Led by two rows of drummers and surrounded by six of Heinrich’s guards, we entered the Palatine Chapel. The kingdom’s nobles had gathered within. A choir of beautiful voices, accompanied by melodious music, heralded our entrance. Heinrich wore a woolen knee-length tunic of scarlet red. A broad sash embroidered with falcons, stags, and wreaths trimmed his over-tunic with elongated sleeves. A large black belt encircled his waist; the leather tooled with falcons to match his tunic. His long trousers fit loose and were cross gartered to the knee with thick black laces. A large ruby brooch kept his red, fur-lined mantle fastened to his shoulder. His scabbard held the broadsword his father had once given him. The overall effect suggested strength and serene power. Heinrich—the first Saxon crowned king. My heart filled with pride, even rising above my trepidation.
I walked behind my husband in my over-tunic of deep amethyst. A circlet of gold above my white veil kept my braided hair in place. Over my shoulders flowed my beloved scarlet mantle, Heinrich’s wedding gift to me, cherished all these years, and worn for the most reverent celebrations. I loved it because red was the color Heinrich favored the most. My shoes were of fine black leather engraved with florets and fastened at the ankle with leather straps. The numerous pieces of gold and silver I wore glimmered in the sunlight streaming through the chapel windows.
Behind me came Otto, six summers old. A fetching child, he sported long curls of golden hair. I had insisted Otto be dressed identical to Heinrich in the scarlet colors of royalty. The effect was enchanting, and the crowd made their pleasure evident by smiling and nodding as we walked past.
Thankmar followed Otto. He had already lost his boyish airs. His voice had deepened and he had grown several inches. His face was sullen, as if he struggled to suppress turbulent animosity. I suspected he resented his placement behind Otto.
Sister Ricburg followed with Gerberga and Hedwiga, and a nursemaid carried Heinz. We made our way to the front and the marble throne of Karl the Great. I experienced a twinge of anxiety for what lay hidden in our future. Heinrich could be a calculating, a merciless man if needed. He valued those who showed no weakness. His harshest contempt he reserved for the bishops. By banning them from the coronation, and announcing that his reign would be independent of the Church, he had rendered them ineffective. Their deliberate exclusion was a supreme insult and made it clear to one and all that his rank was higher, whereas King Conrad had allowed the bishops too much influence. In my opinion, Heinrich was making the graver error.
We ascended the dais and as I observed those gathered, I could not help but notice that Duke Arnulf of Bavaria, his uncle, Burchard, Duke of Swabia, and several Lotharingian nobles were not present. I glanced at Heinrich, and by the twitch in his jaw, I knew he had observed this, too. These absences smacked of dissension, though it would be hours before we would learn why.
A page presented Heinrich with a pillow of blue, upon which rested the gilded ceremonial sword of king. Heinrich raised it high above his head with both hands.
“Behold the sword of kings, the sword last worn by King Conrad. With this blade, I promise to protect our domain from our enemies.” He then removed his father’s weapon from his scabbard and handed it to the page to hold. Heinrich slid the royal sword into the sheath.
Another page walked forward bearing a scarlet pillow with a golden crown studded with emeralds, sapphires, and rubies upon it. Heinrich raised it above his head. “Regard the crown. I promise to honor the title of king and to protect the people of this country until my death.”
A great cheer arose.
A third page carried my crown on a pillow of green. Amethysts and rubies adorned its engravings of crosses and roses. Heinrich lifted it from the pillow. Love and pride radiated from his countenance as he placed it on my head. “Behold my wife, your new queen, Matilde.”
I addressed the crowd. “I promise to honor the title of queen and to care for the people of this country to the best of my abilities all the days of my life.”
A fourth page carried a circlet. Heinrich placed it on Otto’s head. “Behold my son, Otto. I promise to teach him to protect and serve the people of this country.” He placed his hands on Otto’s shoulders. “From this day forth, I grant you the title of Duke of Saxony and entrust its lands and people to you.”
This, I had not expected. I watched with disbelief as Heinrich hung the pendant of Saxony around Otto’s neck: a large sapphire on a base of engraved gold. Heinrich next bestowed Otto with his father’s sword; a weapon carried into many a battle, breathtaking in its magnificence. It now belonged to our son, even if he was far too young to wield such a blade.
