Lady of the English (43 page)

Geoffrey’s lips twitched. “That was fine riding, my son.” He plucked a burr out of Henry’s cloak.

Henry flushed with pleasure. “Yes, sire.” Much as he was enthralled by the swiftness and grace of Denier, what he really wanted to ride was a destrier like his father. His new pony was just another point on the road towards that accomplishment. “I could have made him go faster, but Alain wouldn’t let me.” He scowled over his shoulder at the groom.

“Alain was wise; you should listen to him,” Geoffrey said.

“And to your horse. Always be bold; never be heedless.”

Henry pursed his lips and said nothing.

His father folded his arms. “I have been waiting for you because I have received some great news from England, from your mother. Stephen the usurper has been defeated in battle 339

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and captured by your uncle Robert and others of your mother’s kin and allies. Your mother is to become queen.”

Henry stared at his father while his stomach gave the same kind of swoop that it had done while he was galloping Denier.

He had not seen his mother in almost a year and a half and memory of her features had blurred at the edges, but she wrote to him often and sent him things from England: a writing tablet with an interlaced design on the ivory cover, and a fine penknife. Things she had sewn, which held her scent. Bells for his harness. Numerous books. And always the promise that one day he would be a king because England was his.

“Can we go there?” He was suddenly consumed with eager impatience. Had a ship been present in the courtyard, he would have boarded it there and then.

“No, no, no,” his father laughed. “Rein back your horse a little. It is early days yet. Your mother will send for you when it is time.”

“But when will that be?”

“Soon,” his father said. “But not quite yet.” He ruffled Henry’s hair. “One battle does not a victory make, even when the enemy has been captured. Once your mother has been crowned, she will send for you.”

Henry frowned and wondered how close “soon” actually was.

When adults said such things, it was usually simply to pacify—

and it was always a long time. He did not see why he could not go immediately. He knew he could help, and it was his destiny.

His father said, “My first task now your mother has succeeded is to go into Normandy and secure the duchy. Many barons will want to pay homage to the winning side.” He looked at Henry. “And no, you cannot come there either for the time being. Your task is to stay safe and learn and become a man.”

Henry grimaced, but knew better than to protest. As far as he was concerned, he was a man, and years were only numbers.

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Lady of the English

Following a night of blustery wind and rain, a bright March morning dawned over the city of Winchester. Matilda knelt to her cousin, Bishop Henry, in the great hall of the castle, and kissed his papal ring, her emotions a mixture of relief and wariness. Yesterday he had agreed a pact of peace with her and promised to hand over the castle and the treasury. These were fine concessions, but she still did not trust him and suspected he had yielded because either he was unprepared to fight, or because, like all the others, he thought he could manipulate her because she was a woman.

She had conceded to him that all ecclesiastical appointments in England would be under his sway and she would be governed by his counsel. In exchange he had sworn to uphold her right to the throne and announce in public that she was queen designate. He had promised also to bring the rest of the Church into allegiance and had formally given her custody of the castle.

Now, as he raised her to her feet, his knights came forward, bearing the treasure chests. For show and ceremony, the most magnificent articles had been placed on silk cushions: an orb and sceptre; rings set with precious stones. A ruby the size of a hen’s egg, and two enormous teardrop pearls. A staff set with garnets and sapphires; a goblet of gold and sardonyx; and a pyx enamelled in blue and crimson. The chests contained embroidered robes of cloth of gold, and one in royal purple, heavy with pearls. There were sacks of money, and a pair of swords with ornate fittings. Superficially it was a glorious sight, but Matilda suspected that much had been creamed off into the coffers of her legate cousin. He was already wearing a fortune on his back and his fortified palace outshone the castle.

“I expected more,” she said.

“I am sorry for that,” he replied blandly. “This is all that remains.”

