I PASSED THE days praying for Louis, for Gerberga, for their eight children. A messenger arrived and I hurried to the receiving hall. A young man of no more than twenty-five years, his clothes mud-spattered, his face ruddy from sun and wind, bowed—the same messenger I had sent to Francia to warn Louis.
“What news?”
“Domina, I rode to Laon, barely stopping for rest, but I arrived too late. On the 10th day of September, while in pursuit of a wolf, King Louis fell from his horse and died. He was buried at Rheims and has been interred at the Basilica of Saint Remi.”
My throat constricted and my hands turned clammy. “What of the queen and children?”
“Queen Gerberga bade me to relay a message to you. She feared Hugh might cause trouble, so in exchange for Hugh’s support in crowning her eldest son, she offered Hugh the duchies of Burgundy and Aquitaine. To this, he agreed. Your grandson’s coronation will be on the 12th day of November at Reims. It would please her if you are able to attend his coronation.”
Death had taken Louis, but life must continue. My life had become insufferable and unstable with demise, yet duty required us to forge forth, to mourn, and celebrate life at the same time.
THUS, WE GATHERED in Reims for my grandson’s coronation. The sun shone upon the royal procession to Notre-Dame Cathedral, our jeweled vestments a vision of splendor against the sunlight. Flanked by two rows of mounted guards, Lothair rode a pure white gelding. At thirteen years, he appeared small amid such large men, but he held himself tall in the saddle. With Gerberga and Otto to guide him, he would make a good king.
In a show of support, Otto and Hugh rode next to Gerberga. I followed seated in a brightly decorated wagon with Sister Ricburg and Hedwiga. Adelaide, in the final stages of her pregnancy, remained in Aachen, unable to attend.
Inside the cathedral, my heart expanded with pride at the sight of Lothair receiving the coronation regalia—the scepter of Dagobert, and Karl the Great’s sword and crown. He seemed so small seated on such a great throne, but when Otto rested his hand on his nephew’s shoulder, Lothair gazed at him with a grateful smile.
The coronation banquet lasted several days. A pale, pinkish wine made from local grapes was served along with numerous elaborate dishes, among them roasted suckling pig, stuffed goose, and fruit grown in the abundant orchards of Francia. Afterward there was dancing. The guests became more alive with the wine flowing in copious amounts. I spotted Lothair sitting alone at the dais, his expression somber and blank as he ran his finger over the rim of the silver goblet before him. I made my excuses to the women who stood around talking at the far end of the room, and went to sit beside him.
“Why so solemn, Lothair? This is a night for celebration, not contemplation. There will be plenty of time for that tomorrow.”
He observed the crowd. “I knew I would be king one day, but never dreamed it would happen so swiftly. My father was a young man. Why did God take my father so soon?” He fought back tears.
Compassion filled me for this boy, thrust into manhood, and kinghood too, long before his time. He had not only lost a father, but his love and the guidance from a king to his heir. “No one knows why God takes those we love when He does, but He would not have done so unless He knew you could bear the burden.” With my hand, I stilled his hand that twirled the goblet at a frantic pace. “You are not alone. Your uncles will guide you, as will your mother. Together with God, they will not allow you fail.”
He nodded once before resuming his attack on the goblet.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
A.D. 955
AT THE END of June, Magyar legates arrived in Magdeburg. After surrendering their weapons, imperial guards permitted them to enter the Great Hall. They approached, faces stern and with wooden coffers in their hands. Each wore knee length tunics over leather boots the color of mud. A shudder ran down my spine, for they were a duplicitous race, hungry for power and riches. Our people had suffered incredible losses at their hands over the decades.
The leader stepped forward and bowed before Otto on his throne. “King Otto, we come peacefully, to renew our loyalty to you, in a show of good will.” With scarred, calloused hands, he raised the chest and opened its lid. Within was a bull’s head basin made of gold. The other two men similarly opened their caskets too, one contained two goblets, and the other a pitcher, both also of gold.
“I thank you, and bid you welcome,” Otto responded, signaling to one of his men to take the gifts.
