The Girl Empress (The Chronicle of Maud Book 1)

by Amy Mantravadi

  “Too big? Hardly!” the king proclaimed. “I declare it is not half as large as it ought to be!”

  All who gathered there wondered at his words. Though this excess created many enemies for the king during his reign, they were soon filled with pride to receive such largesse.

  As a girl I was not allowed to join in the queen’s regular audiences or attend on special occasions in the great hall. This was harsh punishment indeed, since my mother was fond of bringing in the most eminent musicians of the day to entertain both herself and her guests. Lady Beatrice, who was charged with my care, would at times allow me to sit with her in the upper walk and listen to the melodious sounds issuing from within, provided that I had been on my best behavior, which I am loath to report was not often. On occasion, when none but the servants were present, my brother and I were given free rein to run throughout the hall. This was undoubtedly one of our choicest pastimes. There were few other children with whom we visited, and none with whom we shared a close acquaintance. Barefoot, we would dash across the straw-covered floor, running circles around the long wood tables and hiding beneath them.

  My mother the queen was a constant presence in my life. At the time I did not comprehend that such a circumstance was rather odd for the child of a sovereign. Indeed, I scarcely saw my father in those early years. His visits became more frequent only when the time came for my brother’s training. The king preferred to apply himself to other matters. In times of war, he was much occupied across the Channel, where his affairs might keep him for years at a time. In times of peace, he preferred the hunt, and such a pursuit is not fit for a young lady, nor did the queen find particular joy in such occasions.

  My mother, Mathilda of Scotland, was descended from the kings of Wessex, a true daughter of Britannia. She delighted in telling us myths and legends that had been passed down for a thousand years. Provided she was in residence, she put me to bed herself rather than leaving it to Lady Beatrice. As she held me in her arms, she would read to me such lovely passages that still echo in my mind to the present day. Most dear was that great Hymn of Caedmon, which was set down for us by Bede:

  Now we must honor the guardian of heaven

  The might of the architect, and his purpose

  The work of the father of glory

  As he, the eternal Lord, established the beginning of wonders

  He first created for the children of men

  Heaven as a roof, the holy Creator

  Then the guardian of mankind, the eternal Lord

  Afterward appointed the middle earth, the lands for men

  The Lord Almighty

  Few women could equal Mathilda of Scotland in piety and devotion to our Lord Jesus Christ. Her own excellent mother and my grandmother was Saint Margaret, queen of the Scots, about whom Turgot wrote a satisfying account at my mother’s express request. This heritage was passed down and further strengthened by the long years that my mother spent at Romsey and Wilton Abbeys. The abbess Cristina, her own aunt, impressed upon my mother the need for singular devotion to the Almighty.

  Provided there was not some pressing matter to attend to, my mother would follow much the same schedule each day throughout my childhood. She would rise before dawn to say her first prayers, and usually to read a portion of Scripture or one of the lives of the saints, for my mother was entirely literate. She carried with her always a small book of hours, colored but sparely compared to the glorious volumes found in the monasteries, and a rosary of jasper beads that had once belonged to her mother. In between audiences, my mother could often be seen fingering through the beads. She would hear the Mass daily and three times on Sundays from the household priest, Maelgwyn, who hailed from a mountain village in the Welsh lands. Day after day, she would urge me, “Maud, you must not forsake the Almighty God, for in the word of the Lord you shall be made content.”

  At least once a week, my mother would appear outside the castle gate to grant alms to the beggars who came daily to await her beneficence. Some said she was too liberal with such offerings, but it was merely the product of her generosity of spirit. When the queen was away or unwell, this duty was passed on to her attendants. During the season of Lent, Queen Mathilda forbade the presence of meat in the castle, and she would even wear a hair shirt underneath her garments to better understand the Lord’s sufferings.

  It was not until I grew older that I understood why my mother spent so much time in solitude, why she often chose not to join the king’s progress, and why she felt the need to commit herself almost solely to the raising of her children and works of righteousness. Where I had seen only piety and firmness of character, there was in fact a darker side to my mother’s tale, of which I only became aware from conversations of less discreet members of the household.

  My parents must have loved each other deeply when they married. Why else would my father have gone to such great lengths to induce His Grace Anselm of Canterbury to permit the marriage when so much of the world denounced the union, falsely claiming that my mother had taken the veil during her time with the sisters? Some claimed that he merely sought to increase his own standing among the men of England, but perchance such persons did not understand the depth of feeling that was evident to those who knew them well.

  When my father’s brother William made a visit to the nunnery to court my mother for his bride, young Edith—for so she was known in those days—placed a veil upon her head so as to ward off his attentions, knowing him to be a man of poor character. Her description of my father’s visits was quite different. He was a Norman prince with black hair and dark eyes, who never neglected to bring her a gift of flowers or a ballad declaring his undying affection. She was a young maiden raised in the wilds of the North, with bright-red hair and the gentility and poise of a much older woman. She would allow him to join in her daily walk, prolonging his desire for as long as seemed necessary, until she finally consented to be his bride. As you can see, Daughter, the beginning was as happy as any two people could wish.

