“Yes, do tell us,” Gertrude uttered, her face betraying a lack of patience.
“Emperor Henry requests your presence at supper, which is to be held in three hours’ time, after which we will all proceed to the cathedral for the night’s festivities.”
“Festivities?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
“The emperor has arranged for some of the men of Freising to travel here to Bamberg and delight us with a performance of the Officium stellae, that is, Order of the Star.”
“Oh, is it about the Magi?”
“Yes, my lady. They have been performing it in Freising for many years, and now they will provide us with a recitation that is sure to bring joy to the listener. Does it not fill you with delight?”
“Oh, we are filled to the brim!” Gertrude answered in a tone that belied her words.
The messenger overlooked her comment. “Remember, supper in three hours, and then on to the cathedral!”
“I will be there!” I replied. The idea of attending such a performance excited me, even if it was not to Gertrude’s liking.
My dear mother had summoned companies from near and far to perform at Westminster, and though my grasp of Latin was rather dismal at such a young age, I was able to guess the meaning of much of what I saw based on the players’ actions. Given my improved understanding of Latin, I reasoned that I would now understand any such performance. We gathered in the hall for supper, a truly merry affair. Boughs of fir and holly hung from the trusses, such that the room had all the appearance of an enchanted forest. Had there been any lack of good cheer, it would soon have been banished by the wealth of beer consumed by the revelers. I attempted to drink a small cup, but found it was not to my liking, so I accepted wine instead.
It was at this supper that I met Otto, bishop of Bamberg, for he sat very near me. Although he held a title below that of an archbishop, his influence was just as great, for the bishopric of Bamberg was accountable directly to Rome, unlike most of the empire. Bishop Otto was thus very powerful.
I was seated directly to the right of the emperor, while the bishop had the position of honor to his left. Also in attendance were Bruno of Trier and David, the imperial chancellor, the emperor’s nephews, and Duke Welf II of Bavaria. The emperor talked for most of the meal with the bishop and the duke, and, having little to add of any value, I simply listened.
“Tell me, Welf, how is your wife?” the emperor inquired.
I knew this to be at least half mockery, for the duke had lived apart from his spouse, Countess Mathilda of Tuscany, for far longer than I myself had been alive. It was said that their dispute had sprung from the revelation that the contessa intended to bequeath her inheritance to the papacy rather than the House of Welf. Fortunately, the duke was game for the emperor’s teasing.
“It is hard to say, Your Grace. If you happen to see her in your travels, do pass on a good word for me, and let me know how she does.”
“Yes, for you would not suffer the trial of visiting her,” the emperor replied, laughing heartily.
“My wife and I have a strange but truly beneficial understanding,” the duke protested. “I do as I please, she does as she pleases, and only under the harshest of extremes must something be done between us.”
“You might have done for the life of a monastic,” Bishop Otto said. “It seems you share in their suffering already.”
This prompted another furor of laughter from the emperor, which drowned out the duke’s protestation of, “I do not suffer so much as you suppose!”
“Peace, man! It was kindly meant. Go to the lady Wulfhilde and get something to quench your desire,” the emperor replied, gesturing in the direction of a rather buxom woman who was dispensing drinks.
With a scowl the duke moved on to another table, leaving the other two men to speak freely. I think that they had forgotten my presence beside them.
“Would that all men of the House of Welf were of the monastic type, for then I would have fewer of them to contend with!” the emperor muttered. “Even so, they have done us a good turn lately.”
“Sire,” the bishop answered, changing the subject of conversation completely, “you might be interested to know I have received a new letter from my old acquaintance, Anselm of Laon.”
“How go his affairs?” the emperor responded with a notable lack of excitement.
“Quite well, for the most part, though he reports some trouble with one of his pupils who, in spite of his undoubted talent, possesses a rather irksome demeanor. Always he seeks to challenge the established order and shows no respect for his teacher. As it so happens, he was sent away from the school of Paris for this very reason, and now Anselm fears it may be necessary to repeat that judgment.”
“What is the fellow’s name?”
“Pierre Abélard, Your Grace.”
“I have never heard of him. He cannot be of any great import. I have now in my household one Norbert from the town of Xanten, a bright young man by all accounts. I am sure he could easily thrash this Paul in any matter of debate, and with more respect for his elders, I daresay.”
“Pierre.”
“What?”
“His name is Pierre, Your Highness, not Paul.”
“What of it? Why do you trouble me with such things? I have an empire to command. Come, bishop, let us lead the procession to the cathedral!” the emperor said, striking the older man on the back and rising from his chair. He then turned in my direction and added, “You as well, Lady Mathilda. Everyone, up!”
We walked the short distance to the cathedral. The other ladies and I made use of our warmest robes, but in an apparent demonstration of fortitude, the men determined that such external apparel was needless. At the very least, the emperor decided not to put on any further garments, and the rest of the men followed suit. The noon sunshine had brought warmth to Bamberg, but in the dark of evening our breath was visible, illumined by the torches. Though I looked forward to our night’s festivity, I was sad to leave the warm fire of the hall; I knew that the church would provide no such comfort.
