The Prophetic Queen (Women's Biographical Historical Fiction): The Tumultuous Life of Matilde of Ringelheim

by Mirella Sichirollo Patzer

  “That is Quedlinburg, my home, and now yours also.”

  On the summit of a lofty hill, surrounded by a timber wall, rose a mighty fortress. Three towers loomed from its midst, one at each end with a large strong gatehouse tower in the center. The Liudolfing standard of an eagle set on a golden background fluttered in the wet wind. The imposing structure sent a shudder through me.

  We ascended the sharp winding road. At our approach, guards swung open the gates and we cantered through a long dark passageway beneath the gatehouse tower. Once inside, I felt as if I had entered a different world. Signs of heavy fortification were everywhere. I took note of the dilapidated chapel, the crumbling stable, the overgrown shrubs that blocked footpaths, and the many weeds that smothered the herbs in the garden. My heart sunk with disappointment. My husband’s priorities had been to create a strong fortress rather than a welcoming abode. For the first time in my life, I felt small and insignificant against the monumental task of turning this into a home.

  ALMOST DAILY, HEINRICH and his father sequestered themselves with their war council, arranging troops to patrol Saxon borderlands and repel imminent Magyar raids.

  A multitude of servants, healers, and apothecaries kept a vigilant eye over me by day and night. By late autumn, when my time drew near, Heinrich and Sister Ricburg accompanied me to Drübeck Abbey in Nordhausen on the northern edge of the Harz Mountains, less than a day’s journey from Quedlinburg. There, under the attentive care of the Benedictine sisters and a skilled midwife, I prepared to give birth to our child.

  Fortified by a perimeter wall, the abbey was long and rectangular with a quaint church built of stone beside it. Several neatly tended garden plots sprouted green herbs and vegetables. At the rear of the property, fruit and nut trees grew in a lush arboretum. At the rear, two large agricultural buildings housed goats and cows that provided the milk with which the nuns made their famous cheese.

  The abbess, a spry elderly woman with merry face, showed Sister Ricburg and I into a simple, but comfortable, guest chamber close to the one chosen for Heinrich. The antechamber contained a bed for Sister Ricburg with enough space to store my travelling chests. In the chamber, two tables flanked a large bed. A quaint writing table with a chair rested beneath an ample window overlooking the main square, and beyond the square, the mountains. A small prie-dieu rested against the opposite wall. Everything was clean with the wooden floors swept and no signs of dust on the furniture.

  I settled into a relaxed, comfortable languor. Being in the abbey brought back memories of the days spent with Grandmother. Tranquility helped ease my fears of childbirth and renewed me as I prepared to welcome our first child into the world.

  On a Sunday morning dark with clouds, I waited at the church’s altar to receive the bishop’s blessing. He placed his hands on my head. I suddenly gasped. A gush of water poured from between my legs and pooled at my feet. Aghast, I stepped back and gaped at the fast-spreading puddle. Around me, every noise, every action stopped.

  The bishop’s face reddened and he blubbered a few words. Sister Ricburg hurried to my side, as did the abbess. Together they accompanied me to my bedchamber. The abbess asked a nun to fetch the midwife. A bevy of assistants arrived bearing cloths, bowls of water, and numerous linens. As they pushed aside the bed to make room for the birthing chair, fear crept over me at the thought of the ordeal ahead.

  Before long, the pains became earnest. The midwife eased me onto the carved-out birthing seat. Hours passed, and I made little progress, the pangs growing evermore harrowing. My legs splayed wide, I cared little for the indignity of my pose. Agony racked my back and abdomen in an endless ebb and flow. I became oblivious to the midwife’s gnarled fingers each time she peered and probed me between the legs. Exhaustion gripped me. Each moment seemed an eternity. “Please let this be over,” I prayed in delirium, enduring one brutal pang after another. For the first time in my life, death stalked me, the agony threatening to tear me apart, yet I begged God to let me live.

  White-faced, Sister Ricburg prayed at my bedside. I fell into a fevered disorientation, my lips moving in desperate prayer by rote as wave after wave of pain assaulted me. The midwife checked me again, and when she drew her hand away, blood and mucus coated her fingers. “Your baby comes, Domina.”

