“What is it?” I asked him. “What have you heard? Have the Saxons risen up again? Did something happen to one of my ladies? I know it cannot be Drogo, for I saw him not five minutes ago.” I then lowered my voice further and asked, “This is not to do with your . . . problem, is it?”
“It is none of that.”
“Then you must tell me, or else I shall go mad! Nothing could be worse than what I fear.”
“Maybe it would be better if we stepped into another room.”
“Very well,” I answered, now certain that something terrible had befallen us all, or he would have spoken the words there and then.
He took me by the hand and had started to lead me from the banquet hall when the chancellor stopped us and bowed.
“Empress Mathilda!” he said. “I was most sorry to hear of the death of your mother, the queen of England. Her godliness and generosity were well known within the empire. I trust you will let us know if there is anything that you require.”
The words he spoke washed over me. Dead? It could not be true! But yes, he had said, “the death of your mother.” Was this some mistake? I had received no word from England. Surely such news would have been sent to me directly. No, he must have her confused with someone else. Could it really be? I looked to my husband to belie the chancellor’s comments. He made no sign, but instead seemed to look on me as one would a wounded animal that cannot be saved. It was those eyes rather than the words themselves that struck me in the belly and robbed me of breath.
So it was true, then. The queen of England was dead. My own mother was dead. I could feel the heat rising now from my toes even to my head, and I sank to my knees there on the cold stone floor, the emperor and his chancellor both reaching to brace me. The waves of pain began to hit me, one after the other, in swift succession.
I heard a voice saying, “Did she not know? Oh dear! What have I done?” Another seemed to reply, “You idiot! Can you not see how she suffers?” I heeded them not. The pain seemed to fill my very eyes, or perhaps it was the tears longing to break free.
Then I spoke, or rather something inside me spoke on my behalf: “Away! Get me away! I cannot be here.”
Without another word the emperor drew me up into his arms and brought me into a side room, shutting the door behind us. There were none but a few servants there. I started to cry with such a force as I have seldom felt before or since. No polite tears were these. My spirit split open and my entire body writhed with the weight of sorrow. From somewhere inside me, howls of pain were released, and I was ever so glad to be away from the feast at that moment.
He laid me down upon a low bench and said to those present, “All of you must leave. The empress is in distress!” I was scarcely aware of any of them, but I can only assume that they fled as ants at the sight of a falling stone. He then returned to me and slowly wrapped me in an embrace. Not a word was uttered between the two of us, except that I might have yelled, “Oh God! Oh God have mercy on me!” And there was nothing to be done except to remain there as I continued to empty myself of that despair. Later on I would come to understand the service he did me that day, but in the moment there was naught but the pain. My thoughts continued to spin wildly, and when I was finally able to bring myself to reflect upon what had happened, it was in a state of lamentation. In the silence of my own mind, I cried out to my mother in words that seemed to spring forth from the deep recesses of my spirit.
“You were the light of my life, the beacon calling me home. Now the dread hours grow cold, my soul as empty as the barren woman’s arms. What am I without you? Lord Jesus have mercy on me! The one who loved me like no other is gone . . . like the blooms of spring, or the leaves of autumn. That bond, once severed at birth, now torn by death. My mother, my queen is gone.”
XVIII
May 1165
Rouen, Normandy
It has been many years since I glimpsed anything worthy of praise in a mirror. I can still remember the first time I caught sight of a gray hair. I was merely twenty-five years old and rather upset that the signs of age should have appeared so soon. It was not long before they began to multiply, much to my dismay, and by the time I reached five and forty years, the ashen strands prevailed. I have heard that age brings with it an increase in both wisdom and honor, but if I possess any such wisdom, it has been gained in a manner none would prefer: through the endurance of a thousand bitter hardships. Likewise, if I appear honorable, it is due in no small part to that general fear that youth has of the aged, seeing them as harbingers of their own assured demise.
No, I shall find no solace in the attainment of years. There is an ache in my bones that will not cease. At the mere thought of labor, I often find myself tired. I cannot read the words on the page as well as I ought, for an impenetrable darkness has slowly crept in, and no power of man can relieve it. More than all, I am daily tried by the memory of those now gone and the things I have allowed to slip from my grasp.
Thus, my daughter, I must advise you, heed well the words of the ancient king Solomon: “Remember now your Creator in the days of your youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years approach wherein you shall say, ‘I have no pleasure in them’: while the sun is not dark, nor the light, nor the moon, nor the stars, nor the clouds return after the rain; when the keepers of the house shall tremble, and the strong men shall bow themselves, and the grinders shall cease because they are few, and they wax dark that look out by the windows; and the doors shall be shut without by the base sound of the grinding, and he shall rise up at the voice of the bird, and all the daughters of singing shall be abased.”
But enough of this fretting! Allow me to recount what took place the day before last, when Queen Eleanor paid us a visit. Ah, gracious Eleanor! The smallest measure of that grace might prove as strong as that of a hundred lesser maids and matrons. Her grace is of a peculiar kind that lends itself most readily to those who presume to flatter it. Then again, I suppose that is not so peculiar.
