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

by Mirella Sichirollo Patzer

  At the center of the bailey, Heinrich and Franco conversed. They did not notice me approach.

  Heinrich checked his horse’s tack as he always did, to ensure the stable master had not forgotten anything. He bent to check the girth then straightened. He gave Franco a satisfied grin. “I am more than ready to leave. Like a whore opening her legs for a good rut, the Magyars will soon find themselves at the sharp ends of our spears.”

  “Heinrich!” I scolded as I came up behind him.

  His cheeks were ruddy with more than cold. “I did not hear you. I was speaking to Franco.”

  Franco raised his hand to his lips and feigned a cough as he glanced away.

  Beside us, surrounded by his band of warriors, Thankmar straddled his horse as well as any other man. Heinrich gave him a hard look. Thankmar glanced away.

  Across the bailey, I spotted Giselbert and Gerberga. Standing close together, they prepared to part. The poignancy of the scene reminded me of the first leave-taking between me and Heinrich. The knowledge they were happy together, warmed my soul. I prayed it would always be so.

  Where was Otto? Today, he would ride off to war for the first time. I had prayed the entire night to ease my fears. I searched the crowded courtyard and spied him near the stable doors. Together, Heinrich and I made our way to him.

  Otto grinned at our approach. At fourteen years of age, he was lanky, not yet filled out. Agility, speed, and youth were his strengths; advantages against men of greater years and bigger build.

  “Are you well prepared? Have you your weapons and armor?”

  “Yes, Mother.” Otto’s voice carried a tinge of exasperation.

  Of late, he showed embarrassment at my motherly concerns. I hung a leather sack onto the buckle at his waist, tugged it to ensure it was secure, and then patted it. “Inside are the relics of saints to protect you; the knuckle of Saint Candidus to safeguard your integrity: a lock of hair from Saint Gengulphus, the patron of warriors: a sliver from the cross of Saint Peter to keep you safe from frenzy: and a nail made by Saint Eligius to protect your weapons. Keep them with you so you may survive the dangers of battle. God keep you. I’ll pray for you.” A few tears froze against my cheeks.

  Heinrich placed his arm across my shoulder. “Have no fear, Matilde. Our son has honed his warrior skills. He can protect himself.”

  I nodded, eager to accept his assurances though my heart balked. “God keep you both safe.” I had sent Heinrich off to battle many times before, but not with our son, and never with a feeling of foreboding. Was it simply a mother’s protective love or something more? Had my imagination spiraled out of control?

  Everything seemed ready. Heinrich’s troops had mounted and awaited his command. He kissed me, released me from his embrace, and then turned to Gerberga, who came to stand beside me. “Have a care for your mother,” I heard him whisper into her ear as he swept her into his burly arms. He tweaked her cheek then turned away and mounted.

  As Heinrich rode across the courtyard, with Franco, Giselbert, Thankmar and Otto behind him, he paused before the gatehouse and regarded me unwaveringly. Then he turned away and shouted his command to ride forth. The war band swept through the gatehouse and over the echoing drawbridge timbers, to join the rest of the army beyond the palisade.

  THE BLARE AND clamor of war fills the air. The swish of arrows and thud of axes mingle with the plunging of lances and clanks of swords against shields. I watch the battle rage from the crest of a hill.

  Heinrich fights at the forefront. Blood sprays and stains the ground scarlet. The Magyars yelp as blows inundate them. The attack is so violent, it forces them to turn and flee.

  Amid the slaughter comes Otto’s haunting cry, louder than those of other any other man. A Magyar, of immense size and weight, has him backed against a wall. The man raises his axe and howls a curse as he prepares to strike my son.

  I SPRANG UP in bed, in a sweat, gasping for breath, a stifled scream in my throat. I studied the furnishings of my room to regain my bearings. A cold sweat drenched my body and my heart beat savagely. I tried to eradicate the nightmare from my mind, but the dream clung to me like a coat of oil.

