The Girl Empress (The Chronicle of Maud Book 1)

by Amy Mantravadi

  “Rest well, Father,” he said. “May your soul find its way to heaven.” He paused, then added something that I could not make out, but the tone was pleading, almost as if he were asking for help . . . or perhaps forgiveness. There before the great men of the land, the emperor bowed his crowned head until it touched the wood coffin, his eyes closed, his hands planted palms down upon the lid, his lips forming words we could not hear. It was a time I would always remember, when all ceremony and custom seemed to stop, all history was set aside, and at last it was just a man and his father sharing one final moment together.

  At the beginning, many doubted that the young Henry possessed the same sense of purpose as his father. They scoffed at the idea that he might follow in his father’s footsteps. But what I saw at Speyer that day seemed to overthrow such talk, for I witnessed a deep connection that still remained, and took it as proof that he intended to carry on his father’s work rather than reverse it.

  The remainder of the Mass completed and the coffin safely placed in its vault, we left the cathedral and walked back toward the bishop’s palace. As luck would have it, I walked next to the emperor’s sister, with whom I had been unable to converse the one time our paths had crossed.

  “Dear Mathilda, my heart rejoices to finally become acquainted with you!” she said. “Bruno assures me that you are excelling in all your studies.”

  “Thank you, Lady Agnes, I hope that is the case,” I replied. “I do try my hardest to please everyone.”

  “You will be marvelous!” she concluded, smiling in my direction. “I only wish that we could be in each other’s company more often, but as you know my husband dwells far away in the Eastern March, and to him I must go.”

  Seemingly out of nowhere, a young girl ran toward the emperor crying out in delight, her golden hair flowing in the wind. Her minder trailed just behind, calling for the child to come away. However, the girl would not be stopped, and she arrived at her destination, wrapping her arms around the emperor’s legs. Rather than turning her away, he bent down and brought her into an embrace, lifting her off the ground and kissing her on the cheek.

  “Apologies, my lord, she broke away from my grasp, so pleased was she to see you,” explained the woman who had been in pursuit.

  “No apology is necessary,” he said, “but I must be away for now. I will see you later today,” he told the girl, giving her a final kiss and returning her to the attendant.

  As we entered the palace and I was led back to my chamber, my mind turned over what I had just seen: First, this was the same young girl whom I had seen with the emperor in Utrecht the year before, though at the time I’d thought little of it. Second, she had referred to the emperor as Vater.

  XI

  “Who was that girl?” I asked as soon as the door to my bedchamber was safely closed. “The one who was with the emperor—who is she?”

  Only Adelaide and Gertrude had entered with me, and both of them halted their work, looking first at each other and then at me. Without speaking a word, they evidently decided that Gertrude should answer, for she stepped toward me even as Adelaide continued sorting my garments.

  “Whatever do you mean?” she answered. “There were many people in the streets today.”

  I was incensed. “Do you take me for a fool? I may be young, but I have eyes enough to see and ears enough to hear, even as you do. How many of the emperor’s subjects call him Father as this girl did?”

  “Why, all of his subjects naturally look to him as their father!” Gertrude began, but she was interrupted by Adelaide.

  “You might as well explain, for she will find out in time.”

  “My dear Adelaide,” Gertrude replied in a rather mocking tone, “since you are so eager to advise, perhaps I should let you handle this.”

  Gertrude then walked toward the window and lifted the pot from the floor. “Excuse me, my lady, but this needs emptying,” she explained, leaving the room with a flourish. As it had been emptied earlier in the day, I assumed that this was a mere ploy. I turned my glance toward Adelaide and kept it there until she began to speak.

  “The child you saw is named Bertha. She is a ward of the emperor.”

  “She is the emperor’s child,” I countered.

  “Yes, it is as you say, but I assure you, there is no reason to fear.”

  “No reason to fear!” I could not believe my ears. “How can you say such a thing? Who is this child’s mother? Will I soon see her at court?”

  “I should think not. She died giving birth.”

  I had not foreseen this answer, and was thus rendered mute. Adelaide seized the opportunity to clarify the situation further.

  “I understand why you are troubled at this revelation, but the child is merely the product of a fleeting dalliance on the emperor’s part. Since the death of the child’s mother, who was a woman of little consequence and ignoble birth, he could not simply leave Bertha without some means of support. He assigned her to Mistress Hildegard’s care, and she is most often in Utrecht, though I suspect the emperor wished her to attend her natural grandfather’s burial. He seldom sees her, choosing most often to send her gifts and, on occasion, a letter. Believe me when I say there is no reason to fear. The child is a bastard. She could never compete with any of your own royal offspring.”

  “That is not my concern,” I replied, sitting down upon the bed. “What I must know is whether or not I can trust my future husband.”

  “Oh, that you can, most assuredly!” Adelaide said. “He is a grown man now and many things have changed. I suspect that kingship has placed within him a new zeal for righteousness.”

  “Most kings tend in the opposite direction,” I thought, but I did not speak the words aloud. I sensed that there was nothing further to be gained from our conversation. Still, I had one more question. As Adelaide returned to work I called after her. “Adelaide!”

