The Forsaken Monarch

by Amy Mantravadi

  I do not remember how I was convinced to let him go, but I was. A meadow lay just on the other side of the River Orne, and it was selected for the occasion, which meant stepping outside the city walls. There was some fear that an archer might be able to hide in the woods beyond the meadow and take out both myself and my son, all but ensuring our line would never sit on the throne of England. Drogo therefore saw to it that a guard would be placed around the site in all directions, but not so close as to alarm the young boy.

  On the morning chosen for his great ride, Prince Henry was so eager, I thought he might burst. He helped Drogo brush the horse beforehand and watched as the knight fitted it with a saddle and bridle. Drogo then placed Henry on top of the massive creature and sat behind him as they made their way to the meadow, while Adela and I walked close behind. I had wanted my son to wear a helm at the very least, but there were none small enough in the armory, and there had been no time to fashion a proper one.

  When we had crossed the bridge and taken our place in the field, Drogo said, “Now, young master Henry, are you ready to go fast?”

  “Yes!” he cried, his eyes wide with wonder.

  I stepped forward and grabbed the rein with my left hand, looking Drogo firmly in the eye. “Do you remember what I commanded, Drogo?”

  “Yes, my lady. Hold on to him tightly. Don’t go too fast. Avoid any uneven ground. No sudden turns. No leaping over obstacles.”

  “What else?” I asked, raising a brow.

  He covered Henry’s ears with his hands. “If any harm should befall him, I will live the rest of my life as a eunuch.”

  “And don’t you forget it!” I said.

  “What are you talking about?” Henry whined. “I want to ride!”

  I took one of Henry’s little hands in my own and kissed it. “Remember what I told you, my son. Do not raise your hands. Stay safely in Drogo’s grip. Obey any command he gives you. Do you understand? Henry, are you paying attention?”

  His gaze had wandered over somewhere in the distance. “Butterfly!” he cried. “Sir Drogo, let’s chase it!”

  I let go of his hand, and the two of them rode away and began making a wide circle through the grass. I pressed my hands together and held them against my mouth. “Lord, watch over them. Let no ill befall them,” I whispered.

  I turned and walked back to where Adela sat upon the blanket she had lain on the grass. She was holding my very worn volume of poetry by the former Duke William of Aquitaine, which she had lately begun to devour. In the few years since we had met, Adela had not only learned to read, but become truly devoted to the written word. Hardly a day went by when she did not inquire about the meaning of a word or idea, and this one was no different.

  “What do you think of Aristotle?” she asked, as I knelt beside her.

  “What?” I responded, for my mind was still filled with fears about my son.

  “The pagan philosopher. He was a Greek, I believe.”

  “Right. What of him?” I asked, my eyes still fixed on Henry and Drogo.

  “Have you read any of his works?”

  I forced myself to look at her, although my mind was still half with my son.

  “No, I have never read him. His writings are mostly lost to us, or else they are in the Greek tongue. I hear the Moors are attempting to translate them into Latin, but God only knows how long that will take.”

  “Yes, that is what I heard too!” she said with a smile. “Sir Drogo told me.”

  “Did he now?” I asked, though the matter was of little interest to me.

  “Yes. Sir Drogo says the theologians cannot decide what to make of his ideas—you know, because he was a pagan. They have been debating the matter in the cathedral schools.”

  I laughed. “Adela, if there is one thing you can always count on, it is that theologians will debate anything and everything. It is in their nature. They can do no other.”

  “I suppose you are right,” she concluded softly. “I do enjoy hearing all the news from Sir Drogo though. He is so very intelligent.”

  She cast her eyes back down at the book and I returned to watching Henry and Drogo ride. They were taking rather more turns than I would have liked, almost as if the knight did not remember my stern warning. Suddenly, I turned back to look at Adela, who I saw was gazing at the riders even as I was, the look on her face one of deep longing. She let out a soft sigh and smiled ever so slightly. However, when she noticed that my eyes were upon her, she instantly looked back at her book.

  “Adela,” I asked, “why were you looking at them? Is the poetry of Duke William so dull?”

  “You were looking at them too,” she responded quickly.

  “I have been looking at them because I am afraid my son is going to fall and hit his head,” I explained. “However, I am not sure why they should be so great a subject of interest to you.”

  “Can I not also be concerned for the prince’s welfare?” she asked, although the shade of pink in her cheeks convinced me this was not the real explanation.

  Yes, I was quite certain that Adela had developed a passion for my beloved knight. I suppose it should not have been a surprise, for he was precisely the type of man young women were bound to admire: strong, wealthy, and clever. Ever since that time I had mentioned his slight loss of hair, he had taken to wearing all manner of hats, which might appeal to some women. Adela’s attachment to him made perfect sense. Even so, I knew I must let her tell me in her own time. Teasing would only cause her to remain silent.

  “Very well, then,” I said. “Don’t tell me if you don’t want to.”

  About five minutes passed in which Adela continued to look down at the book, but I suspect she was not truly reading, for I did not hear pages turning. At the end of the five minutes, she suddenly closed the book and said, “Fine, you win!”

  “I win?”

