The Girl Empress (The Chronicle of Maud Book 1)

by Amy Mantravadi

  “I am quite fine, thank you, though I wish to return to my room.”

  “Of course, I will take you at once.”

  “And my cousin is hiding behind the chair.”

  I know it is wrong to reveal another’s secret, but I was now so repulsed by my cousin’s behavior that I overcame any scruples that might have prevented my revelation. Young Mathilda responded by cursing in my direction, “Faux ami! I am better than you!” and then running off.

  The maiden who had been speaking to me let out a sigh and took my hand to lead me back to my chamber. As we left, I could still smell the smoke coming from the countess’s direction. She remained surrounded by three or four ladies, while the rest sought her daughter. Once we were alone, I asked, “I do not wish to be rude, but is this how things generally take place in the countess’s household?”

  The lady did not immediately reply. I could tell she was afraid to denounce her mistress. She waited until we reached a quiet corner, turned to glance in each direction, and then whispered to me in confidence.

  “Usually it is not so bad, but things have become worse lately,” she replied. “Mathilda is the countess’s only child, and the doctors say that there shall never be another. As a result, she tends to dote on her, and I think this explains some of the . . . behavior.” She quickly added, “Of course, you understand that this is not for outside ears.”

  “But I have never seen a noble daughter act in such a manner!” I protested. In all honesty, I was a bit beyond my bounds asking such questions, but my curiosity was raised to such an extent that I could not remain silent. “Does the countess never seek to impart discipline?”

  The woman straightened her back and spoke more directly. “Now it is you who must understand something: The countess’s daughter is a very strong-willed child. I do not believe that her mother is able to counter such emotion. There are few who can. All of us in her household do our best, but we are not in a position to improve matters to a large degree, for our powers are few and the count is occupied with more urgent affairs.

  “I will also say this,” she continued, relaxing her manner a bit. “The countess is not a bad woman, but she has faced many hardships in her years. Lately her health has declined, and she is unable to keep her daughter in check as she might have in the past. It is not normal for such a state of affairs to prevail, but I believe that my mistress suffers from a sense of helplessness at present. When she is well again, I am sure all will be set right.”

  Within a few steps, we reached the guest room in which I was to spend the night, and I thanked the woman for her assistance, apologizing if I had been too direct. After a final warning not to repeat anything I had heard, she returned to the audience room, where I can only imagine that chaos was still the order of the day.

  There is a further side to this story. It was many years later that I was able to piece together the full truth. Princess Mary of Scotland was both the daughter and the sister of a queen, yet she was only able to attain the level of countess through her marriage. This was always a source of private ire for my aunt, who was determined that her own daughter should not suffer the same fate. Over the years, I believe the countess came to despise her older sister, who had received the greater honor and the lion’s share of suitors. It is possible that Mary herself was in love with one of them, but I am merely guessing. My arrival in Boulogne perhaps brought forth this hostility that had lain dormant for years, for I was the daughter of Queen Mathilda and set to be raised even higher through matrimony with the emperor. I must conclude that this jealousy was the cause of some of the strange behavior that day, though there are parts of it I shall never fully understand. The countess succumbed to her illnesses a few years later. What became of her daughter, Mathilda of Boulogne, is a story for a later date, but I can at least assure you that she outgrew her wild state.

  The next morning, we recommenced our travels through Flanders, pressing east toward the empire, where my betrothed awaited the arrival of his young bride. I little knew what was to come, but I hoped that the only fires ahead would be figurative.

  VIII

  Speed was of the essence now, for only a few days remained before the scheduled meeting in Liège. We moved quickly to Thérouanne and then followed the River Lys until we arrived at Lille. This took less than two days. However, on the morning we were to set out from Lille, there was so much rain that the roads turned into something resembling a bog. We had intended to make it as far as Tourneau before stopping for the night—a short day’s work before a long push on to Mons. Fate, it seemed, had other designs for us. As twilight neared, we were only halfway to our destination. The wheels of both carts and carriages were all but useless under these conditions. Even the riders were forced to descend from their horses and lead them by hand through the mud.

  Finally we decided that we must abandon most of the articles for the present and allow those who could to press ahead toward our goal. I stepped from the carriage, and the ladies fetched a cloak for me to wear. I doubt that the person who’d crafted it dreamed that it would end up covered in mud. The archdeacon, Henry, lifted me onto his steed, and we proceeded in that manner for the next few hours. Darkness set in and the torches became our only light, for the moon was hidden behind thick clouds.

  Our company had begun as a merry bunch, but the rain seemed to lower the spirits of all, leading to a silence that could last for an hour with no sound but the fall of water, the footsteps in the slop, and the horses’ heavy breathing. At first I attempted to sit in the womanly manner that I had been taught, but it proved difficult to maintain proper balance. After about a mile, the archdeacon said that I must place one leg on each side and remain as close to him as possible. He brought his arms around me and used both hands to tug the reins this way and that, harnessing all his strength to direct the animal along the devilish path.