Heinrich then accepted the royal scepter and rod.
The audience bowed before us as the choir sang. At that moment I caught sight of Thankmar who waited off to the side. I would forever remember his eyes. Once brilliant, they were dead and cold. Gone was the innocence of childhood. How I wished to place a consoling arm around his shoulders, but I would have to wait until the end of the ceremony and banquet when the scrutiny of the people was no longer upon us.
WE SOON LEARNED why the Bavarians and Swabians were absent. Duke Arnulf of Bavaria, supported by his uncle, Burchard of Swabia, had declared Bavaria a kingdom, and had crowned himself as its king. Heinrich decided to remedy the matter with a show of force. After the coronation festivities, he led his army southward. My husband kept me informed of his progress. A steady stream of messengers arrived and through them, I learned he and his forces had passed through Erfurt, Elwangen, Ulm, Hofen, and Aulendorf, gathering men as they traveled. In a few weeks, they arrived at Regensburg, the Swabian town where Burchard ruled as duke. Valiant, but ill-trained, the Swabians found themselves outnumbered. After much bloodshed, Burchard surrendered and swore fealty to my husband. Gathering what remained of Burchard’s depleted soldiers, Heinrich added them to his regiments. The massed troops then swept into Bavaria.
Arnulf’s Bavarians were also poorly prepared. Heinrich’s men sought them in towns and villages in their path of destruction. The Bavarian army, already depleted due to attacks from the Magyars who had earlier come to Arnulf’s aid and then turned on them, found they were no match for Heinrich and his warriors. Arnulf struggled to keep his men united and fighting, but to no avail. Unable to withstand Heinrich’s forces, and grossly outstripped, Arnulf’s men fled for their lives. Arnulf hollered at them, ordered them to return, but his enraged bellows went unheard, lost amongst the fading battle cries and moans of the dying. Left with no alternative, Arnulf conceded.
Like a pebble thrown into a pond, rumor of Heinrich’s victories over Swabia and Bavaria rippled into the far corners of the kingdom, and the stories grew with each retelling. Yet, in spite of this, internal strife was far from being over. There remained the duchy of Lotharingia, and I knew my husband would not rest until he brought it back into the folds of his kingdom.
Chapter Eleven
A.D. 921
THROUGH A FRUITFUL autumn and stark winter, I awaited Heinrich’s return. Then on a dazzling spring afternoon, verdant with the first colors of spring, he arrived home. He had secured Swabia and Bavaria, but Lotharingia remained beyond his grasp—a sore point. The Lotharingians refused to recognize him and instead had elected a man named Charles as their king. Therefore, Heinrich had met Charles on a boat anchored in the Rhein near Bonn to negotiate for the duchy. Although it had been an amicable discourse, Charles had refused. Heinrich’s pride would not accept the setback. One evening, as Heinrich and I shared a private meal in the antechamber of our quarters, a guard brought us a weather-stained parchment. “Majesty, a messenger bade me deliver this to you.”
Heinrich untied the ribbon and tossed it aside. He handed the document to me to read. I waited for the guard to leave before I revealed its contents. “This is most unusual. There is no signature other than the letter ‘G’. Whoever sent this advises the Holy Lance is in Lombardy in the hands of a particular count.” Puzzled, I glanced at Heinrich. “Have you any idea who �
��G’ is?”
“It is a man named Gebhard. He is a merchant who travels between Venice and Genoa to purchase silk. I asked him to seek the lance. For a price, of course.”
I kept my voice controlled. I had dreaded the day when Heinrich found the relic. “The letter states he has not yet discovered the man’s identity.”
“It cannot be difficult. How many counts can there be in Lombardy? In the morning, I’ll send my men to Lombardy to find him and determine a price.”
“And if the Lance cannot be bought?”
Heinrich sat and raised his goblet to his lips. “Every man has his price.”
