I placed my hands on his cheeks, erasing years of absence. Once more, I was a mother scrutinizing her child. Hale and strong, his striking and wind-tanned face was beaming. “I thank God you have returned to me safe and in glory!”
There followed a commotion of embraces and cries of delight. Adelaide and Otto clasped their son while I clenched my daughters and grandchildren to me. Brun and Wilhelm, both waited their turns. It was a moment of unreserved happiness, of strong unity, and profound love.
We went inside, into the Great Hall where one long table had been set. My son, the emperor, honored me by insisting I take the seat at its head.
At his great age, my cousin Balderic, frail and stooped, rose and bowed his head. With a gnarled right hand, he made the sign of the cross over our royal gathering, and gave thanks for our meal. Eyes aglow with love, he addressed me. “Be glad you have been honored by God with such favors. Look at your children and their children. You are blessed, just like the Psalm that says, ‘May you see your children’s children…’ for they are your greatest legacy to the world.”
A stone of emotion clogged my throat. Although I had suffered much loss, I celebrated my good fortune in having the greater part of my loved ones gathered around me. “I am grateful to God for each and every one of you, for His many blessings. No woman could be more fortunate or more blessed.”
A flood of gratitude and good wishes followed, for me, and for each other, even from the smallest of the children.
We feasted on an endless supply of fresh venison and legumes, vegetables and nuts, fruits and cakes, lavishly displayed on silver platters. Wine made from the Rhein’s vineyards filled our cups and music from the lutes of the finest musicians filled the air. As the meal progressed, I glanced down the long table. In a fire of maternal love, I studied each precious face; searing them forever in my mind, for in the deepest part of my heart, I suspected it would be our last gathering. At sixty and nine years, each moment had become a gift for me to cherish. I felt keenly the passage of years behind me, and the few that remained.
I rose to address my loved ones. “I awake each morning thankful for the gift of having you in my life and for the love we share. God has blessed me with more than I deserve…” I paused to gather to smother the fireball of emotions that threatened to make me weep. “To give thanks, as a means of showing my gratitude to God and you, my family, I have undertaken the rebuilding of the abbey at Nordhausen.”
They listened intently as I described the undertaking, the plans, the construction, and the cost.
Otto’s expression was impartial. Why had he avoided the topic? Did he not approve of the project so dear to my heart? Whatever his philosophy, I knew I must persuade him, if only to ensure work continued should I not live long enough to see it completed.
“This monastery will be my final undertaking. I am at an age where work is more difficult, and I have already distributed much of the wealth your father granted me for benevolent work to other charities. Therefore, I entrust the completion of this task to each of you, as I undertook it for the souls of our loved ones who have passed before us.”
No one spoke as heads turned to Otto. He rose and held me in his gaze for a long moment. Then a grin arose on his lips. “Mother, may God favor what you have begun. You are at the root of our achievements. You need have no fear, for I will assume full responsibility for Nordhausen. I promise it shall always have my aid. I shall exhort my son Otto, and our descendants, now and in the future, to support the abbey for as long as we live.”
After having shed many tears of joy at our reunion, the ones now flowing from my cheeks were the most abundant.
WE REMAINED TOGETHER until the feast of the Epiphany. The days passed too quickly and soon, one by one, my loved ones departed to resume their lives. Only Otto, Adelaide, and my two grandsons, Otto and Heinrich remained.
Eager to observe the progress at Nordhausen, Otto insisted on accompanying me there. The next morning, together with Adelaide and young Otto and Heinrich, we set off. We arrived late one morning. Having sent word of our arrival, the nuns awaited us. I embraced Sister Ricburg. It pleased me to see the walls of the main abbey had been erected. Several outbuildings including a stable and granary were in the beginning stages of construction. With expressions of excitement and delight, Sister Ricburg and Abbess Hilda gave us a tour.
