Stewart Binns - Anarchy

I glanced at Maud.

She smiled warmly at me; she was happy.

Our plan was working.

While the King returned to Normandy, we spent the rest of 1133 touring Maud’s future kingdom. She was hailed wherever she went. Not only did her reputation as the beautiful Empress go before her, but her adopted title – Lady of the English – reminded the people of her noble Cerdician pedigree. She was one of them. And with her was Henry, who was also one of them.

In November, Maud fell pregnant again and we returned to Rouen for the confinement. Greta gave birth to a daughter in March of the following year. To her parents’ delight, Gretchen was a happy little bundle of blonde hair and pink skin.

At the end of May 1134, Maud went into labour. She was worried, as there had not been a conjugal visit to Geoffrey at the right time, and so it was announced that the arrival was premature. In any event, her husband seemed not in the slightest bit interested and made no attempt to travel to Rouen for the birth.

However, the date of the child’s conception became the least of Maud’s worries. The baby was breech and the labour protracted. The midwives struggled and Maud went through hell for many hours. When the child did arrive, Maud bled profusely and was severely torn. She lost consciousness – which, at least, was a relief from the pain – and the midwives called for the King’s physicians, who rushed to her bedside.

All sorts of remedies were administered, but there was no sign of her regaining consciousness. The doctors claimed her body was going into a deep sleep to recover, but I had my doubts. Greta slept on the floor by her bed and acted as wet nurse to the child – a sweet blond-haired boy who Maud had decided should be called Geoffrey, after her husband.

Her loyal Lotharingians, Otto and Berenger, stood guard at her door with instructions from me that no one was to pass.

When Maud eventually came round, she had a high fever; it was obvious that she had become infected. She was soon delirious, and urgent messages were sent to the King and to Count Geoffrey. The King was hunting nearby and soon arrived, but Geoffrey was in Anjou, a journey of several days. Her condition deteriorated and her prospects looked grim. The physicians predicted that she would not survive beyond another day.

When the King arrived, he sent for Hugh, Archbishop of Rouen, who administered the last rites on the evening of 17 June 1134. The priests told me that this day was the feast day of St Botolph – an English saint who had helped bring Christianity to the Gauls and whose remains are revered in the crypt of Ely Cathedral – and suggested that I should pray to him.

I took the link to Ely as a propitious sign. After everyone else had left, instead of praying – which I left to Greta and Eadmer – I placed the Talisman around Maud’s neck. Its legend said that it had been worn by kings and emperors and had helped them find wisdom and truth, so there could be no better person than Maud to wear it. My recent passing fancy that, perhaps, I was its next recipient had long since vanished; it had been just an idle thought.

Harold of England had been the last King to wear the Talisman. I begged the Fates, the Wodewose and the spirits of my family to succour my conviction that it was now being worn by England’s next Queen. Although Maud was desperately ill, I knew at that moment she would recover – I do not know how I knew, but I did.

It took several weeks to overcome the fever, followed by several months of recuperation, but by the end of 1134, Maud was restored to us in glowing health. Not only that, but our quartet of friends now had three babies to care for.

Count Geoffrey did appear in the late summer to see his son and namesake, and immediately gave him the title Count of Nantes. He was kind to Maud and brought her some beautiful jewellery from Provence. He was even courteous to me.

‘Earl Harold, I am grateful to you for the care and devotion you show to our family. Empress Matilda speaks very highly of you.’

‘It is not in the slightest a burden, Count Geoffrey. She is my half-sister, and the King has made it my duty to protect her at all times. What more honourable task could a man ask for?’

‘Quite so! But tell me, what is that strange amulet she now wears around her neck? I’ve never seen anything like it.’

‘It is the Talisman of Truth, a family treasure said to be centuries old.’

‘Is it a lucky charm?’

‘It has sometimes been regarded as such, but it’s more a symbol of hope, like a crucifix.’

‘Isn’t that blasphemy?’

‘Some might consider it so, but the Talisman is older than the Cross – and probably means much the same thing.’

‘That is blasphemy. Does the Empress believe that?’

‘I’m sure not. She just wears it because I have asked her to; I believe it helps protect her.’

‘So, it is a lucky charm?’

‘If you like…’

Geoffrey shuffled off, clearly bemused. I thought about what I had just said and it dawned on me that I was beginning to talk like a seer. God help my soul!

We did not see Geoffrey again into the winter of 1134. The cold months passed slowly; the weather was typically harsh, and people hibernated as usual. Henry, Geoffrey and Gretchen grew at a pace – and Maud and Greta spoiled them, as mothers tend to do.

We received very sad news at the beginning of 1135. Word arrived from England that Robert Curthose, the firstborn son of King William – who, as Duke of Normandy, had befriended Edgar the Atheling and my family – had died in Cardiff Castle at the age of eighty-one. He had been incarcerated at King Henry’s pleasure for almost thirty years. I had often thought about him: a hero of the Great Crusade, a just ruler and a good man, but a broken one after the loss of his wife, Sybilla. His remaining years must have been an interminable purgatory.

His death meant that I was the last survivor of the Brethren of the Blood of the Talisman – and the final link to the Brotherhood of Ely. It was the end of an era and reinforced what I already knew: the outcome of what had been fought for since 1066 could only be determined by me. I now had my own small family and a group of loyal friends – as had my father and grandfather – and through Maud and baby Henry, I had the chance to bring the long journey to a happy conclusion.

The burden was great, but the task was simple: ensure Maud and Henry’s succession.

Towards the end of November, Maud lifted my sombre mood with the best possible news.

‘I’m pregnant again, Hal – number three. It seems I can’t stop conceiving!’

‘Wonderful news, my darling, another summer baby. What shall we call it?’

While Maud thought about names, I came to an unwelcome realization.

‘William, if it’s a boy, and Maud, if it’s a girl–’

‘Maud, I hate to dampen the occasion… but this time, we can’t contrive for there to be any chance that the child is Geoffrey’s.’

Maud did not share my concern.

‘He won’t care – and neither will my father. The terms of the marriage settlement were fulfilled long ago. As long as they both think young Henry and baby Geoffrey are his, then they won’t care about a third child. Two legitimate heirs are plenty.’

Maud seemed content, so I chose to put the question of the baby’s parentage out of my head. I knew it would add some spice to my next meeting with Count Geoffrey – but I had faced worse prospects!

The King continued to enjoy good health, sharing his time evenly between Normandy and England. He had repeated the oath-taking ritual once more, and all the magnates of both realms had sworn their loyalty to Matilda for a third time. They must have regarded the whole exercise as irksome, but they did it without overt complaint.