Heinrich’s mouth fell open in confusion. His scrutiny of me changed from disbelief to admiration.
My heart swelled. I raised my head high, sat straighter, and gave the man I had come to love my most earnest smile.
THANKMAR STUDIED ME with polite interest. I watched him from where I sat on a wooden bench beneath the window of my bedchamber. A trestle table was set with a pitcher of water, two cups, and a trencher piled high with honey cakes. At my behest, Franco’s wife had brought him to me. A pleasant-looking woman of middle years, she had been raising him along with her three children. At my gesture for her to bring the boy closer, she nudged Thankmar forward.
“I shall await him outside.” She curtseyed.
I nodded with approval and she left us.
A fetching child of five years, he resembled Heinrich except for his hair, which was a darker shade of gold than his sire’s. When I offered him a honey cake, he stepped cautiously forth to accept it. He seemed sad, even sullen.
I patted the bench beside me. “Come and sit beside me, Thankmar. There is something I wish to ask you.”
I offered to help him, but he climbed up unaided, his legs dangling in the air. He bit into the cake. “Do you know who I am?”
Thankmar shook his head, chewing his mouthful.
“My name is Matilde, and I am your father’s wife, your stepmother now.” I spoke in the gentlest of voices, my expression deliberately mollified.
His features remained blank as he took another bite.
“Do you remember your mother?”
He nodded.
“Would you like to visit her?”
Wariness flickered on his face.
“If you wish, I’ll take you to her.”
Between bites, he nodded.
“Then we shall go. You must be patient, for it is a four-day journey.”
He smiled then swallowed the last of the sweet treat.
“Good, that is settled, now let us enjoy more honey cakes. I do not wish them to go to waste. I have little appetite; so would you share them with me?”
He nodded yet again. I offered him another then selected one for myself. As we ate, I spoke of things that might interest a child—a dog, leather balls, practice swords, wooden soldiers. I could not erase the past, but I wanted to correct the wrongs he had suffered in his short life by reuniting him with his mother. It was the right thing to do; my grandmother’s final request of me, and one I would honor. I would strive to earn this boy’s trust and love, for although not a child of my flesh, he was sweet and already a child of my heart.
DURING THE FINAL portion of our journey to Magdeburg, which must have felt like an eternity for a boy of his age, Thankmar grew bored. We rode in a horse litter, for he was far too young to handle a horse. He had warmed to me and now spoke freely. His face beamed with delight when Franco let him ride at the front of his saddle. Rocked by the gentle gait of the horse along the dirt path, Thankmar’s chatter betrayed his excitement.
A tireless wind swept across the green land; dark clouds threatened to release their burden.
Thankmar glanced up at Franco. “Will we be there before it rains?”
“I hope so. Have patience, little one. Before long, you will see the town in the distance.” Franco’s amused tolerance was endearing.
“There it is!” Thankmar pointed and stopped fidgeting.
Franco eyed the sky. “We should hasten, Domina. The weather will get worse. We are close.”
“I agree,” I responded. “The child might become ill.” I nestled back inside the litter, clutching my mantle tight.
The first drops of rain broke through the clouds just as we arrived at the abbey’s gates. I had sent word of our visit, so an elderly nun greeted us at the perimeter gates and allowed us to enter. The abbey’s entrance doors swung open and a slim nun rushed forward to greet us. “Welcome, I am Sister Hilda. We have been expecting you.” She glanced at Franco. “There are stables at the rear with fresh water and hay in the mangers for the horses.” She frowned as she studied the number of guards in our entourage. “I am unsure whether we have enough room to accommodate everyone within the abbey.”
“Please do not worry,” Franco said. “We have brought tents and supplies.”
Relief brightened her features. “There is plenty of room next to the stables for you and your men to make camp. When you have finished tending to the horses, we will bring a meal out to you.”
“I thank you, Sister.” Franco dismounted then lifted Thankmar to the ground.
The matter of accommodation settled, I grasped Thankmar’s hand and followed Sister Hilda inside with Sister Ricburg and my maidservants in tow.
