine you.”
“And what can he do about old age? I have lived through war, desolation, sickness, and heartache. I have seen enough of this earth. Very soon, death will come knocking at my door, and when it does, I shall welcome it as a friend.”
He cast his gaze down at the floor, his green eyes full of sadness. “I do not want you to go.”
I placed my hand on his bearded chin and raised it so that I could meet his eyes. “Even you cannot keep me here, King Henry II of England, lord of Normandy and Aquitaine. Grant me this one last freedom: give me leave to pass from this world before I have become a blundering fool.”
“Someday, but not yet. We must solve this crisis with Archbishop Thomas. Then I will permit you to go your way.”
I placed my hand upon his shoulder. “Would that any king had such power, my son.”
Enough of the present! I must return to the past. I left off just as I learned that we were not to become the feast on which the vultures of Flanders would feed—not yet, in any case. Such a reversal of fortune requires some explanation, and we soon had it. Ever since he reached out his greedy hands to seize the royal crown of England, Count Stephen of Boulogne had relied upon William of Ypres to command the scores of Flemish mercenaries that he had purchased with my father’s gold. William was an able field commander, either in spite of or because of his willingness to carry out detestable acts that would strike fear into the heart of any man. But for all his skill in battle, he possessed little of that personal charm that would win him the love of the nobility. Many of the Normans suspected him from the very beginning on account of his origin, and this only increased during Stephen’s progress through Normandy.
By the time they stopped in Lisieux to gather more men, the rancor between the Normans and Flemings had caused such a strain th
at a breach was inevitable. They say a fight broke out over a barrel of wine, but the truth is that none of the Normans were willing to go into battle under the command of William of Ypres. Thus, they simply gathered their things and returned by the way they had come, leaving Stephen’s forces in such disarray that he had to call off the march.
I have often taken comfort in the knowledge that my enemies suffered from just as many problems as myself, which could certainly be said of Stephen in that hour. Indeed, the sweetest victory is won not by one’s triumph on the field of battle, but by the folly of one’s adversary. Here then is another example of Stephen’s folly.
Throughout that spring, Earl Robert of Gloucester was not with Stephen in the East. He remained at his castle in Caen and took no part in the usurper’s affairs, to the point that he declined to attend the royal court despite being summoned more than once. Any other noble might have found the king upon their threshold the very next day, ready to do battle, but Stephen plainly feared Earl Robert, for he chose to do nothing instead of opposing him.
Yet the earl had an enemy at court: William of Ypres. Day by day, the tiresome Fleming would whisper in his master’s ear, planting the seeds of suspicion. Earl Robert was not merely seeking to maintain stability in the West, he argued, but was engaged in active rebellion against the king’s authority. Moreover, there were many who said that Robert was in communication with me and plotted to transfer his allegiance. We have already seen how false that rumor was, but a rumor never failed for lack of some foundation in truth.
One day, I was seated on a bench in the garden of Argentan Castle that had been planted in the yard two years earlier. It seemed quite out of place amid the stables, coops, and smithy, but it was the best I could do. William was being cared for inside the keep, and I had a moment to simply enjoy reading the scriptures amid the glories of nature, even if the chief glory I saw was a rooster. The gate opened on the far side of the yard, and I looked up to see Alexander de Bohun and his knights returning from a raid. I returned my gaze to the written word, only to be interrupted a minute later by Alexander himself, still in his riding cloak, boots, and gloves.
“Did you hear the news?” he asked, as he approached with a smile on his face.
“What news?”
“Earl Robert is claiming that Stephen tried to kill him!”
“What?!” I cried, dropping the word of the Lord. “When?”
“I don’t know. He says that William of Ypres laid an ambush for him, but he got word of the conspiracy and was able to escape. Now he is charging Stephen openly, and it seems that the false king has made no attempt to deny it, for he swore an oath before his friend the archbishop of Rouen that he would never again take part in such a vile crime. Well, there’s the proof!”
Good Lord! I thought. The very worst thing Stephen could have done—and he’s gone and done it. I’m not his true foe. He is his own worst enemy.
“I cannot believe it!” I said, shaking my head. “Why would he do such a thing? Stephen is a fool indeed to alienate Earl Robert. He really sought to murder him? It has the mark of William of Ypres: his stink is all over this.”
“Actually, this could work out quite well for Earl Robert,” the captain replied, as if the thought had only just occurred to him. “He has Stephen by his stones now.”
Not that Stephen had any to begin with, for they all belong to his wife, I mused, but kept the thought to myself.
“It is time for Count Geoffrey to strike,” I agreed. “The only trouble is, when he comes into Normandy, he does more harm than good. His methods are so brutal that he has set all the people against us. I suppose it is little wonder they despise him, since that was my first instinct. This is a time for real skill of persuasion, not a fool who hacks blindly and prays he hits his foe!”
Alexander said nothing, for he was faithful to Count Geoffrey, but I gathered that he shared my concerns. Stephen had made a mistake, and there was a chance to gain control of Normandy for my sons and me. What a horrid time to be stuck with a commander who angered everyone he met! I truly wondered what was going through my brother’s mind. He would rather side with a man who tried to kill him than the sister who longed to grant him everything!
Do I know my brother at all? I wondered. Do I know anyone or anything?
