The Kaiserhaus was divided into two levels, the upper one reserved for the emperor, his family, and those who received his special favor, and the lower level remaining open to the rest of the court. One could walk from my private quarters and those of the emperor to the highest floor of the great hall, and then on to the upper floor of the Liebfrauenkirche.
“I think I shall like it here,” I said to Adelaide once we had reached my private chamber. “The climate is not too hot, and the view of the mountains is magnificent. ’Tis a pity that we should be driven here by civil unrest, for in times of peace I am sure that it would be as pleasant as any place on earth.”
“Your cheerful spirit is a welcome balm,” she replied. “I have spent half the journey listening to some of the young maids complain that they ought to be enjoying these summer days in the shade of their own roof rather than entering a region of conflict.” I was about to respond, but she quickly added, “Do not worry, my lady! I made sure to inform them of their duty to Your Highness and the high honor of accompanying you, even under such circumstances.”
There was a knock at the door, and Adelaide went toward it. Upon opening it she cried, “Emperor!” and bowed as he strode into the room. The rest of the ladies, who had all remained bent over their work, immediately stood and responded in kind. I was already upright, but made a bow of my own.
“My lord, to what do we owe the honor of your presence?” I asked.
“Be about your business,” he said, casting his glance toward a few of the ladies and then back to me. “I have no desire to interrupt. I simply wished to determine if everything was to your liking.”
“It is very much to my liking,” I replied. “Indeed, these might be some of the finest quarters in which I have resided.”
“I am glad to hear it. The steward of the house, Herman, will see to any of your needs. Do let him know if there is anything you require.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He paused as if trying to remember something, and then said, “The knight Drogo wished me to tell you that, should you desire to join him for a tour of the grounds, he will be at his leisure this evening.”
“Thank you. I am most beholden to you.”
I turned to Adelaide to request that she inform Drogo, but the emperor added, “There is no need to send word. I shall tell him myself, for I am sure to see him below.”
His words caught me by surprise, for I was not aware that the emperor was in the business of carrying messages to persons of lower rank. I presumed he would take his leave, but he stood there long enough that I felt the need to ask, “Is there something else, my lord?”
“Do you walk often, Lady Mathilda?” he asked.
“As often as I can—that is, when the situation allows. I try to take the air once a day. Is that a problem?”
“No, no! I was merely curious.” He paused for a moment and then added, “We should go for a walk sometime, you and I. You may bring a few of the ladies, of course.”
“Certainly, sir, if that is what you desire.”
“It is,” he said. He then bid me farewell and departed as suddenly as he had arrived.
The ladies and I all looked at one another, each of us considering this most odd discussion. It was Gertrude who finally spoke.
“Well, there is something I’ve never seen before! The emperor would usually send one of his underlings to convey such a message. I wonder at his true purpose.”
“Could not his true purpose have simply been to make sure I was well?” I asked.
“I suppose, but asking you to take a walk with him—that seems odd indeed. For a start, I cannot imagine when he will find the time. Second, the emperor does not go for walks. He goes off riding into the mountains—maybe to his lodge at Bodfeld, but other times elsewhere—and he has been known to take part in sports within the confines of the palace grounds. I have never seen him walk, though, except perhaps from one building to another.”
“Perhaps he feels guilty that we have been married half a year and still barely speak,” I thought, but as on so many occasions, I did not share my feelings with the ladies. Instead I said, “This is none of our concern. Please find me something to wear for supper. These travel clothes will not do. They are covered in dust.”
As the ladies undertook their new assignments, I cast my gaze out the window toward the lands of Saxony, in which I reasoned that the great lords were at that very moment conspiring against the emperor. What did I know of such a dispute? Were it not for my attachment to my husband, I might have seen merit in the rebels’ cause. After all, the emperor had not behaved in an entirely Christian manner. Yet I sensed that, in truth, their motives were no more righteous than those of their ruler, and I did not believe that much good could come of the conflict.
“From whence does the next blow come?” I asked myself. “From whence do the rebels strike?”
In the month of October, Archbishop Frederick of Cologne and a force of rebels attacked an assembly of imperial soldiers near the town of Andernach. In so doing, the archbishop made his treachery complete. He had used not only the weapons of the Church, but also the weapons of war. As had been the case during the time of the emperor’s father, he used Henry V’s feud with Rome to scorn his will. However, what likely disturbed these bishops as much as any conduct on the part of the emperor was his policy of granting more freedom to the towns, which had long been subject to the direct rule of their bishops. In championing the growing classes of burghers and ministeriales, the emperor was creating enemies within the noble elite.
The conflict at Andernach revealed the delicate nature of his position. Losing the sympathies of the people of Cologne substantially damaged his cause, but the worst was yet to come. Despite further measures taken to bolster imperial control within the towns, there was another rising in the city of Mainz. In the shadow of that same cathedral where I had been accepted as their rightful queen, the public gathered in ever-growing numbers, calling for Archbishop Adalbert to be returned to his rightful seat. The situation quickly degenerated into chaos, and several of the emperor’s men suffered injury attempting to restore stability.