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “The child Bertha—how old is she?”

  She paused for a moment to consider. “I cannot be certain, but I suppose she would have to be very near in age to yourself, or maybe a bit younger.”

  I nodded my head in acknowledgement and the conversation came to an end. For a long time, even after Adelaide departed, I remained seated in that position, my mind deep in thought. Perhaps there was truth in what Adelaide had said. Maybe it was best to forget the whole incident and continue as if nothing had changed. Young I may have been, but even I sensed that I could not easily adopt such a policy.

  Some may consider the revelation of my betrothed’s child to be a subject worthy of concern, and so I also did at first, but I soon forgot it. Even as the emperor basked in the glory of his Italian conquest, forces were already in motion that would shake the foundations of the kingdom that he and his predecessors had built. I remember one particular storm that passed through early that year. No longer dismayed at the sound of thunder, I peeked out of one of the monastery windows to see the sky alight with flame, great streaks rending the heavens from north to south, east to west. As I watched, one such bolt landed very near the town gate. The sound of it was as nothing I had ever heard before: first silence, then the sense of an earthquake and a noise like the trumpet of God. The power of Thor was on display, or so the Germans of old might have concluded, and it seemed to be a harbinger of divine judgment.

  Within a few days of this incident, word came from the French city of Vienne that a great synod of bishops had been held, naturally led by Guy, bishop of Vienne. He was one of those men who know all too well every inch of their own significance, and he had long been an adversary of the Salians—that is, the imperial household. Of all the men in Christendom, none had felt the alleged slight of the pope’s agreement with the emperor more deeply than those in the Kingdoms of Burgundy and France, and they were determined to set matters right.

  They declared Emperor Henry to be an enemy of Christ—“a second Judas” in the words of some—and pronounced the sentence of anathema against him. This seemed
to confirm those earlier fears, when Bruno had bemoaned the possibility that my husband might become excommunicate in the same manner as his father. Still, despite the bishop of Vienne’s boldness, the pope acquitted Emperor Henry of any guilt regarding his actions in Tuscany, and pledged not to pass a sentence of excommunication.

  Thus the meeting to which we all looked forward was the one at the Lateran in late March, when the pope himself led an assembly of bishops, most of whom were Italian. The sons of Gregory in attendance carried influence of equal weight. Without the presence of the German king and his army, there was little pressure brought to bear that could equal that being applied by the Gregorians. They succeeded in revoking the agreement, thus reversing the promises made to the emperor. In this one thing did the pope stand firm and refuse to relent: he would not excommunicate Henry V, believing that his word was his bond. In this, at least, Pope Paschal was able to surmount the obstacles laid before him and establish his rule.

  They say that the leopard cannot change its spots, but it is my experience that when men become bishops, they may undergo a profound change in character, either to their benefit or to their doom. Such was the case with Adalbert von Saarbrücken, who had lately been made archbishop of Mainz. Ever had he been in the emperor’s counsel in former years, his words heeded more closely than those of any other, even Bruno of Trier. The emperor rewarded him with an archbishopric that befitted a true prince of the Church, but the harvest that he would reap from this action was a bitter one indeed. No sooner had Adalbert taken up his seat then he and the emperor were caught in a dispute as fierce as that which my own father had maintained with Father Anselm. The cause was that old devil Mammon, who ever seeks to put at odds those who ought to rightfully move in harmony with one another.

  Within the Wasgen Forest lies the fortress of Trifels, which once belonged to a relative of the old archbishop of Mainz, Siegfried I. The man’s name was Diemar, and upon his death Trifels Castle passed into the hands of the imperial dynasty. Emperor Henry V was eager to make improvements to the fortress, which was perfectly set upon the crest of the hill called Sonnenberg. It lay within the Rhine Valley, which was the main center of support for the Salians. The emperor had great designs to transform Trifels into a Reichsburg, or imperial castle, but he was forced to contend with Archbishop Adalbert, who claimed that the castle was his by right on account of his spiritual descent from the former Archbishop Siegfried, who as I mentioned was a relative of the onetime owner.

  If this causes you confusion, my daughter, it is perhaps understandable, for claims of inheritance are often a source of much vexation, particularly when they take place between an emperor and an archbishop. That friendship that had survived so many hardships became fractured as questions of estate divided them further. The emperor was furious that this man whom he had raised up should defy him in such a manner, while Adalbert claimed that his position required of him a renewed devotion to the will of God and the sanctity of Church affairs, which were inviolable even by princes. Within months the situation regressed to such a point that the emperor ordered the archbishop be seized and imprisoned within the very castle at the heart of their dispute, Trifels. This angered the archbishop’s allies, and most of all those in restive Saxony, who cried out against what they believed to be a breach of justice. The usual methods of judgment had been set aside, they said, in favor of outright tyranny.

  All around me the world was thrown into chaos. Those men, Henry and Adalbert, were as two great titans who in their fighting cause the very earth to shake. The reverberations of this battle were felt far and wide.

  “What shall become of us, Bruno?” I asked one day. “The emperor seems caught between enemies on all sides.”

