The Girl Empress (The Chronicle of Maud Book 1)

by Amy Mantravadi

  I continued in that manner for approximately an hour, until larger buildings appeared on the riverbanks and we quickly moved into the center of Utrecht, the principal city in that region. It is famous for its kerkenkruis, five churches built to form a cross over the heart of the city. At the very center was the great Dom, or cathedral, of Saint Martin. The collegiate churches of Saint John, Saint Peter, Saint Paul, and Saint Maria formed the remainder of the cross. The Rhine flowed through the city center, with canals branching off to the right and left. The local residents used the waterways to transport goods, and also to prevent the flooding of their beloved town.

  Our own destination was the Lofen Palace, residence of the emperors, which stood just north of the cathedral on the right bank of the Rhine and next to the manor of the bishop of Utrecht, Burchard. We dropped anchor directly at the imperial palace and made our way through a magnificent cloister and into the yard. As I walked, Lady Gertrude saw to the train of my dress, while my other attendants strode just behind us. The yard now teemed with Norman knights conversing with those of the emperor, grooms seeing the horses to their stables, servants of all kinds carrying objects from the river into the palace, noble ladies waiting to be attended, hunting dogs chasing one of the kitchen cats, the chief butler looking over some silver goblets, and Emperor Henry in the center of it all conversing with Meister Adalbert. It was a great deal for me to take in, and before I could complete my observations, Lady Adelaide ushered me inside.

  As we moved toward the doors, I noticed a young girl, no more than five or six years old, holding the hand of one of the ladies of the house. The two of them walked up to the emperor, and upon becoming aware of their presence, he bent down and kissed the girl on the cheek, then stood to pat her on the head before walking off to some other business. I could not help but wonder at the significance of this small gesture and why the emperor would pay such special attention to a young girl. “Perhaps she is one of his nieces,” I thought, making a note to inquire later about her name.

  The weeks of Lent were almost complete. The next day would be Maundy Thursday, and soon after that the feast of Easter, at which point we could celebrate the grand espousal without austerity. As it was for Christ, Easter would be for me both an end and a beginning.

  What must I say about the day of my espousal? Perhaps I should begin with the preceding night, for my dream upon that eve was of such a nature that I remember it to this day. I was transported not to that spiritual realm which is the privy abode of the saints, but rather to a place very familiar, and yet not. I was in England again, somewhere within the halls of my childhood home at Westminster. Still, it was not altogether the same, for the moment I opened one of the doors, the room transformed. Gone were the usual furnishings, the well-trod floors, and the worn gray stones. In their place were other objects, brought, it seemed, from places far beyond England’s shores: vessels from the temple of Solomon, dark-skinned men from the lands to the south, strange flowers and fruits of every kind, and a simia with one child in its arms and another on its back.

  “What are all these things, Mother?” I inquired.

  No sooner had I spoken the words than she appeared before me. She was not alone either, for I also saw my father and brother William, Prince David of the Scots, Lady Beatrice, and, most strangely of all, Father Anselm, who seemed to have been raised to life again by divine power.

  “I do not understand. How are you alive?” I asked him.

  I received no answer. Indeed, there was no word from any of them, and the living presence of this man long dead seemed to have no effect. I was thinking about how utterly strange it all was, when suddenly I heard the words, “Mathilda, es ist Zeit, aufzuwachen!”

  My eyes opened to a very different sight: a bedchamber at Lofen Palace in the city of Utrecht, with Lady Adelaide looking down on me and several other ladies entering the room and busying themselves with the morning’s affairs. I tried shutting my eyes and opening them again, hoping that this was all another dream, but life was stubborn and forbade me to make it all disappear. Moreover, my mind knew this to be the place where I had last been awake.

  “Es ist Zeit, aufzuwachen!” Adelaide repeated.

  “Es ist nicht die Zeit,” I muttered in reply.

  “Was?”

  “Es ist Zeit zu schlafen,” I said with greater determination, rolling over and turning my back to her.

