“We return to Quedlinburg, but how long before you will leave again?”
“I promise to stay until the ides of March when the snow clears.”
“Then I’ll pray doubly hard. Perhaps, with the passing of time, the Magyars will retreat and you will not have to leave.”
“Perhaps, my love.” Heinrich snuffed the candle.
We lay in silence. It took a long time before his breathing slowed and I heard the first of his snores.
Chapter Four
A.D. 912
I BADE FAREWELL to my parents and we journeyed to Quedlinburg. During the cold winter months, Heinrich spent much of his time outdoors with his falcon master and hunting birds, while I continued my charitable work. As the feast of Christmas approached, I prepared baskets of food for the villagers and supplied nearby monasteries with candles and blankets. It brought me joy to aid the poor; they flocked into the bailey where they could fill their bellies and warm themselves near the large fires kept blazing there.
As the winter snows melted into the muddy freshness of spring, Heinrich’s departure to battle the Magyars drew nearer. That day was much the same as the hundreds of days before it. Once more, I observed the men prepare for war. The air was crisp and the haze of early spring had settled over everything. Before me, two groups of guards waited, tough warriors, men who would rather die than flee a field in the heat of battle.
I glanced at Otto. Winter had wrought havoc with his health. As he neared his eightieth year, the old bones, broken and mended in his youth, pained him. His gnarled fingers ached each time the weather changed. A deep cough had settled in his chest, one impossible to vanquish.
I came to stand by his side and looped my arm through his. He pulled me closer and patted my hand. Together we observed as two grooms saddled Heinrich’s warhorse.
“This is the first time since my boyhood that I’ll not be joining them.” Otto’s wistful gaze remained fixed on the activities.
“Most men would have retired much sooner to pass their remaining years in tranquility.” I had grown to love him as a father. I rested my head against his shoulder. “But you are no ordinary man.”
He grinned. “I’ve been a warrior my entire life and have outlived most of my rivals. Even at my age, I struggle to renounce the call to arms.”
“Of that, I am aware.”
“Once, I rode proud at the head of my army. These days, I remain behind to oversee the fortress in my son’s absence.”
“And we are grateful for your protection.” I knew he was a man who needed to prove his usefulness until death came to snatch him away, and I encouraged him in this. “When Heinrich reaches your age, I hope he’ll be like you—a man loved and respected.”
“Your words are sweeter than honey, but your face is filled with fear. I have come to understand the worry of a woman when she sends her man off to war. It was difficult for my wife. Each time we parted, she believed I would die. How odd that fate took her first.”
“The loss of a loved one is heartbreaking.”
“Trust that my son is wise and skilled in battle.” He bore a proud smile. “Ever since the death of his older brothers, I’ve placed far too many burdens and expectations on his shoulders.”
“Heinrich would rather die than disappoint you.”
Otto nodded. He clenched and unclenched his hand as if fighting off pain in his misshapen fingers and knuckles. A lifetime of war injuries plagued him, yet he never complained.
The men were ready. Battle armor glistened in the morning sun. As Heinrich approached, my emotions choked me. Otto embraced him first.
“I shall miss you.” Heinrich pulled back and studied his father’s face.
“And I, you, son, but I have seen more than my fair share of battles, and at my age, I fear I would be a hindrance. Go with God. You have made me proud my entire life.”
“Keep a sharp eye on my wife. She sacrifices sleep for prayer.” Heinrich came to stand before me, his nearness a balm to my soul. The touch of his hand against my cheek was soft and it melted my heart. “I shall miss you,” he whispered, smoothing a tendril of hair escaping from my wimple.
“Not more than I shall miss you.” I caressed his grizzled jaw. The jeweled wedding ring on my left hand caught the morning sunlight. We had been married three years. “I must accept our parting even if it is difficult for me.”
Heinrich lowered his head with a tiny groan of passion: the press of his lips against mine demanding. As we parted, I grabbed his hand and brought it to rest on my belly.
A flame of understanding came to life in his expression.
“You must hurry home, my husband, for this baby needs his father.”