  Our men had been gone for several weeks, and with each passing day, my apprehension worsened. In the dark, I fumbled for my slippers and robe then fled to the chapel. There, I fell to my knees on the cold floor before the altar. A bitter chill seeped through my flesh, into my bones. Feverish, I shook with uncontrollable tremors, my limbs and neck ached. Time receded. My weeping pierced the silent darkness. Then a fathomless blackness engulfed me.

  THROUGH FITS OF sleep and wakefulness, I became aware I was no longer in the chapel, but in my bed. Someone pressed a cool, damp cloth against my burning forehead and spooned water into my mouth.

  “Otto, Heinrich,” I murmured in my delirium. Then sleep stole me away once more.

  LARGE TREES SURROUND a walled convent. In the night’s cold shadows, lurks evil. The hoot of an owl shatters an eerie silence. Magyars emerge from the dark carrying short curved swords and silver embossed leather shields stitched with strange circles and curves.

  Their leader is an ancient, sadistic monster of foul disposition. They brandish razor sharp axes. Raising them high, with mighty blows they smite the abbey doors. As they hew, wood splinters. One man kicks hard to fracture what remains of the wooden door.

  Inside, nuns kneel before a tapestry of Michael the Archangel, the patron saint of my husband’s army. Behind them is a door leading to the underbelly of the convent and a secret passage ending in a cave in the woods. Through there, the women can flee.

  The abbess, her face covered with a black veil, pushes aside the tapestry, places her hand on the door’s latch, and turns. The latch is stuck.

  A loud crash shatters the stillness. A Magyar burst through the splintered door. He shoves aside broken shards to widen the opening. Another soldier follows with a blazing torch.

  The women scream. The abbess pushes her entire weigh against the door. It will not budge.

  The murderous men rush toward them.

  The sisters scatter, hurling books, candlesticks, and pokers. They pound their attackers with all their might, but their inadequate weapons fall like drops of rain upon the marauders.

  The abbess stands silent in the center of the room as if to await her fate. A brawny man rushes at her. She remains as still as a stone.

  With a vile laugh, the man shoves her to the floor. He rips open the bodice of her habit and throws himself on top her. She lies cold as a statue, eyes open and lifeless. The massive marauder smirks and moans as he squeezes her breasts and grinds his body against hers.

  All around, men ravage unwilling women.

  The Magyar’s grimy hand crawls up her leg and between her thighs. He forces her legs apart with his knee and fumbles to release his shaft. With an animalistic thrust, he penetrates her. Mad with lust, the barbarian ruts, until at last, he shudders and drops his full weight onto her.

  Her face void of expression, the abbess lies like a lifeless doll beneath him.

  He raises himself. Crazed, and with a grin, raises his dagger.

  She prays.

  Hail Mary, full of grace…

  The blade strikes with savage force.

  The Lord is with Thee…

  FEVER GRIPPED ME. Horrific dreams plagued me as I vacillated between unconsciousness and rare moments of lucidity. I was dimly aware of the healer who applied poultices to my chest and spooned horrible tasting tinctures into my mouth, and of Sister Ricburg who sustained me with water and warm broth.

  With each passing day, the fever lifted. The illness left me weak and bedridden, but days later I was able to leave the confines of my bedchamber. Soon, I returned to the Great Hall for meals, though I ate sparingly. My strength may have been restored, but the nightmares I had dreamt in my delirium weighed heavy on my heart. I lived with a growing dread, praying that the vision of the strike against Otto and the attack against the convent would not prove true. I dispa
tched guardsmen to nearby convents to check on the welfare of the women there, but I had yet to receive word. All I could do was wait. Unable to concentrate on little else, I immersed myself in prayer.

  WINTER RAGED ON until one cold morning in March, a bright sun shone through the cracks of my chamber’s shuttered window. From the distance came the racket of an approaching army: the clank of steel, the tramping and cadence of a march, and the grind of supply wagons. The cheers of people grew louder until Heinrich and Otto rode into the bailey, followed by Giselbert and the rest of the men.