After a polite exchange, it became clear they had nothing specific to discuss. Foreboding ignited in my belly.
“You and your men are welcome to stay the night. A feast will be prepared in your honor this night.” Otto addressed two nearby guards. “Provide these men with sleeping quarters. Then bring them to the Great Hall this night for the feast.”
The guards then escorted the Magyar leader and his two advisers from the hall.
“What do you make of it?” Otto asked of Franco, his most trusted advisor, now in his elder years.
“I am wary of their motives. I suspect they have come to reconnoiter the situation here in Saxony, to observe firsthand the status of the kingdom, and to assess your strength.”
“Franco is right,” I added. “Something is amiss.”
My suspicions proved well founded. Days after the Magyars departed, couriers sent by Heinz from Bavaria arrived with a message:
Beware! Hungarian war bands have marched into Bavarian frontier lands resolved to do battle with you. Savage hordes of Magyars sweep across Bavaria in terrific force to plunder and destroy.
OTTO PREPARED FOR war. He gathered a vast army comprised of Bavarians, Franks, Swabians, and Bohemians plus his Saxon household troops. Otto himself commanded eight legions, each with one thousand armored cavalries.
“I would rather die than tolerate such evil,” he said before he rode off with his massive army to meet the enemy.
Once more, Magyars raided our lands. Once more, battle drew my sons away. Once more, there would be bloodshed, death, and terrible loss. When would it end? Each day I prayed for resolution.
The days passed slowly as we waited for news. At the end of August, a messenger arrived with a letter from Otto. Shoulder to shoulder, I watched Adelaide’s shaking hands break the seal and unfold the vellum, the corners withered from travel.
To my most serene mother, Matilde, and to my wife and Queen, Adelaide
The battle with the Magyars is over. I will return victorious to Aachen. With eight legions of a thousand men each, I arrived in Augsburg, on the Lechfeld, the plain lying along the bank of the river Lech. The first, second, and third legions were commanded by three Bavarian nobles acting for Heinz, who was too ill to engage in warfare. The fourth legion consisted of Franconians, led by Conrad, now bravely loyal in spite of having forfeited his duchy because of his rebellion against me. I commanded the fifth royal legion, comprised of elite soldiers chosen for their bravery. Swabians, under Duke Burchard III, formed the sixth and seventh legions. In the eighth legion were the Bohemians, chosen and led by Duke Boleslav. I am keeping him to his vow of homage to our kingdom. To the care of this eighth legion of Bohemians, I entrusted the baggage carts, catapults, and heavier weapons. They would keep them safe since they marched in the rear. My decision would prove wrong.
On the morning of the tenth day of August A.D. 955, the feast of Saint Laurence the Martyr, I made a vow to God at mass that if He granted me victory, I would found a bishopric in Merseburg near Halle, in honor of Saint Laurence. Further, I would found an abbey in Magdeburg in Eadgyth’s honor. Thus with the Holy Lance in my hand and the banner of Michael the Archangel flying before me, I gave the signal for battle. I had hardly raised my arm when word of disaster reached me. A large force of Magyars had already crossed the river and had ridden around and shot countless flights of arrows at the Bohemians in the rear. They killed and captured the Bohemians of the eighth legion, seizing the baggage carts and war machines. The Swabians of the sixth and the s
eventh broke rank and fled for their lives.
I had to act swiftly. I sent Conrad with the Franconians of the fourth legion to rescue both men and materials. To place my confidence in my son by marriage, recently a rebel, surprised many, but this decision proved correct. In a fury of passion, Conrad freed the prisoners, recaptured all the carts and weaponry, and sent men and machinery into safety or battle under his direction.
I rushed my legions into the Magyar host in a drive so bitterly determined and persistent that the barbarian invaders turned and fled. My army pursued them, killing and seizing their chieftains, including Bukscu, King of the Magyars. I had the rest hanged in Regensburg.
After our victory, I camped among my troops in a verdant meadow. It was there I received news of Conrad. He had fallen, pierced in the throat by an arrow at a moment when, hot and panting, he had carelessly thrown back the visor from his face to catch a breath of air.