“Another babe? When?” My husband’s expression was a mixture of surprise and manly pride.
“In November, I think.” I kissed him and rested my head on his chest. With the rays of morning sun warming us, I became aware of the full depth of my feelings for him and the true meaning of family.
“I love you, husband.” Tears blurred my vision as I caressed his cheek.
“And I love you, too.” He pulled me hard against him, but soon, we drew apart.
“Good luck, my son.” Otto patted Heinrich on the back. “Give the Magyars their due and return victorious.”
Heinrich smote a fist to his heart in honor of his father’s words then turned and walked away.
Together with Otto, I watched Heinrich and his men canter away.
SPRING CAST ITS warmth over the world. With it came a longing to surround myself with what was most dear. I therefore decided to return to Walhausen. I had not visited since my wedding feast and was eager to spend the summer in the town together with Hedwiga, who was almost two years old; a most robust, sweet child. Sister Ricburg and my women accompanied me. After a warm greeting by the townsfolk as our entourage rode past, I was happy to be back at the quaint fortress with its comforts. It was well furnished and filled with loyal servants eager to please. Here, my duties as duchess did not press upon me and I could enjoy a slower pace, something I was grateful for in my expectant state. Mornings, we prayed or aided the poor. Afternoons, we spent among the vineyards and lush foliage on the shores of the Rhein. Hedwiga ran free among the green meadows. Sunshine and laughter warmed our bodies and souls. With each passing day, through intermittent bouts of nausea, I grew larger with child. I brimmed with joy, for I knew I carried a good strong boy, and was certain he would grow to become a good man—nay, a great man. As my time drew near, I prayed for a safe delivery of this second babe. I feared and prayed for Heinrich too, for I had received no word from him for several weeks.
One day, fatigued more than usual, I retired early. A restless sleep came to me…
Heinrich walks towards me robed as a king—spirited, vibrant, and strong. A mantle of the richest purple trimmed in white ermine flows from his shoulders. The crown of Karl the Great adorns his head. In his right hand, he carries an ancient spear—the Holy Lance, and in his left, a royal orb. He seems pleased with himself as sovereign, and possesses a brawny vigor, potent and alluring.
As he draws near, I study the Holy Lance, the spear of Longinus, the spear of death, the relic he long desired. A feeling of dread overcomes me at the sight of it in his hand. A drop of scarlet emerges from its deadly tip, which becomes a steady drip. The trickle becomes a torrent and gushes, running down Heinrich’s arm, soaking his clothing.
Fear for him takes hold of me, yet he fails to notice the crimson deluge or the aura of danger. I try to call to him, to warn him, but I cannot speak. He comes close enough to touch me, and takes the Lance in both of his hands, offering it to me with an innocent grin on his face.
Blood soaks my hem, threatening to seep upwards. I turn to flee, but he pursues me. I trip and fall. Desperately, I glance back and he is upon me, the blood from the Lance raining on my clothes.
I woke drenched in sweat. For the remainder of the night, the dream haunted me. I passed the hours until dawn in distress, sleep elud
ing me. A feeling of doom seized me. I feared for the future, for how this vision might manifest itself.
During this period of absence from Heinrich, I had many such visions. My ladies assured me it was because of my condition; dreams were more common for breeding women. Whether or not that was the truth, I was unable to say, but I longed for the portents to cease.
November 23
Walhausen
MY PAINS ARRIVED on the day of the winter solstice. Sister Ricburg hovered at one side of my bed, murmuring soothing words as she wiped my brow with a wet cloth. I had tried to spare her from this ordeal, but she insisted on attending me. A young apprentice stoked the fire while an old stooped midwife prepared blankets and mixed herbs to ease my pains. When she noticed Sister Ricburg’s birthmark, she frowned in disapproval. She bent, and whispered into my ear. “Domina, please, you must ask the sister to leave. The mark may harm the child.”
Another spasm seized me. We waited for it to pass.
Sister Ricburg faced the midwife. “I refuse to abandon my mistress in her time of need.”
