The first hours after I received the news were spent without food or drink. As day passed into night, I cherished the darkness that seemed to match that in my heart. I was thankful to be shut alone in my bed chamber there in the palace of Mainz, where the world would not see the tears it had brought upon me. At some point, I did fall asleep, and upon waking the following morning, I made my first attempt to continue with life: I opened the hours of the blessed Virgin and began to pray.
“Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui sancto. Scitu erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen. Ave Maria …”
My voice trailed off. The hours lay open on the bed before me as I knelt on the hard wood floor, hands clasped, soul in torment. How does one pray on such a morning? I felt as if I were in my own Gethsemane. At length, I began again.
“Domine labia mea aperies. Et os meum annunciabit laudem tuam … Deus in adiutorium meum intende! Domine ad adiuvandum me festina!” I abandoned the Latin and broke into my own language. “God, oh God! Incline unto my aid!” As my eyes wandered to the left, I glanced into the small mirror sitting next to the water basin. I looked utterly dreadful, my eyes red and my hair a mess, but I cared not. Instead, I spoke into it as if to the Lord, “Make haste to help me! Oh God!”
I heard a noise at the door behind me and halted my declaration. It was Gertrude who entered.
“My lady? Is something amiss?”
What a question! Yes, of course, something was amiss! My brother was dead, along with much of the Norman nobility. Did I not have good reason to raise my voice? Yet I found upon further reflection that I preferred not to speak about something that was not only painful, but would escape her understanding in any case.
“All is well, thank you, Gertrude,” I lied. “I will just continue with my prayers.”
With that, she departed back into the passage and I returned to the Matins.
“Hail Mary, full of grace! Our Lord is with thee. Would that he were with me …”
I continued in that manner until I was forced to rise up and begin the day. My thoughts were so occupied with the news I had received the day before that I seemed to float along, as if in a dream, so much so that when I finally departed my chamber, I walked straight into one of the imperial guards. He graciously took the blame, but I felt like quite a fool. I descended the stairs and entered the great hall in the lower level of the palace. The large room had a series of windows near the roof that allowed light to stream down to the floor. The walls on all sides were painted with scenes from the battle between Hildebrand and Hadubrand, and great wood doors on either end of the room swung open and shut as people passed through in either direction.
There was a letter waiting for me on one of the four long tables that in the eve would bear food for hungry mouths. By happy chance or divine intent, the light fell on it directly, as if it was a sacred missive. I sat down upon the bench, paying no attention to the members of the court coming and going, and began to devour its words with the vigor of a parched dog.
Here I found a thorough account of the tragedy. It seemed that my brother William and many of his friends had begged the king’s permission to sail aboard the White Ship, a new vessel of fantastic speed. The prince had arranged for an ample supply of the best wine to be brought along and provided it to all the nobles and the crew. Such foolishness! They had attempted to overtake the king’s ship and sight the English shore before him. Manly idiots! With each sentence, my anger increased over this tragedy that might have been prevented. Such a needless waste of life to the detriment of us all!
Two more of my father’s children had died that night: Richard of Lincoln and Mathilda fitz Roy, the countess of Perche. Yes, this was the same countess who was so determined to inform us of the inferiority of English manners compared to those on the Continent. I cannot say I was too sad to be rid of her, but it was her cries for help that caused William Ætheling to return to the ship. In this, he was all nobility, and he deserved a better fate than to perish in the attempt. Would that she had drowned herself and spared us all!
The message was composed in haste, without greeting or salutation. I do not remember who wrote it, but he was not much of an author. There was no word of the king, save for the confirmation that he lived and breathed. For myself, there was no instruction. As I found no evidence that any of the king’s lads were on board—that is, my half brother Robert, my cousin Stephen, and all the rest—I assumed that they too were among the living. Alas, William Ætheling’s young bride was now made a widow! So much for the alliance with Anjou! Her father would surely wish for her to marry again, but to whom?
“Is there any word from King Henry?” a voice asked.
I looked up from my seat and saw the figure of my knight, Drogo, towering over me. Though he had watched over me all my years in the empire, he had still not perfected the art of making an entrance.
“No word and no sign,” I answered. “He must be deep in grief, but I wouldn’t know it from this letter, which tells too little for my liking. It must have been written by some young clerk who has no sense of what women require. I fear I shall go mad from lack of information. Drogo, the whole world is descending into chaos! My brother is dead, my mother is dead, and my husband is the most hated man from here to … to … Kiev!”
“Have courage, my lady!” he said, taking his seat beside me on the bench. This was a liberty I would not have allowed most servants, but as Drogo and I had ridden together on a horse on more than one occasion, I would have shared anything with him but my bed. “The preacher Norbert once told me that tests are a gift of the Almighty meant to purify us.”
“Is that the same Norbert who was once the emperor’s chaplain?”
