The Girl Empress (The Chronicle of Maud Book 1)
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2017
Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
CONTENTS
START READING
PRIMARY CHARACTERS
DEDICATION
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
REFERENCES
Dear Reader,
I hope you will enjoy this first book in the Chronicle of Maud series, which tells the story of Maud’s early life. Two more books are to follow: The Forgotten Monarch and The Eternal Queen.
Empress Mathilda (1102–1167), commonly known by the name Maud, was a real person, the daughter of King Henry I of England and granddaughter of William the Conqueror. She is also my ancestor twenty-eight generations removed, through the Grey and Hungerford families. It is my sincere hope that her story will be told more fully in these novels than it has been before, and that the twelfth century will come alive for a new generation of readers.
Just a few logistical notes: You will find a variety of foreign words and phrases in this book, which are typically placed in italics. You will also find quotations from works both ancient and medieval. These are meant to help you get inside the head of the main character and truly experience her world, but if you find them confusing, not to worry! There are more than enough words written in modern English.
There are also a number of Scripture quotations, which are taken primarily from the 1599 Geneva Bible. Why Geneva? Because it is the oldest complete and readily available modern English version, and it is less familiar to the ear than the King James. In a few cases I edited the text, usually to change a thee or thy to a you or your. I did borrow from the King James Version on a few occasions.
The languages used in this book are the modern standard versions of English, German, French, and Italian. All were in different forms in the twelfth century and split into various dialects, but for the sake of simplicity, I did not attempt to restore them to their medieval roots. The sections in Latin are not particularly modern or standard, as it is famously a dead language. Nevertheless, it was used by the educated elite in Maud’s day and long after that.
Perhaps you will find it interesting that nearly all the words in this novel have origins in the year 1500 AD/CE or earlier. I made this choice in order to help create a style of language that would sound authentic coming from a medieval person, while at the same time avoiding certain vernacular oddities of that period. (It also ensured that I, an American author, would not be using Americanisms!) There is nothing magical about the year 1500 from a linguistic standpoint, but the cutoff did minimize the words with origins further afield. This process required me to step out of my comfort zone and adopt a slightly different vocabulary—a very rewarding process.
I would be remiss if I did not thank the following people for their assistance with this project. Katja Böttcher reviewed the portions of the text that are in German. Julie Vaselopulos reviewed those that are in French. Katrina Kittle helped me revise my initial chapters. Amanda Tiffany did some editing of my rough draft. I was blessed to have the University of Dayton’s Roesch Library at my disposal free of charge. I received encouragement and support from people such as Dorothy May Mercer, Siri Mitchell, Andrew Wolgemuth, and Aimee Byrd. Carl Trueman did little to help and yet is somehow immortalized in these pages in the spirit of Graham Greene’s “whisky priest.” I would be remiss if I did not thank the many people who supported my Kindle Scout campaign and the whole team at Amazon.
Finally, thank you to my husband, who encouraged me to write this book and tolerated my constant chatter about things of little interest to anybody, and thank you to you who are about to embark on this journey with Maud. I wish you as much joy in reading as I had in writing.
Blessings,
Amy Mantravadi
PRIMARY CHARACTERS
The Norman Court
★ Henry I, king of England, Duke of Normandy
★ Mathilda of Scotland, queen of England
★ Mathilda, oldest child of the king, also known as Maud
★ William Ætheling, son and heir of the king
★ “The king’s lads”:
★ Robert fitz Roy, King Henry’s illegitimate eldest son
★ Brian fitz Count, illegitimate son of the Duke of Brittany
★ Stephen of Blois, nephew of the king
★ Roger, bishop of Salisbury, chief justiciar of England
★ Anselm of Bec, archbishop of Canterbury
★ David, prince of Scotland, brother of the queen
★ Lady Beatrice, caretaker of the royal children
★ Godfrey of Bayeux, tutor of the royal children
★ William d’Aubigny, butler in the king’s household
The Imperial Court
★ Henry V, king of Germany, Holy Roman emperor
★ Frederick, Duke of Swabia, nephew of the emperor
★ Conrad, Duke of Franconia, nephew of the emperor
★ Adalbert von Saarbrücken, imperial chancellor, later archbishop of Mainz
★ David, imperial chancellor after Adalbert
★ Bruno, archbishop of Trier
★ Friedrich, archbishop of Cologne
★ Lothair of Supplinburg, Count of Nordheim, later Duke of Saxony
★ Agnes, margravine of the Eastern March, sister of the emperor
★ Welf II, Duke of Bavaria
★ Altmann, the empress’s chaplain
★ Burchard, a clerk
★ Drogo of Polwheile, a knight in the empress’s service
★ Gertrude, a lady-in-waiting
★ Adelaide, a lady-in-waiting
Others
★ Popes:
★ Paschal II
★ Gelasius II (Giovanni da Gaeta), formerly papal chancellor
★ Calixtus II (Guy of Burgundy), formerly bishop of Vienne
★ Robert Curthose, brother of King Henry I, imprisoned
★ William Clito, son of Robert Curthose, claimant to the dukedom of Normandy
★ Mary of Scotland, Countess of Boulogne, sister of the queen of England
★ Philip of Ravenna, imperial chancellor in Italy
★ Mathilda of Tuscany, contessa of northern Italy, wife of Duke Welf of Bavaria
★ Pontius, abbot of Cluny
★ Maurice, bishop of Braga
★ Ptolemy, Count of Tusculum
For Shelley and Emily,
daughters of Mathilda,
who read this book first
Civil dissension is a viperous worm
That gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth.