  Rather than allowing me to sleep a bit longer, this incited passionate rhetoric from all the ladies in the room, who exhorted me in no uncertain terms about Verlobung, a foreign term that I determined must refer to the espousal set for that very morning. I understood no more than half of their words, but that was enough to prove that resistance was pointless. So it was that within the space of a few hours, I stood before the altar of Saint Martin’s Cathedral, my small hand clasped within that of the king of the Germans, listening to the words of Bishop Burchard of Utrecht. It seemed an overly long time to stand so, with every person of note within a hundred leagues in attendance. I prayed that the emperor would not notice the sweat forming upon my palms, the blush upon my cheeks, or the dust that had made its way onto the hem of my gown in my short walk to the church.

  We spoke the words that I had set to memory over the past week, pledging ourselves to each other. The approving smile of the bishop assured me that I had performed the task as was desired for a future queen. My future husband was another matter. He endured the entire ceremony with an air of solemn determination. I sensed that he was quite decided upon this course of action, but that he did not allow it to alter his soul or touch his heart, if indeed he possessed one.

  As we took our leave of the cathedral, I knew the heavenly die was cast. The laws of the Church required that I be twelve years of age before entering into matrimony, but for all intents and purposes, the deed was already done. I, Mathilda, was now joined to Henry V, emperor of the Romans. The significance of this fact, and the way in which it would alter my life, were beyond my ability to comprehend in that moment, but one thing I did know: I must become a full woman, for the world was determined to treat me as such.

  IX

  Mark my words, Daughter: there is nothing that sets men against one another more easily than that demon Mammon. At his feet the lords of this world daily prostrate themselves in worship, though they often know it not. Our final days in Utrecht saw this principle borne out time and again. Of course, the emperor had agreed to the marriage only for want of coin, which was duly transferred to him upon our espousal. What he intended to do with this newfound wealth was equally well known, for rumors of the emperor’s great expedition to Italy had spread like wildfire.

  Yet Emperor Henry would have been remiss had he not acknowledged his future bride with such gifts as befitted her new position. He bestowed raiment of the finest quality upon me, along with jewels of the imperial house, few of which were fit for a young girl of my stature. There was armor also for the knights of my household and weapons to match, magnificent fabrics for my ladies, and a dozen horses sired by the most vigorous forebears in the kingdom. Of the knights who had traveled with our party from Westminster, there were many who sought gifts from the emperor’s hand in the form of demesne or position. They were frustrated on both counts. I shall never forget the looks on their faces as the emperor and his chancellor bid them return to the land whence they had come. Yes, the lure of Mammon is powerful indeed.

  Around this time, Count Robert of Flanders came into Utrecht, he who was often called Robert of Jerusalem on account of his exploits in the East. The count was no friend of the emperor, or of King Henry of England, for the usual reasons: disputed territories, unpaid tribute, and the displeasing alliances of the other two men. His arrival could hardly have been more opportune—or less, depending on one’s opinion—for it was during the same week that the imperial council was forced to deal with a highly delicate matter: namely, the apprehension of one Gerulf, a Frisian of low origin, in the northern city of Groningen. He was brought to Utr
echt with all haste, having been charged in connection with the murder of Conrad, the former archbishop of Utrecht who had been viciously killed in his own cathedral some ten years earlier.

  It was rumored that the man who actually wielded the knife, a mason who had been dismissed from his work on the collegiate church of Notre Dame by the old archbishop, might have harbored some other motive beyond wanting vengeance for the aforesaid expulsion. Many believed the murderer was in the pocket of some noble with whom Archbishop Conrad had had a dispute, and here the mind naturally leaped to the Count of Flanders, whose forces had clashed with those of the archbishop on several occasions. However, there was no direct evidence of such a plot, and some who held the archbishop in low esteem did little to suppress whisperings that it was a crime of passion.

