your pardon, my liege, but I live in Cantebrigge. I arrived at the abbey last night, for I always stay with the good monks on my trips to Ipswich and-” Catching himself, he gave an abashed smile. “But that is of no earthly interest to you. What I wanted to tell you was that the queen is not in Cantebrigge. Not unless she arrived after I rode out yesterday morn…”
Now the perplexity was Stephen’s. “No, she ought to have reached Cantebrigge days ago. This makes no sense…” Frowning, he pushed his food around on his trencher, his appetite gone. After a few moments, he beckoned to a knight at the end of the table. “Everard, I want you to ride to Cantebrigge as soon as the meal is done and find out if the queen and the Countess Constance are there or not.”
Everard was one of Stephen’s household knights, in his service long enough to gauge the urgency of his king’s need. “I’ll be off as soon as I get my horse saddled,” he said, shoving away from the table. With that, Stephen gave up all pretense of unconcern. His eyes raking the hall, he found another face he could trust, and dispatched the man south to the Earl of Oxford’s castle at Hedingham, for that was Matilda’s last known stopping place. After that, the meal broke up, the monks and abbey guests scattering to their various pursuits, leaving the abbot to do his best to allay the unease of his king. But less than an hour had passed in this awkward manner before they heard shouting out in the garth.
Stephen came swiftly to his feet at sight of the man striding into the hall, for he should have been miles away by now, riding hard for Hedingham. “What in blazes are you doing back so soon, Guy? Hedingham is a good twenty miles away and if you expect to reach it by dark-”
Sir Guy now committed a serious breach of protocol; he interrupted his king. “My liege, hear me out. I encountered a messenger on the road, one of the Earl of Oxford’s men. He was on his way here, seeking you.”
A second man had followed Sir Guy into the hall. Coming forward, he knelt before Stephen. “My lord king, I am Sir Robert Fitz Henry. I serve the Earl of Oxford, am here at his bidding. A few days after her arrival at Hedingham, your lady queen took sick. She refused to let us send for you, insisting she’d not have you worried for naught. But she took a turn for the worse, and last night she asked for you and for-” He bit back the words so hastily that he seemed to have swallowed them, only making his omission all the more conspicuous.
Stephen frowned. “Who else did she want? Our daughter Mary?”
“Yes, my liege. But she also asked us to send to Holy Trinity Priory for…” Again his words trailed off, for he could see that Stephen still did not understand. He paused, then looked away so he’d not have to watch as Stephen finally realized what he was so reluctant to say. “She asked,” he said, “for her confessor.”
Matilda had always envisioned time as a river, flowing forward inexorably into the future, forcing people to keep up with the current as best they could. No more, though. Time had become tidal. Lying in the shuttered dark of an unfamiliar bedchamber, she could feel it receding toward the horizon, leaving her stranded upon the shore. As a little girl in Boulogne, she’d often walked along the beach, throwing back the starfish trapped by the ebbing tide. Now, forty years later, when it was her turn to be marooned by the retreating waves, there was no one to save her as she’d saved the starfish, but she did not mourn for herself. Dying was not so terrible, for all that people feared it so. She was in God’s hands, a feather floating on the wind, waiting to see if He would call her home.
If only Stephen understood that, if only he would not grieve so. He’d not left her bedside for days, pleading with her to hold on to hope, to fight off Death, not comprehending that Death was not always the enemy. She was so tired, so very tired. For too long, she’d been ailing, in body and spirit, struggling to keep her malaise secret from Stephen. So much bloodshed, so many graves, so many widows and orphans, and all for what? A tarnished crown that had brought them both more pain than pleasure. But he could not relinquish it, must keep on fighting to hold on to it-for Eustace. For the son she loved, who ought never to be entrusted with a king’s sovereign powers.
The chamber was dimmed, for the candles had begun to hurt her eyes. Stephen was clutching her hand, lacing her limp fingers through his, his grip so tight that her wedding ring was pinching her flesh. Constance was weeping again, crumpled in the window seat. Matilda ached for her, the daughter by marriage who’d become as dear as her daughters by birth. Will was swiping at his face with his sleeve, her fledgling, her secret favorite. And Eustace…half hidden in the shadows, ashamed to let anyone-even his stricken family-see his tears.