  A compulsion to push overwhelmed me. I arched forward, sucked in a deep breath, ready to thrust.

  “Not yet! You must wait. Pant instead. It will help fight the urge to push.”

  I wailed as another urge to push gripped me. “I am going to die!”

  Sister Ricburg shrieked. “Please help her!”

  The midwife cast a stern expression in her direction then returned her attention to me. “The baby is nearly here. Do not push yet.”

  My energy faded, and the world around me grew dim. “Please, take the child from me. Let me die.”

  A pair of hands gripped my shoulders and shook me until my addled wits returned. “I refuse to let you die.” Sister Ricburg’s face came into focus. She screeched a command. Her words stirred me from the blackness threatening to take me.

  “Push Domina! Push hard! Do it!” The midwife’s forceful voice urged. I mustered what remained of my waning energy. I bore down with a powerful groan and such intensity; I feared I might have expelled my innards.

  “The head is out.”

  I leaned back into the chair, exhausted, sweat pouring off me.

  “Push! One last time.”

  My chest heaved and I thrust with what little strength remained until I felt the baby gush forth.

  “It is a girl,” the midwife announced as she raised the wet infant for me to glimpse.

  I wept with joy and relief. Despite my concern that Heinrich would be disappointed, I whispered a grateful prayer to God for sparing our lives. My gaze remained on my daughter as the midwife washed the blood and film from her tiny body. I received the swaddled baby in my arms and peered at the tiny creation. A torrent of love cascaded from my heart, greater than anything I had ever experienced.

  LATER, DRESSED IN a fresh kirtle and robe, with the room cleaned and the bedding changed, I greeted my husband.

  I held my breath as I studied Heinrich’s spellbound face as he regarded our daughter I held in my arms.

  “Thank God you are well. She is perfect, like her mother.”

  “You are not disappointed?”

  He shook his head and ran a calloused finger over the infant’s cheek. “A son will be born to us in due time.”

  I exhaled with relief, but the notion of repeating the ordeal brought a knot to my stomach. He leaned forward and kissed my lips.

  How could I doubt a man who loved me with such devotion? My already full heart overflowed with love for my husband who seemed to delight in all I did. “What shall we name her?” I asked.

  “If it pleases you, I wish to call her Hedwiga, after my mother.”

  I knew he still mourned her loss. “I can think of no better name. I wish I could have known her.”

  “She would have adored you.”

  I glanced at my daughter, and then back at Heinrich. “I would ask a boon of you.”

  He studied me, his face serene. “There is nothing I would deny you. You need only ask, and if it is within my means, it shall be yours.”

  “I wish for our daughter to be raised in the abbey and, if she takes to religious life, to become an abbess one day.” I waited for his answer. Religious life had evaded me, but perhaps not for Hedwiga. Life in an abbey provided safety and great learning. These were the greatest gifts I could give her.

  His expression turned contemplative as he ran his hand lovingly over our daughter’s head. “I realize that was your desire before we married. If God blesses us with more children, it would make me happy to give one daughter and one son to the Church. Let it be Hedwiga, then.”

  “You give me your word? You will not change your mind in years to come, even for political reasons?”

  “And if she disagrees with our choice?�
��

  “Then we shall seek a good marriage for her.”

  His jaw twitched and I knew his mind whirled with future possibilities. “You have my word. Hedwiga will enter religious life if she wishes it, and if we have more children.”

  I kissed our daughter’s forehead. Once given, Heinrich’s word was irrevocable, but a niggling doubt, born of some past dream, arose deep inside me.

  SEVERAL WEEKS LATER, I stood at the foot of the tower house stairs, spellbound by the chaos in the bailey. Heinrich had gathered an army. They were preparing to ride north where Magyar war bands had encroached upon our borders and were creating havoc. Heinrich was determined to vanquish them.

  The laughter of children, the tears of women, and the whinnies of horses mingled with the voices of soldiers departing for war. Beyond the fortress wall, hundreds more waited; a mass of warriors and wagons that would swell in number, collecting men and food, arms and whores, as they went. Such were the harsh realities of war.