The cathedral seemed an odd place for such a private performance, but it had been determined that there were no proper rooms in the imperial quarters, and in any case the men of Freising were accustomed to performing under such conditions. As I followed the others through the nave and toward the eastern end, I could see that a scaffold had been erected on each side of the transept. Before the high altar was a simple feed trough, such as a farmer might use. Chairs were brought out for the most important guests, while all others stood behind. Not having to stand on such occasions was one of the privileges of high rank that I eagerly embraced. We waited as everyone took their places, and then the play began with a small but eager choir singing the opening lines.
Let the King mount and sit upon the throne.
Let him listen to opinion.
From himself he takes counsel.
Let an edict go forth
That those who detract from this sovereignty
Shall perish instantly!
“I like this play already,” declared Emperor Henry to roars of laughter from the audience.
We watched as the shepherds encountered the angel who would point them to the Christ child, and then the three eagerly awaited Magi made their appearance, walking down toward those of us who were seated as they recited their lines.
Tell us, citizens of Jerusalem,
Where is the one awaited by the nations,
The newly born King of the Jews,
He whom, revealed by heavenly signs,
We are coming to adore?
“In yonder manger!” was the reply of more than one of the “citizens of Jerusalem.”
It was then time for King Herod to enter the story, welcomed by the usual mockery. I could not remember the listeners responding in such a manner in England, but I surmised that the rules must be different in the empire, or at least at the court of Henry V. They laughed as they watched King Herod give orders to his poor mess
enger in an overly pompous fashion. Finally the Magi entered Herod’s throne room.
“Hail, Prince of the Jews!” the three men cried out.
“What is the cause of your journey? Who are you, and where do you come from? Speak!” Herod replied, drawing yet more delight from the audience.
“A King is the cause of our journey; we are kings from Arabian lands, making our way here,” the men answered.
“There are a great many kings in this play; too many, I think,” the emperor muttered to those sitting nearby.
The remainder of the plot, I suppose, is well known to you, Daughter: how the Magi came upon the resting place of the Christ child, the angel appeared and warned them not to return by way of King Herod’s palace, and the evil king then ordered the destruction of the youth of Bethlehem, repeating even the work of Pharaoh. But as with Jochebed’s son, our Lord was saved from Herod’s snare. Thus the performance ended with the choir proclaiming triumph for the babe.
This day has given us what the mind could not have hoped:
It’s truly brought a thousand joys in answer to our prayers,
Restored this kingdom to its King, and peace too to the world,
To us it’s brought wealth, beauty, singing, feasting, dancing.
It’s good for him to reign and hold the kingdom’s scepter:
He loves the name of King, for he adorns that name with virtues.
When all was completed, the audience broke into great cheering. As we rose to depart, Bishop Otto of Bamberg approached me.
“My lady Mathilda, how did you find the performance?”
“I liked it very much,” I replied in all honesty. “My mother used to tell that story to my brother and me for the feast of Epiphany. Thus it is most dear to me.”
“On this feast of the Epiphany, you and the emperor will be wed!” he told me, though I was already well aware. “Please know that I speak for all of my brethren when I say that we look forward to serving our empress as faithfully as we have her husband.”
“Thank you,” I replied, uncertain how else to respond, and not wanting to raise doubts as to the truth of his claim. After all, Bruno had made me well aware of the struggle between the emperor and his bishops. If there could be such enmity between lords, then I had no reason to suppose it might not be transferred to myself.
“Did you notice the resting place of Pope Clement when you came in?” Bishop Otto asked.
“No, I didn’t know that one of the popes was buried here.”
“Clement II, or Suidger von Morsleben as he was called at birth, was a native of this very town and a predecessor of mine in the episcopal seat. It was his dearest wish to be laid to rest in this cathedral, which was like a second home to him.”
Having arrested my attention, the bishop forbade me to leave until he had not only shown me Clement’s tomb, but also pointed out a number of elements of the cathedral’s design. Most of these features were obscured by darkness, but that did not suppress his desire to describe them. He told me of the great repair works, which had become necessary after a fire some three decades earlier. His passion for such things was clear, though I gathered that his greatest desire was to return to Pomerania so that he might continue his work among the pagan peoples of that region. Feeling that the night had gone on far too long, I declared my admiration for his work and then begged leave due to weariness.
As I walked back to the manor with my ladies, we noticed that snow had begun to fall from the night sky.
“Finally, snow for Advent!” Adelaide said in delight. “How many years have passed since that was the way of things?”
“Not enough,” was Gertrude’s reply.
Once in my travels, I happened by a small village church where a wedding was taking place. There was no pomp, no glorious procession, and no great degree of solemnity. The bride and bridegroom simply entered the church, took their vows before God and man, and then returned to their abode. The bride’s dress was quite plain, for she was a mere peasant girl, and rather than a glistening diadem, her head was crowned with flowers that had quite clearly been plucked from a nearby meadow. Such a ceremony held little in common with my own, yet there was a kind of quiet dignity in it—the ease, the good humor, the warmth of familiarity.