At sound of a woman’s step, her lashes fluttered, but it was Cecily again. Stephen kept insisting that Mary was on her way, likely to arrive at any moment, and she’d clung to his assurances with all the forgiveness and faith of the love she’d so long ago pledged to him. But this was to be one promise he could not keep. Mary would be too late.
“Stephen…” Not even a whisper in her own ears, but he somehow heard her and leaned over, vivid blue eyes of their lost youth, awash now in tears. “Look after Constance…” But who would look after him? Surely the Almighty would, for even his worst mistakes were well intentioned. Did this too-clever son of Maude’s have such a good heart? No…God would judge what mattered most.
Stephen was kissing her hand, pressing it against his wet cheek. His beard was grizzled with silver, like an early frost. How old he seemed of a sudden. She wanted to tell him one last time that she loved him, to promise that she’d be waiting for him at Heaven’s Gate. But she could not catch her breath. She closed her eyes and when she opened them again, the room was filling with light. She could hear sobbing, but it seemed to be coming from a great distance. It grew more and more faint, until at last she could not hear it at all.
Matilda died on Saturday, May 3rd, 1152, in her forty-seventh year. Her body was taken with royal ceremony to Faversham, Kent, and buried before the High Altar in the church of St Saviour’s, the Cluniac abbey she and Stephen had founded four brief years before.
The church was very quiet. Cupping his candle, the young monk slipped around the roodscreen, into the choir. The white marble of the queen’s sepulchre glimmered in the shadows. As he drew near, he saw that someone had laid a yellow primrose upon the tomb. He was not surprised by the floral offering, for all at St Saviour’s were in mourning for their queen. She’d spent as much time as she could spare at the abbey, finding within its cloistered walls the peace that was so elusive in the rest of her husband’s realm. She’d been extremely generous with the monks, and they in turn had given her their wholehearted devotion. Brother Leonard knew that he was not the only one of his brethren who’d loved the queen.
The funeral had been over for hours, but there had been too much pain in this church for it to have faded away so soon. It seemed to echo in the stillness, the way the smell of smoke lingered even after a fire had been doused. Brother Leonard knew he was being fanciful, but he could not help himself. The faces of the queen’s loved ones still haunted him, for never had he seen a family so desolated, so overwhelmed by their loss.
The king had done all that was expected of him, accepting condolences, keeping watch over his daughter-in- law and stunned daughter, but his eyes were glazed, his shoulders bowed. He’d buried his heart with his wife, and all who looked upon him knew it. The queen’s younger son had wept openly throughout the service, as had his Warenne child-wife and most of the mourners. The Lady Constance had almost fainted as they first entered the church, and although she’d insisted upon remaining, there were times when Stephen’s encircling arm seemed all that was keeping her on her feet.
Brother Leonard gently fingered the stem of the primrose, wishing he’d thought to bring flowers, too. He’d remedy that on the morrow. The primrose was freshly plucked, for it had not yet begun to wilt. Despite his best intentions, he found himself thinking of another flower, the Lady Mary. Never had he seen a prioress who looked remotely like Mary. She was just shy of sixteen, and under other circumstances, the dramatic Benedictine black of her habit would have set off her fairness to perfection. But on the day of her mother’s funeral, she was a lost waif, berating herself to anyone who’d listen for not getting to Hedingham Castle in time to bid her mother farewell. It shamed Brother Leonard that he’d been most affected by Mary’s grieving, for he feared that his sympathy was suspect, unduly influenced by her youth and beauty.
The queen had often teased him that his conscience was too tender. Remembering that now, his eyes blurred with sudden tears. What would she say if she’d known he’d cast admiring glances at her nun daughter? Most likely she’d have understood, for he’d never known anyone as forgiving…as good. How could she and the king have ever bred a son like the Count of Boulogne?
And yet…and yet he’d found himself pitying Eustace, too, at the funeral. Standing apart from the others, keeping his face averted so none could notice his swollen, red-rimmed eyes, he’d looked so reclusive in his grief, so utterly alone that Brother Leonard could not help hurting for him. He was all too familiar with the queen’s temperamental son, for twice Eustace had come to Faversham at his mother’s behest, but never before had he noticed how solitary Eustace seemed. He could recognize loneliness easier than most. For much of his life, he’d been an outsider, never having a sense of belonging until fate and the queen had brought him to Faversham. At first it seemed foolish, indeed, to compare himself-an outcast orphan of low birth-with the King of England’s son and