  “I am sorry, my lady. You know I am devoted to your service, and I have no greater love than to do you good.”

  The look on her face was so earnest that I had to laugh. “But even so—”

  Her eyes were by this point firmly fixed on the ground, her cheeks a shade of red. “Even so, I cannot help but notice that Sir Drogo is a fine man. He is very noble, and very handsome, and he likes books even as we do.”

  “I’m not convinced he likes them quite as much as we do, but go on, dear,” I said.

  “Well …” she began, her voice trailing off. “My lady, I was wondering, has Sir Drogo ever mentioned to you whether he desires to marry?”

  I looked back at the riders. Henry was smiling and waving very much against my clear command. Drogo too was looking at us and smiling.

  “He has said in the past that he might like to enter the priesthood, though I think for the moment he simply enjoys what he is doing.”

  I turned back to look at Adela. Her countenance was quite downcast.

  “The priesthood, you say? Well, that is very nice that he wishes to do the work of our Lord.” However, the look in her eyes revealed that she did not find it very nice at all.

  I patted her on the back. “I am not certain that he still wants to do that. People change. Perhaps he would consider marriage, but you should know that he is a good deal older than you, Adela. Indeed, I believe he must be twice your age.”

  “Is that so wrong?” she asked. “My father was much older than my mother. She was his third wife after the first two died.”

  She had a good point, and in any case, I did not want to crush her hopes.

  “Oh, never mind it!” I declared. “You are right. People often marry though they are far apart in age.”

  She looked back at him and sighed. “He is so very nice looking, isn’t he?”

  I wondered if we could be viewing the same person. Certainly, I had never thought Drogo an ugly man, but I would not have placed him next to the Greek gods either. She must be in love, I thought. As she continued to gaze in that manner, I couldn’t help but provoke her a little.

  “You’re imagini
ng him without his shirt on.”

  “What?! I am not!” she cried, as if I had made a great assault upon her honor.

  “You know, I once saw him without a shirt on.”

  Her eyes lit up for the space of a breath, but she quickly calmed herself.

  “My lady, I think you are attempting to provoke me into making a fool of myself by demanding to know the particulars, but I shall not give you that satisfaction.”

  “Oh no?” I asked, attempting not to break out in laughter.

  “Most certainly not! I am a good girl, and I do not allow my mind to dwell on such things.”

  She said this with such conviction that I started laughing, which only seemed to increase her anger. I held up my hand to ward off whatever she might say next.

  “Have no fear, Adela. I do not think badly of you, and if you must know, he had to remove his shirt because William spat up on him. I think your regard for him is sweet. If you wish, I can speak to him and see if his desires have changed,” I offered.

  “Oh, would you, my lady?! That would be ever so wonderful! Thank you!” she said, smiling broadly.

  We were then forced to discontinue our conversation, for the riders stopped right in front of us.

  “Young master Henry has decided that he wishes to pursue the butterflies on foot,” Drogo announced, alighting and helping Henry down after him.

  “Thank God!” I proclaimed, walking over to give my son a hug.

  “Sir Drogo!” Adela called. “I am reading the poetry of Duke William.” Here she held it up for him to see.

  “Very nice,” he said. “That is just the thing for young ladies.”

  She rose and walked over to him. “It speaks much of the mysteries of love. I have learned so much!”

  “Perhaps a bit too much for your own good,” I muttered softly enough that none of them would hear.

  “I want to chase butterflies!” Henry cried, interrupting the adult conversation.

  “I can take him,” Drogo offered, extending his hand.

  “No, I am sure Adela would enjoy going with him,” I said, for I desired to speak with the knight alone.

  Soon Adela was leading Henry off to the far side of the meadow, and Drogo and I were sitting together on the blanket while the horse nibbled the grass. The knight lay on his side playing with a twig while I sat with my hands folded in my lap, not sure how to begin the conversation I knew I must have. In the end, I did not have to start, for Drogo did so.

  “Have you heard about Stephen’s march on Bristol?” he asked.

  Very well. I am more than happy to talk about something different, I thought.

  “I have heard that he went there and found it well defended, and that his counselors could not agree among themselves about what they should do,” I replied.

  He nodded. “It’s a sign of weakness. He doesn’t know who he can trust any more. Our efforts are bearing fruit.”

  “I do hope so. It’s about time we had some good news from England. Have you heard about all these earldoms he has been granting? Almost all of them are to the Beaumont family, of course. To Waleran of Meulan, he gave the earldom of Worcester; to Waleran’s younger brother Hugh, he gifted the earldom of Bedford on account of the young man’s lack of inheritance; to Gilbert de Clare, Waleran’s brother by marriage, the earldom of Pembroke; and last of all, the earldom of Derby has been created for Robert of Ferrers!”

  “That will please the Beaumonts,” Drogo said with a laugh. “Tell me, did he make these appointments with a knife to his neck?”

  “God only knows,” I answered, with a shrug of the shoulders. “I do not doubt that he sees his ability to raise up men at will as a mark of his authority, but in truth, it is proof of his weakness. When a king feels that he cannot control those below him, he must have them removed and new men set in their place, the better to obey his every word. I remember Bruno taught me that.”

