On Sunday the day before the Nones of September, I went to celebrate Mass as usual at the castle chapel. It was a separate building made of wood that stood near the western wall, and there was nothing grand about it. Lord Wigan had told me he intended to build a new one from stone as soon as the war was over. At the time, such a thing was hardly urgent. Yes, war brings an end to everything of beauty.
It was the feast of some saint I know not, for I remember there were flowers in the church. Is it not strange what the mind chooses to remember? When the service was completed, we all proceeded across the yard to the keep, where the midday meal was to be served in the great hall. As I entered the main door with about a dozen people right behind me, I saw Wigan the Marshal standing there in the entry way, his hands folded, apparently waiting for my arrival. It was not his wont to attend Mass: he always found some excuse to avoid it, usually involving his need to join the morning guard. It was not very Christian of him, but as he had so graciously helped to defend me for many months, I had not raised the subject—yet.
“Welcome back, Empress Mathilda!” he said, bowing his head.
“You speak as if I have just returned from pilgrimage to Compostela,” I replied, “when I have only been a few steps away.”
He smiled. “You must forgive me, my lady. Even a moment without your presence seems a terrible fate to your most devoted subjects.”
After a quick roll of the eyes, I turned and waved those behind me on to the hall, then moved closer to the marshal to converse in greater privacy.
“You need not have been away from my presence, sir,” I said softly. “The house of the Lord stands welcome to receive you, should you deem it worthy of your time.”
“Ah, yes,” he replied with a laugh. “How long have you been waiting to say that to me?”
“I am not your judge in such matters, Lord Wigan—only in matters of state. However, if you have half as many sins on your record as I do, perhaps you will see the benefit of it sooner or later.”
Before he could respond, I felt a tap on the shoulder and turned to see Adela standing there.
“Adela! I thought you had gone into the feast.”
“I stayed back to help collect the candles,” she told me. “Actually, I just wanted to ask if I could speak with you for a moment.”
“I was hoping to speak with the empress first,” Wigan explained. “I have some news to relay.”
“What news?!” I asked, suddenly very interested. “You said nothing about news.”
“Far be it for me to keep you from promoting my spiritual health,” he said with a smile.
“Where is the news from?” Adela asked. “Dover? York? Caen? Rome?!”
“Perhaps you would like to join me in the private room,” he said, looking at me alone and pointing at the door to my right.
I looked at Adela and then back at him. “Unless it is some great secret, I do not mind if she joins me. That way, we can discuss her matter afterward.”
“As you wish,” he replied, then led us both through the door into the dining room.
He offered us the two more comfortable chairs by the hearth, then pulled over a wood chair for himself from the table. He turned it backward and straddled it as he might a horse, allowing his folded hands to hang over the top of the chair.
“I am afraid that the news I have to share with you is not good,” he began.
At this, Adela let out a gasp, and we both looked at her. “I’m sorry!” she said.
“As I was saying,” the marshal continued, “the news is not so good. My lady, it concerns your uncle, King David of Scotland—that is to say, his army. We all knew that he was pressing south toward York and that Stephen was trapped in the West. I think we suspected or at least hoped that he would make a conquest of the North. Well, something happened.”
My stomach was by this point in a knot. Was he about to tell me that my uncle was dead? That my nephew was dead? Had the Scots army been destroyed? Oh, how my heart pounded!
“You know of Archbishop Thurstan of York, my lady?” he asked.
“I certainly know the name, but I have never met the man,” I replied quietly, wanting very much to get to the end of his story so that I could know whom or what to mourn.
He nodded and continued. “He is quite old now. Anyway, he called together all the barons of the North—Brus, Mowbray, Lacy, Percy, Peverel, William of Aumale, and others—and he beseeched them that to fight against the Scots is a holy cause, even as those who fought the Saracens in the Holy Land, for the Scots are a cruel race without regard for Christian brotherhood and the dignity of man. He called to their minds the persons who had been carried away into slavery, the churches that had been profaned, and the towns that had been burned. He bid them fight to the death or share in the fate of those poor souls, and he pledged to them that for every Scot they killed, they were doing the work of the Lord.”
“How dreadful!” Adela interrupted.
“Quite, although I cannot blame them too much, my lady,” he said. “We have all heard of the terrible acts that were committed.”
I nodded but said nothing, for there was nothing I could do about it. I relied on my uncle to control his own men.
Lord Wigan continued, “Archbishop Thurstan’s true act of genius was not the speech, but the device that he employed for the battle. There is a tradition among the men of Italy that when they ride off to war, they do so accompanied by a caroccio: a holy altar born upon a cart with the standard of the city flying over it. The archbishop took such a cart and placed upon it a pyx containing the consecrated body of our Lord, along with a pole on which flew the banners of York, Ripon, and Beverly. The nobles were drawn up around it, with the lesser knights further out, and the common men on all sides. They pledged that they would all give their lives before they allowed the standard to be taken.”
Oh, let this tale end soon! I thought, but still I remained silent.