  Even so, the marriage was also one of great convenience for both parties. My mother was, by that time, an orphan with little to recommend herself to the world, save for her family name. My father was a young Norman prince, the son of England’s conqueror, who desired to increase his own authority as king of England by forming an alliance with one of the last living descendants of the great line of Wessex.

  I have no doubt that their marriage was at first a great triumph. However, it was not long before Mathilda, as she had come to be known, was made aware that my father’s great love of the female sex, which had already produced offspring before my parents married, could not be limited merely to herself. King Henry had several concubines, none of whom I shall condescend to name. These noble ladies would often travel with the king’s court, and few were left to wonder with whom the king shared his bed. My mother was the best of royal consorts; she never drew attention to my father’s transgressions nor sought to induce a change of behavior, choosing instead to live out her life in quiet submission, knowing that from God she would receive her reward and that there was little she could do to change the ways of the world.

  I was well aware of my father’s other children. The eldest, Robert, later Earl of Gloucester, exceeded me in age by more than a decade. He was old enough to take his place by my father’s side and accompany him on his journeys while I was still a baby. I would see Robert more often as I advanced in years, and in time I came to regard him with affection, but from my mother he always received a cool, if completely courteous, reception. I was far along in life before I was able to understand what my mother must have endured.

  Robert was but one member of the group that came to be known as “the king’s lads,” for there were several young men who benefited from my father’s grace and favor. However, Robert was the eldest and also the most charming. He was well liked at court, a fine rider and even finer soldier from his early manhood, who first made a name for himself in the king’s battles in Normandy. In truth, he was
but a half brother to me, being the natural son of Constance, she of the Gay family line that has its roots in the north of Oxfordshire. Before he was four years old, my father the king summoned young Robert to court to be raised as his undoubted son, and I suspect Robert never saw Constance again. Perhaps this explains why in our lifetime together I never observed anything remotely feminine in Robert. He was all strength and resolve, a man not without mercy, but willing to stoop to no one.

  Close to him in age was Brian fitz Count. His mother was also of somewhat obscure origin, but his father was said to be the Duke of Brittany, Alan Fergant, the last name meaning “iron glove” in the language of the French. In the years long before my birth, the Breton duke had been at war with my grandfather, the first King William. Seeking to prevent any further incursions into Norman territory, my grandfather offered his own daughter Constance in marriage, the blessed union taking place in the city of Bayeux.

  However, as fate would have it, there was little wedded bliss in store for Alan and Constance, the lady having a rather harsh temperament that actively discouraged any kind of affection. So it was that some say the duke was driven to take a mistress, his own wife being barren in addition to her other faults. Brian was the child produced by this unlawful union.

  Although the duke wished to acknowledge his son openly, Constance demanded that the child not be given any of the advantages afforded by such a position. Instead they sent young Brian to be raised in England by my own father. Constance died of consumption the following year, and Alan Fergant was forced to relinquish his title some time later.

  My memory of Brian in those early days was that he was a great scholar of the written word, more so than his cousin Robert, devoting hours at a time to the study of the ancient philosophers and making visits to Malmesbury Abbey to view the monks’ extensive collection of books. Despite this difference, the two young men became great friends, and they could often be seen sparring with each other in the inner ward ere they were called in to supper. Perhaps Brian had more of a gentleness of character, but he was also strong after his own manner and would later prove to be equally formidable.

  The third of the king’s lads was a cousin of mine, this one of legitimate parentage: Stephen of Blois. He was the son of Stephen-Henry, Count of Blois and Chartres, and my aunt Adela, a woman of great temperance. The count was a leader of the army that made its way to the Holy Land during the pilgrimage of 1096, but he gained a poor reputation as rumors of his ill conduct made their way back to Western Europe. He is said to have fled before the Turks at one point, and upon his return received just humiliation for such a misdeed.

  The count once again sojourned to Palestine when Stephen was yet a boy, where he met his doom in the Battle of Ramleh. Eager for her son to be raised at the feet of a truly great man, and perhaps never believing her husband to be up to the task, Lady Adela sent her middle son—for so he was, having two elder brothers and one younger—to benefit from her brother King Henry’s care. Stephen was a few years younger than Robert fitz Roy and Brian fitz Count, and thus he naturally followed their lead. Though more reserved than the others, he was nevertheless resolute in all his dealings and became a firm challenger in all manner of sport. My cousin was all courtesy, and I seldom remember hearing a cross word from him one way or the other, except perhaps to express the general feeling that the weather was not fit for any proper endeavor, or that some ill food was not to be borne, or that it was too long since he had known a decent kill on one of the king’s hunting expeditions.

  This I will say of Stephen, that as the youngest of the three men, he always appeared the most eager to prove himself, and he did not possess that easy confidence that seemed to come naturally to the older boys. Whether this was on account of his inferior age, the rumors surrounding his father, or some other business unknown to us all, I was never able to fully ascertain.