Room by room, corridor by corridor, we passed through the moderately constructed structure. The Cellarium’s walls had been built, but the shelving that would store bags of flour, grain, and preserves had yet to be installed. Workers had partially raised the colonnades in the cloister. At the eastern wing of the cloister, carpenters fitted ornamented seats of wood and stone against the walls. The Refectory where the sisters would gather for their meals was bright with windows. A stonemason was busy at the far end of the room laying stone for the hearth. The room was large enough to house three long dining tables.
After we inspected the Garderobe, cooking house, Lavoratorium, Calefactory, and Infirmary, all in various stages of completion, we climbed the night stairs to the upper level. In the Dormitory, each nun was to have her own cell. My biggest joy was the beautiful Scriptorium running the entire length of the abbey with large windows on the east and west to catch the rising and setting sun each day to prolong daylight.
When our tour ended, Sister Ricburg summoned the nuns. They arrived and lined both sides of the dining room while Otto and I waited at its center.
My son smiled at the women. “May the blessed mother of God, the Virgin Mary, Heavenly Queen, receive you with kindness and watch over you forever. I pray that my children and their children are encouraged by your compassion. I vow that as long as even one of my descendants live, the sisters of Nordhausen will never lack aid and comfort.”
As he spoke, I studied the women. Every face beamed with delight. A great weight lifted from my shoulders, for with his words, Otto confirmed the abbey’s future.
For seven days, we remained in Nordhausen. I celebrated each moment we spent together as we exchanged ideas, confirmed building details, or added enhancements to various rooms. I committed everything into Otto’s care; I sensed we would not meet in the flesh again.
When the day for Otto’s departure arrived, he and I met in the morning. Together, we attended Mass. I pretended to be happy, keeping my tears at bay, though sorrow weighed heavily on me. Afterward, when everyone dispersed, he and I sat on a bench at the rear of the chapel. What does a mother say to a son when she knows it will be the last time she will set eyes upon him? He was an emperor. His travels would take him to great distances, and my remaining time on this earth was limited.
I sought to offer him my final words, my final pleas. “No mother could love a son more than I love you. Your father would have been proud of you, as am I. The care of our family is in your hands. Be mindful of everything entrusted to you, especially this abbey. My memories of Nordhausen have been happy ones, for it was here where you and your brother and sisters were born, where God protected me from the dangers of childbirth. Constructing this new abbey is my way of giving thanks, of honoring the souls of our family, and, of course, your future safety. For this reason, I pray your patronage to this abbey reflects your compassion. Let your final sight of me serve as a reminder to care for our family and those who come to live within these walls.”
Otto held my hand. How frail it appeared against his strong ones. My speech must have moved him, for he hesitated before responding. “You have my word to honor all you have requested of me.”
Together we rose and left the church. Standing in front of the doors, we embraced, tears running down both our faces. After we kissed one another, many of our servants wept. I remained halted in the doorway, scrutinizing him as he walked to his horse. Unable to bear the sight of him riding away, I rushed back into the church, blind to the few people who still lingered therein, and went to the spot where Otto had stood during the Mass. Weeping, I knelt to kiss the ground then lay over the cold stones.
Then I heard quiet footsteps approach followed by the touch of a gentle hand on my back.
It was Otto. He helped me rise and held me in his arms. “Mother, do not cry, for I cannot bear it.”
We found a bench at the side of the nave and sat, our hands entwined, my head resting on his shoulder, with his arm around me. No words were necessary. Our nearness to each other, our touch allowed our love to flow each unto the other. Neither of us wished to break our last contact, but I could no longer delay him.
“What good is it for us to tarry here? Although we are unwilling, we must part. Seeing you, being with you, does not diminish my pain. It makes it worse. Go in Christ’s peace; I doubt you shall see me again, but my love for you will endure. I believe I have said all there is to say; remember me and this place always.”
I kissed him one final time, savoring the aroma of leather and horse, searing the vision of his face into my mind. I walked back outdoors with him and scrutinized his every movement until he mounted his horse and rode out of sight.