  In light of this, it was rather extraordinary that Count Robert should have been in town at the very time that this Gerulf was sentenced. They say that the count showed no emotion as the man was dragged to the block, the ax was raised, and the blow was dealt that severed body from spirit. If the count did have any remorse, he never displayed it. Mind you, I was not there, but I heard such things from others. I do not possess that peculiar fondness for public execution held by so many.

  Having concluded all necessary business with the Count of Flanders, the emperor made known his intent to set out upon the Rhine in three days’ time. With nothing further impeding his venture to the Holy See, he was impatient to begin his southern descent. By poor chance, my health had begun to decline. Day and night, I experienced a constriction of breath accompanied by a most irksome discharge from my nose. A physician from the abbey of Susteren in Limburg happened to be in town, and was fetched with all haste to examine me. He made an extensive study of my anatomy, muttering to himself on occasion but never conversing. He felt around my wrists, looked into my eyes, inquired of Lady Gertrude as to my diet, and made a great show of placing his nose to several objects in the room in order to detect any odd smells. Finally he instructed me to breathe deeply. When I did so, I once again broke into a coughing fit.

  “Schlecht, sehr schlecht,” was his final analysis.

  I understood enough by that point to determine that this was not a favorable conclusion. “Was? Was ist es?” I pleaded.

  Rather than answering me directly, he turned to address my ladies.

  “Sie hat eine Lungeninfektion. Es gibt zu viel Schleim, glaube ich.”

  Before I could inquire as to just what he meant by “lung infection,” the physician was directing the women to remove all flowers from the room, on account of the potentially deadly fumes they released. Such harmful smells, he contended, were one of the chief causes of infection. I did not believe the scents to be particularly malicious, but I knew I had little choice in the matter. He also instructed the ladies not to allow me to leave my bed until we were to set out from Utrecht. Finally, he had some stern words for me.

  “Sie soll kein Wasser zu trinken! Der Schleim wird dadurch noch mehr.”

  “Aber ich habe Durst!” I protested, for my throat was already parched, and I doubted that this instruction would improve matters, unless the water itself was polluted.

  He did not take kindly to this. “Ruhe! Sie müssen tun, was ich sage!”

  With that the doctor gathered his things and departed the premises, leaving me in a rather dour state.

  “I think I shall die here,” I complained in my native tongue. A few of the ladies looked at me oddly, but as they did not understand my words, there was no response. Of the mystery of the four humors I knew little, but that a lack of water would put me in ill humor I was quite certain.

  I passed the afternoon and evening miserably. As the all-knowing physician had forbade drinking water, the ladies would bring me only a small cup of milk from noon until suppertime. There was great pain in my throat, which felt as if it were actually burning. A great debate ensued around sundown as to whether or not I could consume quail eggs without worsening my condition. They finally determined that I should simply take some bread and wine. For the food I was most thankful, but the wine seemed to burn my insides, and I refused to drink more than a few sips.

  My sleep was uneasy that night. I had a fever that would not abate and woke me every hour, shaking from head to toe. I felt weak in my members and found myself beginning to fear. I wanted my mother’s consoling presence. Indeed, I would have settled for Lady Beatrice, for though I did not care for her severe methods, I never doubted her skill. I could see the looks of concern on my ladies’ faces and the uncertainty with which they undertook their tasks. For a while I succumbed to sleep, and then I was roused by the sound of Adelaide’s voice.

  “Mathilda,” she said. “Mathilda, wach!”

  Whether or not I provided a response I cannot say, but it could not have been more than a mere whisper, so weak had I become.

  Adelaide turned to Gertrude and commanded, “Holt den Erzbischof! Bruno—finden Sie ihn!”

  The morning light was just beginning to break when Archbishop Bruno of Trier arrived. He immediately pulled a chair over by the bed and began his work, questioning the ladies in German.

  “Archbishop, am I going to die?” I asked him, wishing to know the truth.

  “Certainly not!” he assured me, “but I do question your physician’s instruction.” He placed his palm on my forehead. “You are quite hot, and yet I see very little sweat. How much water have you had this night?”

