The Forsaken Monarch

by Amy Mantravadi

  The emperor placed his hand on the chancellor’s shoulder, perhaps attempting to steady himself as much as anything, for the boat had begun rocking more fiercely. “I thank you for your pains, friend. Lord knows, I wish to see this matter at an end, but if we are to yield anything to Rome, we must also receive our due reward. Lady Mathilda can tell you: I have been in contact with King Henry of England, and I hope that the peace forged in that land between the crown and the Church might be repeated here. We came close before, and I have reason to believe that under the right circumstances, this pope will be more pliable than his predecessors.”

  “My father has also been explaining to him the Danegeld,” I added.

  “Danegeld? What is that?” Philip asked.

  “A general tax of the entire kingdom,” the emperor replied.

  “And you seek to impose it here?” he scoffed. “No man has yet been born who has a love of taxes, save he that collects them.”

  “Then let them obey the words of Christ: ‘Give therefore to Caesar, the things which are Caesar’s, and give unto God, those things which are God’s.’[1] If only Calixtus could hear me quote the scriptures thus! I might not be an excommunicate after all,” the emperor said with a wink.

  “Yes, and the devil quotes scripture too,” I noted, winking myself.

  “So on to Konstanz!” Philip declared, sensing that at last I might have gone too far, and no doubt wishing to avoid an argument.

  The next day, we were sailing back up the Donau toward our next destination. We stayed for a brief time at the royal palace in Ulm, which I admit was not my most favored abode on account of its small size. Our time there was made worse because we were fasting from meat, and for all their proclamations about godly manhood, the men in our party did complain about their hunger rather a lot. I was relieved when we finally set that place behind us and continued along the Donau to the small town of Tuttlingen, not far from the river’s source. Here we climbed out of the boats and moved south over land.

  Konstanz sits upon a narrow strip of land that cuts into the Bodensee, that most pleasant lake at the foot of the mountains. I had hoped to view those magnificent heights from the northern shore, but alas, I could see naught but small hills covered in pine trees. We did not enter the city itself, but traveled to the nearby island of Reichenau in a new boat that had been procured for the occasion, the hulks having been left to the north. This ship was more like the cogs used in the North, sturdy enough to go out into open sea. In this case, it was needed to carry all the emperor’s chests and other treasures. I could feel the ship sink lower into the water as they were brought on board, and I was rather relieved when we made it across without getting wet.

  The island is home to that famous community of brothers holding to the order of Saint Benedict. Those monks are skilled in every craft. They produce the most gorgeous texts, but their greatest work is surely the imperial crown itself, wrought by the goldsmiths of old. I was therefore pleased to make their acquaintance after hearing of their deeds for many years.

  Once we arrived in our new lodgings, the emperor and all the leading men of court took over the tables in the refectory and began reading through the many letters that had come in over the past day. I left the guest house and made my way through a grove of Linde trees—their green leaves still forming—to join my husband and his companions in the refectory, which stood nearer the water. There I found them poring over all the notes from far and wide that had accompanied us to the island: news of the papal court, one or two letters from Archbishop Bruno of Trier, legal matters to be addressed by the jurists, a personal note from the emperor’s sister, and a host of others. There were several long tables in the room, and all of them were covered with scattered papers, stacks of parchment, piles of scrolls, leather bags, and naturally tankards and mugs full of beer. My eyes were drawn to the group near my husband, where one piece of business seemed to be particularly urgent.

  “Read this,” said Chancellor Philip, thrusting the parchment at the emperor, who was seated across the table.

  “What is it?” he asked, holding it up. “I can’t make out the seal.”

  “From a canon of Konstanz. He sent it over just now.”

  The emperor took a moment to read the letter, and I could see the frustration it caused upon his face long before he spoke. “Well, that’s it! The birds have all flown!” he declared, throwing the letter down on the table and pounding it with his fist so hard that some beer flew out of his glass and on to the table.

  “You mean the bishop of Konstanz is gone?” Philip asked.