“Now, the thing you must know about the Scots is that they give their bloody work to the men of Galloway, who are as fierce as the day is long. They go into battle without any armor at all, heads shaven, bodies painted, lifting their spears into the air and slicing their enemies to bits. Such a fearful sight they must have been as they came charging down the ridge with cries of “Albani! Albani!” Sadly, the resolve of those from York was just as fierce, and their armor was far better. The Galwedi persevered for a time, though so run through with arrows that they resembled—oh, what is the name of that beast?”
“A thorny pig?” I asked, hoping to speed the process along.
“No, that’s not it,” he commented, “but it is like that.” He thought for long enough that I was on the brink of despair, then declared, “Hedgehog! Just like a hedgehog.”
“How awful!” cried Adela.
“Yes, and what happened next?” I asked him.
He sighed deeply. “King David was eager to join the fight, but his barons believed the battle was lost at that point, and they forced him back upon his horse that they might retreat. That was when the king’s son, Prince Henry, ashamed to see the cowardice of the barons, rode alone into the English line, slaying many before he too was forced to fall back. For the next few days, the English chased the Scots across the moor as they attempted to retreat north. I’m afraid there is no question of them advancing into England now, my lady—none at all.”
I closed my eyes and buried my face in my hands. I breathed in and out deeply, allowing his words to take their full effect. I felt very much as if I had been punched in my belly. After a moment, I looked up again.
“And the losses?” I asked, afraid to know the answer.
Lord Wigan did not reply, but merely pursed his lips.
“Tell me!” I ordered.
“Ten thousand dead or missing, my lady, about half the Scots army,” he said softly.
I returned my face to my hands, for there were tears forming in my eyes, and I didn’t want him to see them. Adela reached over and rubbed my upper ba
ck, attempting to comfort me, but there was little comfort to be had after such news.
“King David did at least maintain those lands he held before, so that is something,” I heard the marshal say. “Earl Robert’s vassals in the West are also safe, as far as I know. But I am sorry to say that Dover Castle has also fallen to the usurper. The queen’s navy made swift work of that.”
“She is not the queen!” I cried, raising my head to face him. “She will never be queen in the eyes of God!”
“Of course, my lady. Please forgive me!” he begged.
I closed my eyes and shook my head. “It is not your fault, Lord Wigan. You have always helped me. I think I must simply be alone now, unless you have some other tragedy to report.”
He shook his head no and rose to leave at once, shutting the door behind him. Adela reached into a pocket in her gown and pulled out a cloth, which she used to dab my eyes. I took it from her and wiped my nose, then let out a long sigh.
“This may take a while to recover from,” I muttered.
She nodded. “Naturally. Would you like to wait to speak about the other thing until later?”
“Oh, dear! I forgot about that. No, go ahead. What is it?”
“I was just wondering if you had a chance to speak with Sir Drogo about the matter we discussed.”
It had been a good while since the subject was last raised and I had received Drogo’s answer, but every time I had tried to inform Adela, something had interrupted us or I had simply lost the will to give her the bad news. It was wrong of me, of course, to delay for so long. I had simply wished to avoid spoiling what had been a happier month. However, given that the day had already ended up in tears, I decided to go ahead and break it to her.
“Adela, I am so sorry, but Drogo is not interested in marriage at the present time.”
“Oh,” she said, staring down at her lap.
“I wish I could have given you better news, but it seems it is not the day for that. Is there anything I can do?”
“No,” she replied, shaking her head. “In any case, it was probably too much to hope for. He is a person far superior to myself.”
“That is not true,” I said, placing my arm around her shoulder. “He is a man of good standing with good character, true enough, but you have many things in your favor as well. One day someone will recognize that.”
“Perhaps if I had done something differently—”
“No, I’ll have none of that!” I declared. “There was never anything wrong with you. I told you, he wants to be a priest someday. He cannot do that with a wife. That is all there is to it.”
“I do not see why,” she said softly, her eyes looking suspiciously moist. “Why can a person not love God and love a human being? What is so wrong about that?”
“There is nothing wrong with that,” I said, rubbing her shoulders gently. “Love is not a sin, but God calls us to different tasks, and we cannot do them all at once.”
She nodded. “I suppose you are right. To speak the truth, I am not sure how much I was actually in love with him.”
“You don’t have to say that—”
“No, it’s true! You see, ever since I was a little girl, I had this dream—a fantasy, really. I imagined that one day I would meet a handsome knight who would rescue me and take me away to live with him in a nice house somewhere with a table full of delicious foods. It is silly, I know.”
“It is not silly at all!” I assured her.
“You see, we were in such a bad way when I was young—my family. We struggled to grow food. Often, we would go without. And I had not met any knights then, so I assumed they were all noble and virtuous. As it turns out, some of them are better than others.”
“That is all too true.”
She laughed softly and wiped her eyes. “Did you ever desire something like that?”
“To be rescued by a knight?”
“Maybe, or something like that.”
I looked into her eyes that were filled with deep sadness. I decided to share a little gift with her.
“Actually, I was in love with a knight once, and he was in love with me.”
“Really?!” she cried, her eyes suddenly alight.
“Yes, some years ago. It did not last very long, and nothing came of it.”
“Was it anyone I know?”
“No, you have never met him.”
“He’s still alive though?”
“I am not going to tell you who it is, you sneak!” I cried, and we both smiled.