  I had spent the night in the chapel, praying for a swift campaign, for God to spare my husband’s life, and the lives of his men. On the cold stone floor, I had knelt until my bones ached and I had no more tears to shed. Time would reveal if God would answer my prayers.

  Amid the bustle, I abided, determined to be strong. With one hand on my bosom and the other clutching the worn stones of my prayer beads, I ignored my sense of foreboding and composed myself, searching for the one face I yearned to see. I sensed him watching me. He stood near the armory, his stance confident. His black leather mantle billowed behind him as he navigated the knots of people and beasts to reach me.

  Fair and lean, he took my hands in his. “Matilde.” His voice overflowed with warmth.

  I flung myself into his arms, my chest taut with an upsurge of emotion. He pressed me hard against him; I inhaled the familiar scent of wind and leather and oiled chainmail. As if trapped on a precarious path, I had no choice but to relinquish my husband to an uncertain future. I was helpless to prevent it.

  When he pulled away, he breathed my name again. “Matilde.”

  “Return to me safe, husband. Remember my dream and be wary.”

  He kissed me with such intensity; it tore the breath from me. Then he wiped a tear from my eye and turned back into the crowd. His cavalry formed behind him as he mounted his warhorse. He reined the massive beast towards the portcullis and ordered his men to ride forth. Before he crossed the bridge leading past the timber palisades, he glanced back at me for one final poignant moment, and then rode from sight.

  Chapter Three

  A.D. 911

  Quedlinburg

  DAYS TURNED INTO weeks. I received no word from Heinrich. Anxiety shadowed me. Afraid of prophetic dreams, I dreaded the night. Mercifully, no nightmares occurred, and I awoke, relieved, each new day. I immersed myself with the duties of a duchess and mother. Hedwiga thrived: my love for her was great. I thanked God for blessing me with a strong, healthy child. Each moment I spent with her brought me endless delight. I insisted she come with me wherever I went, even on small jaunts to nearby villages or abbeys. The joys of motherhood helped keep my mind occupied, and I was, for short periods, free of worry for my husband.

  One night while I slept, I awoke to a tender kiss on my lips. Slowly, I opened my eyes. Heinrich sat on the edge of the bed. I propped myself up and plunged into the safety of his powerful arms. He had ridden ahead of his men to arrive without pageantry to surprise me.

  “Every night while I was away, I dreamt of this moment, of awakening you while you slept.”

  “And now that you have, did it please you?” I asked coyly.

  “It did indeed,” Heinrich responded.

  I lifted my bedcovers. “I am cold, my husband.”

  “I have a remedy.” He slipped in beside me and nestled me in his arms. My husband was home, and we indulged in the rapture of our reunion.

  MY GRANDMOTHER’S FRANTIC voice echoes in the vast stone corridors of the abbey. As if in urgent need, she calls out my name. I hasten in the direction of her voice and enter another corridor identical to the one before it. My grandmother calls again, sharper, this time from the opposite direction. Each time she speaks, I turn toward the sound, only to find myself lost in an endless labyrinth of dark halls.

  From nowhere, a woman appears and blocks my path; her back to me. She wears the ivory habit of an abbess. Grandmother? I try to call her, but the words stick in my throat. When I touch her shoulder, she turns. The face is that of a stranger.

  I continue onward, each footstep more laborious than the last. At the end of a long corridor, I find a set of heavy wooden doors. I pull one open and enter a chapel. An abbess lies face down in the nave before the altar, arms wide to the side. At my approach, she raises her forehead from the ground, pushes herself up onto her hands, and rolls onto her back.

  Grandmother! Her face is pale, but serene. Her lips form a scant smile. I want to speak, to touch her, but when I kneel at her side, she closes her eyes. Bit by bit, her flesh shrivels into corruption and crumbles into gray dust until she is no more.

  “MATILDE, AWAKE.” HEINRICH’S voice seemed to echo from afar. My body trembled as I clawed my way to alertness.