  “Precisely. I was supposed to meet him here, but he and all his fellows decided now would be a good time to go on pilgrimage.”

  “Pilgrimage?!” Philip exclaimed, crinkling both his nose and his brow. “To where?”

  “Anywhere but here, I presume. It seems they would prefer not to be seen with me.”

  It was at this moment that several of the men recognized I was standing there and gave polite nods in my direction. However, my husband was so upset by this latest news that he did not acknowledge my presence. I sat at the far end of the table and remained silent, though for myself I was filled with concern that the bishop’s open refusal of the emperor’s overtures meant the hopes we held for reconciliation with the Church were rather foolish. Being married to someone who is excommunicated by the Church is a daily stress I can hardly describe. Still, I said nothing of this, for I had no desire to be a prophetess of doom.

  “Where is Frederick?” the emperor suddenly asked.

  “Here, Your Highness,” the duke of Swabia replied, striding into the room through the open door behind me. “I just arrived.”

  “Thank God for that!” the emperor said, standing to embrace his nephew. He patted the younger man on the sides of his face and then gripped his shoulders. “You look well. Did you bring your wife?”

  “No, she stayed behind.”

  There was a knowing smile on the Duke Frederick’s face, and it was clear that he had some news he wished to share.

  “What is it then?” the emperor demanded. “Tell me what it is that has amused you so.”

  “Lady Judith is with child,” he answered. “She has taken to her bed and demands that none come near her, save for her own ladies. I think it is far too early … but there it is.”

  The emperor dropped his hands and touched the duke’s chest with his fist. “That is excellent news! Would that I had known when I saw the Duke of Bavaria, for then I might have told him he shall be a grandfather. And you—you are to be a father!”

  “Not so hasty!” the duke begged, raising a hand. “These things too oft go awry. Still, I admit that the idea of another Duke Frederick does fill me with pride. Frederick II! How I have longed for a son who might carry on that good name!”

  The emperor did not respond, and I could guess his thinking easily enough. In the six years since our marriage, we had brought forth neither son nor daughter. Though the two of us hardly ever discussed the matter, I sensed that it weighed on his heart as much as my own. The poor duke quickly recognized his mistake.

  “Forgive me! I did not mean … that is, I should not have said … I …”

  “Please! You need not beg my pardon. I am happy for you,” my husband replied. His words were fine enough, but I could see the pain in his eyes.

  “How can you be so very sure that it will be a boy?” I asked, hoping by this question to bring an end to the tension.

  “I cannot be sure,” the duke answered, looking my way. “It is too early for the astrologer … but it must be a boy!”

  “Yes, it must, for then the Salian line will continue,” the emperor concluded. “Come! I have something to show you.”

  With that, the two men departed—presumably in order to speak in private—and most of the lords dispersed. I moved down the bench to examine the pile of papers on the table before me. As I sorted through them, I finally saw the one letter that I had sought for months—nay, for years! It
bore the mark of the king of England.

  I held the letter as if it were a sacred relic, my fingers tracing the outline of the parchment, feeling every fiber. What news might lie inside? At last, I took a small knife, broke the seal, and began to read.

  To my daughter, the venerable Empress Mathilda of the Romans, most esteemed lady, King Henry of England, lord over all Normandy, sends this word from Berkeley in Gloucester Shire, upon this Easter Sunday, the fourth before the Ides of April, in the year of our Lord 1121, wishing God’s blessings upon you and all those at the imperial court, most particularly his son by law, the Emperor Henry, king of the Germans, in the hope that you are well and in no distress.

  We thank you and your excellent husband for the pains you undertook in gaining for us the hand of Lady Adeliza of Louvain, now queen of England. Never have we passed so happy an hour as when we are in her company, and in her youth, we find ourselves renewed. She is to us a healing balm, drawn from the waters of sweet Elysium—a minister unto our very soul. It is our dearest wish that with the coming of a new year, she might clutch a son to her bosom. For we will have an heir of our own flesh and blood, with all the markings of his father and grandfather, who conquered kingdoms and built them from nothing.