  I shall never forget the bitter cold of that ride, the constant pounding of the rain against my body. I did not understand how men could ride in such a way, for my legs screamed in protest against the way they were spread, and each step increased my discomfort. It was with great joy that we finally arrived at the city of Tourneau—not a moment too soon, for had I remained in that state any longer I think I should have been unable to walk for the following week.

  Once I was received, I was given a most welcome bowl of stew. So weary was my body as I sat at the table that I struggled to keep my eyes open. Yet my hunger surpassed my weariness. Thus, in silence, I consumed every drop, only half noting the conversation taking place in the adjoining room.

  “We cannot continue in this manner overland,” I heard Roger de Clare say. “Even after this rain ceases, the roads will be well-nigh impassible for some time, and we are already forced to travel without the princess’s dowry. Our only hope is to move along the river.”

  “It will be difficult to ferry such a company,” the archdeacon countered. “Perhaps we should send a messenger ahead and warn the emperor that we are delayed.”

  “And suffer the shame of a late arrival?”

  “We have no other option. I am sure that Burchard will convey our apologies to his master.”

  “No, the river is our best hope. As you say, it will be difficult to find enough boats, but difficult is not impossible. We must make a good first impression.”

  “Perhaps you misunderstand me,” the archdeacon said, his voice lowered in tone but more intense. “The difficulty is not only a matter of physical movement, but also one of coin. The lords of England are already paying dearly for this endeavor. What clamor might commence when we are forced to rent half a fleet?”

  “Better that than our other choices.”

  I couldn’t hear the conclusion of the matter, but I surmised that Sir Roger must have carried the argument, for I awoke to find that several of the traders of Tourneau had been relieved of their boats for an ample fee, and we were to set out upon the River Scheldt. A light rain still fell upon us, but our progress was substantially improved o
ver the day before, and we arrived in Mons on schedule. A short walk the following day brought us to Charleroi, where Archdeacon Henry procured even more vessels to carry us along the River Meuse. From that point on, the journey was a smooth one. Indeed, it was almost pleasant. We were once again united with all our possessions in Namur. The emperor’s clerk, Burchard, was especially glad to receive the tools of his trade, which he had been forced to abandon in the deluge. I had achieved a kind of friendship with him along the way, made possible by his knowledge of the Norman tongue. He was eager that I should be ready for my entry into imperial court life, and I was no less desirous to satisfy the demands placed upon me.

  I had begged him from the start to teach me something of the German speech, for I was well aware that my Latin was not up to the task of a full conversation. He created a game between us, in which he would tell me a new word each time I was able to correctly tell him another. As we sailed along the river from Namur to Huy, he began such a dialogue.

  “Lady Mathilda, good morning to you!”

  “Guten Morgen!” I replied.

  “Excellent! Now, which word do you wish to know?”

  “‘Ship,’ sir.”

  “Why, surely you mean Schiff?”

  “Ah, Schiff. ‘Ship.’ Schiff. ‘Ship.’”

  I had a habit of repeating the words back and forth to aid my memory. I suppose it must have seemed comical to the others on board, but it was effective.

  “Very good!” said Burchard. “Now, if you are so clever, then tell me, what color is the sky?”

  “Es ist wolkig.”

  “I did not ask about the weather, but about the color.”

  “Yes, but sir, today the color is cloudy!”

  “Grau, then. But what color is it normally?”

  “Blau.”

  “Yes. And what color is the lovely raiment you are wearing today?”

  “Grün. That is two questions! Now you must tell me two words.”

  “Certainly, I shall do my best.”

  “How do you say ‘the king’?”

  “Der König, and ‘the queen’ is die Königin. There, that is actually four.”

  “Is that what I will be, then? Die Königin?”

  “Yes, you will be our queen: queen of the Romans and queen of the Kingdom of Germany. But you will also be more than that. You will be die Kaiserin.”

  I did not reply this time, but paused to consider. The words carried such great import that it seemed the weight would crush me, so small was I in comparison. How could I be their queen, much less their empress? I was barely able to speak the language, much less understand the people I was meant to rule. Of course, the emperor was the true sovereign, but I would have to carry out business on his behalf. Surely this was too much for me . . . surely.

  “You need not fear us. We will welcome you with our whole hearts,” Burchard said, as if he understood my thoughts. “No one is born a great ruler, but time makes of us what it will. You will not be thrown into the whirlwind. You shall be trained in every way possible. I am certain you will do well.”

  “Thank you, Burchard. I think I have grown a little tired of the game for the present. Perhaps we can start again another time?”

  “As you wish. I stand ready for your command.”

  He walked back toward the captain and inquired as to the time of our arrival in Huy. It could not be long now. I glanced toward the passing field, which would have been a lush meadow in springtime, but presently remained a mixture of Grau and Braun. It seemed familiar, and yet I knew it to be desperately foreign.

  “I am off the edge of the map, and there is naught to guide me but the hand of God,” I whispered.

  Silently, I pulled out the satchel that held the beloved stone of amber. I ran over it with my fingers, turning the object this way and that. I saw myself in the moth, trapped within its stony cage.