William Shakespeare, Henry VI: Part One
I
Many are the tales men tell about me. Many are the names I have been given.
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��Tyrant” they called me. They hated and despised me. But they will never know me, not as you shall know me, for my blood flows in your veins.
When I first asked Lawrence to help me write my story, he became the latest man to question my judgment.
“My lady, if I may be so bold, what need is there for such an account? Have the scribes not sung your praises? Has Robert of Torigny not recorded it all, even as those before him?”
“Yes, Lawrence,” I said, “but that is just the problem. The accounts of my deeds are both too many and too few, for they tell the world about me, but they omit my true self.”
“And why does the world need to know you?” he asked.
“Not the whole world—only one.”
Some tales are not meant for public show. There are things that must remain secret for a time, until the day when they may be revealed. What my own age lacks, I pray that yours might gain. For though today I may be a tyrant, I have had other names as well—names that are worthy of remembrance.
My Christian name is Mathilda, the same that was borne by my beloved mother. It is taken from the ancient language of the Germans: mahta, meaning strength, and hildr, signifying battle. To the people of that land, I was die Kaiserin, “the empress.” I have carried that name for so long that I can scarce remember any time before it. It is strange to consider that in the flower of youth I should have acquired that highest of titles. Stranger still is how one may strive unceasingly for something less than the bounty already provided by God. So I shall remain die Kaiserin.
They have also called me regina, noting my time as queen of the Romans. Truly a deceptive title, and one in which I take little solace. Where now are the Romans, descendants of the Caesars of old? Is there an empire so impregnable, so immune to the forces of nature and time? And still it fell. Thus always to queens . . .
To two men I have been a wife, and to three I have been a mother. Yet though they call me by name, my words fall upon their ears as into a void. I ask myself, what good is such a reference, which is not accompanied by reverence? But perhaps I am too harsh, for I still have hope for my offspring, and I pray that they may excel their aged mother in all her virtues.
Yes, many names men have called me, but none can soon compare to that which was spoken to me at the beginning, the world of love that was granted to me as my mother, in the language of her ancestors, proclaimed me to be Maud. That is my true self, the woman whom God created and not man, and the name by which he will summon me on Judgment Day to recite all that I have done in this temporal realm. Whether it be good or evil, you must decide.
Even as I write these words, the eternal bounds press in on me, and the veil that separates the quick from the dead shall soon be pulled back. The ship makes out to sea and plots its windward course, each new tempest threatening to draw it down. I look now for that safe harbor in which, returning, I may find my eternal peace. Yet it is peace that is denied me in these final days, much as it has been throughout my time on this earth.
Thus it seems proper to me that I should make known to you the things I have done, and beyond that the things I have seen. I pray that in these tales you will find something to rouse your spirit, some pearl of wisdom that may enable you not only to rise to the level of your ancestors, but to journey even further, rise even higher, and know things beyond the power of a single generation. Remember me, I say, not only for my mistakes, but for what I have endured. May it make you stronger—may you persevere longer.
Hear now my story, dear daughter, for you were born
To know wisdom and instruction, to understand the words of knowledge,
To receive instruction to do wisely, by justice and judgment and equity.
How shall I begin? As I have no memory of the day of my birth, I rely on the chroniclers for my account. My mother bore me on the seventh before the ides of February, in the second year of the reign of my father, King Henry. As was so often the case in those days, the king was traveling throughout England with the royal household, making his court at different fortresses. Heavy with child, my mother was no longer able to maintain the pace at which he traversed the land. So it was that for a time she resided in the village of Sutton, a quiet sort of place that sits upon the River Thames in the fair land of Oxfordshire. It is home to but one church of any consequence, a pair of inns beckoning travelers along the river, and one of the loveliest market squares you will find in that part of the world. My mother made her dwelling in a small manor house for the extent of her lying-in, with only her ladies, her faithful knights, her traveling clerks, and a few visiting officials for company.