  “Thank you, God!” My hands trembled as I raced from my bedchamber to greet them, tears of joy and relief blinding me.

  That night, Otto sat between Heinrich and me at the high table. Gerberga and Giselbert sat to our left. Thankmar shared a table with Mudric, Franco, Transbert, and other guardsmen.

  Heinrich hoisted his tankard.

  Otto said, “The future is bright, Father. Luck and God were on our side.”

  Father and son exchanged a secretive glance before quaffing their ale.

  Emotion choked me at the realization Otto had matured. He had departed a boy, but returned a young man, his first campaign already a fond memory to share around campfires.

  “Luck can’t take all the credit. Skill and our men’s courage made the difference.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” interjected Thankmar. With malice, he turned to Otto. “If it hadn’t been for Franco, who saved you from that barbarian’s axe, we would have had to bury you on the spot. There is no room on a battlefield for untested boys.”

  The goblet in my trembling hand toppled, and I raised my hand to my lips. “I dreamt it.” I scrutinized Otto’s face and body for any signs of harm.

  Otto rested his hand on my shoulder. “Do not worry, Mother.”

  With lips pressed tight, Heinrich glowered at Thankmar. “You would do well to remember that a man’s integrity is judged by his ability to discern when to speak and when to keep his mouth shut.” Heinrich cast a worried glance in my direction and his expression gentled. “Otto came to no harm. Franco and I kept him under scrutiny. I would give my life before letting him come to any harm.”

  The words came from Heinrich’s heart, and I believed them. Never had my wish for God to take the burden of prophetic dreams from me been as strong.

  A servant at the high table dried the spilled wine and brought me another goblet.

  Heinrich leaned back. “The Magyars have been ousted, but they will return. On one point, I agree with Otto; to taste from the cup of success is far better than to taste from the cup of failure.” Heinrich laughed as he gave Otto a hearty pat.

  “I’ll second that, with a strong tankard of ale and a feast of venison served by a willing woman.” Thankmar waved his tankard, which sloshed ale on his sleeve. He drank the rest of the contents in several long gulps.

  “What is a victory without a celebration?” Giselbert added. “And celebrating with my wife and her family is the best of rewards.”

  Gerberga beamed as Giselbert kissed her cheek. The room erupted with hearty cheers.

  “We fought a skillful campaign.” Wickedness rang in Thankmar’s tone as he addressed Otto. “But as much as I enjoy a warrior’s life, I prefer the homecomings. I hear we seized a prisoner, a comely Magyar wench who stole your innocence, Brother. I am told her name is Aranka.”

  Shocked, I turned, but Otto stared straight ahead.

  Thankmar grinned. “But my brother keeps her to himself. Ah, I remember well the sweet taste of first love.”

  Heat reddened Otto’s cheeks.

  Heinrich gave Thankmar yet another stern glare.

  I gripped the stem of my goblet and glared first at Thankmar then at Heinrich. A concubine for my son! I clutched the arms of my chair until my knuckles whitened. I could not speak, and prayed I could contain my anger until I could broach the subject with Heinrich in the privacy of our bedchamber.

  “I am proud of all you’ve accomplished, Father,” Otto said in an obvious effort to guide the conversation into another direction.”

  “Ah, my brother evades the matter of the girl,” Thankmar chided.

  “That is enough, Thankmar,” Heinrich warned.

  I flashed Thankmar a glare. He turned away uneasily, but said no more.

  “You mean our accomplishments.” Heinrich went along with Otto’s obvious diversion. “What you say is true, though the battles were not large.”

  “We were victorious, nothing else matters.” Mudric added.

  Otto rubbed his hand against the back his neck. “Your reputation as king results in fewer challenges. What will occupy your time now, Father?”

  “Peace is a mere interlude.” Heinrich played with the handle of his tankard. “New problems already plague us.”