  “You had a bad dream.” He held me in his arms and brushed away tendrils of damp hair from my forehead. The bedchamber was dark, its shutters closed tight against the cold winter night. Dying embers glowed in the hearth. My pulse raced as I shoved the bed furs aside.

  “I dreamt of my grandmother again.” My throat was so parched my voice cracked.

  “The same images?” He poured wine from the pitcher on the bedside table into a goblet and handed it to me.

  I sat up, gulped the cool wine, and handed back the tankard. “Yes, but worse.” Two years had passed since I had last seen my grandmother and I sorely missed her, more so since my dream of her distress. “I must go to her, Heinrich.”

  “The snow and ice will make travel difficult.”

  “She is going to die. I must go. My dreams are urgent.”

  He frowned. By now, Heinrich had partially accepted my visions; he still had some doubt.

  “Do not doubt me.” Frustration edged my voice.

  “I do not wish to speak of this at this time.”

  “Then when? My dreams might be confusing, but they are never false. This dream of my grandmother is strong. She is calling me. I can feel it in every breath I take.”

  He hesitated and looked down at his hands.

  It was a sign he was contemplating my request. “If I do not stop too frequently along the route, I could arrive in less than ten days.”

  “It is frigid and the snow is high. The journey will be difficult. It is only worry.” He shook his head. “I prefer you remain here.”

  “And if I’m right? If she is ill or dying and I don’t go to her, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. I have to go. I’ll take extra provisions and furs.” I caressed his shoulder then turned his head to face me. “Can you not see how important this is?”

  Heinrich pressed his lips together. “You ask me to go against my judgment.”

  A long pause ensued, but I kept my silence.

  “I’ll accompany you.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Had he denied me, I would have journeyed forth regardless and faced his wrath upon my return. I could not allow him to keep me from aiding my grandmother. “I welcome your company. It will not take me long to prepare.”

  The next morning, I kissed Hedwiga’s cheek as she slept, reluctant to leave her, but secure in the knowledge she would be safer here with the loyal servants and nursemaids who loved her.

  With Sister Ricburg and two maidservants to attend me, Heinrich and I departed for Erfurt. A contingent of bodyguards accompanied us.

  Our wagon made slow progress over the snow-covered roads. By night, we lodged in private homes or abbeys. At each stop, Heinrich rewarded our hosts with silver coins before we set off into the chilly new day. Finally, we arrived at the crest of t
he hill overlooking Erfurt. Blanketed with snow, the town rose from the blue mists of winter. The steeples of the Dom Sankt Marien faded into the hazy sky. As if the moment was not enchanting enough, the church’s bells tolled their familiar melody. When the ringing ceased, the crunch of our horses’ hooves against the crisp snow seemed louder. How bittersweet to return to my beloved abbey only to be greeted by the sadness of Grandmother’s illness.

  Heinrich rode up to the side of the wagon in which I travelled with Sister Ricburg. “How beautiful the sound of those bells!”

  “They ring for the prayers of Nones.” I conjured the familiar vision of the sisters filing to chapel.

  Heinrich studied me with concern. “You are exhausted, as pale as snow.”

  “I am no more tired than anyone else.” My anxiety increased with every passing moment. As if he read my thoughts, Heinrich urged his mount forward and the entourage followed.

  When we arrived at the abbey gates, Heinrich dismounted. He yanked on a long rope, which jingled a bell. Afterwards, a grate slid open in the iron gate and a nun’s face peered at us. She must be new, for I did not recognize her. “God’s light to you. What is your purpose?”

  “Open for the duke and duchess of Thuringia. We are here to visit the abbess.”

  She snapped shut the little door and unbolted the gates, which creaked open.

  We rode into the courtyard and the nun waited, her hand clutching her mantle closed against the cold. I dismounted before Heinrich could help me. The moment my feet touched the ground, I hurried through the front doors, with Sister Ricburg close behind me.

  The nun followed us inside. “My pardon. We were not expecting you, Domina.”

  “There was no time to send a messenger.” I pushed back the hood of my mantle. “How is my grandmother?” I shivered from being so long in the cold and blew warmth into my chilled fingers as I walked.