Perhaps you think me too harsh. After all, is not her beauty the stuff of dreams, the muse that inspired a thousand songs? She is most comely, most accomplished, and, dare I say, most fruitful. She cannot but enter a room without summoning the glances of men and women alike. Of her temper less has been written, but suffice it to say that it would be better for a man to stand in the light of her face than sink beneath her shadow. Yes, the bestowal of her grace is a prize for which the bravest knight might hazard life and limb.
I have yet to speak of her chief virtue: the fields and rivers of Aquitaine. That duchy, which many a king has coveted, is a dowry without compare in my lifetime. Whether it was for this that my son sought her for his bride, or the innumerable qualities that I have already expounded, or if he even had much choice in the matter—for these questions, I shall never have an answer. I know well my own suspicions, but the matter is accomplished, and there we find an end of it. When she favored us with her presence, it was a source of jubilation throughout the town. I could hear their calls in the streets. “God save you, Queen Eleanor! God bless you, Queen Eleanor!” They strained to catch a glimpse of her.
For myself, the queen was of less interest than those who traveled with her: my most beloved grandchildren. Here I cannot fault the good lady, for she has more than answered the calling placed upon her. You might say that she breeds like the rabbit in spring, and with as little trouble in childbirth as any I have ever seen. One by one, she placed them in my arms: William, Henry, Mathilda, Richard, and Geoffrey. The first one passed from this world before entering his fourth year, but all the rest are as hale as one could desire. Such joy they have brought me in old age!
Now the queen’s belly is full again, and she makes her way south to the home of her ancestors to give birth to the newest prince or princess. Thus they came to me from across the Channel—my own flesh and blood—for a brief visit. I would have more such occasions, even if they must be tempered by the inconstant humors of gracious Eleanor.
On the morning b
efore last, after the king had departed once again for England, I made my way with some difficulty to the palace on the other side of the river. As you know, I prefer to spend my days at my own abode nearer the abbey of Notre-Dame-du-Pré, or in the lodgings provided for me within the monastery itself. However, Queen Eleanor insisted that our meeting take place in the palace where both she and her husband held their own private rooms. I must say that the adornments were not to my liking, being as they were in the style of the queen’s native land and a bit too pompous for my taste. Still, I would have endured far worse to see those children.
We stood there in the great hall; myself, the newly installed archbishop of Rouen, my trusted friend Abbot Roger de Bailleul of Bec Abbey, Archdeacon Lawrence, and the rest of the attendants, among them dear Adela. In came the long-awaited visitors: Queen Eleanor, so plainly with child that I wondered why she had delayed her lying-in, and the two children with her, their golden-red tresses calling to mind my own mother.
Here was little Mathilda, barely nine years of age, clinging to her mother with one hand and a toy with the other. There was Richard, grown bolder since the departure of his older brother. I smiled to see their faces, such blessings from God on high. I only prayed that they had not forgotten mine.
“Greetings, my queen,” says Archbishop Rotrou, lord of the city. “We praise the Lord for your return to Rouen. It has been too long.” He bows deeply, then glances upward to mark its effect.
The queen responds in her native tongue. “Qui es-ce? Je n’ai jamais vu cet homme dans ma vie! Ne me dites pas qu’il est le nouvel archevêque!”
Guessing her general meaning, I offer, “Your Highness, this is indeed the new archbishop of Rouen. He was elected one month ago.”
“Cet homme?” she says with some disdain, then looks the man up and down as if to search out some hidden quality that she might have missed. “Hum. I suppose he shall do.”
“Merci, ma dame,” he replies, apparently content with this smallest commendation.
“Here, let us go into the other room. I have presents for the children,” I tell her.
“Presents? Presents!” Richard cries with delight. Before I have a chance to embrace the boy, he runs off in search of the rumored gifts, almost trampling a small cat that happens across their path. Feeble thing! It leaps out of the way of danger, its knotted fur attempting to rise to twice its normal height.
“Where did you come from?” I ask the poor creature. Its yellow eyes provide no answer as it cowers in the corner. As I have not seen it here before, I conclude that it must have made its way up from the kitchens.
Little Mathilda stoops down and extends a hand toward the animal, which first sniffs and then licks her fingers in turn. When she is sure she has gained its trust, she lifts the cat into her arms and strokes its fur until it seems perfectly contented. She then becomes aware of my presence once again.
“Grandmother, may I have a kiss?” little Mathilda asks.
“Why, of course you can, my sweet! You shall have all the kisses you desire.”
Upon this declaration, she finally lets go of the animal and hops into my arms. I cannot bear her weight as I once did, but I hold her close and rock her back and forth.
“There is one who will always love you, I think,” the queen states, walking slowly in the direction of Richard, who has now discovered the carved wood swords awaiting him and is mounting an attack upon a nearby table. “Richard! Arrête ça à la fois!”
“Can I tell you something?” asks the young one in my arms.
“Anything you wish.”
“I lost another tooth!”
“Did you really? It fell out?”
“No, Geoffrey pulled it out.”
“What? You let him do that?”
“Yes, because it was just hanging there,” she explains. “And he asked me if I wanted him to pull it, and I said yes, because it hurt whenever I ate food. But mother was upset, for it bled on everything.”