I LINGERED IN the warm water of my bath. The fragrant rosemary and lavender was pleasing to my senses. How tired I was this day, more than usual. I lifted my hands from the water. Once they had been smooth and strong; now wrinkles and brown spots stained them. The bones in my body protruded. My clothes seemed larger than usual as if I had grown smaller. I ran my hands over my breasts, no longer round and full as they had been in my youth. I winced at the tenderness I experienced at the touch of the stone-like mass I had discovered several months ago on my right breast. The lump was always present now, growing larger with each day that passed. Like a leech, it had attached itself to my skin, and no matter how often I tried to shift it, the mass refused to yield.
I had seen such a swelling before and I knew what it meant. The protuberance would continue to grow, and might leak its lethal fluid. Death, my death, would be imminent.
Chapter Forty-Three
A.D. 965
May 5
ABOVE ME APPEARS the entrance to a forlorn forest. Desolate trees with leafless gnarled trunks sit motionless beneath a windless grey sky. I am compelled to enter. There is something I must glimpse, something I must know. A waist-high mud wall flanks the path, the sole entrance into the beckoning woods. With bare feet, I tread over dead leaves, nettles, and pebbles, suffering with each step.
As I reach the first of the trees, an old, disheveled man sits on a tarnished throne. He is a gatekeeper. I approach and greet him, then drift past. The trees have become larger, more congested, obscuring a darkening sky.
In a clearing ahead, a weeping man kneels on the moss-covered ground, clutching the limp body of a woman. Beside her is another body covered from head to toe with a death shroud. I am not close enough to see their faces. The man’s tears stop. He lays the woman down, kisses her lips, and arranges her garment. An inner voice tells me she is dead. The man then makes the sign of the cross, and lies between the shrouded body and the woman, his arms folded across his chest, his face tilted toward Heaven. He will die. I am helpless to save him, my legs paralyzed, until his breathing stops. I turn back and return to the gatekeeper.
“Who are they?” I ask.
“I do not know,” he shrugs. “It was their time to die.”
Profound loss engulfs me. “We cannot leave the poor souls like this. You must put them away and bury them, for it is too disturbing,”
He says nothing, staring at me with a blank expression. From my shoulders, I remove my scarlet mantle to cover the corpses, but death shrouds already cover them. The ground beneath us shakes. A vast hole opens beneath the three bodies. They disappear into the crevice’s depths. The earth trembles as the hole closes and the world returns to normal.
I fall to my knees, and weep.
MISERY HUNG LIKE a boulder around my neck and unbearable anguish shattered my soul as I ran weeping to chapel to pray. Three deaths! Which of my kin would God take next? At the foot of the altar, I fell to my knees and rested my face against the cold tiles, my sobs echoing between the vast arches and rafters. Madness claimed me. In a desperate frenzy, I pulled my hair, scraped my cheeks with my fingernails, beat my fists against the stone floor. “Take me, Lord! I am old. Spare my children and their children. You have already taken Heinz, Thankmar, Liudolf, and Liutgarde. Why is that not enough? Please let me die! Release me from this terrible burden!”
I gazed at the crucifix above the altar.
The face of Christ gazed down at me in mute rebuke. Agony wrenched my heart and body. I lay weeping until I heard footsteps approach. Sister Ricburg knelt beside me. With gentle hands, she helped me rise, as she had done so many times after a prophetic dream. On trembling legs, I rose and let her lead me to a nearby bench. There she held me in her consoling arms, waiting for my cries to subside.
“Of whom did you dream?” She uttered the question, her face white with dread.
At first, the words jammed in my throat, the pain in my heart too much to bear, yet I found the strength. “I do not know. I could not see their faces,” I groaned. “There were three!”
Her face sagged, for she loved my children as I did. In despair, we fell into each other’s arms.
STRICKEN, I TOOK to my rooms. Despondency, so dreadful and dark, consumed me. Each day I prayed for my own death so that I might be released from the curse of prophecy. Fever overcame me. I could not eat or drink, and was barely aware of Sister Ricburg’s continuous presence, whispering soothing words or forcing a sip of warm broth between my lips. I do not know how many days passed, but a cough in my chest developed and persisted.