I ordered him buried with reverence at Worms. The Lotharingians, who once cared little for him, mourned his death. The defeat at Lechfeld and decimation of the enemy war leaders have so unsettled the pagan Magyars, they accepted Christian missionaries. This time, I am confident peace will last.
Otto
Together, Adelaide and I wept, not solely for her brother’s death, but at the knowledge that Heinz had been too ill to fight alongside Otto to defend his duchy.
October 1
Quedlinburg
A DEATH-LIKE STILLNESS lingers around me. From the distance comes subdued sobs, as if several people are weeping. I rise from bed and wander down the stairs. The sobbing increases, but I cannot find the mourners. I proceed from chamber to chamber. No living person is in sight, yet the cries of distress continue as I walk along. Each chamber shines with light; every object in the castle is familiar; but I cannot locate those who weep and grieve with such intensity. Puzzled, I am determined to find them. I continue forth until I arrive in the Council Hall. I pass through its partially open doors. There I meet with a sickening surprise. Before me is a catafalque. A corpse wrapped in funeral vestments rests upon it. Guards, with their backs to me, encircle the remains. How unusual. They normally face away from the body. A throng of people dressed in black gaze mournfully at the body whose face is covered, and weep.
“Who is dead?” I ask.
A guard turns to face me. He steps aside allowing me to pass.
I can barely move my legs, but I manage to step closer to the corpse.
One by one, the people move aside to give me access.
Upon the catafalque lies Heinz.
A burst of grief takes flight from deep within my soul.
October 3
MY ANGUISH WAS profound. It consumed me. For two days and nights, panic swallowed me. So desperate, so intense were my prayers, they echoed within the empty chapel. My grief at the deaths of Liutgarde and Conrad, still too raw a wound. Must I face the death of my beloved son too? Death was the curse of the Holy Lance. This was God’s punishment for having loved Heinz more than all others; a sin I had carried, one from which I could never be absolved. With autumn and the coming threat of winter, I knew I could not travel to be with him, to nurse him in his final hours, to bless him, to caress him once more. A deep sadness took root, and I succumbed to it, unable to eat, unwilling to do anything other than pray. At nine and fifty years, I feared I would not recover. Why God? Why take my children and grandchildren when I deserved to die first?
After the prayers at Prime, a guard entered the chapel, his walk along the nave slow. A monk followed him. Both men bowed. I gripped Sister Ricburg’s hands, my knuckles white.
I regarded the narrow-faced, lanky monk who stepped forward, his face somber. Terror pierced me as I raised my hand to my breast.
“I am Brother Geizbart of Pöhlde Abbey. I bring urgent news of your son, Heinz, Duke of Bavaria.” He kept his eyes downcast.
Pounding thundered in my head. My legs threatened to fail.
“Duke Heinz arrived at our abbey three days ago. He was ill, Domina. We have been tending to him, but he has been asking for you. The abbot thought it best to summons you.”
Heinz was still alive! I made the sign of the cross. “How ill?”
“He was afflicted with a malady which has swollen his arm. He told us it was due to an old battle wound. He had a fever, but was lucid and aware of everything around him. Before I left, he was responding well to the treatment of our good brother who is wise in the use of medicinal herbs.”
“I must hurry to him.” He was not in Bavaria. He was in Pöhlde and it was not too far.
Accompanied by Brother Geizbart, Sister Ricburg and I left within the hour and arrived at Pöhlde late the following day. The smell of sickness greeted me as I swept into the chamber. Three monks stood in the room. One kept a watchful eye on Heinz, another was crushing something in a mortar and pestle, and the other was placing a damp cloth on my son’s forehead. Heinz lay asleep in bed, his face ashen. I rushed to his bedside and placed my hand on his burning forehead. “Heinz!” God, please give me strength for my son’s sake.
He opened his eyes briefly. By the slight curl of his lips, I knew he was aware of my presence. Then he fell back into the grip of darkness.