  “None, my lord.”

  “What? Verdammt! That physician is worse than useless. Madame Gertrude, Wasser—jetzt!”

  “Is the water clean, sir?” I asked.

  “Yes, the well water is clean. I cannot speak for the river. Here, I brought you something.”

  The archbishop pulled out three yellow fruits that were rounded on the ends, larger than an apple and with thicker skin. I was about to ask what they were, when he told me, “These are called citrus in Latin, or turunj in the language of the Saracens. They grow in the South, around the great sea. My servant bought them from some sea merchants yesterday. A friend who spent time in Jerusalem said they are used there for medicinal purposes. Sadly, the plant cannot survive our harsh winters.”

  He called for a small knife and a bowl, and then proceeded to cut each of the fruits in half. Beneath the skin was a thick white layer, but the yellow center was filled with liquid. This part the archbishop pulled out with his fingers and bid me to consume. Its taste was unlike anything I had ever known—as strong as wine, but less sweet. I confess that I didn’t like it, but as it seemed to be the first decent remedy presented to me, I tried to digest it.

  “Eat!” Bruno said. “With luck, it will help revive you.” He accepted a cup of water from Adelaide. “Now, Mathilda, I want you to drink a full glass with each passing hour. Lady Adelaide will fetch it for you.”

  “So, then, you do not think that I have too much phlegm, Archbishop?”

  “No, this is a common disease that affects those who come into contact with other diseased persons, though beyond that it is not well understood. It should pass within the week. The trouble, of course, is that we set sail in two days, but I am sure that you will feel well enough to walk by that point, and if you are well enough to walk, then you are well enough to travel.”

  He then turned to leave, but halted to provide one last instruction: “Sie sollte aufrecht im Bett sitzen. Dadurch wird die Krankheit weggedrängt und es wird ihre Lungen frei machen.”

  Not for the last time, Archbishop Bruno was correct, and by the end of the day I had substantially recovered. I was still weary the morning we set sail down the Rhine, but I no longer struggled to breathe. As an added benefit, I had actually grown to like the citrus fruit, provided it was covered with a bit of honey.

  Having set out from Utrecht, we departed the region of Friesland and moved up the river. The spring rains had caused the river to swell past its appointed bounds, and we saw not a few newly planted fields flooded as a result. The men strained at the oars against
the water’s flow, pressing hard to arrive by sundown at the imperial palace of Nijmegen. It was known as the Valkhof, the court of the falcon, commissioned by Charles the Great himself. As the sun began to set, we could finally make out the small hill upon which sat the Kaiserpfalz—that is, the emperor’s palace. My household knight, Drogo, with whom I had scarcely been able to converse since the royal espousal, greeted me as I left the boat.

  “God save you, my lady!” he said.

  “Well met, Drogo. I am glad to see you.”

  “I heard you were ill and taken to bed, but I see you are looking well now, if a bit tired.”

  I could see the response of Lady Gertrude, who appeared to be offended by the familiar manner of our conversation, though she could not possibly have understood all the words. I decided not to address her.

  “Thank you, I am quite recovered, except for the weakness you mentioned, and I do continue to cough at regular intervals,” I replied.

  “Is there anything which I might do that would aid your relief?”

  “No, nothing at all.”

  “Very well, then. I received a letter for you sent by your royal mother, Queen Mathilda.”

  My eyes must have grown large as he retrieved the bound letter from his coat. The parchment was of the highest quality and carried the royal seal.

  “When did you receive that?” I asked, fully amazed.

  “The day before yesterday. I would have given it to you sooner, but as you remained in your chambers and I was then set upon a different boat, this has been the first opportunity.”

  “Sollte ich das, meine Dame?” Gertrude offered.

  “Nein, danke, Gertrude. I will keep it,” I said immediately, taking the letter in my own hands before she had an opportunity. It was perhaps irregular for me to respond in such a manner, but to such things the ladies would need to accustom themselves if they were to remain by my side.