It had all become too much. Even the most powerful emperor could not long countenance such a sustained assault from several quarters. He finally made the fateful decision to release the archbishop from his castle prison, having decided that keeping him locked away was more harmful than granting his freedom.
“But do not release that traitor Count Wiprecht,” I heard him yell, “for while I may rue the quill of Adalbert more than the sword of Wiprecht, I think we shall find that the count has fewer friends!”
The story would later be told that Adalbert walked out of Trifels on the verge of death. In truth, few of those who claimed to have witnessed his departure were actually on hand that morning, and certainly the archbishop’s claims of ill handling were somewhat amplified. Nevertheless, the emperor had sent a powerful message to every man who wore the bishop’s miter: to violate his command was to incur a dreadful punishment. Still, some would argue that this truce between archbishop and emperor was only the third most notable act that year.
A few days after Candlemas in the year 1115, as the last winter snow still lay upon the fields of Saxony, word came to Goslar that the duke was gathering his forces just to the south, between the eastern edge of the mountains and the River Saale. Count Hoyer of Mansfeld had led the larger share of the imperial troops farther to the north, hoping to counter any challenge from the Billungs’ lands. This left Goslar open to a westward march by the duke’s forces, and Emperor Henry immediately sent his swiftest riders to bid Count Hoyer bring his men south and cut off the route of attack.
The count was quick to carry out the emperor’s command. After gathering his full strength at Wallhausen, he marched his men twenty-five miles in less than a day, finally sighting the rebel forces near the town of Welfesholz. A few skirmishes took place that night before the men retreated to their camps. Because of the short distance betwe
en the imperial palace in Goslar and the battlefield, the messenger carried these tidings to us by sunrise the following morning. It was then the third day before the ides of February.
Oh, the dreadful hours of waiting! As morning passed into noontime, and then noontime into afternoon, I waited along with the rest to hear of the battle’s outcome. The two armies’ meeting presented a perfect opportunity to strike at the forces of Duke Lothair once and for all and project imperial power in the North, but a great deal depended on the skill of the marshals in the field. The number of troops on both sides was, by most accounts, fairly equal. Their weapons of war were much alike, as were their styles of attack.
Sensing that the outcome rested upon a knife’s edge, and knowing that the consequences of defeat were too dreadful to consider, the emperor even sent some of his own household knights the day before the battle, hoping that their skills gained through years of training would overcome the hastily formed rebel forces. So it was that the palace of Goslar remained eerily quiet on that February afternoon; even the birds seemed to await the news. As the sun began to sink low in the western sky, a rider could be seen approaching from the east. I had been attempting in vain to set my mind to the written word when I glimpsed the frenzy taking place outside, with every guard at arms scrambling onto the battlements, awaiting the appointed sign. In my excitement I rushed down to the lower level of the hall and ran out the door before any of the ladies could assail me. The chancellor was already standing in front of the Kaiserhaus, his eyes fixed upon the guards.
“What is it, Chancellor?” I asked. “What do the men see?”
“They look to see the color of the banner that the rider carries. Once he is close enough, he will display it.”
“But what do the colors signify?”
“Red for victory, black for defeat, and white if the battle yet rages,” he answered. “We are very near the moment, I think.”
“Oh dear! I hope it is red!” I said, taking little care to check my emotions. “I fear defeat would place us in serious danger.”
“Quiet!” the chancellor instructed, and then corrected himself. “I am sorry, my lady, but I must hear what the men have to say.”
I nodded in assent. In fact, I was perfectly willing to forgive his overstepping, believing it to be the product of a moment’s fear rather than a mark of contempt. All of a sudden, the guards turned back toward the palace and began waving their arms wildly.
“Black!” they cried. “The banner is black!”
Again and again, they repeated the horrible word, and I could hardly believe my ears. I looked to the chancellor and found that he was stone faced. Finally he uttered, “I cannot believe it . . . I . . . I cannot believe it. I must tell the emperor, but how can I?”
I had no words to offer him and continued standing there even as Chancellor David turned and made his way back into the hall, where it would likely fall to him to inform Emperor Henry of the defeat. My husband had until that point spent his day on several random matters, hoping to distract himself from worry. There would be no chance of that now, for all haste was necessary.
As it happened, the messenger carried more than a banner. In time we heard from him how the battle at first seemed to favor the imperial side, and the rebels endured heavy losses. It was at that point that Count Hoyer of Mansfeld found himself facing Wiprecht the Younger, the son of the long-imprisoned count. Of that meeting great tales have since been told, each more fantastic than the last. Different words have oft been attributed to one combatant or the other. A particularly common addition is that when their blades met, a shower of sparks flew into the air. Such things hardly seem possible, but perhaps in the memory of battle they ring true. Regarding one thing all tales agree: the count’s superior skill proved no match for the young man’s desperate yearning for vengeance. His blade found its mark and struck a fatal blow, and thus Hoyer of Mansfeld met his end.