  My brother and I were of a different stock entirely, for we were the offspring of both King Henry and the rightful Queen Mathilda of England. Growing up side by side, close in age though we were, William Ætheling and I were bound to be treated differently, he being the future king of England. I never saw my father take such joy in anything as he did in young William, and he was determined from the beginning to make sure that his son received the full recognition he was due. I had my mother to provide the chief share of my comforts, and the king was not remiss in ensuring that all the rest was provided for.

  When time for our schooling came, no ordinary scholar would do. My father employed Godfrey de Bayeux, a man of letters noted for his work as a tutor to many of Normandy’s brightest young sons. He was to become my brother’s and my second great teacher, the first being our mother. His was a more regimented form of study than that to which I had been accustomed. He believed that we must achieve mastery of Latin, a language of which I knew little in my early years. Most of my experience came from the daily Mass in the upper chapel, or on grander occasions in King Edward’s abbey church.

  Of course, we understood both the Norman and English languages through my mother. Each had its own kind of beauty. I also knew a few words in the language of the Scots, mostly gained from visits by my mother’s kinsman to the English court. (Her brother David was always most favored and often among us.) Sadly, my own mother was not skilled in that tongue, for she had spent so much of her life in an English monastery, far away from the northern heights. Yes, all these I knew, but Latin was another matter entirely.

  Master Godfrey had a great regard for Julius Caesar, having committed many hours of his life to the Commentarii de bello Gallico and the Commentarii de bello civili. “One day when you are old enough, you too will enjoy these pleasures,” he would tell us. I could never make out whether or not he meant it as a threat.

  He did make a point of reading to us from the works of our own people, especially Gildas. Perhaps he felt that because of my brother’s destiny to rule over the people of England, he ought to be made aware of the vanities and weaknesses of character that had caused those before him to stumble. “An illiterate king is no more than a crowned ass,” was one of his choice sayings, though I was fairly certain it did not originate with him.

  On many a fair summer afternoon, when our thoughts were only of the endless adventures that awaited outside, Godfrey would continue his attempts to expand our minds.

  “‘This island, stiff necked and stubborn minded’—for so the Lord referred to the ancient Israelites, you will note—‘from its first being inhabited, ungratefully rebels, sometimes against God, sometimes against its own citizens’—Heaven forbid! They take no heed of the words of Saint Paul!—‘and frequently also, against foreign kings and their subjects.’”

  Here he was forced to subdue any commentary about “foreign kings,” for the Norman rule of England was yet young.

  “Listen now, young master, young mistress: ‘For what can there either be, or be committed, more disgraceful or more unrighteous in human affairs, than to refuse to show fear to God or affection to one’s own countrymen, and without detriment to one’s faith to refuse due honor to those of higher dignity, to cast off all regard to reason, human and divine, and, in contempt of heaven and earth, to be guided by one’s own sensual inventions?’ May all such men perish in the manner that God deems fit!”

  I owed it to my mother that I was included in these lessons. While the training of royal children was considered necessary, it was often not as formal for girls as it was for boys. Indeed, I must have been Master Godfrey’s first female pupil. Fortunately, despite his resistance—for I am sure he thought my time would have been better spent embroidering—the queen induced Godfrey to take me on, and my father did not stand in the way. Although I did not know it at the time, for I found many of those lectures quite dull, I possessed a privilege that had been granted to few women in the entirety of history, and this preparation was essential for what was to come. I would not say that my mind was opposed to learning, but I did find Master Godfrey’s lessons exceedingly te
dious, and he always seemed to take a keener interest in my brother than he did in me.

  Despite any faults that he may have had, Godfrey did possess a firm devotion to the Holy Scriptures, particularly the works of Saint Paul, which he seemed to quote unceasingly. One occasion stands at the fore of my memory.

  It was during the early days of my seventh year, and Godfrey was reading to us from one of the works of Saint Augustine when I saw through the window a fox, bright red against a field of green, making a rare appearance. Forgetting the purpose of the lecture, I said to my brother, “Look, William—a fox!”

  Now William’s attention was also turned from the afternoon reading to the sight unfolding outside the window as the fox, perhaps aware of so many eyes upon his form, quickly darted away into the nearby brush. My brother let out a mournful sigh, but he was not the only one to offer a commentary.

  “Lady Mathilda, you ought to take better care than to allow such exclamations to escape your mouth while we are in the midst of hearing from one of the most serene fathers of our holy Church!”

  I pulled my eyes away from the window and turned my head to face Master Godfrey, who I was dismayed to see was now standing directly in front of me, close enough to strike me with his rod. His eyes were wide and his nostrils, to my great alarm, were flaring slightly as he took heavy breaths in and out, the very skin of his face now taut. I sensed that much depended on each word I chose.

  “I am sorry, Master Godfrey, but we do not often see a fox so near to the town, and I knew that William would want to see it as well. I have no wish to dishonor you or Saint Augustine.”

  The tutor quickly turned and began to pace back and forth in front of our desks, his hands clasped behind his back and his mind apparently busy deciding his next move. So deliberate was his stride that the wood floor seemed to groan with each step. Having continued in this manner for what seemed an eternity, he finally spoke.