Dieter held his palms to the heat of the flames, relaxing as the chill left his body to be replaced by a certainty Lothair was about to give him an important role in their campaign to oust the tyrant. “Ja. Heinrich is to marry a princess, the young daughter of Henry of England.”
Lothair steepled his fingers. “It’s a strategic move he evidently hopes will bring him a powerful ally in his quest to be crowned Holy Roman Emperor.”
“And a very large dowry, I expect,” Dieter added sarcastically.
“Ten thousand marks in silver, I’m told.”
Dieter’s hackles rose. He could think of a hundred better ways to put such a princely amount to use, but the duke hadn’t come to discuss financial matters. “I imagine King Henry is also happy about the alliance.”
The duke snorted. “Why else would he betroth the eight-year-old Matilda to a man in his twenties?”
Taken off guard, Dieter pondered the question that came too close to the bone. His parents had betrothed him to the daughter of a prominent noble Saxon family when they were both children. The marriage had turned out to be a catastrophe with fatal consequences. Now, solely responsible for their son’s welfare since his wife’s death, he was fiercely determined not to condemn Johann to a similar fate.
However, in these troubled times, none of these personal concerns were of interest to the duke. Swallowing the bitter memories, he clenched his jaw and forced his attention back on the matter at hand. “Have you learned where the betrothal will take place?”
His guest grinned. “Of course. Heinrich foolishly trusts me. He is on his way to Liège to meet Matilda and take charge of the dowry that will swell his coffers considerably. Measures for protecting the coin are more extensive than those for the princess herself. I am expected to be there.”
“So, he suspects nothing of our plotting?”
Lothair clenched his jaw. “Heinrich thinks I am his loyal servant. You are among a select few privy to our ultimate goal.”
“To be rid of a tyrant and free Saxony from the imperial yoke.”
“Ja, though it may take many more years and a great deal of careful planning.”
Count Dieter owed fealty to Duke Lothair who’d granted him the title of Graf and the lands he governed. But the reason for his commitment went beyond duty. The yearning for independence had simmered in the hearts of Saxons for generations and he believed Lothair had the makings of a better ruler than Heinrich.
However, he admitted inwardly there was more to it. He often felt restless tucked away on his comfortable estate in the relative safety of the Saxon countryside. His country needed him and the prospect of involvement in intrigue fired his blood. He’d never been a man to sit back and let others do what had to be done. “What happens after Liège?”
“The cavalcade will journey on to Utrecht for the betrothal ceremony.”
Dieter grew more confident as he watched the duke toy with his perfectly trimmed mustache for several minutes, not surprised when His Grace finally explained what was on his mind. “It wouldn’t hurt if you were to accompany me to Liège. Your ability to speak Norman French might prove to be an asset and your presence would serve as proof of your loyalty to Heinrich.”
Chuckling, they shared the irony as Dieter escorted his guest to the dining hall where Johann and his grandfather waited. He wasn’t looking forward to a long ride to Liège, especially as it meant leaving his son, but freedom for Saxony was of the utmost importance and he intended to play his part in attaining it.
True to his nature, Lothair gave all his attention to Johann as the meal progressed. “Your son is a credit to you,” he told Dieter before lowering his voice. “Pity about his mother. My sympathies.”
It was Dieter’s first indication the duke was aware of the tragedy that had befallen the von Wolfenberg family, but he doubted Lothair knew the full extent of the trauma. He preferred not to discuss what had happened in front of his shy son. “Danke,” he said. “Johann is a good boy. I’m proud of him.”
“Rightly so.”
Liege
The five-day trek from Boulogne to Liège wouldn’t have been so intolerably tedious for Blythe had Matilda not decided she should ride beside her in the carriage.
Racing with her twin across the Northumbrian moors in summer and the rolling hills of the Welsh Marches in the winter had resulted in Blythe becoming an expert horsewoman. Cooped up in the carriage with a constantly whining child who insisted the blinds be kept drawn provided no opportunity to see the lands through which they passed. Keeping the princess warm was a challenge. There were never enough blankets and the hot bricks placed at her tiny feet lost their heat too quickly.