  Before he could elaborate, a guardsman rushed into the hall. He was one of the men I had sent to check on the nuns at nearby convents. The man’s cheeks were ruddy, the edges of his brown cloak damp and caked with mud. He bowed then straightened his expression grim. “Sire, a band of Magyars attacked the convent at Magdeburg two days ago.”

  The hideous images of my dream returned with stark clarity.

  Thankmar rose, his face drained of color.

  My whole body tensed.

  The messenger sought first my reaction, and then Thankmar’s.

  “What of my mother, the abbess?” Thankmar’s voice cracked.

  The man hesitated. I knew his response before he could utter the words.

  He shook his head. “None of the women survived.”

  Magdeburg

  FROM THE REAR doorway of the abbey, I observed Thankmar, unmoving, at the center of the graveyard. His black mantle fluttered and whipped around his legs in the wind. He seemed oblivious to the tempest swirling around him.

  I glanced at the sky, pulled my mantle close against the bitter chill, and went to him.

  Six workers toiled to dig graves for the women in the frozen ground: painful, laborious work. Aware of our presence, at times one would glance sympathetically at Thankmar, for they knew he was the son of the murdered abbess.

  “Allow yourself to cry, Thankmar. There is no shame in it. I have shed many a tear. Few things in life are worthy of tears, but when they come, welcome them. It will not make you any less of a man.”

  Thankmar fell to his knees and released an unrestrained moan, deep and dark as death itself. I bent over him, squeezing his shoulder, waiting for him to regain control.

  When his sobbing subsided, I urged him to stand. “Come inside. There is nothing to gain by standing in this terrible weather. You will sicken. Your father wants you to ride home on the morrow. A return to your duties might help ease your pain.”

  “My father has no idea what I need.”

  “You are wrong. As we speak, he and bands of men are searching for those responsible. Understand he loves you.”

  “Must I? You assume much.”

  “Whether you believe it or not, it is the truth.”

  “I do not want to speak of my father. I would rather discuss the demons who killed my mother. They will pay for this travesty!”

  “Bloodshed isn’t the answer, but Heinrich will give you a say in what to do. He’ll need you to stand by his side, to help him find a way to keep this from happening again.”

  Thankmar hungered for revenge, but in his grief, he was in no mood to forgive his father or to become his ally against the Magyars. “I must bury my mother first. Beyond that, I cannot fathom what the future will hold.” He turned away, and I followed him into the ravaged abbey.

  I understood his grief; nothing or no one could replace a mother’s love. Heinrich loved him but Thankmar did not believe it. Thankmar seemed drained of emotion, of life itself, retreating into himself where no one could touch him. He had lost much in his short life, as if he had been born under an unlucky star. He ached to take his rightful place among the high nobility—an impossibility. His destiny was to be an outcast, as his mother had
been. I could not change it except to open my heart to him, as I always had, as I would always do.

  Inside, we brushed our clothes and stomped our feet to release the snow clinging to them. The large room, once decorated with beautiful vases and tapestries, was in disarray. Between the broken shards of pottery, ripped tapestries, and scattered tables and chairs, the secrets of death lingered. Thankmar made his way to where Hatheburg’s body lay on one of the tables. Beside her, on numerous other tables lay the mutilated bodies of the other sisters.

  He gazed at Hatheburg’s lifeless form, her face calm and white in death, and as he did, something died within him. His mother’s tragic murder would change him forever. What lingered in the shadows of his mind, and what would one day come to life, I feared most of all.

  Aachen

  FOR THE FIRST time in years, peace fell upon our kingdom. No Magyars burned villages or pillaged homes and churches. It was the eve of an imperial assembly and the day had dawned with black, irate thunderclouds. The palace was frantic with activity. Many of the nobles had already arrived. Servants prepared sleeping arrangements, food, and tended to the horses and servants of the guests. We had finished the midday meal in the crowded Great Hall when, helm in hand, a sentry approached the dais and bowed to Heinrich.

  “Sire, King Rudolf of Burgundy has arrived.”