I therefore gave the matter little thought and chose to enjoy those days with my boys. Although we had made few efforts to decorate the winter before, I was determined to make the year 1138 different. We may have been in the middle of a war, but we would be jolly! I ordered that boughs be brought in from trees in the nearby forest and used to decorate the window sills in the great hall and the hearth. Adela and I then shaped stars and flowers out of red and gold cloth and I called the boys to help place them among the greens. Last of all, we arranged about a dozen candles on the hearth, some taller and some shorter.
I held William in my arms and began to light the candles to the right, while Adela held Henry’s hand and did the same with those on the left. My young William was by that point two and a half years old and getting heavier by the day. Nevertheless, I held him on my hip and clung to him tightly with my right hand as I moved the flame from one candle to the next.
“Mama, it’s pretty!” he cried.
“Yes, see how the flame dances and sparkles?” I said. “Just don’t be placing your fingers in it, William. Mama does not want you to burn yourself.”
I kissed him gently on the forehead and sniffed his brown hair. Odd as it may seem, my young sons always had a special smell, and I treasured it. However, Henry noticed what I had done and objected.
“Why are you smelling William?” he asked. “He stinks of merde!”
“Henry!” Adela and I both cried at the same time.
“Forgive me, my lady. You go first,” Adela offered, bowing her head.
Still holding William, I set down the candle I was holding and walked over to Henry, bending down to his eye level. He was tall for a boy just into his sixth year, but I hoped to keep my head above his for at least another six or seven.
“Where on earth did you hear that word?” I asked. “Do you even know what it means?”
Henry placed his hands on his hips. “Papa uses it all the time, and I know what it means!”
I fought the desire to roll my eyes. Of course he would have heard it from Count Geoffrey.
“Then you should know better than to use it, and do not take that tone with me, young man!” I commanded. “Also, you speak the Norman tongue when you’re with me.”
“Papa says the French speech is better!” he declared. “He says English are peasants and knaves.”
I had never received such cutting words from the mouth of my son, although they were not actually from my son. He was merely repeating what my husband had told him.
“English and Norman are not the same—oh, never mind it. Henry, I don’t know what has gotten into you, but I’ll see that it gets out! You must learn to respect the people you are going to rule. Your father has never been to England. He is just prejudiced against anyone different from himself.”
“But—” he began.
“No buts!” I told him. “Please, you make me sad. Do not say such awful things!”
There was a slight change in his face. He was no longer defiant, but defeated—struck down by the power of maternal guilt.
“What do you say, Henry?” Adela asked.
Henry cast his eyes down toward his shoes and pressed one foot against the other. I recognized that he was stalling for time.
“Henry—” Adela prompted again.
He lifted his head and looked straight into my eyes.
“I am sorry, mother,” he said softly. “I should not have said that.”
Choosing his moment perfectly, William reached out and patted his brother on the head.
“Yes, I agree,” I said with a laugh. “All is forgiven.”
The three of us embraced and Adela came from behind to join. As we were all holding and kissing one another, there was a knock at the door. I let go of the boys and walked over, pulling on the handle and swinging it open. There stood Drogo, looking as if he was about to burst out laughing.
“What’s put you in such a jolly mood?” I asked.
He said nothing, but beckoned with one finger. I moved to join him in the entry way, leaving Adela and the boys to finish with the candles.
“You’ll never guess what’s happened. Oh, it’s too delicious!” he said, shaking his head.
“Right you are. I cannot guess, so tell me,” I replied, folding my arms.
He nodded and brought himself under control. “You know they were holding the council at Westminster to fill the see of Canterbury, which has been vacant for two years.”
“Yes, everyone knows this,” I said, my patience wearing thin.
“But did you also know that since the bishopric of London has been empty, Bishop Henry of Winchester has been overseeing the diocese?”
“Why are you boring me with this information?” I asked.
“I’m coming to it,” he assured me. “On Christmas Eve, Bishop Henry traveled to Saint Paul’s Cathedral for the ordination of several deacons. It must have been joyous for those men to confirm their calling at the time of year when we celebrate the birth of our Lord, but alas, it was not to be a time of joy for Bishop Henry!”
“No!” I cried, placing a hand over my mouth, so astonished was I.
“Yes, indeed!” Drogo confirmed. “Bishop Henry was in the middle of performing the service when a messenger arrived, having run there from Westminster. To the great surprise of the crowd, he announced that Abbot Theobald of Bec had been elected as archbishop of Canterbury, denying Bishop Henry the thing he so coveted. Now, you might think that, being a most serene man of the cloth, Bishop Henry would have moved on from this interruption and completed the service, accepting the will of the Lord.”
“You mean he didn’t?” I asked in wonder.
Drogo laughed. “Certainly not! He marched out in a fury, sensing how he had been tricked, for they waited until he was gone to take the vote. How do you like that?! After everything he has done for his brother, this is the thanks he gets! I wouldn’t be surprised if he hated him now, although he probably hates Waleran and the rest of the Beaumonts most of all. This is surely their doing. Well, anything that sets them against each other is good for us!”