“Perhaps next time you should let it fall out on its own,” I advise her. “Come now! We should join the others.”
As we walk together, I cannot but see the humor in the overlarge Eleanor’s attempting to herd her son as one might a sheep. Little Mathilda alone is well behaved, standing at attention by her mother’s side.
“Mothers and daughters!” I think to myself. “A few years from now, she might not be so pliant.”
The door opens and it is Adela, come to fetch the children away. Gracious Eleanor seems pleased to have a moment of rest, and reclines on a small couch set out for her. I settle for an available chair.
“So,” I begin, “I hope your days have been passing pleasantly.”
“How could they when I am in such a state?” she complains, rubbing her enlarged belly. “I tell you, this summer has been far too hot, and my feet, they are so . . . so . . . enflé. You understand? Enflé.”
As it so happens, I do not know the word, but her meaning is clear.
“They are swollen?”
“Yes, this. Ah, it is so hot in here! Sainte mère! I fear I shall faint.”
“Allow me to help,” I reply, moving to open the windows. A slight wind enters the room, displacing some parchment that lands next to the queen.
“Here is luck!” she responds, and starts using it to fan herself. “You know, they say when a mother is always warm, it means she will have a boy, but my doctor already read it in the stars. He will be a strong boy—I know it.”
“Should I call for some water?” I ask her.
“Water? Qu’est-ce que c’est? No, tell them to bring me wine!”
“Of course.”
I step into the passage and call for one of the servants. Together we wait in silence for his arrival. Well, mostly in silence.
“I do hope this is a good wine from France and not that terrible drink they make in England,” she says. “Always they try to make me believe it is wine, but I know better.”
“Well, thank God for that!” I mutter, but she does not hear me, so lost is she in her own thoughts.
Finally the cupbearer arrives and pours us each a measure of his wares, which, fortunately, the queen deems acceptable. He departs as quickly as he came, leaving us once again in solitude. Without warning she broaches the subject that I had long suspected was the true reason for her visit.
“The king is too terrible to me! Not that I fault your ladyship, for I know there is only so much you can do, but he does not treat me as a man ought.” She seems to choke slightly on this last word, producing a sound more like caught. Her recovery, however, is swift. “Do you know he used to worship me? I was his beloved Eleanor! Now he has taken up with some new . . . putain!” Her brows rise as she pronounces the word, then she helpfully translates it for me. “Whore!”
“Ah . . . I had heard a rumor, but I hoped it was not true.”
“Hum hum . . . And while I am carrying his child!”
“I understand your concern, but is it not common . . . ,” I begin, then pause when she casts me a glance worthy of Beelzebub himself.
“Is what common?” she responds, stressing each word.
“Lady Eleanor, you must know that kings often behave in this manner. I make no claims as to the righteousness of such actions, but surely you cannot be surprised!”
“Of course! I am not a child! He will lay with whatever whore he likes. I know this.”
“Then why do you come to me?”
“Because, Queen Mother, he does not love me anymore, you see? Do not feign confusion. We know when a man lays with us, and we know when he loves us. They are not one and the same. What upsets me is not that he should go between some other woman’s legs. You understand me. My first marriage was without love, but I believed that . . . that the king . . .”
“That he loved you?”
“Yes.” She says the word almost in a whisper, the tears now becoming evident. “Now I see it is not I that he desired. He only wants the Aquitaine!”
“I pray t
his is not true,” I tell her, but as she begins to weep, I sense that there is little I can do. I place a hand upon her shoulder and gently rub until she raises her head to speak again.
“Tell me, Queen Mother, do you think that love can endure when two are bound together, as are kings and queens, or do you think it must be free like a bird?”
“I cannot think why you should ask me.”
“I will make him love me again; you will see. When I give him a son, he will love me again.”
There is a desperate note in what she says, and I find myself pitying this woman who has so often irked me. Slowly I draw her hands together and raise them to my lips, placing a kiss upon them.
“Lady Eleanor,” I respond, “I bid you take care. It may not be possible to create love in a man who has set his mind against it. However, I pray that you will succeed in this your quest, for I should hate to see any child of mine so unhappy.”
“Abeille! Abeille!” she suddenly cries out, making for the other end of the room. “A bee!”
“Where?”
“Over there! It comes through the window. Kill it!”
“Perhaps if we wait it will leave of its own . . .”
“Kill it!”
As luck would have it, the bee did leave of its own accord before I was able to make an attempt on its life. Then came the demands that the windows be closed, death by heat apparently being less frightful than death by bee.
Such was our conversation. The queen has now departed for her lying-in. She has arranged to rest at her castle in Poitiers, but I cautioned her not to travel so far in her current state. I think perhaps she will stop in Angers, which is much closer. Let it be said then: the toils of a mother never cease, even in old age.
I still possess the letter that arrived for me upon that dreadful day at Canossa, written by the hand of Roger of Salisbury. It was hardly the first time he served as my bearer of ill tidings, nor would it be the last. Even now, I cannot read it without shedding a tear.
The Girl Empress (The Chronicle of Maud Book 1) Page 37