King Heinrich had sent a sizable troop of soldiers to strengthen the escort, but traveling interminable miles with wagons loaded down with a fortune in silver was nevertheless nerve-wracking.
It was apparent the foreign guards considered themselves superior to the English contingent, resulting in frequent disagreements. Language difficulties increased the confusion. Matilda expressed the opinion soldiers who spoke Norman French should have been assigned, though she laid the blame at the door of some anonymous minion. It wouldn’t do to criticize His Highness.
King Henry of England had provided his daughter and her ladies with a magnificent pavilion. Blythe appreciated its protection from the elements and the soft mattress raised off the hard ground. Matilda complained daily about having to wait for the canvas shelter to be erected, declaring servants would go without food if they didn’t accomplish the task quickly enough.
The army of cooks failed to provide a single meal she approved of.
Dwarfed by the carved chair raised up on a carpet-covered mound of dirt, the princess held court every evening. Nobles and clerics who’d accompanied the entourage from England fawned at her dangling feet.
In the silence of the night, after her mistress had at long last fallen asleep, Blythe stifled her sobs in the mattress, longing for the happy life she’d lived at home in England. She prayed for patience and endurance, hoping matters would improve once they reached Liège and Matilda met her future husband for the first time. A spoiled child had been betrothed to a future emperor, but Blythe was forbidden to marry. It was a bitter truth that stuck in her throat.
She was relieved to finally reach Liège, a town consisting of unattractive buildings clinging to the side of a very steep hill. However, the Palais where they’d been assigned chambers was palatial indeed.
King Henry had appointed an elderly earl to attend to his daughter’s wellbeing. Sir Montague de Baumetes explained to the ladies that Liège was an important Prince-bishopric—whatever that was—and its ruler an influential prince in the court of the Holy Roman Empire. They were to be on their best behavior.
Blythe considered this admonition frivolous. When were Matilda's ladies not on their best behavior? In any case, Prince Otbert paid no attention to anyone but Matilda when they arrived, though his greeting lacked warmth. Blythe sensed an undercurrent of discontent with the proposed betrothal. Or was Otbert simply an old man who had no idea how to relate to a child?
Matilda's ladies were given little time to rest before being called upon to bathe and dress her for the banquet held in her honor.
* * *
The eight-day ride from Wolfenberg to Liège seemed endless, though Dieter had to admit there were compensations inherent in traveling as part of a duke’s retinue.
Lothair provided a sturdy pavilion and three servants who saw to needs above and beyond the services of Dieter’s own valet from home—though there wasn’t much the trusted Bernhardt didn’t do for him.
A dozen Saxon counts accompanied the caravan, but it was Dieter who rode at Lothair’s side as they entered the town of Liège.
“It isn’t a pretty burg,” the duke observed. “Too industrial.”
“Mining, I believe,” Dieter replied.
“Nevertheless, as the largest Prince-Bishopric in the empire, its importance cannot be overesti
mated.”
“The reason Heinrich has chosen it for this meeting.”
Lothair chuckled. “And he has to mend fences with Bishop Otbert, the current ruler, who was a staunch supporter of Heinrich’s father.”
“Whom Heinrich forced to abdicate.”
“Exactly.”
They rode alongside the Meuse, coming finally to a grandiose, ornate palace fronted by innumerable pillars. “The Palais,” Lothair explained, arching a brow as he dismounted. “It appears Otbert himself has deigned to greet us. Remember, he’s more than just an important cleric.”
Lothair bowed and kissed the portly bishop’s ring. “You honor me, my Lord Prince.”
“Welcome, Lothair, Duke of Saxony,” his host droned, before turning his curious gaze on Dieter.
Lothair smiled. “May I present Graf Dieter von Wolfenberg.”
Dieter bent the knee and dutifully kissed the huge ruby jammed on fat fingers.