HEINRICH SEQUESTERED HIMSELF with his war council. Night had fallen when I walked past the Curia on my way back from the Palatine Chapel. The door was ajar and I peered inside. Heinrich sat on the dais at the front of the long, narrow room lined with three rows of seats occupied by twenty or so men. In one corner of the room, several servants lingered beside a table heaped with food platters and wine flasks. Curious as to what they were discussing, I paused to listen.
“I cannot disagree. It is time to rid ourselves of the Magyars, but in order to eliminate the threat we need the help of the dukes and their vassals.” I identified this passionate voice as that of Franco.
“Zsolt, their prince, will not stand for a defeat at our hands,” Heinrich interjected. “The one thing the barbarian bastards understand is the puffing of chests and the drawing of swords. We must greet them with violence of our own.”
“Their army is larger. Zsolt keeps his ranks full under penalty of death. No one dares refuse to serve him. The Magyars will not be defeated as easily as the Swabians and Bavarians.”
I shuddered at the memory of all the murderous attacks by the foreign marauders who had devastated our kingdom for as long as anyone could remember.
“Zsolt is a man to fear and respect. He is impulsive and lacks restraint, an animal who thirsts for blood. Such men make mistakes, my lord, and when they do, their empires unravel,” a deep voice boomed. I could not identify who spoke.
“I have pondered the problematic Magyars,” Heinrich replied. “We must increase the strength of our army to new levels. There is power in numbers. We will garner enough support to face the eastern devils with equal numbers in order to defeat them. We must build upon the loyalty of our people.”
“You have already earned their loyalty and respect,” Franco ascertained.
“That can change on a breath of wind, but it isn’t enough. I have to do more.”
War again! Men died or experienced incapacitating wounds in battle, and the women and children suffered. A long-awaited opportunity presented itself to me. I smoothed my gown and swung open the door.
“My lord,” I called as I made my entrance.
Each man except Heinrich rose at my presence. Head held high, I swept the length of the elongated room. The sound of my heels against the marble floor echoed in the vastness until I ascended the dais. A servant brought forward a chair for me and set it down beside Heinrich. After I sat, the men re-seated themselves. “Please forgive my interruption. I came to bid you good night, but I could not help overhearing. May I offer a suggestion?”
It was enough of a shock that I had burst upon them, but to offer words of advice? Jaws dropped and lips pursed in indignation. I cared little for their reactions because I burned with the fire of righteousness.
Heinrich responded with a nearly indiscernible nod.
“Husband, you are a wealthy man. Reward your men with fair wages. Reduce their taxes. Make our people’s lives more fruitful. More men will join your armies if their families have the means to care for themselves in their absence.”
Heinrich scowled; his left hand covered his right fist.
A queen’s opinion carries far less weight than that of a king. Yet, I could tell by Heinrich’s silence he pondered my words, and it reassured me as I waited.
Heinrich scrutinized me, as if he had never before beheld me. In a move that broke protocol, he raised my hand to his lips and kissed it. “Your suggestion has merit.”
“You will consider it?” Could it be this simple?
Several men leaned forward. A few glanced away, faces reddening.
Heinrich gave me grin rich as a wheat field in morning sunshine. “Of that, you may be certain.”
“I am pleased.” I rose. “Pardon my interruption. I bid you all a good night.”
The men rose and bowed their heads as I left the chamber. Beyond the door, I paused to listen. My pulse quickened at the realization they were building upon my idea. Perhaps, with my first intervention as queen, I had helped avert bloodshed.
AT THE COCK’S first crow, I rubbed the last traces of slumber from my eyes, dressed, and attended chapel for morning prayers. Afterwards, I made my way to the kitchen to help Sister Ricburg and the servants light the kitchen fires and prepare the food needed to serve those who waited at the palace gates. It was a duty I had begun in the early days of my marriage in Walhausen, adopted from my grandmother during the days we had spent together at the abbey.
A biting wind buffeted my mantle while servants laid out food on tables in the bailey. I signaled to the guard at the gate to raise the portcullis. After a cursory search for weapons, the guards allowed the people to pass. The crowd was larger than usual, perhaps a hundred or more: an array of men, women, and children, the infirm, the poorest of the poor, the hungriest, and the destitute who lived in severe conditions and now gathered to fill their bellies.
