Lady of the English (44 page)

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“Why did you marry me?”

Adeliza looked across the hearth at Will. He had eventually come from the chapel, grey with cold, shivering and barefoot, his shoes in his hand. She had renewed the bath with fresh hot water and made him eat a bowl of mutton and barley pottage washed down with hot spiced wine. Colour had gradually returned to his face and although his eyes were still heavy, they were less haunted. She had dismissed their attendants and they 347

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were alone in their chamber with the hangings drawn across the shutters and the fire a comfortable glow of ruddy embers in the hearth. Teri, his favourite dog, stood on his hind legs and sniffed at the almost empty pottage bowl. Will held it for the dog to lick out, which told Adeliza he must be feeling more at home with himself.

“Because I chose to,” she said.

“But why?” He fixed her with a puzzled stare. “You were a queen. You could have had anyone you wanted.” He put the bowl on the floor.

That was not quite true, she thought. Any man she took as a husband would have had to have Stephen’s approval. “You offered me an alternative life,” she said. “You made me realise that I was not quite ready for the cloister.”

“I never thought you would consent. You are as far above me as the stars.”

“But you dared to ask—and I dared to answer, and I do not regret it. You have given me gifts of far greater worth than any number of crowns.”

“I thought it was another gift to stay away from you,” he said in a low voice. “That is why I said I should not be here.

My absence will keep you and the children safe. If I am not at Arundel, there is no cause to besiege it.”

Adeliza raised her brows. “You are not going to acknowledge the empress?”

“I swore my oath to Stephen. Should I disavow it because he is a prisoner? What does that say about my honour? Until he renounces his kingship I have a sworn duty to support him.

Yet if he is truly overthrown, I have a sworn duty to protect my family also.”

Adeliza bit her lip. “No one has come to Arundel of either faction yet, so I say we do nothing and wait and see. We should tend our estates and keep them orderly and secure. We should 348

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succour those who have suffered through no fault of their own.” She took his arm. “Come, it is late and this can bide until the morning.”

She led him from the hearth to their bed and helped him to disrobe, kissing him as she unfastened ties and laces, offering him reassurance and comfort, encouraging him with little touches and signs. Then she removed her own garments and pressed her body against his. “Husband,” she said tenderly. He uttered a soft groan and his arms tightened around her and suddenly, with appetite awakened, he started to kiss her in return.

She had had her women remake the bed with clean, fresh sheets, scented with lavender and thyme, knowing that to him, the perfume was associated with her and with home—with coming home. She drew him into her with desire, with compassion, and with the urge of a nurturer to make him whole again in any way she could. At the climax, Will pressed his face into her neck and gasped that he loved her and needed her. She was his heart and his world. She was his queen. Adeliza held and soothed him while he fell into a deep, healing slumber on her breast, and then she wept a little too, and, despite her reassurances to him, wondered what indeed was going to happen to them.

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Matilda set her hand upon her father’s tomb in the choir of Reading Abbey, her composure as hard as the chiselled stone.

She was cold and her stomach was hollow with hunger both physical and mental. She had faced death many times but confronting her mortality in the shape of her father’s tomb, knowing his remains were under her hand, intensified her awareness. She needed to make good use of every moment on this earth that God gave her. The last time she had been in her father’s presence, they had argued fiercely over her dower castles. Not wanting to dwell on that memory, she thought of 349

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her childhood instead. She had a vague recollection of running to him and how big and alive he had seemed. How real. How he had picked her up and carried her through the court in his arms, proud of her. He had given her a honey sweetmeat to eat and silver ribbons for her hair…and then told her she was to go far away to her marriage. When she tried to think of him after her return from Germany, the sting of grief and bitterness was so strong, she could not visit those memories.

He had the resting place he desired and the monks to pray for his soul. She too would lie in a tomb one day and she had much to accomplish before that time. Easing to her feet, she crossed herself, and left the church, her pace dignified but decisive, and she did not look back.

From here, from her father’s resting place, the road now lay towards London, and Westminster…and her crown.

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Forty-one

Westminster, June 1141

I n her chamber at the Westminster complex close by the abbey, Matilda prepared for a formal feast to celebrate her forthcoming coronation. Her ladies were combing her hair with scented lotion. She was aware of the wiry grey strands coarsening what had once been a shining, dark waterfall and knew she was no longer a young beauty but a woman entering her middle years, with lines of strife and tribulation carved for all to view. These days she preferred not to look in a gazing glass and see what time had wrought.

The women patted her hair dry and rubbed it with a silk cloth, before combing it and plaiting it tightly. Then they covered it with a fine white veil, edged with pearls and gold.

Her gown was embroidered blue silk; her cloak was lined with ermine as befitted a queen and an empress. The trappings of royalty. A headache throbbed at her temples. Her flux was imminent and she was irritable and on edge. Men had no such burdens to bear.

A few weeks earlier, the Londoners had refused to acknowledge her as their queen, but had changed their minds when Geoffrey de Mandeville, custodian of the Tower of London, had switched allegiance and agreed to support her, bringing with him de Vere of Oxford and Gilbert, Earl of Pembroke.

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The citizens had tendered their grudging submission, but she knew there was a large faction among them still eager to have Stephen back on the throne. They had only capitulated because they had no choice. It galled her that they snubbed her and refused to pay tribute, yet they had eagerly welcomed Stephen as king when her father had died and had paid him without demur. She despised them, and since pretence was not within her scope, she was finding it difficult to conciliate. They had even given Stephen’s vile little terrier of a wife the money to hire mercenaries. Those troops were now pillaging the lands outside London, and the citizens were wringing their hands and blaming Matilda for it rather than themselves and the woman who was actually responsible.