“I wish to have Sister Ricburg by my side,” I uttered, knowing the midwife could not naysay me. Nevertheless, I did my best to assuage her. “Have no fear; her mark is from God, not Satan.”
The midwife glanced at the wine-colored stain and pursed her lips. She nodded her acceptance and returned to her place at the foot of the bed.
I was in too much agony to concern myself about the midwife’s superstitions. Another pang gripped me. I clenched my teeth to brave the new rush of wrenching cramps without whimpering.
“It will not be much longer,” the midwife encouraged.
A convulsion shot through my back and belly. When it ended, I lay my head back on my pillow, exhausted. I labored for an eternity, suffering each tearing cramp. Curses flew from my lips, mingling with my moans and screams.
Sister Ricburg hushed me and wiped my forehead.
The midwife kept watch over my progress, but the babe was slow to come. How could I endure more pain? Hovering between sleep and wakefulness, I cried God’s name and prayed for His mercy. Then blessedly, with a final summoning of the last of my strength, the babe’s head emerged. One more push and the body slipped into the midwife’s awaiting hands.
“You have a beautiful son!” Sister Ricburg’s voice was shrill with excitement.
I cried and laughed at the same time. My ordeal had ended. We were both alive!
The midwife wrapped my babe in blankets that had been warming near the brazier. When she placed him in my arms, I examined him with urgent curiosity, but he was perfect in every detail, with golden hair and dark eyes. He had my nose, perchance, and my lips, for from them came not tiny sighs and murmurs, but hearty cries.
The midwife said, “He is a beautiful boy, a true and worthy Saxon son.”
I grabbed her hand. “Please dispatch a messenger to Heinrich with the news.” A powerful love held me in thrall as I regarded my child—his fists clenched and his cries clear and vibrant. Sister Ricburg was right. This babe was a proper son of Saxony. I rejoiced and vowed to be a good mother—to keep him safe at any cost.
November 30
HUGE JAGGED ROCKS line a steep hill where Heinrich stands observing a village. A murky fog floats around him. He waves his banner and a column of chain-mailed warriors form behind him in an endless stretch. The horde of silent men moves forward, many on foot, some mounted; the clink of their chainmail the lone sound.
Heinrich raises his hand and waves his sword in a circular motion over his head. “On to glory,” he bellows.
An eerie stillness ensues, and the hordes of men, their armor iridescent against the sun, raise their swords. Their battle standards snap violently in the wind.
Thunderously, they shout battle cries and storm downhill.
In the village below, a Magyar warlord and his men scramble onto rooftops, walls, and fortifications.
Heinrich and his men, brandishing weapons hew and hack their way into the mob of Magyars who meet them head on.
Magyars gasp dying breaths as spears and swords lance their flesh. They fall, causing those still running behind to stumble over them. With feral roars, more of Heinrich’s men stream through the smashed gates. The clash intensifies. The clang of metal as swords smash against swords, as hatchets hack against lances, and as broadswords sever limbs, mingle with the drone of curses and the coppery reek of freshly shed blood. Church bells toll their alarm in the distance. Fire engulfs thatched roofs and smoke clouds the air.
Heinrich fights in the midst of the battle. The bedlam of combat infiltrates every niche and corner of the village. For its inhabitants, escape is impossible. Heinrich stabs a Magyar warrior with his broadsword then stumbles over a rock, dropping his weapon. Furious, the Magyar regains his balance, stands over Heinrich and with both hands raises his sword.
Suddenly, there comes a clatter of hooves. A young man beautifully dressed in elegant silver armor, mighty in demeanor, rides towards him on a pure white stallion. The man’s eyes are an intense blue; his golden locks and flaming red mantle blow in the wind behind him. Holding reins and a Saxon shield before him in one hand, he raises his sword high in the air with the other. The shield bears a falcon—the symbol of the Liudolfing family. The young man is Otto in his youth, in his fullest glory, striking and virile. With a swing of his mighty, bejeweled sword, Otto decapitates the Magyar. Otto grins, raises his bloodied sword to the sky, and unleashes a hair-raising battle cry. Reining his horse around, he gallops away into the mists of eternity.
