The Girl Empress (The Chronicle of Maud Book 1)

by Amy Mantravadi

  “Any separation from Your Grace is always a sad cross to bear,” the archbishop concurred. “We thank you for the gift. It shall bring great joy to our flock.” There was a short pause, and then Bruno continued. “Emperor, I wonder if I might approach more closely, for I have one or two private words which I wish to share.”

  “You may.”

  The archbishop then climbed the steps to our position and knelt beside Emperor Henry, placing a hand upon the arm of his throne.

  “My lord, you know that for some time I have desired to be more in your counsel, as it was in the old days,” Bruno said in a low voice. “Before now, that would have been rather an impossibility, as there was another person closer to Your Grace . . . if you take my meaning.”

  “I do take your meaning, and I am well aware of your desires, but it was you who first distanced yourself from us, and not the other way around.”

  “Only because I was provoked by that traitor who now sits imprisoned!” Bruno replied. Although he still whispered, his tone was quite marked. “I regret that it has taken so long for you to see in him what I have known all along, but such things are all in the past, and now that this impediment to my presence has been removed, surely there would be no reason not to restore me to my former place.”

  “Do you think me blind, then?”

  “No, my lord! I merely state that he has abused us all in a most vicious manner, and I am sorry to see it.”

  “Well, I too am sorry, Archbishop. I am sorry that, despite your reputation for wisdom, you have reduced yourself to begging before me, and on such an occasion as this. I would have thought you more discreet.”

  “Sire,” Bruno continued, attempting to restore calm to the situation, “I never sought to cause you distress. I would be perfectly content to discuss this on another occasion.”

  “Yes, let us do that,” the emperor said, motioning with his hand as if to shoo the older man away.

  Sensing the need for a hasty but honorable retreat, Bruno offered his thanks for the gift one more time and quickly presented his own offering before taking his leave.

  “Who is next?” the emperor asked.

  “His Excellency the Count of Nordheim!” the herald proclaimed.

  “Excellent he is not,” the emperor muttered to himself even as the count stepped forward.

  I could not believe my eyes. Although the man was undoubtedly noble, he appeared before us in a simple tunic and barefoot. I turned to Adelaide, who was standing just behind, and asked, “Who is this man, and why is he dressed like that?”

  “’Tis the former Duke of Saxony, come to beg for the return of his title.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  Now within a few paces of the dais, Lothair of Supplinburg, for such was his Christian name, sank to his knees and with both hands ripped open the upper portion of his garment, revealing a hair shirt underneath. The skin around it was raw, with traces of blood. The count then began to plead.

  “My emperor, I come before you as a humble penitent, ready to confess my grievous sins against Your Grace and to beg forgiveness for the same.”

  I looked to my husband and could see that he appeared calm, but I doubted not that his spirit was inflamed.

  “The pardon of a king is not lightly granted,” the emperor replied. “We find the charges against you to be great indeed.” He then looked at the officials standing nearby and asked, “Friends, tell me, if you were to sit in the seat of judgment, as I do even now, would you countenance such behavior from a man of noble birth, one who has offended both God and his anointed ruler through unnatural rebellion, who has stirred up the passions of our subjects against us and plotted with men of our holy Church to bring death to our person?”

  He looked from face to face, but not a one was brave enough to reply. The man at the center of discussion continued to cower in his low position, hoping perhaps that if he stayed in such a state long enough, the rain of verbal blows would pass over him. Finally, the emperor descended from the dais and stood directly before the count.

  “Stand up!” he commanded with a firm clap of his hands, and the count obeyed. “Tell me, Count, do you read Scripture?”

  “I do, sire.”

  “Are you familiar with Saint Paul’s letter to the Romans?”

  “As familiar as most, though I am no scholar,” he replied.

  “Bishop Otto,” the emperor called, “perhaps you could enlighten the count on what Saint Paul says regarding the establishment of government.”

  The bishop took a moment to remember, then quoted, “‘Let every soul be subject unto the higher powers: for there is no power but of God, and the powers that be are ordained of God. Whoever therefore resists the power, resists the ordinance of God: and they that resist shall receive to themselves condemnation.’”

