In the dark of morning, I would rise up and stand upon the battlements, casting my eyes to the East across the endless stretch of forest. No sound of man could be heard—only the gentle wind and song of birds calling to one another. I could see the line of hills just across the valley, naught but dark forms against the sky. Somewhere beyond, the River Rhine flowed through the towns of Germany, born of the mountains and bound to meet its end in the distant sea. Then as I stood there, my body still casting off its slumber, the rising sun set fire to the sky, and I truly believed in that moment that I was witnessing what God must have seen upon the dawning of creation. I felt a desperate longing, somewhere between joy and sorrow: a sense that I was called to something higher.
The emperor would disappear into the woods most mornings with his nephews—Duke Frederick of Swabia and Duke Conrad of Franconia—and only return when they had struck fear into the hearts of every beast within a day’s ride. However, if they ever tired of this pattern, they would instead set their birds to the air and let them do the killing. The emperor had many prized falcons, but none he counted so dear as his faithful Blitz. Such a magnificent creature! I watched that falcon hunt many times, rising and diving, ducking and soaring. His eyes darted to and fro searching for prey. His body twisted in perfect motion. His sharp talons could tear through flesh and even crack bone. Some men might have preferred a larger bird—an eagle, perhaps—but in his Blitz the emperor found a companion as fierce as any that flew the skies.
One day, my husband called me out to where the royal falconer kept the birds: both the emperor’s own and those of the other nobles. It was further down the hill path from the castle, on a space only a bit too large to be called a ledge. Each bird had its own cage where it could perch. I passed by at least a dozen such dwellings, the ground underneath covered with both feathers and droppings that stunk in the heat of the day, before reaching my husband, who was feeding a small morsel to Blitz through the bars and whispering to the bird in some language of his own making.
“Good day, Blitz! How is your master treating you?” I inquired.
“Very well, I thank you,” the emperor replied, though the question was clearly not directed at him. For his part, the bird simply stared at me with his dark eyes.
“Philip said you wanted me to come,” I offered.
“Yes, that is correct.” He was still feeding the bird, and thus his eyes did not meet me as he continued. “I have a gift for you: something that I think you will like.”
“Oh? And what is that?”
“‘What is that?’” he repeated, making a rather poor show of copying me, which did not amuse me as much as he might have hoped. “If you wait one moment, you shall see.”
I was in no mood for riddles, but I remained still as my husband began stroking the bird’s feathers with a level of gentility he seldom displayed.
“You know my birthday was a very long time ago,” I finally said.
“Yes, yes. This is not for that.”
“Then what is it for?”
At long last, the emperor stopped pampering the falcon and looked at me directly. “Follow me and I will show you.”
He led me to another cage farther up the hill. As he began to fiddle with the lock, I fanned myself with my hand, for the sun was beating down upon us, and I was quite warm underneath my veil and several layers of clothing. We often felt a strong wind on top of the hill, but that day it felt as if the air was not moving at all. Finally, the emperor opened the door, retrieving a bird slightly smaller than Blitz. The falcon flapped its wings a few times as if to stretch them; however, it did not move from its position on the emperor’s arm.
“There are some gloves over there,” he said, pointing to a box on the ground and motioning for me to retrieve them. “Put them on. You will need them to hold the falcon.”
“But why must I hold him?” I asked.
“Her. It is a female.”
“Ah. Why must I hold her?”
“Because this is your present, of course!”
“What? The bird?” I asked, thoroughly surprised.
“She is not just a bird. She is a prized falcon bred by the duke of Swabia and sent here for you.”
“Frederick wanted me to have this?”
I did not wish to offend him by turning down a gift. Indeed, I was pleased that he had thought of me in such a way. However, despite the bird’s small stature, I had to admit she looked rather frightful. Her eyes seemed to contain a kind of fire, and her talons were as sharp as razors.
“No, I wanted you to have it,” he explained. “It is only right that the empress should have a falcon.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. I want to see you up on a horse with Helga on your arm!”
“Helga?” Truly, the name sounded very odd to me.
“That is the name we gave to the falcon,” he said, smiling proudly.
“That is a terrible name for a bird,” I informed him.
“It is a good name for a falcon!”
“Hardly! The only Helga I ever knew was a cook, and a rather poor one at that. Now, if you want me to hold that bird—forgive me, that falcon—you must let me choose a name myself.”
He sighed. “Very well then. You take the bird and you can name it.”
“Thank you.”
I really had no idea what I was doing. I felt rather ashamed that I should be the emperor’s wife and yet have no experience with birds of prey. I wanted him to think well of me, so there was no choice but to attempt to do as he said. I took a step toward the creature, and she began flapping her wings again and let out a terrible cry. I leaped backward in fear, convinced that the bird wanted to gouge my eyes out.
“Not so fast,” the emperor instructed. “Walk over slowly. That’s it—slowly.”
I walked as one attempting not to wake a sleeping babe. With all caution, I stretched out my right arm, trying not to make a sound. My heart was pounding with fear. I might have held my breath.
