Lady of the English (45 page)

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Matilda jutted her jaw. “No,” she said.

“Are you certain of this?” Brian demanded. “This is not just idle rumour that has got out of hand?”

The marshal looked at him with incredulous contempt.

“Sire, if I doubted the information, I would not have interrupted your dinner.” He made a sweeping gesture towards the door. “However, if you want to talk to a mob, then do as you please, but you will find they desire to parley with spears and swords.”

Robert, who had been listening closely to the exchange, rose to his feet. “We should heed the marshal’s concerns,” he said to Matilda. “As he says, we are ill equipped for a fight and we cannot afford to have you captured. John, you will ride rearguard?”

“Sire.” The marshal bowed, and even as he left the dais was shouting orders.

Shaken, utterly furious, Matilda removed her coronet and folded it up with her golden cup and spoon into the embroidered cloth at her place, including the silver penny that Brian had given to her. She could not believe this was happening. As Robert and Brian bundled her out of the hall, she refused to look back because that would have been like bidding farewell.

In the city the church bells tolled and tolled. From every parish and quarter, they rang their rejection of her.

A groom had readied her mare and Brian helped her into the saddle before turning to Sable. All around them people were grabbing their hastily saddled horses and making their escape.

Servants fled, some astride, some afoot, many of them clutching aprons and knotted cloths full of the food that had been intended for the banquet. Matilda could still barely comprehend this was happening, but her marshal was in deadly earnest as he whacked her mount’s rump, and Sable’s, making both horses leap into a startled canter. Matilda swayed in the saddle, grabbed the reins, 356

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and clung on. In the distance, there was a shout and an ominous clash of weapons, followed by a scream.

“I will not let them push me out. I will not,” she said through clenched teeth, even as she shot out of the gateway on to the road. She imagined turning her mare around, but the plan went no further than her mind, because she could not row against the tide.

The marshal rode up, forcing his sweating white stallion alongside the mare. “Madam, we must increase the pace!” he shouted above the pounding hooves. “If we do not, we will soon be engaged in bloody battle.”

“I will not ride out like a fugitive from my father’s hall and what is rightfully mine!” she spat.

“Then you will be captured, and every man with you. Is that what you want?”

She threw him a fulminating glance, but struck the reins down on the mare’s neck to urge her on. The greater speed made it impossible for her speak because she had to concentrate on her riding, but inside she was sick with rage.

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Forty-two

Oxford, Summer 1141

M atilda drew back to Oxford and set up her court in magnificent splendour in order to expunge the humiliation of London. She held formal feasts in the great hall there and at each mealtime and when conducting business she wore her crown and sealed her charters as Lady of the English.

She made men earls of the realm and dealt out largesse in titles and honours, even though she had little to spare in terms of money and power. She dealt with all matters as if presiding over a royal court, but deep inside, in her soft and vulnerable places, she ached with frustration and misery. She had had several stormy exchanges with Bishop Henry. Having avoided the debacle in London, which she suspected he had been forewarned about, and perhaps even involved in, he had ridden off to Winchester and she was highly suspicious of what he was fomenting there. He had come briefly to court on behalf of Stephen’s wife and her eldest son, asking Matilda to recognise the youth’s rights to his father’s lands. At the time, Matilda had still been smarting from her flight from London, her flux had been upon her, making her ill with cramps and headache, and the bishop’s slippery prevarication had been the final straw.

She had refused his request and in a backlash of white anger had ordered Stephen to be put in fetters in captivity at Bristol.

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Bishop Henry had departed in a fury of his own, and refused all summonses to come back to court.

In late June, a detail of Angevins arrived in Oxford, sent to her aid by Geoffrey and headed by his close friend Juhel de Mayenne. Matilda welcomed the group cordially enough, but was wary because although the extra men were useful, it meant Geoffrey had an increased presence and influence at her court. Nevertheless, she was pleased with Juhel’s news about Geoffrey’s successful progress in Normandy.

“Since hearing about Stephen’s imprisonment, the Norman barons are arriving daily to treat with the Count of Anjou and sue for peace on his terms,” he told her. “Stephen’s grip is weak and each day brings new adherents.”

Matilda was delighted at de Mayenne’s report on her sons.

“Growing well, domina,” he said. “My lord Henry keeps pestering the count to let him come to England. He would have sailed with us given half the chance. I would not have been surprised to discover him stowed away in one of our baggage carts.” De Mayenne smiled. “Your son is so eager to wear a crown and rule England you might find yourself with a new challenger from inside the family. He is so bright, he could do it.”

Matilda glowed at his words. “But likely not tall enough yet,” she said. It was good to feel her spirits lift with pride and humour. “What of my other sons?”

“They are fine strong boys, domina, although with Master Geoffrey being fostered I have seen less of him. I hear he is progressing well with his lessons and his training and the count is pleased. The lord William is swift to learn and reads fluently.”

She bit her lip. When she had left for England, William had scarcely been out of smocks, his wrists and hands still chubby with baby fat. And now he was a scholar. She could not call this fight for their future time wasted, but it was time lost that 359

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she could have spent watching her sons grow while supervising their development, and that filled her with bitter sorrow.

Waleran de Meulan arrived in Oxford to tender his submission on a thundery, sweltering August afternoon. Receiving his request for an audience, Matilda was interested but cynical. He had always been one of Stephen’s staunchest followers, even if he had fled at Lincoln. Many of her own supporters had changed their allegiance to her as a result of the machinations of Waleran and his brother Robert. For him to be here now was akin to having a live snake thrown into the middle of her private chamber.