“The very same, and he received the blessing of His Holiness to carry on a reform of the monastic houses. He is gone to France now.”
“Yes, I think I heard something about that,” I said. As I was not truly interested in discussing Norbert, I returned to the original subject. “Still, I cannot understand why this has happened! What is to become of me now? Everything is changed.”
“I beg your pardon, Lady Mathilda, but it does not appear to me that much has changed. You are still the empress and the daughter of King Henry of England. When you and Emperor Henry have a son, he will be heir to two kingdoms instead of one, should the current king fail to produce another heir. That must bring you some cheer.”
I laughed bitterly. “Oh, Drogo, do you know me as little as that? How could I ever take comfort in the death of my only brother?”
“I did not mean … Forgive me,” he said, the look on his face entirely earnest. “You were close then?”
I looked down at the letter on the table, fingering its edges. “Yes and no. That is, as close as two royal siblings can be at such an age. I don’t think I recognized it then, but now that he is passed on, I feel as if there is a void in my soul that can never be filled.”
“I know what you mean. I had a brother, but he took a chill one winter and died. Some days, I still miss him.”
For a moment, all was silent between us. The court officials continued to pass by, each on his way to some urgent appointment at the other end of the palace, but we took no heed of them even as they took no heed of us. Then I remembered something from long ago.
“The late King Edward once prophesied that a ruler would be raised up who would be able to unite the royal lines of England and Normandy. He spoke the words on his death bed, as the Normans were about to invade and his own royal line was in danger of destruction. Many came to believe that my brother William would fulfill the prophecy and unite the English and the Normans, preserving both the old and the new. He had the blood of both houses in his veins.”
“And now that dream dies with him?”
“Perhaps. But then again, prophecies can be most obscure.”
Drogo smiled and rose to his feet. “I’d best be off to my duties, but first you must promise me that you have everything you require.”
“God bless you, Empress Mathilda,” he concluded, then departed through the door to my left even as some servants carried a chest through the one to my right, and from there likely out to the cathedral.
There was a break in all these comings and goings, and I sat for a moment with only my thoughts for company. This moment of solitude allowed me to reach a conclusion.
“King Henry has been robbed of his son. Now he needs a new one.”
When William Ætheling still walked this earth, there was little reason for King Henry of England to trouble himself over the succession, but with William lying in his watery grave, the question of who should become the next lord over England and Normandy was of supreme import, and the solution was obvious: the king must acquire another wife who could bear sons. Therefore, he wrote to my husband, Emperor Henry, and asked for his assistance in gaining a bride who would help to strengthen England’s position against France.
The emperor informed me of this one day as I was sitting in the upper chamber. Yes, we called it merely the upper chamber, for it had no set purpose, nor any furnishings. It had been used for keeping tapestries not fit for show—that is, until I noticed that its six windows were two more than any other room in the palace and it was terrible to waste such a space. The tapestries were removed and I would often withdraw there in those winter months, for though there was no fire, the sun rays coming through the glass kept it warm enough for comfort. Without the tapestries, the room seemed utterly bare: only dust lay upon the floor boards, and the stone walls looked almost lonely without ornament.
I was sitting on the one chair that had been brought up for me, attempting to distract myself from my grief with the word of God, when the emperor entered through the room’s only door and said, “I have received a note from King Henry requesting my assistance in procuring a bride.”
“Oh?” I replied simply, closing the book. I felt a sudden pain in my heart to think that the place once held by my mother would be filled by someone else, but as was so often the case, I kept my thoughts to myself. “Did he say whom he hopes to wed?”
“No, but he does wish to strengthen the alliance against—”
“The king of France—of course.”
“You are aware that any sons he might have would rank higher than our own in the Norman line?”
“Naturally, but it is better that the succession should be ensured. Who knows what might happen to me?”
The emperor shrugged. “He could always give the crown to one of his nephews.”
I was annoyed to find my husband wandering down that path again, for it seemed an offense to my own inheritance.
“Tell me,” I replied, “were I not a woman, would you say such things?”
“You are easily offended! Are things really so different in England than they are here? The German nobles would never accept a female ruler. It goes against the laws of God!”
And this from an excommunicate, I thought, but decided yet again to remain silent. After thinking for a moment, I arrived at an answer.
“Adeliza.”
“What?”
“Adeliza of Louvain: Duke Godfrey’s daughter. She is the best choice.”
“For your father, you mean?”
“Yes. She is young and amiable. Her father is duke of Lower Lorraine, which borders Flanders. It is the site of a great rivalry between Normandy and France. What’s more, I saw the lady earlier this year, and she is very pretty. I have no doubt that she would please the king and give him a son.”
“The idea has merit,” he agreed. “I did have some trouble from Godfrey during the former rebellion, and now that he is back on my side, I should like to keep it that way. Such a marriage would bring him power and esteem beyond even his ambition. He would have every reason to show us gratitude.”