  But should the Lord delay in fulfilling his promise, we hope that you too shall give birth to children who might serve as a security for us. We heard a rumor that you were barren, but we refuse to believe it, for the women of Normandy have never suffered such a tribulation as this. Therefore, as soon as you are with child, inform us of your condition. We are most eager to see the fruit of your womb.

  To this end, we wish to meet with you and speak frankly, for a great many things now depend upon your actions. Remember your duty to this house and to God, for we sent you hence for two purposes: to increase the friendship betwixt England and the empire, and to bring forth children that might provide for the succession in both kingdoms. Do not forget your charge!

  The Lord’s grace be with you, now and always. HENRICUS REX

  I folded the letter and sat there for a moment, pondering the words I had just read. In my vanity, I had hoped that the king might inquire as to my own thoughts and feelings, but there was no sign of that. Did he care that I still grieved for my brother daily? Did he share my concerns about what path my own future would take? And what was this? He had heard that I was barren! I had long feared that this rumor would reach even the most distant ears. At least my father was happy with his new bride. How could he not be? She was one of the most comely women I had ever seen and far younger than he.

  Of course, the possibility that I was barren was a matter of great distress to me, though I also knew something that the common man did not: I knew that Emperor Henry was ill, and that as a result we had not often shared a bed throughout the course of our marriage. There was no question in my mind that the cancer that threatened his manhood had contributed to our distress.

  Not that I was desperate to have children for their own sake, mind you. I liked them well enough, but I did not possess that innate longing for offspring which defines so many women. No, I wanted a child because I knew that until I had produced an heir to the throne, I would not be respected in the same way. Every day that my husband and I did not bring forth an heir increased the threat to our reign. This was a concern for my father as well, though I believe he sought his own good and that of England more than mine.

  With the letter still in hand, I walked through the side door and into a garden that stood just outside, where I found my ladies Gertrude and Adelaide collecting flowers. I had seldom walked alone since that evil man had assaulted me in Straßburg a year or two earlier, and the memory of that night still haunted my dreams. I therefore desired company in order to move about. The ladies followed at a short distance as I made my way down to the water’s edge to take in the view. The sun gleamed upon the surface of the lake, its reflection only disturbed by the birds that swam to and fro.

  “Adelaide,” I called. “Do you have my satchel?”

  “Here it is, my lady,” she answered, giving it to me.

  I pulled at the string and placed the folded letter inside. As I did, I felt the precious stone that I had carried with me for years: the amber moth given to me as a child by one of the king’s lads, Brian fitz Count, a relic of my past. I pulled it out and examined it once again. In the light of the sun, its color was bright orange. The moth was still trapped there, just as it had always been. How strange to think that I might once again see the one who gave it to me, along with the rest of England!

  I placed the stone back inside and pulled out my other most sacred object: the paternoster handed down to me from my blessed mother and grandmother. Even if I returned, I could not meet with them, for they dwelt with the Lord in heaven. How I missed the land of my childhood: a land which no longer existed, even if England itself remained. As the ladies continued to wait, I closed my eyes and stood there reciting my prayers one bead at a time. I prayed to God that I would be granted a child, the emperor would be reconciled with the pope, my husband would be healed of his pain, I would please him as a wife, and I would one day set foot on the shores of England again.

  Suddenly, there was a noise upon the water, and I opened my eyes to see a pair of the most magnificent birds. I was told that the Germans called them Haubentaucher, but I thought I remembered seeing such a creature in England with a different name. They were the size of a goose, but far more elegant. Their heads were covered in a plume of orange and black feathers that gave them the appearance of kings. As I watched, the two birds rose out of the water until they met face to face and swayed in a kind of dance. I beheld them in awe, so graceful were their movements.

  “What are they doing?” I asked the ladies behind me.