For two days, I tended him. On my knees, I prayed by his bedside, scared that every moment brought him closer to death. I had been in torment since the dream. With God’s help I fought to keep my intense emotions locked inside me, but I feared I might break at any moment. I could not eat or sleep. I could do nothing other than sit by my son's bedside praying for the swelling in his arm to recede and for his fever to break.
After five long days, his temperature subsided, but his arm remained swollen, nearly blue.
Heinz grinned. “I am glad you are here. You can help me. I must return home, to Judith, to my family. I have been gone from them for too long.”
“Hush, my love, it is too soon for you to travel. You must rest,” I urged.
“It is a journey I must make.” He paused, opening and closing his lips several times on the verge of asking a question.
I waited.
Finally, he posed his question. “You must tell me the truth. Am I to die?”
Dear God, I did not wish to respond, to be the one to bring such anguish.
He grasped my hand. “It is true. All I see in your face is a profound sadness. When is it to be?”
I shook my head, unable to utter what I knew. “We must all die.”
“When?” His voice became demanding.
“Only God knows the answer.” I adjusted his bed linens. “Each time we meet; I fear it will be the last.”
His eyes closed in anguish. “So I am to die.”
“You are my beloved son. You must do penance for your sins so you might receive God’s forgiveness.”
“You have always spoken the truth, given me excellent advice. I regret the times I failed to heed your wisdom.”
I gripped his hand and searched his face. A lump hard as a stone jammed in my throat. “You are too weak to return home.”
For several moments, he looked to the open window and over the fields in the distance. “I will leave in the morning, but it will be in the back of a wagon this time, and not on the back of a horse. I’m far too weak to ride.”
I fought to keep from weeping, from falling to my knees and voicing my grief. A million thoughts tumbled in my mind, words I should speak to him, the love I felt for him, guilt because I loved him more than I loved anyone else.
Heinz broke the silence between us in a voice steady and calm. “I will never see you again.”
I lacked the ability to acknowledge it.
“You have been a good mother.”
I placed my hands on his cheeks and kissed his forehead. “You are a devoted son whom I have treasured immensely.”
“There is much I would say to you.”
“Words are not necessary. We both know what is in our hearts.” I sat on the bed beside him. He rested his head on my lap. With a touc
h so gentle, I ran my fingers through his hair, caressing him, loving him, searing his memory into my soul.
“Tell Otto I am sorry, for the past, for all he had to endure because of my actions.”
“He forgave you years, ago, my love, and you have more than proved your loyalty to him. He loves and respects you.”
He nodded. A tear fell onto the pillow beneath his head.
I wiped it away with a sweep of my fingers, fighting back sobs.
He opened his eyes. “I have kept you far too long, Mother. Please, do not worry for me. Return home to Quedlinburg and say a prayer at Father’s tomb for me. I will send news when I arrive in Regensburg.”
Weeping, we embraced and kissed, neither of us wishing to let go until Heinz let his arms fall back onto the bed. I backed out of the room, my tears streaming like a fountain, blurring my last sight of him.
November 1
I WAS IN my bedchamber reading my Psalter when Sister Ricburg entered. “There is a messenger from Pöhlde Abbey.”
I set the book on my lap and gripped my chair. I feared what he would announce. I fought to compose myself. “Bring him to me, so that I might learn how my son’s illness is progressing.” I struggled to keep my voice from trembling and my hands steady. It was a blatant denial of my son’s death, but for the moment, it gave me a sense of strength and control.
Numbed by the quiet, I waited, trapped in my sadness, lost in whirl of memories—Heinz’s birth, the first time he babbled in infancy, how as a toddler he vanquished invisible enemies with his tiny wooden sword, the first time he set off for battle. The occasional snap or crackle of the fire in the brazier broke the silence.
Sister Ricburg re-entered with a lanky monk who wore a fur-lined robe over a brown cassock belted at the waist. The man, handsome of face and of middle age, bowed before me. “Domina, I bring news of Duke Heinz.” He seemed hesitant, fearful.
The Prophetic Queen (Women's Biographical Historical Fiction): The Tumultuous Life of Matilde of Ringelheim Page 50