“If only men could be trusted to show gratitude when it is due!” I said with a laugh.
“Indeed. Now, I shall speak with Duke Godfrey and make the match as soon as I hear from your father that it is his will. The king may be wed by Candlemass.”
“To a woman the same age as myself!” I shook my head in wonder. “That is strange to think of. I wonder what she must be … my lord?”
The emperor had placed a hand on his belly and seemed to be in pain. It was surely the same malady from which he had long suffered—the cancer in his testicle—and I was struck with fear to think that it might be getting worse. As he was standing near me, I reached out to comfort him, but he stepped away, unwilling to be touched. I remembered yet again that though we had been married for several years, ours would never be a particularly physical bond, nor one of the most passionate love. I was only a child when we wed, and the difference in our ages was one of many reasons that we had never experienced such a connection. However, I did respect and care for him as my husband. I therefore chose not to be offended, but instead asked, “What’s wrong? Is it the same pain as always?”
“I suppose,” he replied, still wincing. “I feel rather tired.”
“We must have the doctor examine you again.”
“Why? What is there to be done? He can no more help me now than he did before.”
“Perhaps, but it might calm my fears. Will you lie down?”
“No!” he cried, his eyes wide. “I do not need to be treated like a child! I cannot afford to lose a single hour. There is too much to be done.”
“It might be this belief that has brought you low.”
“I think I know what is best,” he concluded, and that was the end of the matter.
After agreeing to the match, King Henry was wed on the fourth day before the Kalends of January, just two months after my brother’s death. No one was happier than the bride’s father, Duke Godfrey, whose position was raised considerably by his daughter’s union. We heard that the new queen was favorably received, for in addition to her immense beauty, she had little interest in great affairs of state and did not seek to hinder the king’s business. Ah, to be such a woman!
The rising of the sun begets the setting of the moon. A dance of giants needs be won. Even so, the end of one lord is the making of another, for the laws of nature forbid them to stand together. I continued to mourn my brother in the months after his passing, but at the same time I wondered who would benefit from his untimely death. Would it be some child of my father and the new queen, or would other men rise to claim power? What was my own fate to be? I found I could not dwell on such things continually, for there was much work to do in the empire.
During the days of Lent in the year 1121, my husband set out for Regensburg to speak with the duke of Bavaria, and the rest of the court went with him. We had passed about a week there in good company. The imperial chancellor in Italy, Philip Ravenna, with whom I had spent so much time a few years earlier, had been brought north to serve in the kingdom of Germany, and it was wonderful to have his conversation once again. One day, the two of us and the emperor were all enjoying an afternoon ride in one of the imperial ships down the River Donau, which in Latin is called Danuvius. It was a hulk with only a single mast, used solely for river travel. The imperial court had three or four that were towed over land wherever we went.
The three of us were all laying back upon cushions, sipping wine from the Palatinate, when the emperor said, “Let us continue down to Konstanz, for I have business there. I promised the monks of Reichenau that I would visit before the year is out, and I should like to meet with my nephew Frederick and discuss several issues of import.”
“Konstanz is in the realm of the Archbishop of Mainz,” Chancellor Philip noted.
“Konstanz may lie within that archbishopric, but they would be fools to mistake the rule of Adalbert of Mainz for that of their rightful lord,” the emperor replied. “A traitor is owed no allegiance.”
Perhaps it seems strange that the emperor would call him a traitor, but Archbishop Adalbert of Mainz had been actively opposing him for
years and giving no little support to those who rebelled against my husband’s will. That is why the emperor said the men of Konstanz ought to support his rule rather than that of Adalbert.
“Is that not the very argument they would use to counter Your Highness?” I asked my husband, sitting up straight. “You still lie under the ban of excommunication, no?”
“Empress Mathilda, you have grown bold since last we met!” said Philip, laughing and spilling a bit of his drink on the deck. He turned his head toward the emperor. “What have you been doing with her? I remember when she was a scared little thing!”
“It’s no use, Philip,” my husband answered. “There is something of the wild mare about her, but even the wild mare has its uses.”
I made no response to this comment, though inside I was secretly pleased to think of myself in such a manner. I suppose the faintest bit of a smile may have passed over my face as I sank back into the cushion and took another drink of the wine. The ship rocked slightly back and forth as it was hit by the waves, and the sun was just peeking out from behind the clouds. It was a most pleasant day.
The emperor continued, “She is right that there are some men who look to the pope for their direction in all things, whether sacred or secular, and I have offended His Holiness.”
“You may yet recover his regard. Go to Konstanz and see Bishop Ulrich. Make a grant to the monks of Peterhausen. Visit the craftsmen of Reichenau. These will be signs of your good faith. I have ordered the jurists to renew their efforts and produce a solution to this controversy,” Philip offered.
The Forsaken Monarch Page 2