“Domina, the Abbess wishes to greet you and the boy in her private chambers. Your women may dine with the sisters in the Refectory through there.” She pointed to a set of rounded wooden doors at the far end of the room.
“I shall pray the reunion goes well,” Sister Ricburg whispered as they were led away.
Thankmar and I followed Sister Hilda to a side door, which led into a stone corridor. She lifted a torch from a sconce in the wall to light our way through a series of narrow passageways and vaulted chambers. We arrived at a long corridor lined on both sides with doors. We stopped at the first door on our right. A young novice answered our knock. She bowed her head in welcome and ushered us into the austere antechamber. After inviting us to sit, she departed.
In one corner, a trestle was set for our meal. In spite of the fire burning in the brazier, I shivered. The shutters were open to release any smoke, yet the room was gloomy. Thankmar waited in the middle of the space, as uncertain and silent as the day we first met. My heart constricted at the pitiable sight. Although apprehensive at leaving Franco’s wife, I had done my best to reassure him. I doubted he remembered his mother, for he had been two when they were separated. To an extent, the boy responded to me, but remained aloof. I had been unable to penetrate the protective wall he had built around himself. Perhaps the reunion with his mother would soothe him.
A door at the other end of the room was slightly open, emitting a gleam of light. Thankmar wandered closer and peered within. I stood behind him, my hand on his shoulder. In a chamber lined with stone, a figure in the garments of an abbess knelt at the foot of an altar. Deep in prayer, her back was to us. As if sensing our presence, she turned. A warm smile graced her lips as she rose and approached us. A woman of great beauty, she was slender with a long oval-shaped face. Large hazel eyes glimmered beneath beautifully formed brows. A slight blush colored her cheeks on both sides of a patrician nose. She made no move towards Thankmar, but her expression was alight with joy as she regarded him unwaveringly.
I looked down at Thankmar. Beneath a head full of boyish curls, his eyes sparkled with interest, reflecting the candlelight in the room. I marveled at what a beautiful child he was.
The abbess stepped tentatively closer and then stopped. Her eyes welled with tears as she beheld Thankmar then looked at me. “Domina, I am happy to greet you.” Her voice trembled as she curtseyed. “I am Abbess Hatheburg.”
I inhaled a sharp breath. Hatheburg—the abbess! I struggled to renounce my doubt. God was truly forgiving when even a sinner could rise to such lofty heights. I was at a loss for words. “I am Matilde,” I stuttered. “I was unaware you were the abbess.” It surprised me that I felt no discomfort in her presence
“You could not have known. The previous abbess moved to a new abbey nearby. A secret benefactor raised me to the rank of abbess two days ago, after an anonymous donation to the abbey. Word of my appointment has yet to be made known to the outside world.”
Could Heinrich have been the mysterious benefactor? It was in keeping with something he would do to please me. Widows and others with an unchaste past could not hold the office of abbess, but for women from powerful, wealthy families, the Church would turn a blind eye.
I came to stand behind the boy and put my hands on his shoulders. “Greet your mother, child.”
Hatheburg lowered herself to her knees and leaned forward to touch him. With long, slender fingers, she tousled a curl on Thankmar’s head then raised his chin with her fingers. “Thankmar, my son, how I have longed to see you.” Her voice quivered with love as she gathered him and pressed him against her breast. She kissed his head and breathed in the smell of him.
Thankmar’s little arms hung limply at his side as Hatheburg clutched him to her bosom. Slowly, he responded. Raising his arms, he wrapped them around her neck. The act toppled the walls of unfamiliarity separating them.
Rooted in placed, and touched by the reunion, I recalled my grandmother, who on her deathbed, must have envisioned this moment—her last act, an unselfish gift. My tears flowed unashamedly.
At last, Hatheburg’s melodious laughter filled the air as she scooped Thankmar into her arms. “Come, Thankmar, you must be hungry after such a long journey. I have a wonderful dinner awaiting us.”