Count Geoffrey did gather some four hundred knights and enter Normandy once again, setting fire to several villages near Exmes and creating more enemies. Yet apart from the addition of Baldwin de Redvers aiding our cause in the Cotentin, our forces were no stronger than they had been the last time Count Geoffrey invaded. The major difference was that Stephen’s own forces were in complete confusion. By merely harrying him in the South, my husband was able to gain a truce with Stephen, and the traitor was forced to crawl back to Rouen like a wounded animal. The French king may have proclaimed Stephen to be lord over Normandy, but the state of affairs on the ground showed otherwise.
Around this time, I received a letter from a man I had never met, but who shared a powerful connection with myself: indeed, we had shared a father. Reginald de Dunstanville, made earl of Cornwall by Stephen, was the natural son of one Sibylla Corbet, who had known King Henry I in every sense of the word. I had never made his acquaintance, for my father begat so many offspring that it would not have been possible for me to meet every one of them—a sad testament to his lack of character. Reginald had risen in the esteem of his fellow man until Stephen granted him the earldom two years earlier. He thus owed everything to the usurper, and that he was willing to write to me was proof enough of the animosity that had arisen against Stephen.
In his letter, my brother was careful not to reveal his full intent, no doubt for fear that it might fall into the wrong hands. He simply wrote that he had passed through the Cotentin—here I recognized that he must have spoken with Baldwin de Redvers—and would soon be in Argentan. It seemed clear that he intended to forsake Stephen and join our cause, but I warned the castle guard to make preparations in case it was some sort of trick.
When I saw Reginald for the first time, I might have known he was my brother simply by the shape of his nose, the color of his eyes, and the manner of his movement. Here was the very image of our mutual father brought back to life, apart from the girth he had acquired in later years: the same black hair and thick black brows, the same broad shoulders. He rode through the castle gate on a tall brown horse with a white patch on its head like a diamond, or like the bald spot my father developed later in life.
I stood in the middle of the yard to receive the earl, with Drogo standing at my right hand and the rest of the knights directly behind me in case of trouble—not that I imagined there could be much trouble, for my half brother came alone. The earl alighted from his horse with such ease, he might have been as light as air.
“Empress Mathilda!” he cried, kneeling before me and removing his hat. “I have come to offer you my undying fealty and the true love of a brother!”
This was a relief. Although I had suspected this was the reason for his visit, one can never be entirely sure in such situations.
“Earl Reginald,” I said, as he took my hand and kissed it, “your coming was most unforeseen, but I am glad of it. What brought about this change of heart?”
He stood up to his full height, which though well above my own was still no match for Drogo. The younger man looked at the knight as one might a strange tree, then shook his head slightly as if attempting to regain his line of thought.
“When Stephen came to England, he claimed that King Henry had named him as his successor, releasing the nobles from their oath,” Earl Reginald explained. “Who was I to argue? I believed the man to be my rightful sovereign. But when Earl Robert did not follow for so long, and then what happened to Lord Baldwin—he is a good friend of mine, you know. When I saw the depths to which Stephen was willing to take us all, it became clear to me that he had come to power against the will of the Lord. I do not believe our father ever changed his mind. And Stephen, he has
set aside the great men of the land and raised up a pack of fools in their place! The Beaumonts control everything now. Even Bishop Roger of Salisbury has found himself on the outside looking in, as they say. I could not remain in the service of Stephen. Forgive me, my lady. I should have seen the truth long ago.”
He spoke earnestly, clutching his hat in his hands and often looking down at the ground. I felt I had every reason to believe him, for I knew the wicked ways of the usurper.
“I do forgive you, and I embrace you as a sister,” I said. “I can see you will prove your worth. I remember once, some years ago, brother Robert said you were quite a good shot.”
“I can show you,” he offered, his eyes suddenly alight.
Before I could reply, he walked up to one of the knights behind me and pointed at the crossbow he was holding. When the knight obliged, Reginald quickly readied the weapon and raised it to fire.
“That cat,” he said, pointing at a poor orange creature wandering past the stalls against the castle wall, some twenty paces away.
I did not have time to object. He pulled the lever and let the arrow fly. It was a direct hit. The animal let out a terrible noise, as if it was being delivered of a demon that was pulled out through its bowels. It fell to the ground, blood running through its fur. All the men clapped and cheered, though I felt rather sorry for the beast.
“Well done, sir!” Drogo cried, patting Reginald on the back.
“Yes, if we are met by a band of vicious cats, we shall know whom to call ere they claw us to death,” I said. “Come, Earl Reginald! I am most eager to hear all you have to tell us.”
“With pleasure, my lady,” he replied, and we walked together into the castle.
As we were about to enter through the main door, I turned back just in time to see a crow land near the cat and take a nibble. I let out a sigh and thought to myself, Shadows and dust. Shadows and dust.
Earl Reginald did quickly prove his value to our cause. Along with Lord Baldwin and Stephen de Mandeville, he prowled across the western reaches of Normandy, striking quickly and then retreating. They did their best to make all those faithful to Stephen feel ill at ease. Yet even as the usurper set sail for England, taking with him the Beaumont twins and the rest of the nobility, I felt as if we were no closer to our final goal. We held only a small portion of Normandy, and in England Stephen’s reign seemed assured.
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