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She pressed her lips together and looked instead at the final cushion. A crown was set upon it, the one her father had worn at his coronation, and that Stephen had usurped. Gems glittered about the band and the finials were adorned with small golden spheres. She took it in her hands as she had once taken Heinrich’s crown in Speyer. She felt Henry’s watchful stare, as if he expected her to put it on her head. How little he knew her. “I am not your brother,” she said curtly. “I know the proper ways.”

Winchester’s cheek muscle twitched. “I know you will govern with wisdom and the sound advice of your councillors.”

“I will do my best to honour the role that my father intended for me.” Her voice gained depth and authority. “But I will not be a cipher for power-hungry men. I have seen what happens when a sovereign is weak.”

“Indeed,” Henry replied, his tone neutral and his expression guarded.

In slow and dignified procession, they walked from the castle to the market cross in the High Street, the bishop and Matilda side by side under a palanquin, supported by Brian FitzCount, Miles FitzWalter, Robert of Gloucester, and Reynald FitzRoy.

A crowd of citizens had gathered to listen to what their bishop had to say and Henry’s knights opened a path through the people so that he and Matilda could mount the steps beneath the cross and be seen by all.

Henry struck his crosier on the ground three times and filled his lungs. “Here before you stands the Empress Matilda, daughter of King Henry and the only surviving child born to him of his Queen Edith, of an ancient royal house!” he cried in a powerful, charismatic voice. “Here she stands among you! Give allegiance to your rightful queen!” He stooped to the lower step to take the crown from the priest holding the cushion. “Behold,” he said. “Matilda, the Empress, King 342

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Lady of the English

Henry’s true successor, and Lady of the English!” With slow exaggeration, he placed the diadem on Matilda’s head. The gesture was symbolic and not a true crowning, but nevertheless it had a potent impact. “Let us do proper homage to her power that she may bring peace to our lives and bounty back to our lands. Let her come to us redoubled in glory for the courage and fortitude she has expended and let us follow her that we may be blessed. And let her take wise counsel and rule in justice and wisdom and grace!”

The sound and sight of a thousand people kneeling all at once filled Matilda with triumph, yet at the same time she was irritated at Henry of Winchester’s orchestration of the event, playing at kingmaker, even if she needed him. Winchester might be the old capital of England and the place where the treasure was stored—such as it was—but Westminster was the new hub, and not until the full ceremony had been performed at the abbey there and her brow anointed by Theobald, archbishop of Canterbury, would she truly be queen, whatever was said and done today.

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Forty

Arundel, April 1141

A deliza sat by the fire in her chamber, embroidering pearls on to a cope intended for Bishop Simon of Worcester, who had once been her chaplain. Juliana was reading aloud from the copy of Aesop that Will had given her, but Adeliza was not really listening. Outside the rain was fierce.

Although spring had supposedly arrived, the season had turned back to winter for several days.

It was two months since the Battle of Lincoln: a disaster for Stephen’s forces and a triumph for the empress. Receiving the news, Adeliza had felt as if she were stranded on a shore at the water’s edge, neither on dry land nor in the sea. Will had not returned to Arundel, although she had received a disjointed letter from him to say he was safe and lying low at his keep at Buckenham. She was to remain vigilant but do nothing and they would wait and see what demands were made. As yet there had been no word from either side, but she knew that state of affairs would not last. Either the tide would roll in or it would recede. She had heard that Stephen’s wife was rallying supporters and William D’Ypres, deeply penitent at having fled from Lincoln, had vowed to restore his honour and was commanding her troops. Stephen might be a prisoner, but the war was far from won.

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Adelis whimpered in her cradle and Adeliza went to pick her up. Her complexion, eight weeks from her birth, was pink and cream like new roses. She blew bubbles at Adeliza and gurgled.

Adeliza laughed and tickled her chin, thinking what a miracle she was.

Her chamber door opened to a knock and Rothard her chamberlain put his head around it. “Madam, the earl is here,”

he announced, and had barely finished speaking when Will pushed past him into the room. Adeliza gasped because he was dripping wet, his clothes hanging on him like sodden sacks.

