the imperial crown and the one from the second case of filigree and gold flowers. “One day these will be yours as king of England and Duke of Normandy. This I swear to you, my son.” The vow was a lifeline to hope, but it was one thing to swear an oath, another to bring it to fruition. She had found the first strand of grey in her hair last night as she combed it and wondered how many more there would be before she was an anointed queen.
ttt
It was very late when Matilda eventually retired. Her new pregnancy was making her nauseous, and her eyes were sore because she had been awake for too long, and had held back too many tears. She was exhausted but too keyed up to sleep.
She had drafted letters to allies and vassals, to the pope, to her uncle King David…to Brian. The wording would need to be considered and altered, but they were begun. Now, propped against a pile of pillows and bolsters, she opened the letter Adeliza had enclosed with the crowns.
The message was in Adeliza’s own hand, and although she used the formal language of the queen of England, there were clear indications of the suffering woman beneath. Matilda had been unable to cry for herself or for her father, but now the dry 186
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burning of her eyes became a flood of scalding tears and she had to set the letter aside as drops fell upon the ink and smudged the words.
By the grace of God and because it was the right thing to do, Adeliza was sending her these crowns. She wrote of her grief at Henry’s death and wished she could have been a better wife in the time allotted. She wrote that for the sake of Henry’s soul and her own, she intended to go to Wilton and live there in retirement, perhaps eventually to take vows.
“He did not deserve you,” Matilda said, wiping her eyes on the heel of her hand. “Why do you not see your own worth?” She was angry with Adeliza for choosing the path of retreat and contemplation, because it was not an option open to herself, even had she desired it, and she was furious with her father.
And grieving, too, because now she would never be able to tell him what she thought, or show him that she was more capable of ruling than any son he had begotten.
She picked the letter up again and looked at the smeared writing that moments ago had been so delicate and clear.
Adeliza would hate to see it in this state. Matilda folded the parchment and set it on her bedside coffer. Her stepmother might retire to a nunnery, but she was still a dowager queen.
She was still young, and grief was not everything. Grief was just the moment before you tied off the thread and began the next one. That was when you made your choice about what you were going to sew next.
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Twenty-two
Reading Abbey, Berkshire, January 1136
S tanding upright, swathed in his fur-lined cloak, Brian breathed shallowly through his open mouth. The cold weather and the heavy perfume of incense did not mask the aroma of decay emanating from the coffin shrouded in purple silk standing before the altar of Reading Abbey. The lead seals confining the liquefying body of the former king were not secure and foulsome black ooze seeped from one edge. A bowl had been placed under the damaged corner and now and again a drip plinked into the basin. Henry had been dead for over a month. In Rouen he had been eviscerated and his bowels interred in the cathedral. His body had been packed with salt and wrapped in a bull’s hide, then sealed in the coffin and brought to England when the wind eventually turned fair for a crossing. Two months in which the salt had drawn fluids from the body and now the dreadful brine solution was dripping into a bowl on the floor of Reading Abbey while the archbishop of Canterbury conducted the funeral mass.
Stephen wore the crown that had been set upon his head a fortnight ago at Westminster, and bore himself with regal dignity. He had set his shoulder to the bier and helped to carry the coffin into the abbey church. Henry, bishop of Winchester, and Roger, bishop of Salisbury, each wore embellished robes LadyofEnglish.indd 188
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worth a small barony.