“Now call her, and she will come to you,” my husband said.
“Here, falcon!” I tried. “Come here! I promise I won’t hurt you.”
He laughed and shook his head. “No, use her name!”
“What? Oh. Helga! Come here, Helga!”
Still, the bird made no movement. She did not appear to be impressed by my efforts, but merely tilted her head to one side, her eyes still fixed upon me, as if she sensed that I was no match for her.
“Over there is some food,” the emperor said, pointing to the basket sitting on top of Blitz’s cage. “Take a piece and hold it in your hand.”
“As you wish,” I answered, though I was not at all convinced it would work. I was quite thankful no one else was on hand to witness the sad spectacle.
The basket was full of what I could only assume were the entrails of some poor animal. I batted away a few flies and chose the piece that seemed the least repugnant. I then offered the morsel to the bird.
“Here, Helga!” I called. “You like this, remember?”
Still, the falcon was unmoved.
“Try this,” the emperor said, making a noise with his tongue.
Although it made me feel an idiot, I repeated the action to the best of my ability, all to no avail.
“Please do not make me keep doing this!” I begged.
“She will come, but you must keep trying.”
“Oh, for God’s sake! Come here, Brünnhilda!”
As if by magic, the falcon leaped from the emperor’s arm, cast herself into the air with a few powerful strokes of her wings, crossed the four or five paces between us, and landed upon my arm, where she began to devour the food from my hand.
“It worked! She came to me! Look!” I cried in delight.
“Yes, I see.”
“And she answered to her name!”
“What?”
“Brünnhilda. That is the name I chose for her, and as soon as I used it, she came!”
“Brünnhilda? Like the Valkyr
ie?” he asked, smiling.
“Exactly like that, yes. Look, she is really holding on to my arm with her talons!”
The falcon finished her meal, and yet she remained there. Although she was a powerful bird, she was not very heavy, and I was surprised that such a frame could bring down large prey. When I saw that she would make no attempt to pluck my eyes out, I no longer found her so frightful. If this is all I have to do, I might be able to keep her after all! I thought. I used my free hand to stroke the feathers on her neck, which the bird seemed to enjoy. I was actually beginning to feel happy.
“Let her go then,” the emperor instructed.
“Pardon?” I asked, looking back at him.
“Cast her off and let her fly.”
“Oh.” I had not anticipated this. “But will she come back?”
“Of course,” he said. “You have food. Now, raise your arm like this. That is her signal.”
I did as he commanded, and Brünnhilda took off into the wind, climbing high above the beech trees. She was an expert flier. Such a pleasure it was to watch something do the very thing it was born to do! As I looked on, she seemed to compress her body and fling herself toward the ground some ten yards down the hill. There was a rustling noise in the brush, and she was clearly struggling with something.
“That will be the day’s first kill,” the emperor said. “If only all of life was that easy!”
A few weeks later, we were at the Kaiserpfalz of Worms—the palace just outside the walls. This was the place where I had celebrated my wedding feast eight years earlier, and it had become our abode once again as we waited for word from the papal camp. Mainz had been the first choice of city, for it was the stronghold of Archbishop Adalbert and the seat of his power. But the emperor favored Worms, a free imperial city that had remained mostly faithful. The inevitable result was that messengers were forced to ride back and forth between the two parties. I remember one particular September day. The rain fell hard, turning the roads to mud, and I could not imagine that the messengers’ task was a pleasant one. How fortunate then that I was safe and comfortable in a palace of stone and had only to view the deluge through a small window!
I sat before the hearth in the small chamber that had become my own, with Adelaide seated on the floor before me and Gertrude giving orders to the other ladies, unwilling to allow them one moment’s rest. I loved that room, as by some means I know not, a former resident was able to procure several carpets from the East. Their bright colors were somewhat obscured in the general darkness of that day, for there was little light from the window. Instead, the light of the fire seemed to lend a different character to everything it touched: the carpets, the walls of stone, the long red curtains, and the wood trusses above. As I stared blankly into the fire, I considered my desire for purpose: for something—anything—that would live beyond me.
“Read it to me!”
I was drawn away from my thoughts by the sound of Adelaide’s voice. She was holding out a worn volume that I had read many times: the Metamorphoses by Ovid.
“You know I cannot read it,” she said. “Please, if it is not too much trouble, favor us with a passage.”
I might have begged leave to busy myself with some pastime, but what pastime was to be had when we remained in that prison throughout the hours of waiting for news, unable even to venture out of doors on account of the foul weather?
“If you wish, but just this once,” I replied.
“Oh, thank you, my lady! Gertrude, have the girls come listen!”
Gertrude was not swayed. “We must store the summer clothes and pull out the furs, go fetch new wares from the candle maker, beat the carpets … in truth, you really ought to be helping!”
“Peace, Martha! Let Mary have her joy,” I said. “There will likely be weeks of this idleness in which you may clean every last nook of this place.”