On the morning of my wedding, I may well have wished for such simplicity, for the weight of duty hung upon me like a yoke, or a rein forcing me this way and that. To my great dismay and that of all the ladies, my face took on a rough complexion in the days leading up to Epiphany. When Adelaide first saw the red dots covering my chin, she feared that I was suffering from some strange affliction, but the wiser Gertrude discerned that these blemishes were no different from those that affect many young ladies. Whatever the cause, it presented another challenge to my attendants, and they ordered me to wash my face with rose water five times a day.
Our nuptials would provide the grandest imperial court in living memory. All of the archbishops were to attend, save for Meister Adalbert, who remained locked inside Trifels Castle, and the archbishop of Salzburg, who was unable to make the long journey. The dukes and lesser lords would be there as well, including Lothair of Supplinburg, who would ask Emperor Henry to restore him as Duke of Saxony. Given his insurrection and treacherous plotting with the archbishop of Mainz, even the most casual observer saw that Lothair must make a fantastic effort in order to recover his place in the emperor’s good graces. And then there was the Duke of Swabia, whose fresh peace with his uncle had yet to produce the same degree of affection they’d had earlier.
I could brook no complaint as to my apparel, for it was as fine as any bride could wish for: a gown the color of red wine and an outer robe of gold with precious jewels. There were bright stones on my fingers, upon my wrists, tied around my waist, hanging from my ears, and sitting within the royal crown upon my head. Best of all was a brooch of gold and garnet that the emperor had sent ahead to me as a wedding gift. No bride could have been adorned better.
The wedding itself was much like our espousal ceremony. The words of the Mass were almost the same, though they took on an increased significance. The Cathedral of Worms is the smallest of the three Kaiserdome, and it appeared even smaller that day on account of the number of officials in attendance. After we had spoken our sacred vows, the bishop of Worms declared us to be lawfully wed, and the whole city rejoiced.
We then moved to the hall built for this particular occasion within the palace outside the city walls, for there was no dwelling in Worms that could hold such a large number of guests. I had wondered why this city was chosen over one such as Aachen, site of a grand imperial palace, but it was explained to me that the emperor’s famous ancestor and founder of the Salian house, Conrad, Duke of Lorraine, was buried within the cathedral—a clear point in its favor. Sadly, the new hall did not remain long in its place, for it was destroyed in the uprising of the following decade.
Two thrones stood on a dais at the far end of the hall, and there my husband and I sat to receive our many guests from both near and far. The Duke of Bohemia acted as chief cupbearer, a duty to which I assume he was not accustomed, for in his own house he was surely waited upon by an entire legion of servants. Such was the occasion, however, and those nobles pressed into service performed their duties with all propriety. Among the first to appear before us were the five archbishops in attendance. To each one, the emperor made a gift of a statue carved by the craftsmen within his household, one each of the four evangelists and a fifth of the Madonna and child.
“I suppose the archbishop of Mainz will be sad to hear that he did not receive one of these,” I thought, “though I reckon it is the least of his worries at the present.”
Each of the men was called forward in turn. First was the archbishop of Cologne, Frederick, who had overseen my own coronation.
“God save Your Royal Highnesses, and may I offer my blessings upon your marriage!” he said. “We are most indebted for your kind gift and shall use it to adorn our cathedral.”
He then called forward two servants, who displayed an image painted upon a wood panel. “To one who gives so freely, much must be given in return. Here is an image composed by one of the citizens of our great city.”
“Let me see it,” the emperor commanded, and the two men brought it closer for him to examine.
The image showed a king sitting upon a throne and another man standing just to the side, with a finger pointed in the direction of the king. I looked at my husband, who frowned in apparent confusion as to the meaning of the picture.
“What is this, Frederick?” he asked.
“Your Excellency looks upon the image of King David, the most glorious ruler of Israel,” the archbishop answered.
“And who is this other man, the one in plain clothes?”
“That is the prophet Nathan.”
Emperor Henry stopped looking at the picture and cast his gaze instead upon the archbishop. There was a sudden strain between them, the origin of which I could not determine. After a long pause, the emperor spoke.
“I wonder, Archbishop, that out of all the deeds performed by this great king, you should choose to dignify this one. It seems a curious choice.”
“I think that as Your Highness meditates upon the meaning of the image, you shall find that all becomes clear,” Frederick answered. “I hope that it is to your liking.”
“Yes, yes,” the emperor replied, and then said to his chancellor, “Place it with the other gifts.”
“Certainly, Your Grace,” Chancellor David answered.
The archbishop of Cologne then returned to the revelry at the other end of the hall, but I could tell by my husband’s countenance that he was vexed. We proceeded through the line of archbishops until we arrived at the archbishop of Trier.
“Bruno, my friend!” the emperor greeted him. “It has been too long!”
The Girl Empress (The Chronicle of Maud Book 1) Page 23