Servants led them to several large vats of water on the far side of the bailey. I grasped the arm of an old woman, stooped with swollen limbs and almost blind, and led her to the tubs.
After my aids and I had helped them wash, we invited them to sit at the tables. Servants brought food. While they ate, I sat among them, asking their names, learning about their lives, opening my heart to them. The gratitude in their expression humbled me. Afterwards Sister Ricburg and I dined to satisfy our hunger. Perhaps one day, if Heinrich considered increasing the pay of his men, the number of people seeking our aid might diminish.
Chapter Twelve
A.D. 922
AS DUSK FELL one evening, I strolled with Heinrich around the courtyard in front of the Palatine Chapel: a few stolen moments after a day encumbered by duties. The heat of the summer’s eve felt warm on my veil as we strode around the perimeter, appreciating the scent of the flowers set in pots around the sun-lapped square. I enjoyed these brief interludes with my husband, when our talk consisted of our children and future dreams, and nothing more.
Franco stepped into the square and strode towards us, a graveness etched on his features. “The nobles of Lotharingia have revolted against King Charles. They mocked him by calling him Charles the Simple. He has fled and gone into hiding somewhere in Lotharingia. They deposed him, and in his stead, elected Robert of Neustria.”
Heinrich showed no emotion as he absorbed the news. Then he shook his head. “Robert of Neustria? A usurper! What folly for Charles not to have ceded Lotharingia to me!”
Franco rested one hand on the hilt of his sword. “It is time for you to claim Lotharingia.”
How typical of men to react with blunder and violence. I could not sit idly by without sowing a seed for more diplomatic action. “Husband, take the time to ponder and wait. Lotharingia is in turmoil. In time, another, more peaceful way to gain the return of the duchy might present itself.”
“We may need our armies to march into Lotharingia, but not yet.” Heinrich considered my words. “I agree. One day soon, the time will be right. For now, it is best to wait and watch.”
Albeit a small victory, my heart leapt in celebration. Heinrich would wait for the chance to peacefully reclaim Lotharingia. He had already taken to heart my previous advice, and by reducing taxes and increasing the pay of his men-at-arms, he had amassed the largest army in the history of the kingdom. Incursions by the Magyars occurred less frequently. A few more months biding his time for Lotharingia would be
ar little consequence.
Chapter Thirteen
A.D. 923
A TRANQUIL YEAR passed; one unmarred by skirmish or discord. Gerberga was now ten years of age, and ready to enter the convent to be educated. Joyfully, I brought her to Erfurt, where I had spent so many joyous years. Although I left her in the best of care, and she was excited to begin her education, I wept as I rode away; to be parted from children, even for a day, always left me in sadness. I returned home ready to face my duties anew.
Not long after my return, I learned that unexpectedly, the duchy of Lotharingia fell within our grasp.
Dark silver-rimmed clouds obscured the summer moon. The meal in the Great Hall had ended when a guard approached the high table to tell us a nobleman named Giselbert had arrived from Lotharingia.
Heinrich dropped his half-eaten chicken leg and wiped his hands on a towel. “Escort the man to the Council Hall. I’ll speak to him privately. And advise Franco to join us.”
The guard bowed then turned away, the spurs of his boots clicking against the tiles as he left.
Heinrich faced me. “I am baffled what this may pertain to, but please accompany me. Your presence will set a respectful tone.”
I nodded, eager to participate, and we stood together. Out of respect, the remainder of those gathered rose as we left the room. A torch-bearing page lit our way through the series of vaulted chambers and into the richly furnished Council Hall.
Heinrich strode to his throne at the front of the room and I sat in mine next to him. Dressed from chin to toes in a sweep of wine-colored silk and a belt of gem-set golden plaques binding the fullness of his over-tunic, I admired his regal presence. I rested my palms on my lap and waited.
Before long, Franco entered the room followed by Giselbert, a brawny young man with long fair hair tied back with a strip of leather. He fixed a piercing glare on Heinrich as he strode into the room, his short gray over-tunic rippling over well-muscled legs in riding boots.
The Prophetic Queen (Women's Biographical Historical Fiction): The Tumultuous Life of Matilde of Ringelheim Page 18