“Dear God, why did you not send word?” Replacing Adelis in her cradle, she turned to her women. “Towels and dry warm clothes for my lord immediately.” She went to him but stood a few paces off because he really was soaked to the skin.

“Because I…” He made a pleading gesture. “Because I was unsure of my welcome and because it was safer not to broadcast my movements. We have been travelling by back roads at night and picking a careful route. I…” He palmed his face. “I was not sure until I rode through the gates that I was coming here, and even now I do not know if I should stay.”

Adeliza’s gaze widened. “What do you mean, you do not know if you should stay? Where else would you go? Come, get out of those wet clothes before you take a chill.” She unfastened his cloak and handed it to a maid. His tunic and shirt were damp too, and his boots, light fawn when dry, were the colour of ancient oak and slick with water.

“My presence here might endanger you.” He pressed the napkin to his wet face and she wondered for an appalled moment if he was crying.

“Come,” she said again briskly, “let me have your boots, and get you into some warm shoes.” She knelt to remove his footwear, tugging at the sodden lacings.

Adelis wailed in her cradle. Will lowered the napkin and 345

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looked round like a deer hearing a hunting horn. Then he went to the crib and gazed down at his daughter, unborn when he had ridden out to Lincoln. Water dripped from the tips of his hair on to her swaddling. He leaned over and touched her cheek with his forefinger and she rooted towards it hungrily and gave a fretful cry. Beyond the crib, a nurse held the hand of his son who was out of smocks now and wearing a miniature version of an adult tunic. He was staring at Will with big eyes, and sucking his lower lip uncertainly.

Abruptly Will turned and strode from the room, his shoelaces trailing dangerously. Adeliza stared after him with concern and astonishment. Then she rallied. Telling her women to continue with the preparations for Will’s comfort, she grabbed her cloak off the wall peg and ran after him.

ttt

Will knelt in Arundel’s chapel, shivering so hard that his stomach ached. He felt wretched; he knew he should not have come here. He had taken refuge at Buckenham after the battle while he awaited developments. News had been scanty, but what had arrived was demoralising and suggested that the empress was consolidating her grip. He had desperately needed to see Adeliza, but knew that, with her sympathies towards the empress, she was in a better position at Arundel to negotiate without him. The ground had fallen from under his feet and he felt powerless, and that made him a lesser man in his own eyes.

“I am facing my own nothing,” he said to the painted wooden image of the Virgin and Child standing on a marble plinth to one side of the altar. “I know you can take away just as you bestow. I want to do what is right, but how can I when I do not know what is right any more?”

“Husband?”

He turned at the sound of Adeliza’s voice. “Leave me alone,”

he said. “Do I interrupt you when you are at your devotions?”

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She came and knelt beside him and clasped her hands.

“Whatever has happened and whatever is to come, no burden is so terrible that God will not listen.”

“Was I so wrong?” he asked after a moment, his head still bowed. “I followed my honour and did my best, and now I am lost, because my best was not good enough. I feel as if I am falling down a long, dark tunnel with only more darkness at the end of it.”

“Never that.” She was shaken to see him so defeated and low when she was accustomed to his bluff optimism “Never think that!” She set her arms around him protectively, uncaring now of his wet garments. “You are a fine man, a good man.”

He clung to her, his body shaken by tremors, and she held and shushed him as if he were one of their children until eventually he pulled away and cuffed his eyes on his sleeve. “I do not deserve you,” he said hoarsely. “I have never deserved you.”

“Hush.” Adeliza kissed his cheek and rose. “Let there be no such talk between us. Say your words to God and seek His help and forgiveness, then come and bathe and eat and sleep.

Tomorrow is time enough to decide what we must do.”

When she had gone, he clasped his hands and bowed his head again and tried to concentrate on the smiling Virgin in her blue robe, but nothing came into focus beyond his sense of failure.