  “What always happens under such circumstances,” he replied. “The parties will be driven on until one or both of them finds that to continue is more costly than whatever they are hoping to gain.”

  “And what is it they are hoping to gain?”

  “Primacy.”

  I let out a sigh, for I found Bruno’s view of life a bit too bleak for my taste.

  “In truth, you are asking the wrong question,” he said, reclaiming my attention.

  “Oh? What is the right question, then?”

  “In such moments of weakness, a prince may become overly consumed with the danger directly before his eyes. But the world does not wait for us to rise from our falls before dropping the hammer once again. The question we ought to ask is, whence does the next blow come?”

  “Well, from whence does the next blow come?”

  His features transformed into a grim smile.

  “Saxony! It always comes from Saxony.”

  “You are awfully harsh on that duchy, sir. One might almost think they had breathed some slander against your mother.”

  This at least drew a laugh from the archbishop. “Harsh or not, it hardly matters. I am no longer in the emperor’s counsel. Forgive me for saying so, but I believe he is in danger of becoming a toy of lesser men.”

  “I hope you are wrong,” I replied, and with that we returned to the lesson at hand.

  The crisis did not abate with the beginning of a new year. Bruno’s prophecy that the next blow would come from Saxony was entirely correct, for the emperor was forced to remove Lothair of Supplinburg as duke of that realm and instead appoint Otto, the Count of Ballenstedt. The dukedom had been thrown into question a few years earlier with the death of the last male of the ruling House of Billung. This Lothair had been able to gain control of many of the Billung lands, making himself the natural choice to succeed as Duke of Saxony. However, he quickly became the fiercest of all the emperor’s enemies, siding with the thankless archbishop of Mainz. He even led his troops into battle against the imperial army. In light of this challenge to his own authority, Emperor Henry decided to impose his will on the dukedom and elevate the Count of Ballenstedt in place of Lothair. With so many fires springing up throughout the empire, one feared that the emperor might lack sufficient means to smother them all. Even the emperor’s nephew, the Duke of Swabia, found cause for dispute.

  It was at this moment of extreme stress that I received a letter from my mother, Queen Mathilda. It seemed that the Earl of Northampton and Huntingdon, Simon de Senlis, whose hospitality I had enjoyed not three years earlier, had contracted the bloody flux while abroad in France. His death had left his wife, Mathilda, in control of his substantial estates throughout the north of England. This news excited my interest, for I knew that my uncle, Prince David, had been involved in a secret affair with the lady the last time I saw them, at least according to brother Robert. As my mother made no mention of this connection in her letter, I assumed that either she was ignorant of her brother’s conduct, or she was choosing not to acknowledge it. For my part, I suspected that the earl’s death was not an occasion of mourning for either the prince or the lady, who would now be free to woo in the open, assuming that they still desired each other.

  Another year came and went. By that time I was well into my eleventh year. Relations between the emperor and the pope had not improved, nor had he restored his friendship with Archbishop Adalbert, who continued to defy the emperor from his lofty prison. Every so often, word came to us that another person had offered himself as ransom, demanding the archbishop’s release. All such offers were met with swift action on the part of the imperial guards, and none achieved their desired end. In Saxony discontent continued to brew, though by God’s mercy it did not spill over into violence.

  None of this was of particular import in comparison with that which was to take place shortly after the Advent season: namely, my marriage to the emperor. Our espousal had lasted almost four years, during which time I had dedicated myself to study in preparation for my future life as empress. I would be just shy of my twelfth birthday when our hands were bound in matrimony. At such an age, only the children of kings marry, and most particularly the daughters, for I never heard tell of peasants giving away their daughters at such an earl
y age. Nevertheless, I felt that my extensive preparations would stand me in good stead.

  In due course I received a message from the emperor summoning me to join him in Bamberg for the feast of the Nativity, after which point we would progress to the west for our marriage in the city of Worms. This journey brought me farther east than I had yet traveled during my time in the empire. We departed Trier and moved along the Moselle until reaching the Rhine, at which point we turned south and sailed through that charming valley that leads to Mainz. There we changed course again, setting east upon the River Main. By the time we arrived at our destination, I felt I had never been so happy to set foot on land, having spent most of the past week within the confines of a boat.

  We were blessed with a warm Advent season that year, and there was no sign of snow anywhere in the town. The emperor was already busy when we arrived, so the ladies set to work unpacking my possessions and arranging them throughout the manor house built for the emperor in the city center. As we were in the midst of this, there was a knock at the door, and a steward by the name of Arnulf entered the room.

  “Hail Mathilda, queen of the Romans!” he proclaimed. “I am here to inform you of Emperor Henry’s will regarding the evening festivities, but first allow me to welcome you to the great city of Bamberg and to eastern Franconia. I understand this is your first visit?”

  “Yes, that is true. Until now I have spent most of my days in Trier, which is quite far to the west, as I am sure you are aware.”

  “Your Royal Highness is correct. The empire is massive. I myself have only ever set eyes on a small portion of it. If you ever have the opportunity, I would heartily recommend that you travel south of here to the Duchy of Bavaria, for that is my home. In the city of Salzburg I was born . . . But I have forgotten the purpose of my visit!”