  “Apt words, think you not, Count?” the emperor asked. “Do you acknowledge before this assembly that you have rebelled against your rightful prince, ordained by God, and are thus bound to be damned for all eternity, except the Lord have mercy on your soul?”

  “My emperor,” the count answered, “there is no reply which I can offer unto you which might excuse my actions. Whether they were the product of some foolishness of youth or the undue influence of lesser persons, I cannot say. There is naught which I can do but declare in the words of Job, ‘I abhor myself and repent in dust and ashes.’” He then knelt again at the emperor’s feet. “I beg of you, by the grace of the Virgin Mary, take pity on this pour soul!”

  For a long time, both men were silent, and I could not see which way things would turn. At length my husband smiled and said, “Arise, Duke Lothair of Saxony. I have heard your petition and grant you pardon. More to the point, the man who took your place is a fool. Nevertheless, if you prove false, do not presume to receive mercy from our hand a second time.”

  “I cannot thank Your Highness enough! You shall never have a more faithful subject!” Lothair declared, then departed to another part of the hall to celebrate his escape from imperial wrath.

  Emperor Henry continued to follow the man with his eyes even as the herald declared, “Rabbi Ezra ben David, of the school of Rashi, representative of the Jewry of Worms.”

  The feasting went on well into the night. Such was the wealth of food and drink, of couples joined in dance, of jesters and musicians filling us with mirth, that I would never again see its equal. It was also on that night that Drogo joined me once again; he had remained in the emperor’s service during my espousal. With my own household expanding, he was to become my closest guardian and remain by my side at all times. This encouraged me as much as anything that night.

  As luck would have it, Drogo also brought me the latest news from England: Prince David of Scotland had wed Mathilda, Countess of Huntingdon, just as I had assumed he would. What was more, she was due to give birth to their first child any day. Even my frail powers of logic discerned that this was far too short a time for a woman to carry to term, but for once I decided to forgo moralizing and simply delight in the promise of new life.

  When the feast ended and the revelers either lay down for the night or departed for home, my new husband took me by the hand and led me toward our adjoining chambers within the palace. He had bid all others remain behind and grant us this time of privacy, despite their protestations that only in their witnessing the act might any rumors be put to rest. In the weeks leading up to the wedding, I had mostly succeeded in putting any thoughts of this moment out of my mind. I sensed, perhaps by instinct, that there was nothing I could do in preparation and nothing to be gained by fretting. The thing must simply be gotten through. However, as we took those final steps toward the threshold, my beating heart betrayed me. The emperor pushed open the door to my bedchamber and led me inside. I could see that all had been made ready; one of the ladies had even set out a change of clothes. He let go of my hand and shut the door.

  “Do you require any assistance removing your garments?”

  I still am not sure how I
found the confidence to speak, but I let out a rather meek “No.”

  “Very well then,” he said.

  He strode toward me and took one of my hands, at which point I impulsively recoiled, my own will to persevere now faltering at the moment of truth.

  “There is no need to worry,” he told me. “I know what the world requires of us, but we have plenty of time to bring forth heirs. We are both young, you more so than me.”

  He leaned down and kissed my brow, then let go of my hand. My mind began to accept what had just taken place. I was to be reprieved after all, and I felt that I ought to offer him something in return.

  “I shall do everything in my power to be a good wife to you,” I said. “You have shown me kindness in all my time here, and I am most obliged to you.”

  He did not respond, but moved toward the side portal that led to his own chamber, turned one last time to bid me good night, and then disappeared. Having achieved my solitude, I braced myself with a hand to the bedpost and let out a flood of tears—for once, tears of relief rather than despair. I had made it through possibly the most important day of my life. I had finished the race. All was well.

  When I had mustered my strength, I changed into my nightclothes—what a strange joy to dress one’s self!—and fell directly into bed, content to drift off into blissful sleep, my new life awaiting me with the morning sun.

