Mathilda of Tuscany was as rich in territories as any man, and in the years that preceded her death, she was apt to change her mind as to who should inherit them. Her husband, the Duke of Bavaria, was long estranged from her, as I mentioned before, and he held no rightful claim to her lands; neither had their union produced a male heir. Instead the lady wavered between leaving her possessions to the emperor and bestowing them upon the Church. As her friendship with the Holy See was of long standing, Emperor Henry was well aware that he must move quickly to grasp that which had been promised to him, ere the pope attempt to claim it for Rome.
When all is chaos in the land, it hardly seems the right time for a king to go abroad. Yet under the circumstances, the emperor believed that it might turn out to his advantage. He sensed that the rebels gained their greatest cause for disputation from his own difficulties with Rome, rather than from any popular opposition to the imperial throne itself. In traveling south, the emperor might acquire the lands of Italy and use this advantage to obtain a new agreement with Pope Paschal. In so doing he would return to Germany a new man, endowed with authority beyond what he already possessed.
He thought the potential benefits thus exceeded the hazards, and took counsel as to how he might achieve such an agreement. He brooked no delay and was unwilling to wait until the following spring to set out upon the road. By good fortune a letter survives from that period, which I must have received from my mother late in the summer. As it is filled with information of interest, I produce it here in its entirety:
Mathilda, by the grace of God queen of England, sends this token of her love and affection to her dearest Maud, queen of the Romans, wishing it Godspeed across waters and kingdoms, that it might find its way into well-beloved hands.
My daughter, I have heard of your afflictions in that far land. The emperor’s defeat in Saxony is often discussed here in Westminster, as it is throughout the kingdom. It pained me greatly to hear that he has been cast out of communion with our holy Church, even if the pope has not seen fit to extend the ban by his own hand. It was my firm intention to write to your husband and beseech him to repent of his deeds rather than following the path set down by his father, but I thought the better of it for fear that it might cause you harm.
I wish that I could extend my arms across those endless miles and even now wrap you in a maternal embrace. From time to time, I imagine your face, considering how it might have changed these last five years. As I cast my gaze into the looking glass, I perceive the passage of time in my own visage, more careworn now than ever it was in youth, whereas I am sure you grow only in beauty. How could you not?
There is much to tell of our affairs here. My brother’s wife, the Countess of Huntingdon, gave birth to a son whom they named Malcolm after our mutual father, but the child was not long for this world. Such sorrow they must have known! Yet God in his mercy granted that within the year she might be delivered of a hale and hearty prince. They christened him Henry in honor of your own father. I have not yet been so fortunate as to see the child, but I offer up prayers for him daily, that he may grow even in the manner of Christ, increasing “in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and men.”
They say that my sister, the Countess of Boulogne, is very ill and nigh unto death. If this be true, then all that remains of my esteemed parents will be the king of Scotland, the Earl of Huntingdon, and myself. From eight we are thus reduced to three—oh, unhappy fate! Yet it is wrong that I should speak thus while my sister remains among the living. I fear for my niece, who will be bereaved of a mother.
The king is shortly to be in England again after his latest foray into Normandy. Your brother counts these visits dear. He was robbed of his father’s presence for most of last year on account of the battles in Wales, in which King Henry forced the allegiance of the Welsh lords and brought peace to us all. Normandy is likewise tempered thanks to the imprisonment of that scourge of men, the rebel Robert of Bellême, as I mentioned in my earlier letters. It seems that England’s chief quarrels are now with King Louis of France and the Count of Anjou, but absent of any action on those fronts, we should enjoy the king’s presence for some time.
Prince William continues to excel in all the martial disciplines. I daresay he will be the equal of his father. I would rather he spent more time in study and less within the lists, but in this matter I have frequently found myself entirely devoid of influence. His closest brothers in arms are the same as always. Stephen of Blois is grown into a superior gentleman, his skills exceeding those of most. The king lavishes favor upon him and is soon to bestow on him the County of Mortain.
Your eldest brother, Robert, is contracted to Mabel fitz Hamon, the Countess of Gloucester, as you well know. It remains uncertain when their marriage will be solemnized before God, but as a matter of law their union is settled. I have heard no rumors that the lady is to begin her lying in, but I suspect it is only a matter of time before the Earl of Gloucester is able to produce offspring within the marriage bed, even as he already has outside of it. Earl Robert is ever in the company of Brian fitz Count, who is well respected at court. Of the four lads, he is the cleverest, methinks. But though he is perfectly able in battle, I believe it is Robert who possesses the superior skill in that realm.
The king delights in their company as if all four were his own sons, though for William he holds an especial devotion. The prince would follow his father in everything. Although I feel a twinge of motherly regret when I think that I should lose my boy, I am filled with pride at the man he has become. There is constant speculation at court as to which ladies will be so fortunate as to enter into wedlock with one of these young men. For myself, I hope that William might be united with a woman of good Christian virtue when the time comes. Though he is still too young for such things, King Henry has already ensured that all the nobles of the land pledge fealty to the prince as his rightful successor.
