Lady of the English (37 page)
“Is my lord of Meulan not joining us?” Matilda enquired as the door closed.
“The Earl of Worcester has retired to his chamber with some wine and an accommodating companion,” Henry said with a wave of his hand, making sure the light flashed on the intaglio ring adorning his middle finger. “I see no need to disturb him.”
“You have done well for yourself despite Stephen’s efforts to hold you back,” she said. “It must gall him that you have acquired the position of papal legate.”
He gave her an assessing look. “I would not say that. My brother accepts that it is so.”
“But you left it many months before you told him.”
“A man who exposes everything inside his jewel casket is asking to be robbed and deceived,” Winchester said over his shoulder as he went to pour wine for both of them.
“It seems to me your brother is just such a man, and in consequence his jewel casket is almost empty.”
“But I hazard you are not such a woman.”
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delicate political issues. “No, I am not.” Her gaze hardened.
“But I have been robbed and deceived anyway.”
“That is a matter for debate. Some would say oaths made under duress have neither validity nor value. Some would say being absolved of an oath is reason enough not to retake it.”
He handed her a cup so smoothly that the surface of the wine barely rippled.
“Some would also say that the Church should know its place and not involve itself in secular affairs,” she said. “Those who speak of absolution have robbed and deceived me and will continue to feather their own nests at the expense of others.
Your brother’s coffers are woefully light these days and he has had to rob the church to keep himself from penury. In my father’s day, the treasure chests were always full. Now it is the Beaumonts who drip with gold, and the mercenaries who have been paid for their loyalty who wear the jewels and the power.
Who rules your brother’s court, my lord? Not your brother, for certain, and not you.”
Henry’s cheeks reddened above his thick bush of beard. “I admit that my brother has been misled by bad advice, but as papal legate, I have influence to deal with such matters.” He put delicate emphasis on the word “influence.”
Now they came to it, she thought. Here was the spider. A man who would be king in all but name. A man who would play both sides to his own best advantage. She took a sip of the wine, noting its quality. The bishop did not believe in stinting himself even when travelling. “So.” She set her cup down.
“You have not asked me here to socialise before retiring. Let us be frank. What do you want?”
He looked slightly pained. “You are my cousin whether we stand on opposite sides of a divide or not. And you are my daughter because of my position as a priest. I am worried about you on all counts.”
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Matilda arched her brow. As far as she was concerned, the family feeling could remain in its crypt. “But that is not the sum of it. I do not believe my lord of Meulan would be pleased to know we are having this conversation.”
Henry made a gesture of dismissal. “He will know anyway in the morning. His spies are everywhere.”
“And Stephen will know too.”
His expression said without words that he was not unduly bothered. “He would expect me to report back all that I can find out.”
“Or all that you are willing to tell him, because even with his spies, Waleran will not know what was said between us.”
Amusement curled his lips and she realised how much he thrived on this intrigue.
“So, what are you willing to do for me and at what price, my lord legate?” she said. “Let us be precise on this. What would be the price of a crown?” She reached for her wine again, took a deliberate sip and swallowed slowly. “An opportunity to weave policy? Or the head of Waleran de Beaumont on a platter perhaps?”
He said nothing, but his eyes narrowed.
“I am here to fight for that crown. Some have already risen to join me, and others are waiting their moment. Your brother may have followers, but how many will remain loyal when he has spent all the money in the treasury—some of it stolen from the Church? I have a son, my lord; he is growing fast and he will be a king. I see it in him; it is not just a mother’s fondness. You have more reason than one to look to the future.”
Henry pursed his fastidious lips. “We both have matters to consider, I agree, but let us not be hasty lest we repent at leisure. My brother is not well versed in policy, but he is still an anointed king and nothing can change that.”
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Matilda said quietly, “I have often thought that changes cannot be made, and often been surprised.”
She did not trust her cousin; indeed, without him, she suspected Stephen would not have been king in the first place, but he would prove useful as long as he thought there was something in it for him. She knew he was probably thinking the same about her. Her task was to play upon his self-importance and his desire for power. Stephen was his own worst enemy and the Beaumont twins were busy digging him into a deep pit while he stood by and let them. Sooner or later he was going to fall in—either by accident or design—and when that happened, she wanted no one throwing him a ladder.
ttt
The mist was still low the next morning as they continued on their way, and it was like travelling through a swathe of grey cerecloth. The bishop exchanged an eloquent glance with Matilda as she climbed into the covered wain, but he said nothing. Waleran de Meulan was keeping himself to himself and plainly nursing a headache to judge from the frown between his eyes and his greenish pallor. Of his nocturnal companion there was no sign. Matilda suspected that the key to dealing with Waleran lay in his extensive Norman lands and that it would be her husband’s policy to deal with the issue by seizing them and holding Waleran to ransom. For the moment, however, let him cause unrest at Stephen’s court.
Shortly after noon they arrived at the boundary marker where it had been agreed that Robert would meet the party and escort Matilda the rest of the way to Bristol. Leaving the wain, Matilda alighted on to dank, straw-coloured grass. The marker was a stone in the shape of a bent old man with calluses of yellow lichen growing on the long curve of his back and she shivered as if ancient fingers had traced a pattern along her own spine.
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Within moments she heard the jingle of harness and the soft thud of hooves. Riders appeared out of the mist, wraiths becoming solid shapes. Matilda saw Robert at the head of a group of knights and nobles. As one they dismounted and knelt to her in the wet grass beside the marker stone. The hair rose on the nape of her neck and her eyes filled. Suddenly being a queen did not seem so far away, yet they were in the middle of nowhere with the mist swirling around them and the sodden grass soaking into their shoe soles and cloak hems, when all this should be taking place in a hall filled with candle glow, incense, and the bright gleam of regnal gold.