She changed her everyday gown for a regal one of blue silk and bade her ladies arrange her flower crown over her veil. She called for her sceptre and adorned the middle finger of her left hand with her father’s ring. In the great hall, she took her place on the high dais in the great chair where she was accustomed to sit and render judgement. Bronze statues of lions stood on either side of her seat, and on the wall behind was a cloth of red samite embroidered with golden leopards. Only then did she bid the ushers admit de Meulan.

As he entered the hall, the atmosphere thickened with tension. He still walked with a swagger as if he owned the world. Matilda watched him with narrowed eyes and thought how easy it would be to ram her sceptre through his treacherous heart.

Standing at the side of her throne, de Mayenne muttered,

“He has no choice but to make his submission, domina. His lands in Normandy are about to be swallowed up by your lord husband.”

De Meulan knelt and Matilda felt vengeful triumph. “I see you have accepted the inevitable and come to yield to me,” she said haughtily, but after a moment gestured him to rise.

“Domina, I am here to tender my allegiance,” he replied but gave her a hard upward look out of light green eyes.

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“As you did before?” She gripped the armrests of her chair.

“Three times you swore your oath to me, and when my father died, you went back on your word. Why should I trust you now or treat well with you?”

“Because I will no longer oppose you in England. Because I will swear to be your vassal in Normandy and fight for your son’s cause.” He spoke in a carrying voice in which there was no submission. “Because I am a pragmatist. If I stay with the queen and with Stephen, I will lose all of my lands in Normandy and my English estates are not enough compensation, burned and harried as they are. My support in Normandy will be invaluable to you.”

“You are here because your position in England is untenable,” she said icily.

He did not give ground. “I am here to strike a bargain.

Whether you accept it is up to you, but even my enemies here will advise you to do so, although of course,” he added, his lip slightly curled in contempt, “you might not want to take their counsel.” His expression and body language suggested without words that he was referring to her contrariness.

“Why should being rid of you not be to my taste?” she retorted. “I can think of few things I would like better in this world, my lord. What of your brother? Where does he fit into your schemes?”

“He will stay in England and keep his allegiance to Stephen on his own lands.” De Meulan spread his hands. “It is a sensible division.”

Matilda would have liked to string him up but she recognised that de Meulan’s words were sensible. She was irritated that he had only come to tender his submission after Geoffrey had sent reinforcements. It might seem to some as if he respected Geoffrey’s authority above hers—which she suspected was his intention. Nevertheless, if she sorted this out now, it would 361

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leave her free to deal with the bishop of Winchester should it prove necessary. Waleran knew it too; she could see it in his eyes and disliked him even more because, whatever happened, he could not lose.

“Very well,” she said, “on those terms, I accept your submission. It is a great pity you did not bring your brother to submit too, but that would have been too much to expect.”

Meulan bowed. “Indeed, domina,” he said archly, “it would.”

ttt

Once de Meulan had gone, Matilda retired to her chamber to remove her crown and change back into a less ornate dress.

She had not invited de Meulan to stay at court, but had let him depart in the teeth of a heavy thunderstorm. She hoped he got soaked to the skin and caught a chill.

She pressed her hands against her face for a moment.

Outside, the thunder was growling away towards the west and fresh green smells curled tendrils through her window. She ought to be buoyed up, but everything seemed such a struggle and she felt as if she could sleep for a week. Forcing herself to focus, she began to read the correspondence awaiting her attention, one of the items being a letter from Adeliza, who wrote that her husband was keeping to his lands and recovering from Lincoln, which had laid him very low. He had not ridden to join Stephen’s queen, but neither was he disposed to swear for Matilda, although she believed in time he might come round.

For the moment they were concentrating on their family and their religious foundations because in these times, there was need of charity and compassion for the suffering people.

Matilda made a face as she put the letter to one side. Adeliza was doing her best, she knew, but it did not alter the fact that there would be no help coming from that quarter beyond prayer and she had hoped for so much more. With prayer in mind 362

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herself, she summoned her ladies and went to the castle chapel, hoping to find God in a receptive mood to her entreaties.

Brian FitzCount was already there, kneeling before the altar, his head bent on his clasped fists, and his lips moving in an impassioned whisper. She hesitated, wondering whether to leave, but he raised his head as he sensed her presence.

“Domina,” he said. His voice was hoarse and his eyes were suspiciously wet. “I should leave.”

“No.” She made a swift gesture. “I have interrupted your prayers, and the house of God is for everyone.” She touched his arm. He hesitated for a moment, but as she sank to her knees before the altar, he bowed his head once more. She wondered what had brought him to such a pass of emotion, but knew she could not ask, and suspected he would not speak of his own accord.

Eventually she rose and went to light a candle. He followed her example, and for a moment they stood side by side, linked by flame as he lit his from hers. His hand shook slightly and wax dripped in small clear circles that swiftly cooled and turned opaque on the iron surface of the stand.

“I have heard from Adeliza,” she said. “D’Albini refuses to come over to us, but she thinks she can keep him neutral for the time being.”

Brian grimaced. “I could have taken him prisoner, but I did not count him a threat.”

“The ransom would have come in useful,” she said with a frown.

“Perhaps, but there had been enough fighting and bloodshed that day.” His expression grew bleak.

“I—”

They both turned at the sound of rapid footsteps. Moments later, Robert strode into the chapel with Miles of Gloucester and John FitzGilbert hard on his heels. Her heart began to 363

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pound because she could tell before anyone spoke that the news was bad.

“It’s Winchester,” Miles said grimly. “The bishop has turned on us and is besieging the castle.”

She stared at him in consternation and as the words took on meaning, her anger began to burn. The bishop of Winchester had handed the castle over to her not three months ago, promising her his loyal support and that she would be queen. “How dare he!”