So many words I have written to you, and yet I have scarcely begun to tell of all that has taken place here in England. I would much rather hear from you about conditions in the empire. Is it true that the emperor will lead an expedition south to recover the territories of the late countess? Oh, the agony of ignorance threatens to drive me mad with longing to hear from you! Yet I remember the words of Saint Augustine: “Thou hast formed us for Thyself, and our hearts are restless till they find rest in Thee.” Even so may you find your rest, beloved daughter!
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost—
MATHILDA REGINA
Such letters were a welcome relief from the troubles that pressed down upon us daily in the empire. I took pleasure from the news that they provided, even though the sentiments contained within were not always pleasant. Only in my mother’s letters did I receive such unabashed love, and though I began to see how her advice would at times miss the mark, I was ever glad to receive it. I knew not whether I might ever see her again, but in her writing I was given a chance to commune with her spirit, and that was some consolation.
With the coming of another Advent season, the imperial court moved to Speyer to celebrate the feast and arrange for the emperor’s second journey to Italy. Whereas I had formerly remained behind under the care of the archbishop of Trier, I would now be accompanying my husband over the mountains and into the kingdoms of the South. Despite the stress, I found myself looking forward to such an adventure. Though I was certain that the journey would be treacherous, I longed to experience some new land, and even perhaps to set my eyes upon the center of Christendom in Rome. But let us speak no more of the days of preparation. We must be on to the march!
XIII
April 1165
Rouen, Normandy
There is a place in the garden where I often take my repose and ponder the workings of the day. It is not so far from the great house as to put me beyond a comfortable walk, and yet it grants me the privacy I crave. On a spring morning, even as the one that we now enjoy, it is a welcome respite from the deeds o
f state I must perform. I once again find myself alone this morning, for my trusted companion, Lawrence, was inclined to set out for the mountain of Saint Michael, there to converse with our dear friend, Abbot Robert of Torigny. I bid him inform the abbot how much I respect his historical writings. So much rubbish is set loose on us now in the guise of history! One or two things I might correct in his accounts, but in general I find the abbot more just than most of those lofty chroniclers. Happy men they are to sit in judgment over us all, well after the fact and many miles away.
Thus I am left this morning to take the quill into my own feeble hand and compose such few lines as come to mind. I know you will forgive me this indulgence of my own scattered thoughts, for I feel it does me some good. I have been sitting under this sun for half an hour, and yet I find myself no more able to express its beauty in words than I was when I began. See now how I babble on about matters of little consequence, unworthy to be preserved by future generations. But here is Adela now, come to meet me upon the green. I see she bears the day’s letters in her hand. What news might they contain?
“My lady,” she says upon reaching my position, “I received several messages this morning for Your Grace. I wondered if you might care to read them.”
“Surely you can inform me of their contents, or at least those which are most urgent,” I reply.
“What do you mean?”
“Adela,” I say, “I am well aware that you examine any letters I receive before passing them on, so do save us both the trouble and tell me now whether there is anything of great import.”
Her face takes on a shade of red that the morning cool does not demand, and I sense that this simple teasing has set her on edge.
“I am sorry, Lady Mathilda,” she responds, “I do not examine them in the hope of gaining any privy information, but rather to make things . . .”
“Easier? Yes, I believe you. What’s more, it has been a long while since either of us had any secrets from the other. In any case, there is nothing in my letters which requires the powers of concealment, at least not from you.”
“Thank you for your understanding, my lady,” she answers. “Shall I provide you with a summary, then?”
“Yes, please.”
“Abbot Suger writes from Saint Denis. He has heard of your interest in the improvements to the abbey church and wishes for you to visit at your earliest convenience so that he may provide you with a personal tour of the grounds.”
“Oh, that I were fit for such a journey!” I respond. “I have longed to see the new quire there since it was first completed twenty years ago. Alas, I never had the time, and now that I have fewer demands upon my schedule, I fear that I no longer possess the vigor. A true pity, for I have heard such tales of what the craftsmen have spawned there. They say it is a new vision of construction.”
“Then I am truly sorry that you cannot make the journey. Should I have one of the clerks reply to him and request some drawings? That would at least allow you to understand the design.”
“Yes, this seems a good idea. There is already a messenger bound for Paris who will depart tomorrow. Leave it with him.”
“Certainly. You also received a letter from Queen Eleanor.”
“Oh . . . And what does my daughter-in-law require?”
“She wishes to visit before her final lying-in at Angers.”
“That will be soon. The children are with her?”
“Yes, Richard and little Mathilda, though the others remain in England.”
“Write and tell her I accept, though I am sure she does not ask merely to see me play the role of doting grandmother.”
“You have heard the gossip, then?”
“What gossip?” Truly, Daughter, I do not care for such whispering, but when it concerns my own family, I find that involvement is all but inevitable.
“Why, that King Henry has taken up with a new mistress.”