Each time I heard the clatter of hoof-beats beyond my window, I gripped Sister Ricburg’s hand in terror. Each time there came a rap on my door I held my breath in dread. Yet no news of death arrived. Time passed in excruciating increments. The abbess and nuns of Nordhausen prayed daily for my strength to return to me.
Beyond my secluded rooms, life continued. Spring flowers bloomed beneath the warming sun. Trees yielded buds with the promise of fruit to come. Gentle rains made the meadows and valleys glisten as they turned emerald in color. In contrast, I lived buried beneath a cloud of dark gloom.
My fever abated and I became a hollow shell numbly awaiting someone to herald the deaths.
One bright morning, I lingered in a bath, numb to the maidservants who prepared my clothing. By rote, I ran a cloth over my skin, my thoughts dull. It was then I felt it and remembered its presence. In disbelief, I ran my hands over and over my breast. It was still there, but had grown from a pebble-sized lump to one the size of an egg. So consumed by grief, I had forgotten about it. All this time, I had been praying for death, and now surely it would happen. I had witnessed many a nun suffer excruciating deaths from such tumors. I had time to prepare.
“What troubles you, Domina?” my maidservant asked noticing my stillness.
No one shall know of this, I vowed. I shook my head. “All is at it should be.”
ON A DAY late in May, the sky was black with thunder, lightning, and hail. A lone messenger arrived at the abbey’s gates. Sister Ricburg greeted him, for I could not in my despondency. I waited alone, unable to move, my stomach roiling with dread, my grief gathering inside me, my trembling fingers working the prayer beads.
When I heard footsteps beyond my door, I raised myself higher on the pillow. The door creaked open and Sister Ricburg stood in the doorway, tears streaming. Whom had I lost? I wanted to scream the question, but was too afraid.
She entered further into the room and came to sit on the edge of my bed. She raised my hand to her lips and kissed it, her face wrinkled in despair. “Word has come from Paris.”
I gripped her hand, dreading to hear the name spoken.
“Your grandson, Otto, Hedwiga’s son, died shortly after Easter.”
“No, it cannot be true,” I uttered, my shaking hands fumbling at a loose thread on my under-tunic. “He is far too young.”
“He was a man of twenty and the Duke of Burgundy,” Sister Ricburg
whispered, shaking her head.
A wave of grief washed through me. A chill caused my body to tremble, my hands to shake. “How did it happen?” Tears blinded my vision.
“A pestilence plaguing Burgundy struck him down.”
I released a wrenching sob as my despair spilled forth.
Sister Ricburg clutched me to her. “Matilde, there is more you must know,” she whispered into my ear.
I pulled away from her; paralyzed by the dread crushing the breath from my chest.
“When Hedwiga learned he was ill, she left Paris and went to Burgundy to care for him. She became ill herself and died on the 10th day of May.”
I threw myself onto the bed, and fell into agonizing sorrow.
June
BY THE RULING mercy of almighty God, Matilde, Dowager Queen,
To my venerable son, Archbishop Brun of Cologne,
I have learned you must travel to Paris and Burgundy to restore peace at the unrest that followed after the death of Hedwiga and young Otto. I beseech you not to go, for the pestilence still rages. Vow to me you will wait for the plague to end before embarking on such a journey.
I have dreamt of death, though I do not know who or when or how it will strike. I beseech you to keep yourself safe. Heed my pleas and remain in Cologne. To know you are safe will bring me solace. Honor my request. Respond to me with your answer at your earliest opportunity. I pray for you each day. May God protect your every breath and shelter you in his loving arms.
From Brun, Archbishop of Cologne and Duke of Lotharingia,
To my venerable mother, Matilde, Dowager Queen,
The Prophetic Queen (Women's Biographical Historical Fiction): The Tumultuous Life of Matilde of Ringelheim Page 53
