Lady of the English - By Elizabeth Chadwick Page 0,144

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