Two others were there: Faritius, the abbot of Abingdon and longtime royal physician who, at the king’s bidding, remained with the queen while she was in childbed, and Grimbald, a physician with whom my mother had become acquainted and who, having remained with her throughout the king’s progress, now pledged to stay by her side until the long-awaited birth. It was Grimbald who advised that the queen’s retinue must be small, in order to avoid undue stress to mother and child. Where better to spend those days than in his native village, so close to where the king continued his travels throughout the land? Of course, neither man could be allowed in the birth chamber unless there was some problem beyond the skills of the midwives. Such circumstances were few, but my mother surely felt better knowing that should things go ill, both Faritius and Grimbald, with their years of experience, would be close at hand.
The day of my birth was one of muted rejoicing, for it was the express wish of everyone involved that I be born a boy. Indeed, the court astrologer had promised as much when the queen visited him at Michaelmas. I never set much store by the stars, but my mother longed for hope from any source. Though I believe that for herself she would have been satisfied with a child of either sex, a queen’s duty is well known to all.
My father’s position was rather delicate given the quarrel with his brother, Duke Robert of Normandy, who was always intent on claiming the throne of England for himself. The duke was without a proper sense of fraternal devotion, nor did he pay any regard to the wishes of their father—William called “the Conqueror”—whose firm desire was that Robert should have no part of the English inheritance. My own father, Henry, was always the truest to his father William’s desires, but Robert was a man without proper feelings.
A son would have ensured greater stability for my father’s reign and established a mode of succession, but these hopes came to naught. When my father first set eyes on me, he is said to have told his queen, “A pretty girl, I’ll grant you, with all the graces of her mother. Do not be too hard on yourself, my dear, for such things cannot be helped. When you are well again, we may yet find that our dearest wish is fulfilled within the year.”
So it was that my brother William’s birth took place in the third year of my father’s reign. The whole kingdom greeted this news with great satisfaction, and I am sure that my mother’s countenance was raised to think that her chief obligation had been so happily fulfilled. As with Rachel and Hannah of old, the Lord had heard the cries of his daughter and ensured that she not be put to shame.
This also took place beyond the bounds of my memory, for to me William Ætheling had always been. I can remember trying to play with him in the garden when he was little more than a year old, attempting to take him by the hand and run through the arbor without much success. Alas, he was rather poor company then, but he soon became a more able companion. Those were sunny days, or so they seemed, with little to vex us.
My first years were spent mostly in the old palace of Winchester, which is now exceeded in splendor by Bishop Henry’s edifice on the banks of the River Itchen. In the shadow of the great cathedral I lived out those days, scarcely aware of the wider world. Two times only did I make my home in that castle: in my younger days, and at a far less happy juncture. But I must not trespass the historical order.
Having ensured the succession, though the clamoring masses ever hoped for her to increase her progeny, my moth
er the queen made her primary residence at Westminster, less than a mile from London town. I confess that I do not understand her decision, for she cannot have taken any great pleasure in such proximity to the realm of the merchants. So close was that palace to the city that the smells of the London fishmongers, butchers, tanners, and others would be caught up in the air, and when the wind was directed along a certain path, they would make their way even to our abode. How lucky we were that our home lay farther up the River Thames, before it became tainted with the waste of those thousands of residents!
The window of my nursery faced north, and I would often look toward the city with its imposing walls, built by the Romans and improved by further generations. Along the river, ships dispensed their wares, and upon the higher ground the road could be seen entering the city by the Ludgate, which lies quite close to the cathedral of Saint Paul. Sadly, the church has been under construction for the entirety of my natural life, owing to the great fire some fifteen years before my birth. The masons persevere with their work, and with each year there comes new hope that it might be finished.
Farthest away was the great tower first built by my grandfather William and then fortified by my uncle William—also called Rufus—at the expense of the taxpayer, as many have noted. It stood guard upon the eastern border of the city; its stone walls were so impregnable that some declared it would last until the end of time. Of course, men once spoke in the same manner of Rome.
Westminster itself was quieter, save when the royal presence drew persons of all kinds to court, hoping as they so often did to receive some favor from the royal hand. Queen Mathilda established herself there in the great hall, another project of my uncle, the second King William. It had at first met with controversy, as many feared it would empty his exchequer. When the king arrived to view his mighty creation, those present declared that it had been built too large, exceeding even the great cathedrals in its dimensions. The immense wood roof had no equal in the kingdom.