“So it was not Drogo then?”
“Certainly not! When we met, he was already a man and I was still a girl. He seemed very much like an older brother, and that is how I still feel about him. For his part, he looks out for me as he would a younger sister.”
“How wonderful!” she said. “That is a shame though that you did not get your knight, though I suppose that Count Geoffrey is a knight.”
“Yes, well, we return to the point about not all knights being particularly virtuous,” I replied, rolling my eyes. “But there is still hope for you, Adela. You are not royal, and you have no family members who wish to force you into a less than desirable marriage. It is true that the very greatest men may refuse you on account of your lack of nobility, but many others would see your friendship with me as an advantage for them. I dare say you may be as free to choose a husband as any woman on this earth, but I bid you hold out for a man who truly deserves you. I don’t want you to end up in my situation.”
“So you think I may find my knight then?” she said, smiling weakly.
“I am certain of it,” I said, embracing her.
Unwilling to be left out of our defeat, Earl Robert and Count Geoffrey laid siege to Falaise for just over a fortnight that autumn, but failed to take it. Without that castle, our hold over the West of Normandy was still not complete, and after only a month of fighting, Count Geoffrey returned to Anjou, which I had by that point decided was the best place for him. Oh, what a devastation! We had failed in all our aims: no progress had been made in Normandy, none in Kent, and none in Northumberland. Despite the presence of Earl Robert of Gloucester in our camp and the help of his vassals, we were no closer to defeating Stephen and regaining control of Normandy and England for me and my sons.
I could think of only one potential ally on whom I had not yet called, and for good reason. Although we had been friendly in the past, I hated to draw her into the fighting. Nevertheless, I sat down one day at the desk in my bed chamber to write a letter and entreat her assistance. It was a sign of how desperate I felt. As I sat there scribbling on the parchment, Adela walked in and placed a hand on my shoulder, leaning in to see what I was writing.
“Who is that for, my lady?”
“I am writing to the former Queen Adeliza, who is lately made the wife of William D’Aubigny.”
“She is married again? I thought she wished to remain in the abbey.”
“Apparently not,” I said, dipping my pen in the ink. “They have made their home at Arundel Castle: the one gifted to her by my father.”
“Do you think she can help you?”
I turned my head to look at her. “I doubt it, for her new husband is Stephen’s man through and through. But given that we have tried everything else—”
“Of course. I never met the former queen. Is she a good sort of person?”
“Oh, yes! She is far kinder than myself. Sadly, wars are not kind to those who are kind. She may wish she had stayed in the cloister.”
“Well, I am sure she will try to help you if she can.”
“Would that God might help me! I think He has forgotten that I am here.” I gazed up at the ceiling and pressed my hands together. “Please, Lord, let me see England again, and not merely from behind some prison wall! I am an exile from my own kingdom, Adela, and I hate it!”
I scribbled a few more lines before she interrupted.
“I have never seen England. Is it a fair country?”
“In the summer, y
es. In the winter, not so much, but it is a fine place nevertheless. I was born there, you know.”
“Not in Normandy?”
“Oh no!” I said, turning to face her again. “I was born by the River Thames. Perhaps one day I will sail up those waters again.”
“You will, my lady,” she told me, patting my shoulder. “I am sure you will.”
XXIV
Here I must speak of Bishop Henry of Winchester, born of the House of Blois, abbot of Glastonbury, younger brother of the false king. Since he was first brought to England by my father, King Henry, he had passed from strength to strength: an abbot at age twenty-eight, a powerful bishop at age thirty-one, king maker at age thirty-seven. As the year 1138 came to a close, he was ready at forty years of age to ascend to the grandest seat of them all: the archbishopric of Canterbury. How proud my aunt Adela must have been to see all her desires for her son fulfilled!
Whatever they might have thought of his brother Stephen, there were few men who doubted Bishop Henry’s abilities. He had proven his worth both to the Church and the king. He was a man of great learning and greater skill. There was no one more fit to become the leading churchman in England, and as the man who had ensured his brother’s place upon the throne, you might even have said it was owed to him. Indeed, I have no doubt that Bishop Henry believed that to be the case.
Herein lay the trouble, for although he may have sat at his brother’s right hand in the very beginning, Bishop Henry had lately been surmounted by the Beaumonts and their allies. I have seldom seen a clan so hungry for power and so willing to strike at anyone in their way. Stephen had already given Waleran of Meulan his own daughter, Mathilda, as a bride. She was just three years old when they were wed, but she died the next year. Brief as it was, the marriage had shown how eager the usurper was to reward the Beaumonts. I believe it was largely due to their influence that a rift opened between the false king and his brother, although one might likewise say it would have been impossible for Stephen to follow through on all the promises he had made to the Church without compromising his own reign.
I am not sure how much the common man knew of this divide between the houses of Beaumont and Blois, or at least between Earl Waleran and Bishop Henry, but I was well aware of the situation. Even so, I did not imagine as the Advent season came upon us and a council was to be held at Westminster that the usurper would appoint anyone but his brother to be archbishop of Canterbury. As much as I hated him, I did not believe him to be completely lacking in sense.
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