We took our places at the table. Two nuns entered with a tray filled with bread, braised vegetables, and roasted chicken. A nun poured milk from a clay pitcher into an earthenware cup for Thankmar. He sat on his mother’s lap and eyed the food with relish.
“First let us pray, Thankmar.” Hatheburg bowed her head and we followed her in prayer.
We conversed as we ate, but Hatheburg was far more interested in her son than eating. After we completed our meal, I joined Hatheburg before the fire. Soothed by our voices and the crackling flames, Thankmar fell peacefully asleep on a bench beside his mother, his head on her lap. Contentedness filled my soul. I liked Hatheburg. Gracious and elegant, I found her humility and kindness endearing. And this was the same woman Heinrich had reviled? If so, time and pain had tempered her; great suffering alters people.
Hatheburg touched my hand. “I am grateful to you.”
“A son should experience a mother’s love. I am pleased for both of you.” I rose, eager to allow Hatheburg a few private moments with her son. “It is late, I should retire.” Hatheburg tried to rise as protocol demanded, but I gestured for her to remain seated. “Let him sleep.” The love radiating in Hatheburg’s features was the last thing I saw as I left her with her son and closed the door behind me.
BELOW A BLEAK night sky, I walk among the dead. My cold hand clasps a torch as I step over corpses. A cold, north wind keens through the valley above the hundreds of souls lost. The clouds clear away. Bloodied swords glimmer cruelly on the ground under the eerie moonlight. Its phantom flame sends silver light spilling over fallen shields, dropped bows, and broken spears. Butchery! This is the aftermath of war. Hopelessness and despair walk with me, the burden heavy upon me.
Amid the dead, I hear a voice calling, “Help me! Help me!” I hurry toward the voice, but before I reach the pleading man, another voice, then another, and yet another begs my help. I spin in all directions until the cries for help are louder than thunder. I fall to the ground in anguish. Blood rises from the earth staining my feet, my gown, my hands, my face, until I can scarcely breathe.
My pounding heart woke me. Gasping for breath, I reached for Heinrich, but found his side of the bed empty. Early morning light filled the chamber and an aroma of fresh bread wafted through my shuttered window from the nearby kitchen house. My head pounded as I sat up, pushed away the bed covers, and with trembling legs, crossed the room to pour myself a cup of well-water from the pitcher. The cool liquid eased my parched throat. My pulse returned to normal, but my apprehension refused to subside.
In my antechamber, a half-filled tub had been prepared with clean drying cloths neatly stacked on a nearby stool. A maidservant entered carrying a bucket of steaming water. She halted, curtseyed, and set down the vessel. She rushed to my side. “Duchess, you are pale. What ails you?”
“I had a frightful dream, nothing more.” I did my best to reassure her, but concern etched her features as she helped me undress. I slipped into the fragrant water and settled in for a good long soak. As the waters calmed me, I tried to make sense of the dream, but its meaning evaded me. All I knew was that it portended something horrific.
When the water cooled, I dressed and set off for the Great Hall in search of Heinrich. Servants had begun setting up trestle tables for the morning meal. A group of men sat in a corner polishing and honing swords and daggers. At the hearth, two men turned a spit upon which roasted a joint of venison.
Heinrich sat with his father near the front of the room. A platter with a round of cheese and a loaf of bread was set on a platter before them. An air of seriousness hung over them.
“I bid you both a good morning.” I took my place beside Heinrich, opposite Otto. “I did not anticipate sleeping late.”
“You need your rest.” Heinrich scrutinized me. “I hope you spent the night sleeping, as God intended, rather than praying in the chapel until dawn. You need your sleep, my love.”
He disapproved of my habit of praying through the night, but the silent chapel’s serenity eased my troubled spirit after frightful dreams. I gave him a playful but pointed look. “I confess. I did go to chapel last night. It wouldn’t harm you if you were to join me sometimes.”
“Admonished again!” Heinrich rolled his eyes and shrugged in husbandly exasperation. “I am afraid my soul will remain tarnished, for I am a decadent man who loves his sleep. It would not harm you to do the same. You are pale this morning.”