“You should not frown, domina,” said Uli. “You will create more lines.”

Matilda fought her irritation. She was certain that no one had ever said that to her father, or to Stephen. As if a smooth forehead were the ultimate goal. Even with England’s crown on her head, she knew she would have a constant battle to rule. The earls and barons who supported her took decisions among themselves and held their own meetings, treating her as a figurehead rather than heeding her voice. Their bluff, masculine camaraderie excluded her by the very fact of her gender and was something she could not change. They saw her as a member of the weaker sex, too soft to rule; yet when she showed a hard face and acted in a stern manner, they muttered that she was going against nature. Whatever she did, she was damned, and it led her to think damn them all too.

She completed her adornment by wearing her favourite German crown with the gold flowers. Gathering her women around her, escorted by knights and ushers, she left her chamber and processed to Westminster’s great hall. It had been built by her uncle King William Rufus more than forty years ago, incorporating the 352

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existing hall of the time. Her uncle had complained that the structure, despite being more than 240 paces long and the largest in Christendom, was too big for a chamber and not large enough for a hall. She could remember running between the bays as a little girl, and admiring the bands of chequered masonry along the walls. She had played hide and seek with her brother, and skip-ping games with girls whose names she had long forgotten. Later, on her return from Germany, she had sat in this hall and dined at her father’s side in the place of honour at the high table. But this was the first time in her life that she would sit here and preside as lady of the English and queen designate.

Fabric hissed and belt fittings clinked as people knelt to her.

She took their obeisance as her due but noted amongst all this fine rustle of silk and cloth of gold that there was no sign of the bishop of Winchester’s elaborate cope, even though Bath, Ely, and London were represented.

“My lord of Winchester appears to be still sulking,” Brian murmured to her as he assisted her to her seat on the dais.

“Apparently, he has not been seen this morning.”

Matilda pursed her lips with irritation. She had had a long argument with her cousin of Winchester about her decision to appoint her uncle David’s candidate William Cumin to the see of Durham. Bishop Henry had disapproved of her choice, saying angrily she had promised him full jurisdiction over Church affairs and he had a different man in mind for the task.

But she owed much to her uncle David and felt more beholden to him than Cousin Henry. Besides, it would not hurt Henry to be put in his place. “Let him sulk,” she said curtly.

“Better to have him in your sight,” Brian warned.

“I do not care if he is here or not,” she snapped as she settled in the chair. It had once been her father’s in the days when he had presided over feasts here. That Stephen had sat upon it too, she put from her mind.

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“Even so, it might be wise to conciliate with him for now.”

“Brian is right,” said Robert, who had been listening to the conversation with a troubled expression. “We should keep him sweet at least until you are more established.”

“I do not see why we must pander to his every whim,”

she said bad-temperedly. “Taking his advice is one thing, but giving in to him all the time just to prevent him from stamping his feet is another. I will not ruin this feast by talking of him.

There are plenty of other churchmen present to say grace.”

Stewards brought bowls of warm water and towels to the dais and she washed and dried her hands, her movements vigorous and annoyed. In lieu of the papal legate, Bishop Nigel of Ely gave the benediction and the first course was served. There were dishes of delicately spiced frumenty and crisp fried elderflowers, quails’ eggs, dyed different colours, and small spicy cheese tarts; all dainty items, designed to whet the appetite for the roasts to come. Matilda began to relax a little as she gazed out over the diners and listened to the babble of eating and conversation.

“I have a gift for you,” Brian said. Taking her hand, he placed in it a small silver coin, the size of her index fingernail.

On one side was depicted a woman’s head, and around the rim the legend read,
Matilidis Imperatrice, Domina Angliea, Regina
Anglia. Wallig.

“I had the die made and the silver stamped at the mint at Wallingford,” he said. “I wanted you to have the very first one, but soon there will be many more because this will be the currency of all England.”

Matilda gazed at the silver disc in her hand and her throat was suddenly tight. “Thank you,” she said hoarsely.

He flushed and made a small gesture of negation. “All of my garrison there have your name on their pay now.”

She started to answer him, but paused as the clamour of numerous church bells ringing came through the window 354

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aperture. Others were raising their heads from their food and looking round.

“Probably practising for the coronation,” Brian said noncha-lantly, although his gaze flickered. Now that the sound had intruded on their dinner, there was no ignoring it. The bells, some near, some distant, were being rung with vigour.

Moments later, John FitzGilbert her marshal walked briskly up the hall to the dais table. “Domina, the Londoners have risen against you.” His voice was low pitched but terse. “There is an armed mob on its way to Westminster from the city. For your safety, we must leave.”

Matilda closed her fist over the silver coin in her hand and felt the thin rim bite her flesh.

Brian leaned towards FitzGilbert. “Perhaps the bells are ringing in salute and rejoicing.”

“No, my lord.” The marshal’s blue gaze was hard and direct. “The reports of a riot come from our supporters in the city, who are fleeing before the mob. The bells are ringing to muster the people and to tell Stephen’s wife that she may enter London with her army of Flemings and receive support. I have given orders to saddle the horses. If we do not leave now, we will be overrun.”

Feeling sick with fury and frustration, Matilda glared at her marshal and vented her spleen on him because he had direct command of her household knights and responsibility for military order. “I refuse to be driven out of my rightful territory—my own father’s hall!—by a mob and a rabble army of mercenaries. Any man who says we must leave is a coward.”

He stood ramrod straight. “Domina, I would kill any man who called me a coward. I deal in reality and I tell you we cannot stay here. We are not equipped to fight and when Stephen’s wife arrives we will not hold our enemies. Better to pull back to Oxford or Devizes and deal from there.”