  XII

  “For what can there either be, or be committed, more disgraceful or more unrighteous in human affairs, than to refuse to show fear to God or affection to one’s own countrymen, and without detriment to one’s faith to refuse due honor to those of higher dignity, to cast off all regard to reason, human and divine, and, in contempt of heaven and earth, to be guided by one’s own sensual inventions?”

  Such were the words of Gildas as told to me by Master Godfrey of Bayeux. Much as I might have desired to forget them, those lines seemed to return to me in moments both timely and untimely, a final warning from some long-ceased conflict intended to mock my living ears. No stable kingdom, removed by long years from any substantial threat to its borders, can properly understand the continual fear of rebellion. Indeed, I did not know this fear then, but I have been forced to learn of it by many years of toil.

  Tyranny is a great evil, to be sure, but what of its opposite? What happens when a ruler can no longer maintain power, when it drains from him as water through a sieve, only to be seized by men of inferior rank and ideas? Could such an evil be greater even than the first? One may argue that rebellion is rather a necessary evil when a ruler comes to power in an unlawful manner, or when his conduct so offends as to draw the wrath of God down upon him. As to the truth of this, you, my daughter, must come to some conclusion. I can tell you only the things that I have seen and done.

  There was little joy in the year following my marriage. The Duke of Saxony’s penance proved only momentary. His public humiliation at the marriage feast surely did little to help the situation. In a matter of months, Duke Lothair returned to his plotting, drawing many others in with him. His growing roll of supporters included many who had somehow felt the imperial slight. Duke Henry of Lower Lorraine had long since been deposed from that position in favor of Godfrey of Louvain, but he would not consent to this lessening of his dignity. Although he was not a man of Saxony, the rebellion there became the perfect means to show his discontent.

  Then there was Count Wiprecht of Groitzsch, an early supporter of the rebel Lothair’s cause. He was taken prisoner in 1113 and transported to Trifels Castle—the same that housed Archbishop Adalbert—where he was condemned for his treacherous behavior. The count was spared from execution only when he agreed to forfeit all his lands to the crown. Even this was not enough to gain his release, and he continued to languish in Trifels. Meanwhile his son, Wiprecht II, vowed to avenge his father.

  Count Ludwig of Thuringia was a sometime adversary of the emperor. His support for the rebellion was both open and secret by turns. From his high fortress, the Wartburg, he reigned over the center of the Kingdom of Germany, his influence much sought out by all his neighbors. The count had experienced his own imprisonment long before Henry V ever ruled as emperor. He was said to have stabbed Count Palatine Frederick III. They held Count Ludwig in Giebichenstein Castle far to the east, nestled upon the banks of the River Saale. When he was threatened with death, the count carried out the deed for which he was ever after remembered, leaping from a window and plummeting into the river below. From the time of his escape, he was known as “Ludwig the Springer.”

  Perhaps the greatest surprise among the Duke of Saxony’s allies was Otto, Count of Ballenstedt, the very man who for almost a year had held Lothair’s dukedom, until he too fell out with Emperor Henry. Such was the disdain of these two Saxon nobles for their rightful overlord that they set aside their own quarrel to join forces against him.

  These were the circumstances in which my husband found himself at midyear. In addition he had interpreted the riddle of the archbishop of Cologne’s painting all too easily. Even as the prophet Nathan had accused King David of heinous sin, Archbishop Frederick now stood with his finger pointed directly at the emperor, becoming bolder in his opposition with each passing day. While Saxony had been a boiling pool of dissent even in the time of my husband’s father and grandfather, the city of Cologne marked the entrance to the Rhineland and a region that Henry V could ill afford to lose.

  The city of Mainz was likewise restless over the imprisonment of its own archbishop, Adalbert, whose brother bishops throughout the empire were quickly adopting his cause. Even Bruno of Trier began to counsel the emperor that Archbishop Adalbert was at least as dangerous in prison as he was outside it. With his enemies moving to encircle him, my husband determined that it was necessary to attack. His first step was to move his court north to the Kaiserpfalz Goslar, a fortress built up by the emperor’s grandfather, Henry III, who had waged his own struggle to establish his authority over the Saxons. Set on the northern edge of the Harz mountains, it was not only well-nigh impregnable, but it also placed the imperial forces in a good position to strike out against any uprising.