His curiosity apparently satisfied, and clearly deeming Dieter worthy of no further attention, Otbert promptly turned back to Lothair. “Pray enter. My guards will show you to your quarters. The princess has arrived, but King Heinrich has not.”
Otbert’s lack of interest in him didn’t cause Dieter to take offense. He preferred to be ignored. It gave him a chance to watch the powerful prince-bishop whose heavenward gaze betrayed his disdain for the overdue King of Germany.
“Perhaps we can visit the princess and pay our respects,” Lothair suggested.
“Her Majesty be holding court after the banquet,” Otbert replied off-handedly. “You are, of course, invited but, in the meantime, you must see St. Martin’s.”
The bishop pointed to an ancient church perched atop a steep hill. The cleric’s enthusiastic account of the edifice’s history seemed to indicate a visit there was of greater importance than paying court to a foreign princess.
* * *
Hungry after the long journey, Blythe nevertheless found the food at the banquet overly spicy.
The corpulent Prince-Bishop delivered a lengthy speech. Blythe didn’t understand a word, and there was no possibility Matilda did either. It was likely people in the rear of the massive hall couldn’t hear Otbert’s mumblings. The fidgeting audience lost interest after the first five minutes of the diatribe.
Matilda’s eyelids drooped but, once the feasting was over, the expectation she hold court couldn’t be avoided.
Two hours later, Blythe feared the yawning child might fall asleep after receiving one richly-garbed noble family after another. Sir Montague looked ready to drop. He’d announced each noble family in turn, mangling foreign names and titles if their horrified expressions were anything to judge by. From what little Blythe understood of the proceedings, people had come great distances to witness the historic occasion. To her untrained ear, they weren’t all speaking the same language, though there was a guttural twang to everyone’s speech. It reminded her of her parents’ native tongue. The FitzRams mostly spoke Norman-French at home, though her mother often lapsed into Saxon when she was angry.
Matilda, who only spoke Norman French, made no effort to converse with the visitors, most of whom filed out with puzzled expressions on their faces. To alleviate her boredom, Blythe tried to interpret what the people leaving were saying.
She’s just a child.
Doesn’t even speak German.
Relegated with the other ladies from England to a corner of the immense hall, Blythe swayed on her aching feet, willing the audience to be over. There was no way of telling how many days this farce would go on until Heinrich arrived. The long line-up snaked out of sight beyond the elaborately carved doors.
Her roving gaze snagged abruptly on a tall, dark-haired man dressed entirely in black, apart from the white cape hanging from broad shoulders. Among the gaudy reds, greens and blues, he stood out. Unlike the other men in the gathering, he wore no ostentatious gold chains around his neck. No rings adorned his fingers.
“Dignified,” she whispered to herself, distracted when Sir Montague called her name with some urgency. It appeared the princess had nodded off and almost pitched forward out of her throne.
Rushing with the other ladies to save her mistress from further embarrassment, Blythe stole a glance at the black knight. Winged creatures fluttered in her belly. He was staring at her, an amused smile on his face.
Royal Meeting
The next day, clad in his usual black tunic and white cape, Dieter dutifully joined the ranks of noblemen assembled in front of the Palais to greet Heinrich. He kept to the back of the throng, hoping to catch sight of the auburn-haired Englishwoman who’d rushed to prevent the princess from falling headlong. Something about her intrigued him, though she was just a young girl and her tightly braided hair looked uncomfortable. The severity of the braids marred her beauty. Perhaps the pout that had momentarily dissolved when she caught him staring was intentional.
Unfortunately, Matilda did not appear. Heinrich was evidently not planning to meet his child bride on the steps of the Palais.
Heralded by a jarring fanfare, the royal entourage eventually arrived, led by Heinrich mounted on a magnificent white destrier. A warhorse hardly seemed fitting for the occasion, but it was obvious the ramrod straight King of the Germans relished being the center of attention—hence, no doubt, his wish to meet the princess later, at a time of his choosing.