A servant entered with a thick bowl of rich stew and set it before me. Throughout our banter, I noticed Otto’s somber demeanor; nervous, he kept glancing at Heinrich.
“Please forgive my interruption,” I said. “I can see you are both troubled.”
“We received word from Duke Berthold of Swabia.” Otto folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. “His nephew, Arnulf, Duke of Bavaria, suffered tremendous losses at Augsburg after a bloody battle with the Magyars.”
I lowered the spoon raised part way to my lips. My dream returned in my mind with full force. “How bad was it?”
“Thousands of lives. Almost his entire army.”
I crossed myself.
Otto stroked his chin. “It has been more than a year since Magyars attacked Saxon lands. They have cut their way through Swabia and Bavaria and are heading our way. We must prepare our armies.”
“What of the king’s army? Will they respond?” Fear deepened my voice.
Heinrich’s jaw muscle tensed. “King Louis is a boy, a puppet. His guardian, Archbishop Hatto controls his every move. The dukes hate Hatto so they refuse to heed the king’s authority.”
“We have to decide for ourselves what to do,” Otto said. “I doubt the king can assemble adequate forces. What do you say, son?”
Heinrich raised his goblet. “Consider it done.”
Otto grasped his and took a swig. “Good. I have already summoned my men and am gathering provisions. Prepare to depart in ten days.”
“Is there no other way?” My voice rang with worry. The dream remained vividly etched in my mind.
Heinrich squeezed my hand to hush me.
“There is no choice,” Otto responded with fatherly patience. “The Magyars have been a scourge for years. If we allow them to go unpunished, it will fuel their greed and more lives will be lost. We have to defeat them or they will infiltrate our borders. These barbarians know nothing but brutality and bloodshed.”
“My father is right, Matilde. There is nothing to do but fight. It is a man’s lot to wage war when called upon.”
I had once observed my father prepare for battle, but had been too young to understand. By the fear in my mother’s face, I came to understand the fright of a woman when her husband rides off to war. Heinrich’s duty, his resolve, was to protect Saxony. My husband yearned for battle, and he would enter into it willingly. Nothing I could do would change it. Now, like my mother, like other women, I must learn the
art of waiting…a controlled form of madness.
HEINRICH AND HIS father set forth several days later with their troops. Part of my soul went with them. Each day passed routinely. I rose at dawn for Prime, attended the prayers of Terce, and Mass at midday with newfound devotion. Later, a lector read scriptures to my women and me as we sewed. In between, I spent as much time as possible with my precious Hedwiga and Thankmar, whom I had come to love. Sister Ricburg helped me tend to my absent husband’s responsibilities. The halls swarmed with priests and visiting nuns of gentle birth granted leave from their abbeys to assist me in my duties and charity. Daily, I held court to hear appeals, rendering judgment as swiftly as Heinrich did, aided by the counsel from three lords appointed to advise me. I adjudicated disputes, saw to the organization of the kitchen, and ensured that work on the farms and maintenance to the fortress continued with little interruption. The days seemed endless, and I fell into bed exhausted each night.
One day, as I reviewed accounts in the Great Hall with Sister Ricburg and Brother Rufus, my husband’s scribe, a guard brought forth a mud-spattered messenger. The messenger bowed. “Domina, I have an urgent message for Duke Otto and Duke Heinrich.”
“You may give me the message in their place.” My voice sounded calm, but fear coiled in my gut.
He nodded. “I regret to inform you, the boy king, King Louis of East Francia, is dead.” He handed me a folded parchment with the king’s seal. “Archbishop Hatto of Mainz, the king’s regent, sends this message to your husband.”
A shaft of sunlight streamed in from a murder hole above and struck my ring with a blinding flash as I untied the ribbon and unfurled the parchment. It commanded Heinrich and Otto to be in Forchheim by the 8th day of November to elect a new king.
“A chamber has been reserved for you, your husband, and his father at the fortification there,” the messenger added.
The Prophetic Queen (Women's Biographical Historical Fiction): The Tumultuous Life of Matilde of Ringelheim Page 8