Those around them were oblivious to what had taken place, so locked were they within their own struggles: swords clashing against shields, mud flying here and there, horses falling to the ground along with their masters, and hails of arrows meeting their targets. Seeking to proclaim his feat, the young Wiprecht is said to have lifted up the head of his enemy and proclaimed, “Servants of the heathen emperor! Look upon the face of your leader!” I hope to God that this is also mere fiction.
Naturally, their commander’s defeat dealt a harsh blow to all those fighting on the emperor’s behalf. Fear filled their hearts, and as the enemy struck forth with a renewed confidence, many of the imperial troops fell back. All too soon, they were in outright retreat. From there the remaining horsemen under Duke Lothair chased down the scattered remains of much of the imperial army, cutting down those they could and sending all others to flight.
The emperor did not wait to hear this full story, or to say a prayer for the fallen. Soon the enemy would be upon us, and with his main force destroyed, there was no choice but to flee Saxony with all speed. We left a small contingent behind to guard the fortress, but all those who could took horses and went in one of two directions: the main party that included the emperor, the members of his council, and the remainder of his household knights went west, while the court ladies and their guardians took a harder path through the mountains. The rebels had no quarrel with them, and in this manner it was less likely that they would be caught in a skirmish, or be seized for ransom, or fall prey to the outlaws who frequented the lower elevations. They carried with them as many goods as possible, but as the carts would not manage that rocky path, they left less important items behind to be pillaged.
There was some question as to which way I must be sent, for although I was a woman, I was also the imperial consort and thus might provide a better prize for anyone with ill intentions. With very little time to make a decision, the matter was left up to Drogo, who said he felt more comfortable riding with the emperor’s party. He loathed the whole idea of traveling into the mountains, as he feared we might come across large numbers of rebels lying in wait on the other side. As ever, I trusted his judgment.
In this too my faithful knight proved his value, for he had demanded during my stay in Goslar that I be trained in the delicate art of riding. By the time of our flight, I was able to keep my seat directly in front of him, with his arms enclosing me and gripping the reins. Whereas I had at first found it painful to ride in the manner of men, I now felt quite at ease. Having disguised myself under a dark cloak, I allowed Drogo to place me upon his stallion. Without further discussion we departed into the growing darkness.
There would be no rest for us that night. I could scarcely make out the figures around me, for we did not dare light a torch. How we found our way along that path, I don’t know. Perhaps the animals sensed it by instinct. The only sounds were pounding hooves upon the ground and heavy breathing of both horses and riders. Once or twice, I turned to look behind us and imagined that I saw lights in the distance. I dared not ask whether they be friend or foe, for what good could come of such an inquiry? What was to be would be, and that was the end of the matter. I may have drifted into sleep at some point, but at certain times the mind reaches that place where the dream is scarcely different from waking. Such a night was that one on which we fled into the darkness, praying each hour that daylight would bring with it safety.
I have yet to speak of everything else that took place that year, but first allow me to complete this story. Our nighttime flight met with good fortune: the following day, we passed into the Duchy of Franconia, and thus into relative safety. As it turned out, the rebels could not match our speed, and they did not seek to harry the party that traveled through the mountains. As for those poor men who fell at Welfesholz, the enemy was not content merely to send them from this life before their time. There was a man among the Saxon ranks, Bishop Reinhard of Halberstadt, who, despite his claims to piety, gave no sign of Christian benevolence. He declared that as the imperial soldiers fought under the banner of one who was rightly exco
mmunicated, they too were removed from God’s favor. He compelled the captains to have all the dead of that side—whether great or small, noble or common—piled in a heap and burned, for, he argued, they were not worthy of Christian burial. This caused exceeding pain to many poor widows throughout the land, and it belied any claim that the rebels acted with honor.
Had those traitors felt any lack of justification for their actions, the archbishop of Cologne was only too happy to provide it for them. In April of that year, he pronounced the sentence of excommunication within the empire’s very heart, thus granting succor to any who sought to forsake their allegiance to their rightful lord. Now that he had lost the support of such a respected figure, it was essential that the emperor reconcile with Archbishop Adalbert, as I have described.
With the north of his kingdom all but lost, Emperor Henry’s options were few. His two surest supporters were still his nephews Duke Frederick of Swabia and Conrad, soon appointed Duke of Franconia. The count palatine of the Rhine, Gottfried of Kalw, also had an essential role in maintaining the South’s security. There was little more fidelity to be had throughout the empire.
Then something unforeseen happened. In the weeks following Midsummer, word came north to Germany of the death of the famous contessa, Mathilda of Tuscany. Long had she reigned over her lands in Tuscany, Emilia, and Lombardy. Between the great mountains and Rome there had been none more powerful than she. That region was rightly under imperial control, yet for as long as the contessa lived, the emperors were forced to defer to her judgment on many occasions. As a practical matter, it was difficult to maintain a base of power on both sides of the mountains, and the Salian emperors often cared more for their native land.
The Girl Empress (The Chronicle of Maud Book 1) Page 25
