“Of course not. I understand. Now, why have you come? And why did you seek an audience with me rather than the emperor?”
“We know the emperor is most occupied at the moment with the great council, but I hoped that Your Highness might be able to spare a few moments. I cannot tell you what a pleasure it is to speak with you. Everyone knows you as ‘the good Mathilda,’ and they have only love for Your Highness. We well remember your marriage here and what a joyous occasion it was.”
“Yes, I think that I did see your rabbi there, though my memory is not perfect. Do people really call me that? ‘The good Mathilda’?”
It may seem odd, but given that I spent so little time conversing with the common man, I often had no idea how they viewed me. I feared that they thought ill of me on account of my lack of children, but if this was indeed true and they were calling me “good,” then perhaps I was doing something right after all.
“Oh yes! Not only Jews, but everyone in the city. However, if I might say so, our people have a special loyalty to you and your husband, for the emperor has been our greatest advocate during this most difficult time.”
“Difficult time?” I asked, quickly recognizing how little I knew about this people.
“Well, since that day of which we do not speak: di groys tseshterung, the great destruction.”
“Do you mean the killings that took place?” I inquired, seizing on the faintest bit of a memory.
“Yes,” he whispered.
For a moment, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, his features strained. He seemed almost to shudder at the thought of it. Then he continued.
“About twenty-five years ago, it came upon us: the great destruction. We had heard rumors of trouble in Metz and Speyer, but nothing could have …”
He paused again, his voice seemingly choked by sorrow. He was wringing his hands together, his eyes no longer upon me but darting back and forth across the floor.
“Forgive me, it is difficult to speak of it,” he finally said. “I was one of the fortunate ones. My brother and I worked in the fields just outside the city. We were very young then. Therefore, we were not present when Count Emicho arrived with his men.”
He raised a hand to his brow, and I suspected he was attempting to hide a tear.
“Who was this Count Emicho?” I asked, attempting to help him along.
Shmuel nodded and dropped his hand. “He was what you call a pilgrim, a knight of the cross. He had many hundreds of people with him bound for the East—perhaps it was even thousands. The bishop: he tried to help the Jews. He let them into his own palace, but that is not a fortress that can withstand a siege. My brother and I had been working all day when we heard the distant screams; then we saw smoke rising from the city. What could we do? We hid ourselves in the bushes. We lay like that until nightfall, without moving or even saying a word. I remember … I was so afraid. I was sure I was going to die. Eventually, we both fell asleep there in the field. When we woke the next morning, the crowd was gone. We ran back to the city and looked everywhere for our father, mother, and three sisters. They were not in the house. Everything had been taken or burned. I ran to the bishop’s palace, but I was afraid of what I would find. The building was so badly burnt that much of it had crumbled. Everywhere I looked, there were dead bodies. Many of them had been cut down with weapons or beaten to the point of death. Some of the villagers were working to move them for burial, but most were still lying in the open. I remember the lifeless faces: I still see them in my dreams. It was only my desire to find my family that allowed me to continue, or else I would have turned and fled. I began going up to the bodies one by one, turning them over, looking for any familiar faces. I recognized several of them as shopkeepers, fellow students, or friends of my mother, but none were my family. I finally ventured into the building itself. There was still smoke and everything was covered in ash and soot. In one of the rooms, I saw several bodies all together in a corner. A man—I think he was a monk—was about to carry them away. I said to him, ‘Wait! Wait!,’ only I did not know the German language at that time, so it must have sounded like babble to him. I pressed forward and looked at the bodies. They were among the most badly burnt. It was, forgive me—”
There had been tears forming in his eyes since the beginning of his tale, and now they poured out. I could tell that there was a great weight to his memory—one that he had carried with him for years. I was not sure if I should offer some kind of comfort. Empresses do not often witness such behavior. I was still not certain what this man wanted me to do for him or how it affected the emperor’s difficulties with the pope, but for once I attempted to set my own concerns aside and simply listen. At length, he was able to gain control and continue.
“It was only by my father’s ring that I knew him. He was a jewel smith, like his father before him. My grandfather began selling such things to wealthy merchants and government officials. He even made some for Emperor Henry IV. But he crafted one ring of the finest gold to be kept in our family, and upon his death it passed to my own father. That was the ring that I saw on my father’s finger. I suppose it was a small miracle that the brutes did not take it, as they stole everything else. For that matter, it ought to have melted, but I believe the Lord preserved it. I reached out and removed it, placed it on my own finger—as you can now see—and left. I could not bear to look at their bodies any longer. I should have stayed and made certain that they received a proper burial. In that, I failed them. As I was leaving the place, I noticed a man sitting alone on the steps. I recognized him: he was a cantor at the synagogue. He was grasping his legs, rocking back and forth, and muttering to himself. I wanted to know how he was still alive, and to help him. I asked him, ‘What is wrong, brother?’ I will never forget this: He turned and looked at me, his eyes red from tears, and he said, ‘Don’t you see? I am a traitor! I let those foul creatures baptize me! That is why I am alive.’ Over and over, he kept saying, ‘Don’t touch me! I am a traitor!’ The next day, he killed himself.”