“Yes, I agree. We cannot possibly know how this will turn out, but an enemy rent asunder is better than a whole one, and no mistake!”
I reached out and hugged him.
“Happy Christmas, Drogo,” I said softly.
“Happy Christmas, my empress,” he replied, patting me on the back.
Thus were the ambitions of Bishop Henry frustrated, for the usurper had ensured that the most powerful spiritual lord in England was one he could control. And who was the great patron of Theobald of Bec who had made his case to the king? None other than Earl Waleran, leader of the Beaumonts and quickly becoming the most powerful lord on either side of the Channel.
Oh, foolish Stephen! Why did he allow the Beaumonts to rule him? Why did he place his fate in the hands of lesser men? Because having been abandoned by Earl Robert and others, he began to fear a traitor behind every corner. He would grope after rumors and lash out like a cornered beast. We have already seen how he feared his own flesh and blood. Now, his attention was turned toward another powerful family: that of Bishop Roger of Salisbury.
During the reign of King Henry, Bishop Roger of Salisbury was considered the second most powerful man in the kingdom, to the extent that whenever the king was detained in Normandy, it was Bishop Roger who would act as his regent. He was the chief justiciar in all but name, having control over all the sheriffs. What was more, his bastard son—also named Roger—had become chancellor of the realm, and he had two nephews in high positions within the English church: Bishop Alexander of Lincoln and Bishop Nigel of Ely. His family therefore held sway over the chancellery and the exchequer, which could not have sat well with the Beaumonts. Thus, the twins Waleran and Robert, along with their friend Count Alan of Brittany, began to spread rumors that Bishop Roger and his kin were about to forsake Stephen for our side.
I can see why Stephen found it difficult to trust Bishop Roger of Salisbury, wh
o was always a sly one and never missed an opportunity to advance his own interests. His morals were lax, as the name of his mistress was known to all, and he certainly suffered from avarice. I understand that in those days he used to ride around with a large company of knights, and his household was equal in size to that of the king. He owned several castles that, should he have turned traitor, might have been difficult to overthrow. He certainly had more money than Stephen, who had spent all his treasury appeasing the barons, and Bishop Roger had taken to spending this wealth on both armor and weapons. Most suspicious indeed!
However, I was not then nor was I ever in league with Bishop Roger and his kin. From the very beginning, the bishop served one person above all else, and that was himself. I suspect he fortified his castles out of fear of the Beaumonts or simply to impress the outside world and prove his worth. It was to be his undoing.
The following June, in the year of our Lord 1139, I received a letter from my brother Robert, who was always the first to receive news from England.
Most esteemed Empress Mathilda, my beloved sister, I write to you with news that should fill you with cheer once you understand its significance. About two weeks ago, Stephen was holding a great feast at his court in Oxford, and many of the knights of Bishop Roger were there. A brawl started between the factions of the Beaumonts and Bishop Roger. You will remember how I told you of their hatred for one another. Stephen is claiming that the bishop’s men started it, but we need not doubt the truth. Count Alan and the rest have had it in for Bishop Roger for some time. There were many wounded and possibly a few killed—reports differ—and the false king charged Bishop Roger’s men with disturbing the peace.
Stephen then summoned Bishop Roger and his two nephews—bishops Alexander and Nigel—to come before him. I am told that Bishop Roger attempted to avoid appearing, saying that, “I shall be as useful at court as a colt in battle,” but in the end he had no choice. Both Roger and Alexander came before the usurper, but Bishop Nigel was nowhere to be found.
As it turned out, it was Nigel who was the wise one, for having tricked them into appearing, Stephen arrested the two bishops and threw them in jail, saying he would not release them until they surrendered all their castles and repented of their deeds. This was in violation of his promise not to arrest those who came into his presence under the king’s surety, but as we know well enough, Stephen is more than willing to break his promises.
Poor Bishop Nigel fled to the castle of Devises, home to Bishop Roger’s concubine of long standing, Mathilda of Ramsbury. I met her once, and she was rather more plump than I foresaw, though such a detail is neither here nor there. As soon as the usurper learned that Nigel was at Devises, he sent the wolf of Flanders to retrieve him, which is to say that he brought a large force and placed the castle under siege. Yet Devises is one of the strongest castles in England, a massive stone fortress unlikely to fall quickly. Stephen also knew that he was already courting the wrath of the Church by arresting the bishops, for he had pledged that they and all their possessions would be subject to ecclesiastical justice rather than the crown. Therefore, it was in his interest to end the controversy with all haste.
When the wolf of Flanders was not instantly victorious, Stephen placed both Bishop Roger of Salisbury and his son, Chancellor Roger, in fetters and brought them before the walls of Devises Castle. Can you believe it? In a loud voice, Stephen cried out that he would starve Bishop Roger and hang Chancellor Roger before their eyes if the castle was not surrendered.
For his part, Bishop Nigel apparently said nothing, but the lady Mathilda was so distraught at the fate of her lover and son that she gave up the fight on behalf of them both. By the end of the month, Stephen had seized all the castles belonging to the three bishops—Salisbury, Sherborne, Malmesbury, Devises, Newark, and Sleaford—and stripped the men of their secular offices, allowing them only to maintain their sees. This is where things stand at the present time. I will write to you with any news.