  “The male is attempting to woo the female,” Gertrude replied. “It is their way. At this time of year, they always act in such a manner, or so I have heard.”

  “So that is how they express love?”

  “I do not know if birds can love, but yes.”

  “Would that all God’s creatures could love,” I whispered, not loud enough for the ladies to hear. “Would that we were all as free as the birds of heaven.”

  II

  Once I received that letter from my father, I thought it would be joined by others. Indeed, I thought he might call me to Normandy or England to discuss the succession: perhaps even to appoint me officially as his heir, pending the birth of a new son. Instead, I was left to wait in anguish for a year before King Henry finally summoned me home. How happy it made me to think that I would see the shores of England again! Not only that, but I longed to move out of the state of suspended anguish I had experienced since the death of my brother. Was I to be recognized as heir, or was I not?

  Alas, though I traveled west for several days—all without the company of my husband—my progress was stopped when Count Charles of Flanders refused to grant me safe passage through his lands. Why would he do such a thing? Because of his alliance with William Clito, my traitor of a cousin. Clito held hopes of gaining the throne of England for himself, either after my father’s death or before. Therefore, he set out to ruin everything, including my travels. What a knave!

  I therefore returned to Germany with a heavy heart, having gained neither answers nor a chance to see my home again. Instead, I was placed back in the middle of the investiture controversy: the conflict between Emperor Henry and the pope over who had the right to appoint and consecrate bishops. Many years had already passed without any relief from that perpetual controversy. I thought we should never be rid of it! Though the seeds of agreement were always present, neither the emperor nor the Church was able to reap the fruits of peace. However, as we entered the year of our Lord 1122, it seemed that all the parties were in a mood to put this matter behind them and start anew.

  An agreement between the emperor and princes had paved the way for further concord. The two sides even released some of the men taken prisoner over the course of those man
y battles. Pope Calixtus displayed his good faith by sending three cardinals to the German court as his ambassadors. I dearly hoped that they would reach an agreement that not only freed the empire from conflict, but also lifted the ban of excommunication on my husband. I admit that as I watched my husband grow more ill, I feared for his eternal soul, knowing that he stood outside the bounds of the Church. I cared for him truly as a wife, even if I was never to feel for him quite what Brünnhilda felt for Siegfried. The uncertainty of his situation tore at my heart, and I longed for relief.

  Moreover, I remembered how, before my great mother passed on to her eternal reward, she bade me do all in my power to reconcile the emperor with the Holy Father. Though she was by that time long gone, her words were ever present in my mind. When I first took on the title of queen, I felt as one thrashing about in the sea, doing my utmost to keep my head above water. There was no thought of progressing toward anything, but merely of staying afloat. I did not know what it meant to leave a legacy for future generations. That summer, I began to wonder what my role might be in the greater drama—the infinite story in which we are all brought together.

  Although no physician had declared it, I feared that my legacy, both to the German people and to my own family, would never include children. This grieved me deeply. I had failed in my first duty: whether by my own fault or that of my husband, I could not be certain, but it hardly mattered. I therefore longed to serve some purpose, and as the clerks began to sharpen their quills for the long foreseen council, I was resolved to do all in my power to bring about my mother’s dying wish: to aid the reconciliation of the emperor and the Holy Father.

  If ever there is a perfect place to endure the hot summer days—when Sirius sets all men ill at ease—and to embrace a higher vision of life, it is the fortress of Trifels. It sits upon that summit as an eagle in her airie, and when one ascends her heights, one moves closer to God himself. A castle crowned with the clouds and adorned with the sun, its feet covered in the unending green of the forest. Ah, the forest! Many a wood covers the face of England, but none so ancient and unyielding as the Pfälzerwald and its southern brother, the Schwarzwald. This is not merely where the people of that land live. It is in their very bones and marrow, even as the rising hills are in their hearts. The longer I remained there, the more it became a part of me. It was in this castle that the emperor chose to reside as he waited for a decision from the bishops.