This was the end of Shmuel ben Yitskhak’s tale, and I could scarcely comprehend its sorrow. I had known loss throughout my life, but never like this man. It seemed strange that soldiers of Christ should act in such a manner. My mind was utterly confounded.
“Why have you told me this?” I finally asked, struck by the power of his tale, but still wishing to arrive at the point.
“Because you are the empress,” he answered. “I do not mean simply to burden you, and I would not say such things if I did not believe it was truly necessary. For years, my people have dwelt in the Rhineland. We made our homes here. Of course, there were some disputes with the goyim—the native people—but we thought that with time they would lessen. Then, in just a few days, most of us were dead. Those that remained, such as myself—we have been trying to rebuild. But this is difficult work! Not a day goes by when I do not wonder if such a thing might happen again. I have three children, and I want to keep them safe. I want them to live good lives without constant fear. Some of the bishops have tried to defend us, but we now see that it is only the emperor who has the power to keep us from harm. That is why I must ask you … I must beg you to plead our case to him. In our cemetery, there now lie more of us than those who are left to live and breathe.”
“But sir,” I finally said, “have you not thought that it might be better to go elsewhere? I am not saying that this violence was deserved, but you must know how it looks when you do not join in with the rest of us—when you remain separate. It leads to all sorts of suspicion, and the people do not understand why you reject the gospel of Jesus Christ.”
Looking back on that moment now, I understand that this was the wrong thing to say. I was still quite young at the time and did not know how to properly respond when confronted with such pain. I also knew too little of people unlike myself. He rightly corrected me for my mistake.
“Forgive me, Your Highness, but I must abide by my conscience,” he said with conviction. “I must be obedient to
God in the way he leads me. Our people are far more ancient than the Germans. Do you think we would have survived this long if we had simply become like everyone else?”
“But even if you are so determined to be separate, why do you remain in a land where you will always face hardship?”
“Do you think that is what we want?!” He said this with some passion, then recognized his mistake. “I beg your pardon, madam. I should not have raised my voice.”
“Just tell me what you were going to say,” I offered, for I was feeling a bit of guilt for causing him distress.
He smiled and nodded. “You know how every man and woman wants to go to the Holy Land? To Jerusalem?”
“Yes. I too wish to go there one day, though I doubt it will happen.”
“Well, that was our home, so many years ago that it is difficult even to remember. We were cast out, and now we are exiles upon the face of the earth, and we cannot go back to the place for which our hearts yearn. Every year, when we celebrate the pishka, we say, ‘Leshanah haba’ah bi yerushalayim! Next year in Jerusalem!’ That is our hope, but the Almighty has not seen fit to bring it about.”
“My lady,” Gertrude suddenly said, sticking her head around the door. “You are needed below.”
Although I did not know how urgent this request truly was, I was beginning to feel a fool in my conversation with the Jew. I had clearly made things worse rather than better. I therefore seized the opportunity to escape.
“Forgive me, but I must depart,” I told my guest. “Thank you for coming.”
As our hands met and clasped, I noticed that several of his fingers bore the faded remains of ink stains.
“Are you a scribe?” I asked.
“Yes. I make copies of the Torah and the Talmud—the sacred writings—along with the commentary of our beloved Rashi.” He must have recognized that I had no idea who that person was, for he continued, “Rashi was a great teacher of the last generation. He studied here for some time, and in Mayants—that is, Mainz. He still has many followers in Worms.”
“I see,” I replied, not wishing to delve too deeply in matters I was not likely to understand. Still, I saw an opportunity to make up for my error and show him I did care about the plight of his people. “Tell me, if I had some questions about the Holy Scriptures, would you be able to answer them for me? I know I must gain the full truth from Christian scholars, but it occurs to me that your opinion might be interesting.”
Now I had a chance to see upon the face of Shmuel ben Yitskhak the complete opposite of his earlier look of despair. He seemed as if he would burst with joy.
“Empress Mathilda, there is nothing I would love more! But surely, you would prefer someone more learned? As I said, I am still a student.”
“I would prefer you,” I said, “and I will pass on your sentiments to the emperor.”
Thus ended my first discussion with a Jew. At first, I did not know why it should have affected me so, but then I suddenly recognized what it was I had been feeling: the joy of possibly doing something worthwhile. I so longed to do something that would last and to feel that, whether or not I brought children into the world, my time in the empire had some helpful purpose. Perhaps aiding this Shmuel and his people could provide me with a positive occupation. However, no sooner had I reached this epiphany, than I was forced to return my thoughts to that subject which had occupied all of our minds for some time: the controversy with the pope.
“Can the black Moor change his skin? Or the leopard his spots?”
That was the question before us, or very near it. Could a man who had made himself known as one thing, ever striving toward the same end, become suddenly changed? This was the hope in those days of waiting with regard to Adalbert of Saarbrücken, archbishop of Mainz. For many years, he had played the part of a spider spinning us all in his web of rebellion. At one time, he was a true friend to his lord, when the emperor was young and relied on his counsel. But once he was granted the due reward for his fealty, Adalbert transformed into something else entirely.