She drew herself erect and raised her voice. “I have come to claim what is rightfully mine and that which my father willed to me. You all swore to me thrice, and if what a man says three times is true, then how much more when uttered by a king? I am your sovereign lady, and I thank you all for your true support.”
Waleran de Meulan made a sound in his throat. Ignoring him she went to Robert, took his hands, and gave him the kiss of peace on either ruddy cheek. Let Meulan and Winchester stare their fill and report back to Stephen as they chose. The fight for England’s crown had well and truly begun.
She turned to take the oath of the next man, who was kneeling awkwardly because he was so tall. His head was bowed and a few fine strands of silver threaded his mist-dewed hair. The sight of that silver when before it had been midnight-dark sent a pang through her. He took her hand and kissed the ring upon it, and then pressed his forehead there.
“Forgive me, domina,” he said. “You must do with me as you see fit; my life is yours. I did not have enough faith.”
The pang intensified as affection mingled with exasperation.
“Certainly you are of no use to me down there,” she said and gestured him to rise.
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He shook his head. “Not unless my queen tells me she forgives me. Otherwise treat me like a traitor and strike me dead.”
Matilda tapped him briskly on the shoulder. “Get up, you fool.” Her voice was terse with the effort of concealing her emotions. “There is nothing to forgive. I need every sound man willing to swear to my banner and what use are you to me dead?”
Slowly, he unfolded to his full height, and now she had almost to crane her neck. There was a sheen in his dark eyes and his throat was working. “None, unless you profit from it, domina,” he said hoarsely.
Her lips twitched. “Can you still put up a tent?”
He answered with a faltering smile. “With the best of them, domina.”
“Then for the moment, that is all I need to know.” She looked round. “I will ride now,” she said imperiously. “I have had enough of carts.”
A groom brought Matilda’s mare from the back of the wain.
Henry of Winchester and Waleran de Meulan turned their party back to Arundel, the bishop saluting both her and Robert with a meaningful look as he reined his horse around.
Brian assisted Matilda into the saddle and saw her feet securely settled on the riding platform. His touches were brief and impersonal, but there was an underlying restraint that gave them greater meaning. Without looking at her, he bowed his head and turned to his tall black palfrey. She was glad that he still had Sable. In a world of shifting quicksand, it was good to have anchors of mundane familiar detail.
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Thirty-four
Bristol, October 1139
M atilda considered the man kneeling before her making his obeisance and swearing to take her as his liege lady. Miles FitzWalter, constable of Gloucester Castle and lord of Hereford, was a tall, sandy-haired man with a freckled complexion and eyes the colour of green mud. He was quiet and laconic, but that did not mean he was slow-witted or easily dominated, rather the opposite. When Miles prowled through a room, men stepped aside. As with many of the disaffected here to pay her homage and swear allegiance, he had fallen foul of the scheming of the Beaumont brothers who were determined to bring down any man who might prove a threat to their power. Miles had never been on particularly good terms with Waleran and Robert and the antipathy had increased after Stephen’s coronation to the point where Miles’s position had become untenable. The same was true for John FitzGilbert, Stephen’s former marshal, whom Matilda had now taken as her own. He was another who prowled the court like a leopard among domestic cats. His brother William, made in a less predatory mould, was already her chancellor and a priest of the household. She had accepted the oaths of allegiance, but she had not smiled on the men. First they had to prove themselves in her service.
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“Domina, I swore for Stephen,” Miles said, “because I thought he would be strong and honourable and you were far away in Anjou. But now I have seen how he conducts business and the men he favours, and you are here, I swear that from this day forth you have my absolute loyalty.”
“And I accept that loyalty,” Matilda said, “but deeds are worth more than words.”
His head remained bowed but he looked up at her through his sparse sandy lashes. “I offer you Gloucester Castle and my protection, should you wish to hold your own court away from Bristol. Whatever resources I have are yours.”
Matilda inclined her head. “I will indeed consider your offer.” She had been going to suggest it herself, but was pleased he had offered of his own accord. She needed to separate from her brother and take power into her own hands. It also meant that Stephen would have to look in several directions at once.
Once the allegiance-swearing was over and dinner consumed, Matilda took a moment to herself and, with only a maid for company, went for a walk round the castle precincts to freshen her mind. The air was cold and dank and she could smell the pungent waters of the estuary rising from the moat and hear the mournful scream of gulls. Bristol Castle was nigh on impregnable and easily supplied and protected by the rivers Frome and Avon, and able to conduct trade without hindrance. Stephen had tried to take it the previous year and failed abysmally.
The sound of closing shutters came from several of the chambers as useful daylight faded and the sky turned from ash to charcoal with a single glimmer of red like a dying ember.
She was turning back towards her chamber, when she saw Brian FitzCount coming from the direction of the stables, skirting the puddles to avoid miring his fashionable curl-toed boots and the hem of his cloak. He hesitated when he saw her, as if to change direction, then set his shoulders and continued walking.
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“Domina.” He bowed.
“My lord FitzCount.” She gave him a questioning look.
“I was checking my horses to make sure they are ready to take to Wallingford tomorrow,” he said. “Stephen will strike at me next now I have renounced my fealty and I must see to the defences.”
“It is a little too late for shoring up,” she said sharply.
He gave her a reproachful glance. “I have been preparing ever since your father died, but when I think about the future I need to reassure myself that all is in order.”
Matilda watched her gown flare and fall back as she walked with him to the domestic quarters. “If Stephen comes to Wallingford, he will not stay camped there for long. He cannot afford to because others will rise against him.”
