Stewart Binns - Anarchy

Thankfully, Hugh de Payens’ threat was an empty one. Although I saw many Templars over the years, as the Order steadily grew in importance, the Grand Master returned to Palestine shortly after our encounter. I never saw him again and, as far as I know, he never returned to Europe.

A few years later, I heard that he had died in Jerusalem; I thanked God at the time, and still do. But I remain deeply concerned that the Templars retain so much power in our world.

Matilda’s marriage to Geoffrey of Anjou was due to take place in Le Mans, capital of Maine, on 17 June 1128, so Eadmer and I prepared to cross the Channel once more. But our departure was delayed by an extraordinary blizzard.

It had already been a harsh winter and London’s streets still had deep mounds of grimy snow piled along them. With faces made despondent by months of cold dark days, its inhabitants still shuffled about their business in heavy cloaks and thick leggings. Easter Day fell very late, on 22 April, a time of the year that ought to have brought warmth and the vibrancy of spring. But late in the afternoon, in what had been a clear sky with a waning moon clearly visible as the sun set, a huge wave of heavy grey clouds appeared over the fields beyond Shoreditch. The first snows fell at dusk, and by midnight a blizzard raged with winds so strong they created drifts as high as a house.

It snowed for three days under skies so murky that the daylight hardly penetrated. Easter services were postponed for a week, and it took the city at least that long to dig itself back to some semblance of normality. Some priests said it was a portentous omen about the wisdom of the proposed wedding. Many people believed them, thinking it a shame that King Henry’s beautiful daughter was again going to be married off to a foreigner.

Our journey to Dover on roads more like cesspits than thoroughfares was tedious, with carts submerged to their axles blocking the route at regular intervals. We eventually reached Le Mans in late May. The wedding was much heralded in Maine and Anjou; their young count was not only marrying an English princess who was heir to her father’s throne, but also a woman who was already an empress.

The nuptials were a dazzling occasion. Presided over by Bishops Guy of Ploermel and John of Sees, the cathedral of St Julien was full to the rafters with the aristocracy of northern Europe and even a few from more southerly climes. I had never seen a royal wedding before and was amazed at the endless rows of crowns and coronets and jewels sufficient to fill several wine butts. All the ladies wore fine silk, and there was enough ermine on the shoulders of the men to use up a whole season’s supply. Eadmer was required to watch with the throng outside the cathedral, but my chevalier’s garb and status as Knight Commander of Venice got me a position on the cathedral’s upper gallery, from where I could look down on the ostentatious ceremony below.

King Henry gave every guest a present of silk or jewellery and, to a joyous reception by the citizens, money was scattered through the streets of the city. There was a repeat performance in Angers, capital of Anjou, four days later. It had been decided that the newly-weds would live in Angers for the time being, as Geoffrey’s father had renounced his title, thus allowing Geoffrey to become Count of Anjou.

Empress Matilda looked radiant. She was a little taller than her new husband, who still had the frame of a boy. Handsome though he was, he had no stubble on his chin and the gossip among the populace was that he was unlikely to be able to consummate the marriage without the patient help of his new wife. Rumours that Matilda’s marriage to the Emperor Henry had not been a happy one, or that she was barren, were also widespread.

The closest I got to the Empress was a distance of just a few yards as, later, she progressed through the city’s streets. She had removed her veil and I could see her gentle English complexion and fair locks, swept back from her face in a braided chignon. Her hair was long, the colour of flax, and her eyes were bright blue. For a moment, I was sure she looked straight at me and I bowed my head. She was the epitome of a Saxon queen of the past, a true Cerdician, a daughter of Wessex. I decided there and then that I would do all in my power to ensure that she would ascend the throne and renew England’s royal heritage.

Only a month after the wedding, my hopes for her succession were strengthened significantly by news from southern Flanders. Still encouraged by Louis VI of France, William Clito had been campaigning in Flanders all summer to the great annoyance of his uncle, King Henry. In June, with his Norman knights and French allies, William defeated a major rival, Thierry of Alsace, at the Battle of Axspoele, south of Bruges. The victory brought fresh momentum to his cause, and he was joined by his father-in-law, Godfrey, Duke of Brabant. In July, their two armies besieged Aalst. But during the course of the siege, William was wounded in the arm in a scuffle with a foot soldier. The wound became gangrenous and he died, at the age of twenty-five, on 28 July 1128. He left no children and was survived only by his imprisoned father, the hapless Robert Curthose.

Sad though it was to hear of the death of Duke Robert’s only son, his demise made Matilda’s claim to the throne seem unassailable – as long as she had her father’s support.

Although I was confident about Matilda’s prospects, I was less so about my own ability to further her cause. The reality was that she was the heir to the throne, while I was not only a lowly knight but also a renegade. I needed a plan, but none was forthcoming. So I decided that we would find a house in Angers and bide our time.

At the very least, an announcement of a royal pregnancy and an imminent heir to the throne was expected by the end of the year, thus completing Matilda’s credentials for succession.

By Christmas 1128, there was still no news and stories began to circulate in the city that all was not well with the marriage. Arguments could be heard echoing around the keep of the royal palace, and the gossip among those who knew servants of the royal couple claimed that Geoffrey hardly ever went to Matilda’s chamber.

January 1129 was a bitterly cold month, with heavy snowfall at its end. Despite the inhospitable conditions, it emerged that Count Geoffrey had gone hunting with a large entourage of drunken friends, leaving behind a morose and angry wife.

I tried to think of a plan to bluff my way into the castle. Things were not going as I had hoped: Matilda was supposed to produce a grandson for the King and I feared that, if she did not, he might look elsewhere for a successor. After all, he did have at least two dozen illegitimate offspring, several of whom were powerful landowners with titles and rich admirers.

Eadmer could smell trouble brewing.

‘Hal, you need to be careful; we don’t want another situation like we had with Lady Livia.’

‘On the contrary! That would be ideal – to be given the responsibility for Matilda’s welfare. The problem is, how do we make that happen?’

‘You’re mad – as mad as a March hare! Stay well away. We’re renegades and have crossed her father, who happens to be the King. He’s hardly going to entrust her care to us.’

‘Let’s wait and see.’

‘Have you forgotten, she’s also got a husband? Who happens to be the Count of this realm.’

‘Yes, but I think he’s a husband in name only.’

Eadmer was right, the prospect of us being able to help Matilda’s cause seemed remote.

But two days later, a tiny crack in the door of opportunity opened. It was very early, not yet light, when I felt Eadmer shaking me by the shoulders.