  “I will make good. I must make good.”

  I continued to speak the words to myself, gaining what strength I could from each syllable. Then the old song came to my mind, the one my mother sang to me. I called it out now in my hour of need.

  Now we must honor the guardian of heaven

  The might of the architect, and his purpose

  The work of the father of glory

  As he, the eternal Lord, established the beginning of wonders

  He first created for the children of men

  Heaven as a roof, the holy Creator

  Then the guardian of mankind, the eternal Lord

  Afterward appointed the middle earth, the lands for men

  The Lord Almighty

  As we moved closer to Liège, I could see a great forest and distant hills as far as the eye could see.

  “Is that the Alps?” I asked Burchard. “I have heard so much about them.”

  I was a bit dismayed that he laughed in response. “The Alps? Hardly! No, that is the forest of Ardennes,” Burchard told me. “If you were to walk in that direction long enough you would arrive in Trier, but I think only a bird should choose such a path, though the hills are minute in comparison with the Alps. The trees are very dense and do not allow fast movement.”

  “So the Alps are taller than those hills?” To my young mind, this was hard to believe. In the place where I was raised, the tallest object in any region was usually the local church tower.

  “Far taller!” Burchard answered. “The tallest mountains on earth, with no equal in beauty. Trees cannot grow upon their heights, so cold is the air. They are continually coated in snow.”

  “Even in the summer?”

  “Yes, even in the summer. Do not worry; you will see them before long, and a most wondrous sight they are to behold.”

  Suddenly, there was a sound of harsher hoof-beats. Burchard was riding directly by my carriage and we were conversing through the small window. Now I saw Archdeacon Henry upon his horse, galloping back toward our position. They slowed as they reached us.

  “My lady,” the archdeacon shouted, “we have just sighted the city of Liège and the emperor’s messengers coming to meet us.”

  To tell the truth, I would rather have continued on our journey for another few days, conversing with Burchard or Drogo and delaying the inevitable. However, I was not to be granted the reprieve I desired, for the end of all our efforts stood directly before me, and there was naught that I could do but say, “Thank you, Archdeacon. Could you call for the ladies to come join me and aid in the preparations?”

  “Most certainly,” he replied and ran off to carry out my instruction.

  “May I take my leave of you as well, Your Grace? I should go ahead to speak with the imperial heralds and discuss the entrance into the city,” said Burchard.

  “Of course, you must go. Farewell.”

  “And may the grace of God be with Your Highness,” he replied, leaving me alone to await the two ladies.

  The convoy had now come to a complete stop. I leaned out the window so that I might view the city. Liège is most famous for its many scholars, who come from the ends of the Christian world to study under the canons of the seven collegiate churches. Here, along the banks of the River Meuse, were shaped many of the greatest minds of our time. The chief of these churches is Saint Pierre, which lies in the center of the town, directly next to the church of Notre-Dame-aux-Fonts and the bishop’s palace.

  I could see the city wall stretching with the bend of the river. I did not find these fortifications as imposing as the ones in London, which I had gazed at so often from my window at the Palace of Westminster. Nevertheless the town was formidable, with its many spires, both within and without the walls, rising toward the heavens. The reddish stones gave off a more favorable light than the dark-gray ones I had seen elsewhere.

  The ladies soon appeared and attended to me. My gown for this day was made of yellow silk and richly embroidered with the finest thread. They placed bands of garnet and gold on my tiny fingers and wrists, and set a great chain of pearls around my neck. My white veil was cro
wned with a golden crown in the shape of laurel leaves.

  “You are a vision of loveliness, my dear!” they claimed.

  For my part, I was not swayed. My future husband was a grown man, and it seemed impossible that he could see much to impress him in a young girl. Nevertheless, impress them all I must, for my whole future depended upon it. Entering through the south gate, we made our way down the narrow city streets. I was astounded to see the number of people who had turned out for the occasion. They pressed in so close that the carriage could barely move forward. All of them were reaching out their hands, and a few succeeded in getting through the window and actually touching me. They were shouting words that I could not understand, and I found the experience most distressing. I moved farther away from the window, only to be grasped by those on the other side. There was nothing left but to smile, which I did with as much feigned joy as possible.

  As we entered a wider lane the imperial knights, whose ceremonial armor shone brightly in the afternoon sunshine, pushed back the crowds and prevented them from rushing forward.

  “We must be getting close,” I concluded.

  No sooner had this thought passed through my mind than the carriage came to a halt and I saw before me the great episcopal palace. Eminent officials filled the front porticus and descending steps: knights and nobles, monks and bishops, attendants and women of higher rank arrayed in what was surely their best attire. Standing at the front, with a great crown upon his head, was the man I knew must be the emperor himself, Kaiser Henry. With the veil covering much of my face and a great distance still separating us, I could not make out his features clearly, but he appeared to be taller than most, with brown hair and a small beard. His blue robes were even more richly decorated than my own, and his jewels were just as fine.