“With your permission, madam, I would prefer to continue,” Gertrude repeated.
“Suit yourself,” Adelaide answered on my behalf, then turned expectantly to hear my words.
“Very well,” I said, readying myself to both read and translate. I accepted the book from Adelaide’s hand and leaned forward in my chair, opening to the correct page. “Here we have it. Metamorphoses, by the poet Ovid of ancient Rome. Book the first, page one. The title is ‘The Argument.’ Appropriate, given that our current situation is naught but arguments. ‘My design leads me to speak of forms changed into new bodies. Ye Gods, for you it was who changed them, favor my attempts, and bring down the lengthened narrative from the very beginning of the world, even to my own times.’”[2]
“Wait. Is this Christian?” Adelaide suddenly asked. “Only, he said ‘gods,’ as in more than one god. That cannot be right.”
“The ancient Romans worshipped many deities, both male and female,” I explained. “They were pagans.”
“But I thought that Jesus Christ was a Roman.”
“No, dear. He lived under the Romans, but he was a Jew.”
“So what were Peter and Paul?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.
“Also Jews.”
“And the Romans were pagans?”
“That about sums it up, yes.”
She shook her head in something like dismay. “But Lady Mathilda, if they worshipped all those false gods, then how did they achieve so much? How did they make such great buildings?”
“And aqueductus …” I added, trying hard to stifle a laugh.
“Yes, and those, whatever they are. Should we even be reading this?”
“Fine. Let’s have done with it then,” I said, leaning back in the chair.
“Wait!” she said, placing her hand upon the book to prevent me from shutting it. “I do not think God would be so very upset if we read it. I mean, you read these things.”
“And to date, I have yet to be struck by lightning.”
“Good. Continue.”
I could not help but be amused by Adelaide, although her lack of knowledge appalled me at times. I was more convinced than ever that women must be taught. Perhaps that could be my purpose! I thought, but then quickly recognized that it was a fight for which I had no stomach. I could not overturn all the ways of the world in one lifetime. In any case, my greater concerns were the state of my husband’s soul and that of my own womb.
“Continuing then,” I said, returning to the page. “Ah, the first fable. ‘At first, the sea, the earth, and the heaven, which covers all things, were the only face of nature throughout the whole universe, which men have named Chaos; a rude and undigested mass—’”
“My lady!” Gertrude interrupted. “There is someone at the door for you.”
Now you see the effect of Ovid’s writing upon me, for I had not even heard the noise at the door.
“Oh, now we shall never know what happens!” Adelaide moaned.
“The gods bring order to nature, they fight each other, and eventually humans found the city of Rome,” I concluded, shutting the book. “Find out who it is, Gertrude.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Gertrude vanished through the portal and was gone for what seemed a very long time—long enough that I had just risen out of my chair to investigate, when she opened the door and said, “It is one of the Jews from the city. His name is, oh dear, his name is …”
Here she was forced to turn back toward the visitor and ask him to repeat his name. I could hear only her half of the conversation.
“What was that? Samuel? No, not Samuel. Shmu … Shmuel? Shmuel ben … It … Itshak? No, no—Yitskhak. Did you hear that, my lady?”
“Gertrude, what are you going on about?” I asked, one hand on my hip and the other still clutching the book.
“Perhaps I should let him introduce himself,” she admitted, the frustration on her face giving way to surrender.
Through the door stepped a rather short man who nevertheless stood out by virtue of his attire. His robes were long like a priest’s, but I had never seen a priest wear such a
hat upon his head, nor such a garment around his shoulders. And I had certainly never seen a priest with such a beard! The closest would have been Father Anselm himself. The man’s entire appearance was a bit foreign, as if he were one of the many ambassadors that flocked to the emperor’s court, and he was still wet from the rain.
“Empress Mathilda!” he said with a bow. “I wish you long life and God’s blessing! Thank you for receiving me!”
“And who are you?” I asked, handing the book back to Adelaide and motioning for the ladies to leave.
“Shmuel ben Yitskhak, Your Highness. I have been sent by my father-in-law, Rabbi Ezra ben David, the leader of our kehillot—that is, our community.”
“You mean to say you are not the leader?”
“No, my lady. I am only a student and a trader, but I speak for all my kin, such as we are.”
“Come and sit,” I offered, motioning toward the two chairs by the fire. “Your walk could not have been pleasant.”
“Sit with you?” he said, his eyes filling with a new light. After another quick bow, he placed his hands together and shook them as he added, “Truly, Your Highness, you honor me. Thank you.”
He took a seat opposite me and began rubbing his hands together, holding them before the fire, and blowing on them in turn. I could not help but pity him in his wet condition, so earnest was his manner. As I settled into my own chair across from him, he launched into a further apology.
“I can assure you that our rabbi was most desirous to come visit you himself, and he would have, were he not in poor health and most infirm. You should not interpret his absence as a lack of respect.”
The Forsaken Monarch Page 4