By the by, do thank my nephew for the letter he sent me in his own hand, which showed all the marks of a future king in the making. Tell him I shall return to Argentan as soon as I can to see how he is doing with the new sword I had made for him. You must not fear to let him fight, for the sooner he can do so, the safer you are. Yours faithfully, Robert fitz Roy.
The end of Robert’s letter filled me with pride to hear him speak of my son in such a way. Henry certainly showed skill at everything he did: so much so that I was no longer quite as afraid of him participating in sports. However, I also wanted him to become a man of letters. I considered sending him to Anjou so he could share a tutor with his brother Geoffrey, but in the end I felt that if I was going to depart for England soon—as I dearly hoped I would—then I should spend my final days on the Continent in the company of both Henry and William.
As for the bulk of Robert’s letter that told of Stephen’s dealings with Bishop Roger of Salisbury and his kin, it seemed utterly incredible. Did the usurper really feel so bold in his position that he did not fear abusing three of the greatest princes of the English Church?
The advantages for Stephen were clear: he continued the purge of all those who disagreed with him and was able to install his own men in both the great offices of state and the local shires; he gained direct control over fortresses that would be of great value if we were to invade; and he seized forty thousand marks of silver and other treasures from the castles. This latter point was of particular import, for it allowed Stephen to arrange for his eldest son, Eustace, to marry the daughter of King Louis VII of France. It also gave him more gold with which to buy the loyalty of the barons.
The disadvantages of Stephen’s decision were just as plain. It was the Church that put him in his position of authority, but by going after three such powerful bishops, Stephen had revealed himself to be no friend of the spiritual elite. Indeed, he had broken the oaths he made to them when he first became king. And who was most angry about the arrest of the bishops? Why, Bishop Henry of Winchester, of course! He took it upon himself to become the defender of the Church.
Very soon after I received his letter, I was able to travel with my boys to stay with Robert at the castle of Caen. I had not stayed there since I was a young woman just returned from the empire. To go there with my two sons was a real pleasure. They had quickly grown to love their uncle Robert. I was only sad that none of Robert’s own children were there. I was not sure where they were staying, but I gathered it was somewhere deep in Wales, far from the fighting. In addition, they were not all in the same place.
We lived daily in the hope that we might be able to cross the Channel and land upon England’s shore. Indeed, that was part of the reason I had moved to Caen, for it was far closer to the sea. One evening, as the sun was setting, my brother and I stood upon the western wall of the castle, our eyes pointed in the same direction where our thoughts lay.
“Didn’t I tell you this would happen? Didn’t I tell you?!” he said suddenly.
“Tell me what?” I asked in confusion.
“That the lords and the Church would turn against Stephen—that he would make too many enemies!”
“Ah, yes. Cassandra herself must envy your foresight,” I jested, referring to the ancient prophetess.
“I tell you, the noose is tightening! Our time is near!” he cried. “Bishop Henry has called his brother to a council to answer for his actions. He may have lost out on becoming an archbishop, but he had himself made papal legate, so he still holds the primacy in England.”
“That sly fox,” I said, shaking my head in wonder. “I truly cannot understand why Stephen would turn against his brother. You know him better than I. Is he really that obtuse?”
“Knowledge is one thing and wisdom another, but introduce enough stress, and even the wisest person might be thrown off course. However, I think what we are seeing now is the true weakness that our cousin has always possessed. He can lead a siege, but he cannot lead a kingdom. He has no knowledge of the cha
ncellery and lacks respect among the nobles. He has little experience of government and does not know how to play these men one against the other.”
We stood for a moment staring out into the West, where the sky had turned bright orange and red, and the sun was dipping out of sight. A question entered my mind, but I was somewhat afraid to know the honest answer. Nevertheless, I felt it necessary to ask.
“What about me?” I inquired of him. “Do I have the ability to lead men? Do I possess those skills?”
“I think you have had to learn them from a very young age,” he said, without a moment’s pause.
“A consort is not the same as a sovereign.”
“Granted, but have no fear, sister,” he told me, patting my hands that lay clasped upon the stone bricks. “I will help you, as will many others. As soon as young Henry comes of age, he can fill the breach. He can be the leader England needs. And you must never forget that you have one advantage that Stephen can never match: you are a Briton. That may not matter to the lords in Normandy, but you will find it helps you with the common man, and it is the common man who must face down the rain of arrows.”
This was a point I had not fully considered. Yes, Stephen was not born in England nor was he raised there, but that was not unusual for a Norman lord. Since the great conquest of my grandfather William, the kings of England had spent as much time in Normandy as they had in their kingdom, and why not? It was the land of their ancestors. But I was half Briton through my mother, and a member of the old royal line at that. I was born in England and spent my childhood there. In my soul, I felt more English than Norman, probably on account of my mother’s influence. That was no help with the Norman barons, but perhaps Robert was correct: perhaps the common people of England would feel I was one of their own.
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