  “Ah, Bruno!” Drogo said with a smile. “There’s a name from the past!”

  “And a great name too. I wish he was here with us now. He would have some good counsel. The purge has begun at the usurper’s court, Drogo, and there’s no telling where it will stop.”

  As nice as it was to discuss this subject, I knew I must return to my original purpose, no matter how awkward it might be. “Now let me ask you about something completely different: would you ever consider getting married?”

  I have seldom seen the look on someone’s face change so quickly. First, his eyes became wide with concern, then he broke into a laugh. “Where is this coming from?” he asked. “Is this simply the same question you ask me every five years, or do you have someone in mind?”

  By instinct, my gaze fixed upon Adela off in the distance, who was bending down and picking flowers with Henry as the two of them held hands.

  “It’s her, isn’t it?” Drogo asked.

  I turned back to look at him. “I do not know what you mean.”

  “You think I should marry Lady Adela.”

  “I said no such thing!”

  I had not meant to reveal this full truth to him, for if he was not interested in marriage, I did not want him to know that she was the one who had asked: it would only cause her greater sorrow to have her feelings known. Sadly, my eyes had betrayed my thoughts.

  “I suspected she might be interested in me,” he said.

  “Ah, and here I thought you were going to make a show of humility,” I replied, shaking my head as if in censure.

  He rolled his eyes. “She has sought me out for conversation on multiple occasions.”

  “And—”

  “And what?”

  I shook my head again, this time in true annoyance. “And have you enjoyed her company?”

  “Oh, yes!” he said. “She is a most pleasant young woman. Very pretty too: the most comely in the castle, I would say.”

  I had not foreseen such an answer. I never believed he would reject her in a cruel manner, but I honestly did not think the two of them could have spent enough time together to form a strong attraction. I, for one, had never noticed them having long discussions. Suddenly, I was forced to face the possibility that they might actually desire to get married. Perhaps they would want to move to his family estate in Cornwall. I might never see them again! No, I did not like this idea at all. Nevertheless, they had both served me faithfully and I cared for them, so I could hardly deny them joy. I therefore decided then and there that I must support them if marriage was what they desired, as much as it pained me to do so.

  “Well, if you wish to have her as your bride, you certainly could,” I said. “What family she has is very poor, but I can provide her with a dowry.”

  I was surprised to hear Drogo laugh. Indeed, he was laughing very hard.

  “I do not see what is so funny!” I objected.

  “Forgive me, my lady,” he said, holding up his hand. “Lady Adela is a fine person, yes, but I do not intend to make her my wife. I am perfectly happy as I am now. It is a great privilege and joy to lead your knights, and that commands my full attention. If a time ever came when you no longer required my services, I would want to take holy orders. Indeed, that is the only reason I would ever leave.”

  “Oh,” I said, secretly relieved and yet concerned for how this news would affect Adela. “My mistake. I thought you were fond of her.”

  “I am fond of her, true enough, but surely that doesn’t mean I have to marry her? I am far too old for her in any case. She will find someone else: someone young who is eager to have a house full of children. With a face like hers, she will always have suitors.”

  “I suppose you are right,” I agreed.

  I glanced back at her. How happy she looked, and yet how sad she was about to become!

  Adela, you poor girl, I thought. You poor, poor girl.

  During that summer of 1138, the usurper entered the Severn Valley accompanied by Miles of Gloucester, and they were able to make rather quick work of both Hereford and Shrewsbury. At the latter, Stephe
n showed none of his earlier mercy, but hanged one hundred men after the castle had fallen. Even so, our friends Geoffrey Talbot and William fitz Alan were able to escape.

  At the same time as this was happening, Dover Castle rose up against Stephen, according to the order sent by Earl Robert. This was a key moment, for if we were able to possess Dover and the surrounding country, we might be able to land in England by the end of the year. Thus it was vital that the garrison held against Stephen. As the false king was still in the West, his wife, my own cousin Mathilda, sent to her home county of Boulogne and called in her fleet of ships to harry the defenders. So there was fighting in both the West and the East, but the worst was about to come.

  In the month of August, even as Stephen was still caught up near the Welsh border, King David of Scotland invaded Northumberland with some twenty thousand men and began his push toward the key city of York. The usurper must have felt the whole world turning against him, even as I had felt two and a half years earlier. He could not abandon the West and was therefore forced to leave the northern lords to their fate. Earl Waleran and William of Ypres had been sent back to Normandy to prevent it from falling before the forces of Earl Robert and Count Geoffrey. Thus, the battle raged on four different fronts, and things certainly looked grim for Stephen.

  This news had been coming to us quickly from the island, but in the latter days of August, all fell silent. I have never quite known what to do with silence, for it holds so many possibilities. It was possible that we had been victorious on every front: Count Geoffrey and Earl Robert were pushing northeast toward Rouen, the port of Dover was held for us, the Scots had marched all the way to York, and Stephen’s efforts had been frustrated in the West. However, it was equally possible that all had come to naught. I wanted to believe the best, but I feared the worst more than anything.