Bishop Otbert greeted his powerful guest with respect but was quick to thrust his ring under Heinrich’s nose. The king gave it a fleeting peck. Clearly, there was no love lost between the two men.
Dieter hadn’t seen Heinrich for several years. A full beard did little to soften the jutting chin, and his aquiline beak seemed to have grown more prominent. The hooded, predatory eyes hadn’t changed. The sizable crowd gathered to meet him was respectfully silent, though a low murmur began when his startlingly effeminate voice reached their ears.
In what could only be seen as a deliberate slight, Heinrich turned his back on his host and preceded the bishop into his own Palais.
* * *
Sulking, Matilda stood by the window of her apartment overlooking the courtyard. “Why wasn’t I invited to greet His Highness?” she whined.
Relegated to the back of the chamber, Blythe inhaled deeply. With great fanfare, a once-in-a-lifetime spectacle was taking place below, yet it hadn’t occurred to the princess her ladies might also want to see the king for the first time.
Sir Montague bowed. “King Heinrich deemed it preferable you meet him in private, Your Majesty.”
Lady Dorothea Le Roux, senior lady-in-waiting, suggested, “Your father would approve of a more dignified meeting.”
Matilda flounced away from the window. “Heinrich looks old.”
Blythe sank her teeth into the back of her hand to stifle an urge to titter at the little girl’s first thoughts about her future husband. Of course, a grown man would look old to a child.
“May we watch, Your Majesty?” Dorothea finally asked.
Matilda gestured to the window as if swatting away an irritating gnat.
Taking it as permission granted, Blythe and her fellow ladies-in-waiting gathered around the window, just in time to see Heinrich kiss Bishop Otbert’s ring.
Blythe was aware the King of Germany was in his late twenties, but he looked much older. Her first impression was of a sly, powerful man who wasn’t to be trusted. Her mother often said first impressions were usually correct.
Like Blythe, the other ladies remained silent. She suspected all harbored the same thoughts about Matilda's betrothed, but none would risk uttering their opinions out loud.
“Wonderful pomp and ceremony,” Lady Dorothea declared half-heartedly.
Blythe privately thought pompous might be closer to the mark. Still at the window, she watched the crowd below, most of whom began to move away after Heinrich entered the Palais.
Soon, only two men remained. One had dark hair and was dressed all in black except for the white cape draped from his s
houlders—definitely the same man she’d seen the night before. A peculiar thrill raced up her spine. She’d hoped to see him again. If his rank entitled him to greet the king, perhaps he would be in attendance when Matilda and Heinrich met. She didn’t know why it mattered. He was older than she, but something about his smile was intriguing.
* * *
Four hours after Heinrich’s arrival, Dieter and his duke stood near the front of a throng of hundreds of noblemen and women in the garishly ornate great hall of the Palais.
“Clearly, he’s in no hurry to meet Matilda,” Lothair whispered as they watched Heinrich enter, again preceded by a fanfare trumpeted by twenty soldiers. People grimaced as the strident tribute echoed off the high ceiling.
Men bowed. Women curtseyed.
Heinrich signaled for all to rise once a dozen pages had arranged the ermine-trimmed flowing cape to his satisfaction around the base of a golden throne.
“I notice there’s only one throne,” Dieter whispered to Lothair.
“Of course. Matilda isn’t his wife yet.”
A flurry of activity near the rear doors signaled the arrival of the princess.
An elderly knight escorted Matilda up the aisle in the center of the hall. The deafening silence was broken only by the swish of Matilda’s gown.
No emotion played on Heinrich’s stern face as he watched his future wife approach. Dieter couldn’t blame him. He’d resent being obliged to wed a child—not that he intended to take another wife. One catastrophic marriage was enough to last a man a lifetime. Although, if he was seeking another wife, he’d be tempted to woo the lovely Englishwoman bringing up the rear of Matilda's entourage.
The Black Knight’s Captive Page 2
