The Good Wife: Mathilda's Rebuttal

There is no pain greater than that of watching history remember you as another. It is a pain unknown to those who stride across the mortal earth, unknown by those whose waking hours are interrupted by moments of blissful sleep. The immortal Soul, tethered no longer to flesh but to thought, can still be misshapen by the lies and half-truths of history.

I speak now of the so-called “Older Life.” Imagine my surprise when I discovered that this, which purports to be an accurate description of my life, is in fact a description of someone else’s. The narrative woven by the “Older Life” describes the life of Radegund, who ran from her marriage to become an ascetic. All the descriptions of ‘my’ avowed holiness: swearing my husband to celibacy even in marriage, leaving the bedchamber to pray at night, and so forth — these were all things she did, not me.

As it was not my life, I’ll speak no more of the “Older Life.” The narrative which lies closer to my truth, and might still be salvaged, is the “Later Life.” Purporting to be an honest account of my existence, some learned fool sacrificed my honor and dignity on the altar of praise to a king who devoted no thought at all to my happiness. The author tells breathlessly of the count who would penetrate a cloister to gaze upon a young girl in her sleep, to report to his masters my “noble and praiseworthy beauty.” It makes my soul uneasy even now to think of such a perversion of my childhood home. The fool goes on to describe how Henry, burning with love for me after repeated descriptions from his men, convinced the abbess that it was God’s will that we wed. Perhaps he was seeking to curry favor; perhaps his audience was not ready for the truth; or perhaps he was simply looking to save his own skin.

It has long been written, but not followed, that the central tenet of marriage is the consent of both bride and groom. Our union, rendered unholy by this breach of the Holy covenant, was my greatest shame. Every night, after the King had fallen asleep, I would creep out of the royal bedchambers not to express my deepest devotion to God, as the fool writes, but to search for a reason for this torment. Why, I asked the Lord, did he forsake me? How could I have been so beyond His love that I would be thrown into this Hell?

The only pinpricks of light in my life were my beautiful children. I should have known better. When their father died, I cried with relief from my torment, but quickly my tears became waterfalls of anxiety, as I knew not what the future would bring. I did all that a good wife should: I mourned him, I consoled our children, I devoted myself to prayer. In my performance, I failed to realize that dark factors were poisoning my son against me. Men spoke in his ears, telling lies that curdled into conflict within our family.

The fool is right about one thing: I did still love my children, even though they hurt me so. But what he says next — that I could somehow forgive all that had been done to me — I only wish could be true. I never forgot the indignity, the suffering my own flesh and blood caused to me in the years following their father’s death. It was an all-too familiar feeling.

I dedicated the rest of my life to earning my way back into the Lord’s favor. I gave to the poor, cast off all worldly trappings. I did all that I could to excise the Devil from my life. I built my monastery; I spoke with the Pope, of all people; I traveled my kingdom doing whatever good I could. This, at least, the fool has correctly relayed.

I was not the perfect Queen that the “Later Life” describes. I was just a woman, like any other, who had the unfortunate luck of being targeted by a prince who would be King. I tried to be the best wife I could be for a man who chose me from a nunnery like an apple at the market. Now my story, rotten and warped by time, is all that remains of me. Even I know not what parts of my soul have remained whole, and which have been ruined and changed beyond all recognition. I can only hope that this envoy from beyond, this letter I write to the void, will be enough to save what is left of me. It will have to be enough.