I AWOKE TO a throbbing in my head, my mind clouded by sleep and panic. The air inside the bedchamber felt cool and brittle. I shoved away the covers and glanced at the cradle, relieved that my son—swaddled in fur—slept fitfully. It had been two weeks since his birth. I crossed the room, opened the shutters, and breathed in the winter air until the thumping of my heart slowed. Gray clouds filled the sky, casting gloom over the snow-laden fields. The memory of my horrible dream endured. Would Heinrich’s life be endangered? Was this the face of war? How could any man survive without losing his mind?
An urgent pounding on my bedchamber door interrupted my thoughts. Sister Ricburg ran forward in sudden distress. “Matilde, he, he’s dead.”
My legs buckled beneath me, and I clutched the window ledge to hold myself upright. “Heinrich? No!” Panic churned in my belly; my entire body felt as if it would dissolve. Sister Ricburg’s lips formed an O. “No, not Heinrich.”
“Not Heinrich?” Confusion rattled my voice.
“No, we’ve had no word of him. I am sure all is well.” She reached for my hand. “It is Otto. He is dead, found this morning in his bed. He died peacefully in his sleep.”
BY WAY OF messenger, I sent word of Otto’s death to Heinrich. He and his army had reached the southern borders of Saxony. It saddened me that he would not receive the news in time to attend his father’s Requiem Mass.
In keeping with Otto’s wishes, I arranged for his entombment in the abbey at Gandersheim in Brunshausen. It had been his dearest wish, one he had spoken of many times, for his father, Liudolf, and his mother, Oda, had founded the abbey there. It was their final resting place along with Heinrich’s two older brothers and the relics of Saints Anastasius, Innocent, and John the Baptist. Through the years, Otto’s rich endowments had ensured the abbey’s stability and prosperity. There could not have been a more fitting burial place for this beloved man.
On a dark night in December, I received news of Heinrich’s return. I watched for his arrival through the open shutters of my casement window. Just as the light of dawn lightened the sky, I saw the long line of riders. A solemn gathering of servants aided Heinrich and his men as they rode beneath the portcullis. Heinrich dismounted and spoke with Brother Rufus, who had braved the cold winter air to greet his overlord. Then my husband glanced at my window.
In the early morning light, still aided by torches, I noticed the weariness in his face. He turned, and with shoulders sagg
ing and head hung low, he passed into the entrance doors. I lost sight of him then and closed the shutters. After dismissing my maidservants, I hovered over the cradle where our newborn son slept in angelic peace. Heinrich stepped into the room, and I greeted him with a worried smile. How grateful I was for his safe return. He came to stand beside me. Lithe and muscular, his deep-set sea-blue eyes gave the impression of great sadness. He embraced me then glanced into the cradle.
“Heinrich, I grieve for you. I know how you loved your father.”
He raised his head and swallowed, as if to choke back the weight of emotion, and then leaned over and placed his large hand on our son’s tiny cheek. “He is beautiful.”
The tremble in his voice tore at my heart. “Did you expect otherwise?”
“No, a fair child can be the only result when the mother is blessed with so much beauty.”
I smiled at the endearment then ran my hand over the baby’s head. “I wish to name him after your father.”
Heinrich said nothing. I had caught him off guard. Grief over the end of one life and hope for this new one hovered between us. My heart swelled with love for him.
“Otto!” It was as if he savored the sound of it on his lips. “Your suggestion honors my father, and my entire family. The name will be a tribute to my father’s memory and will suit our son as he grows to manhood.” He raised my hand and placed a grateful kiss on it, love evident in the act. “How I have missed you.”
“I have missed you too. I am much relieved you are unharmed.”
“When we received word of my father’s death, the Saxon and Thuringian nobles fell to their knees. Then they came forward, one by one, to swear their fealty to me, electing me Duke of Saxony, placing themselves under my protection. I am to keep all that was my father’s.”
“They loved your father and respect you, for you are like him.”
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