Could he now affect a different change and become a faithful servant of the emperor? Even the devil may appear as an angel of light, but as I sat in the Kaiserpfalz, I worried that Adalbert might be more like the dwarf Fáfnir, whose lust for gold caused him to turn into a hideous dragon. This last tale seemed most proper for our situation, for we were after all in the city of Worms, named for the very Lindwurm slain by Sigurd. So would the leopard change his form, or better yet, the dragon?
One morning, about a week after the council had begun, the emperor called me to his private quarters. Based on past experience, I knew there could only be two causes for this: he wished to try again for an heir, or he was in some physical distress that he wished to conceal. If the former, then I supported his desire, but I doubted whether it would do any more good than all the other times. If the latter, then I had great reason for concern, for I had long feared his disease would grow worse. I therefore made my way in haste to the other side of the palace.
Upon reaching the door to his chamber and finding a strange absence of guards, I called to him from beyond the portal. Hearing something like a groan, I determined that it was safe to proceed. I opened the door and quickly closed it behind me.
The emperor was lying on a couch next to the fire, a look of misery on his face. He appeared to have been taken ill suddenly, for only one of his boots lay on the floor, and the other was still firmly on his right foot. The other objects in the room showed very few signs of order, with his bed and a table and chairs being the only things still fairly upright. There were papers lying everywhere, with the largest pile perilously close to the fire. When I had taken all this in, I looked back at my husband’s face, on which the light of the fire softly danced. He did not turn his eyes to me, but continued to rub his belly.
“Is it the same pain as always?” I asked, moving toward him.
“Stop!” he uttered, just before I stepped in something that appeared to be vomit.
I strove not to let my face show how repulsed I was by the sight of it. “You are ill! I will fetch the physician.”
“No!” he cried earnestly. “Please, stay here with me a while. There is nothing he can do.”
“You summoned me just to clean the floor?” I asked in annoyance, still not understanding why he refused to see the physician.
“If you hand me something, I can do it myself,” he offered.
He pulled himself upright in a rather feeble manner, wincing in pain as he did so. I felt rather guilty for causing this.
“No, let me do it. Just rest,” I ordered.
I bent down and took care of the nasty business, then threw the cloth into the fire.
“Lady Mathilda,” he said weakly, “I think not one in a thousand empresses would have consented to do that.”
“Well, thank God I chose the proper moment to reveal my special talent,” I said with a smile.
I reached out and felt his forehead, which was perfectly cool despite the heat of the fire.
“Have you been like this all day?”
“No, just this once. I was alone reading the day’s report,” he said, pointing in the direction of the heap of papers just behind me.
“Little wonder you’re ill!” I said, taking some of them in hand. “Is there no one who can read these for you?”
“You and I both know it is not the work. The pain—I tried to take more wine for it, but it endures. At times, I think I cannot bear it.”
After giving the matter a moment’s thought, I set the papers back down and asked, “Will you let me feel it?”
“What?!” he cried, his eyes growing wide. “I am sure I do not know what you mean!”
“Oh, spare me this act! The thing may well be killing you, and you will not let the physician look for fear he might inform the town crier. I am your wife: you can trust me. Now, let me feel it!”
I believe in that moment I was more his mother than his wife, and perhaps it was because of this tha
t he finally relented. He pulled my hand toward him, and what I felt almost caused my heart to stop. More like stone than flesh, the lump had grown so large that I could not imagine how he had remained civil.
“My lord,” I said softly. “My lord, you need a surgeon.”
“No!” he yelled with such force that I shuddered. “How dare you speak of it?! I am the emperor!”
“My lord,” I said again, pulling my hand back as tears formed in my eyes.
“No! You think because I permitted you that liberty, you can speak of such things?! I am the Holy Roman Emperor!”
“Let them remove it,” I whispered. “Let them free you of this pain.”
He wrenched my arm, a fierce look in his eyes. “I will only say this once, so listen well: no man will make a eunuch out of me!”
I do not know what might have happened next, had there not at that very moment been a rather loud beating upon the door.
“Open up, uncle!” a voice called.
“We know you’re in there!” another said.
“That will be your nephews,” I whispered to the emperor, who still held me firmly in his grip. “Pray, release me, and I will shoo them away.”
By the look on his face, I judged that he would be just as happy for me to shoo myself away, but he let me go, and I made for the door, which was still under assault by the young men’s fists. I opened it and saw the faces of Duke Frederick of Swabia and Duke Conrad of Franconia, both of whom were quite surprised to find me there.
“Empress Mathilda!” the elder brother said. “We did not think to see you here.”
“That’s odd. The midwives said the same thing when they pulled me from my mother’s womb and found me lacking a vital member. I seem to revel in the element of surprise.”
The brothers remained silent: they either did not see the humor, or were afraid to laugh.
“Oh come, now!” I said. “I merely jest.”
“Is the emperor here?” Duke Conrad asked.
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