Lady of the English - By Elizabeth Chadwick Page 0,199

do not disappoint me even now,” he said with a smile. “Always the sting and never the sweetness.” He left the room and she watched him go, and felt a brief pang of regret, but it did not last beyond his fading footfalls.

Henry had lingered to talk to a couple of household knights while she and Geoffrey had been speaking and she called to him. He left his companions, came over to her, and bowed in filial respect. “Mama,” he said.

She could see he was eager to be off and about his preparations for England; that he was champing to seize the rest of his life. “Henry,” she said, and her voice filled with affection and 492

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pride. “I bless you because you are my child, and I bless you because you have the impetuousness of your youth—as I once did—but you must temper it with strength and industry. There can be no more escapades like your last one in England. Your father will say the same thing.”

He looked up and gave her a hard smile. “There won’t be.” Today, his eyes were his grandsire’s diamond grey, full of knowing and virile manhood. The downy facial hair of eigh-teen months ago was now a fine, ruddy beard.

“You must set your stamp on the land like a royal seal. Men will look for justice and strong leadership and you have to give them that if you want them to follow you. Stephen has provided them with neither and you must prove that you can.

It is not enough to say these things. You must do them.”

“I know, Mama,” he said with a glimmer of irritation.

“I am not just lecturing you like a scolding tutor,” she said brusquely. “I know you have greatness within you and the potential to succeed.” She gave him a long look. “Come, there is something I want you to have.”

She led him to her chamber and took him to an iron-bound chest at the foot of her bed. Having unlocked it with a key hanging from her girdle, she lifted out an object wrapped and protected by a fringed stole of fabric woven with thread of gold.

Henry’s breathing quickened as Matilda slowly unwound the cloth to reveal the great crown she had brought from Germany.

“This was worn by a reigning emperor,” she said, “and it passes to another of the same name and future greatness. It is yours now, and you shall wear it to your coronation when you become England’s king.”

Henry took the crown from her hands and held it between his own, and his eyes were the same grey as the rock crystals set in the gold.

Matilda saw him swallow with emotion and tears stung her 493

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own eyes. “Tomorrow, before your father leaves, we shall attend mass at Bec and your crown will be blessed and laid on the altar there until you are ready to send for it as England’s king.” He replaced the diadem in the cloth, reverently refolding the stole around it. “It is yours too, Mother,” he said softly. “It holds your spirit.”

Matilda smiled at him, tears in her eyes. “Yes,” she said, proudly lifting her head. “It does.” 494

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Epilogue

Abbey of Afflighem, Belgium, Spring 1149

A deliza sat in the garden at Afflighem, enjoying the spring warmth. From her bench in a sheltered corner, she could admire the spring bulbs she had planted in the autumn.

She had not known if she would live to see them as she buried them, alive but dormant under the soil; she had thought they might push into the light and bloom when her physical body was in the grave. But by God’s grace she was still here to enjoy the cheerful gold of daffodils and hold a posy of violets, their delicate petals clad in spiritual purple. Her health was as fragile as this pale sunshine, but she had the peace to pray and be at one with God, and today she had a modicum of strength. The French Cistercian monk Bernard of Clairvaux claimed to have seen a vision of the Virgin Mary at Afflighem, and Adeliza found it easy to believe; she had not seen but she was certain that at times she felt the radiant presence at her side, giving her strength and light.

Raising the posy of violets to inhale their delicate scent, she looked beyond the beds and felt a sudden jolt as she saw a man walking along the path