“According to whom?”
“That I cannot say. I heard it from one of the monks, who heard it from a traveling blacksmith, who heard it from God knows where.”
“Well then, that is hardly a trusty source.”
“Trusty or not, it would be no surprise if a king should attempt to get his fill of all the rare delicacies placed before him, now would it?” she says with a sly smile.
“As a matter of principle, I agree with you, Adela, but you must remember that this subject touches me rather near. I hold no illusions about my son. I think he is half his father and half my own father, and neither of those men was known for his chastity. Even so, I regret to hear that there might be anything that should force me to pity the queen. God knows she has no need of it.”
Perhaps I should mention that Queen Eleanor was not so beloved in my heart, for reasons that I shall not delve into on this occasion.
“No more talk of that,” Adela instructs. “Let us think of happier subjects. What is that book in your hand?”
“It is the latest work by the mystic Hildegard. She sent it to me some weeks hence at my especial request, and I have scarcely been able to tear myself away from it ever since.”
“You believe what they say, then—that she receives visions from the Almighty?”
“I cannot claim to be a proper judge, since I have never met her in the flesh, but much of what she writes has the aura of truth about it. She is clearly learned, and I have no particular reason to doubt her claims. But in all honesty, my interest arises in part from that which we have in common. We both know what it is to press against the bounds of convention. In any case, it is far more beneficial than most of the volumes that now abound.”
“I shall leave you to it then,” she concludes, turning back toward the house. No sooner has she done so than a change of mind sweeps over her, and Adela says to me, “Wait! I forgot! There was another letter for you, but this one even I was unwilling to open. I think you had better look it over now, though I doubt it will bring you any pleasure.”
“Some recommendation! Let me see it.”
She hands me the rolled parchment and I set my eyes upon the seal. This message is from the archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Becket.
“Again he writes to us?” I ask in frustration. “Honestly, what does he suppose I can do for him? He must truly be desperate if he seeks my good opinion—I who warned the king from the beginning that he was not fit for high office. I swear to you, Adela, that man is everything that is wrong with the Church! Such a hypocrite, pretending to piety, but allowing the priests of England to rape and murder in broad daylight without so much as a word of condemnation! What kind of Christian is that? Yet here he is, begging me to whisper a fair word on his behalf in the ear of the king. Well, Pope Alexander might humor him, but I cannot.”
“Perhaps he merely seeks out your wisdom, which is known to be great indeed,” Adela offers.
“I think not, but bless you for saying so. No, if I know Thomas Becket, he hopes to employ what advantage he can over the situation, and what better means to do so than a beseeching mother? Vain man! He seeks to make me a tool in his own hand, but he would never lift a finger on my behalf, I’ll be bound. He never has. Even so, this rancor must not continue. No king can afford to set himself at odds with the Church without great detriment to his rule, to say nothing of his immortal soul.”
“What will you do then?”
“Well, as you say, I shall offer such pearls of wisdom as I can muster, but I fear the situation has grown beyond my power to heal. I do not believe we have seen its equal since I was in Germany. Speaking of which, King Henry has sent his ambassadors out to meet with the emperor and discuss this marriage alliance for the girls.”
“Really? What is your opinion on the matter?
“Ah, once again you seek to know my mind rather than revealing your own. A shrewd decision, no doubt, for it frees you from the shackles of an opinion. If you must know, I am happy for any alliance that brings us closer to the empire, and I suspect it will be greatly to the princesses’ benefit—b
ut at such a young age! I cannot help but worry. And the support of the emperor for the false pope offends me greatly. I fear that this is an alliance that will do my son ill.”
“I suppose it is only natural that you should fear, given your own experience.”
“Yes, and it shows how little Queen Eleanor regards my advice, that she should not seek me out before deciding upon this course of action, despite the fact that my connections within the empire remain strong, perhaps even stronger than those of King Henry. Sadly, I think she only values my counsel when it might help in quarrels with her husband.”
“At least that is something,” Adela replies with a smile. “I must be off now. No matter how much I strive to train them, it seems that the men of my house are unable to feed themselves.”
“Go then, with my blessing.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
Having now recorded much of our conversation, I find myself growing rather tired of this stone bench. A return to the house is in order, but not before another brief amble through the park, a chance to ponder the memories that I intend to set down upon the return of Father Lawrence. Give me leave to set down my quill and bask in these first days of warmth, for I know all too well that they cannot last.
Imagine now those days of yore, when Emperor Henry V and his young bride set out against the dying days of winter to claim the lands of the late contessa for their posterity. Emilia, Tuscany, Lombardy, Verona: to all these lands the winding path summoned the imperial party. They passed first through the river towns of the North, where endless fields of grain grow within the floodplain and punters float to and fro along the canals. Then, traveling by way of the western vale, they came at last to the city of legend, the glowing beacon that draws men thither from the far reaches of the earth.
The Girl Empress (The Chronicle of Maud Book 1) Page 26