  The road to Goslar was not an easy one. There was no convenient water route that could carry us from the middle Rhine all the way northeast, so we were forced to travel overland through the region of Hesse. We followed a sequence of valleys through the hills, making do with such dwellings as we could acquire. There were none along that path as luxurious as those that lay within the centers of Salian power, but my companions pledged to me time and again that the comforts of our final destination would make amends for any hardships along the way. Fortunately, the weather remained very pleasant throughout the course of our march.

  Skirting around the western edge of the mountains, we finally came to a plain that continued as far as the eye could see. My chaplain, Altmann, was traveling beside me.

  “Are we well into Saxony now?” I asked him.

  “Yes, we have been traveling in that duchy for the past two days. Beyond us, to the north, are the lands of the House of Billung, which stretch even to the sea.”

  “Shall we be safe here, Altmann?”

  “Oh, never fear, my queen! As you can see, we travel along with all of the imperial household knights, and the emperor has already sent troops ahead to meet us at Goslar. Even more shall join them in the coming months, maybe several thousand men in total. Moreover, there is no more able commander than he who carries the imperial banner, Count Hoyer of Mansfeld.”

  “What, will the emperor not join his men in battle?”

  “No, that would not be prudent,” Altmann explained. “The peril would be far too great.”

  “But surely his men will want to see their leader, to know that he stands with them.”

  “I beg your pardon, my lady, but I am sure the men are quite ably led. They have no need of further inspiration. The emperor may be chief in their thoughts, but their commanders in the field know them each by name. It is to those leaders that they
shall look if and when the time comes.”

  “Forgive me, sir, but I disagree. The kings of England have always gone to war. Not to do so would be considered a sign of cowardice. My own father would never dream of such a thing.”

  “Do you call your husband a coward then?”

  I had evidently overstepped the bounds, and aimed to retract. “Well, I am not so familiar with the customs of this land as I am with those of England. Perhaps such a thing is more common here, yet I seem to remember that the emperor and his father both accompanied their troops in the past.”

  “You are correct,” Altmann admitted, “but you forget that Emperor Henry has no direct heir. There is no son ready to take his place, as was the case with his own father. Were your husband to be struck down even now, still in the prime of his youth, it would be the end of his line, and another would be raised up. Surely, as his consort, you could not desire that?”

  “No, of course not,” I answered quickly. I recognized that I must have seemed rash in my earlier comments, and sought to make amends. “Altmann, I am but a young woman who knows little of the ways of war. If I have erred, forgive me.”

  “My lady, you need not beg my forgiveness,” he replied, “for you are as high above me as the stars are above the earth. However, I would hate to think that you should doubt your husband, for he is worthy of your respect.”

  “I respect him,” I said in a quiet voice. Whether he had intended to do so or not, the chaplain had, in the midst of his flattery, accused me of forgetting my proper place. It would not be prudent for me to press the matter still further.

  In the space of an hour, we came within sight of the town of Goslar. The palace sat at the foot of the mountains, where the ground begins to gently incline. The town was directly below it, slightly to the north. Under normal circumstances, the Duke of Saxony might have received us, but that was clearly outside the realm of possibility.

  Now, this is how the palace grounds are arranged: The main gate lies to the north, and it was well defended, for any invading army would of necessity come from that direction and not over the mountains. In this manner the builders ensured that the fortress’s residents would always possess the high ground. There was a large, open site in the center in which many tents were placed. On one end of this field stood the Kaiserhaus, which was then undergoing a period of construction that would bring more living quarters and a new chapel dedicated to Saint Ulrich. The Liebfrauenkirche—that is, the Church of the Beloved Lady—adjoined this structure on the north side. Across from the Kaiserhaus was the collegiate church of Saints Simon and Jude, along with supporting structures for stabling the animals, preparing food, and housing the armory, among other uses.