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

by Mirella Sichirollo Patzer

  It caught me by surprise. What could bring the King of Burgundy to our court on the day an assembly?

  “Rudolf.” Heinrich grimaced. “With how many men?”

  “One hundred.”

  “Why was I not forewarned of their arrival?”

  “I do not know, Sire.”

  “The King of Burgundy, with a delegation of one hundred men, crosses onto my lands and no one notices them?” Heinrich glared at the man.

  I knew my husband’s opinions. Now that they had ousted the Magyars, had they slackened their vigilance?

  “We believe they disguised themselves.”

  Heinrich inhaled and gritted his teeth.

  “What could he want?” I asked.

  “He is married to Duke Burchard of Swabia’s daughter, Bertha. Burchard is dead, so I suspect he wants to bargain for Swabia.”

  And it is likely you will exchange it for the Holy Lance. I bit my lips to keep from speaking the words aloud. Heinrich had long been aware Rudolf possessed the relic. I shuddered at the notion of the cursed relic entering my home.

  Heinrich leaned forward and rubbed his chin. “Keep them waiting, but make them comfortable. I’ll tell you when King Rudolf and his men may enter.”

  He paced the length of the dais and called for Brother Rufus, who arrived within mere moments. “I want a document that will exchange some land for a relic.”

  My thoughts had proved true. “Heinrich, please, reconsider.”

  He cast me an icy glare and I knew I could not sway him. This had been his dream since our first days together.

  Parchment, ink, and quills were called for. Heinrich dictated, and Brother Rufus scratched the words onto a sheet of parchment. Heinrich then summoned two of his servants and commanded them to arrange additional food and lodgings for Rudolf and his men. He ordered courtiers to present themselves at the Great Hall one hour before the evening feast. He would explain to no one, not even me, what he had planned.

  The afternoon sun was already low in the sky when Heinrich decided Rudolf had waited long enough. He called for his sentries. “Escort the Burgundian king and eight of his men into the inner bailey. Once there, ask them to wait again.”

  And wait again they did.

  Heinrich and I departed to our bedchambers to dress for the evening feast.

  Rudolf and his men lingered in the hot early evening sun.

  Afterward, I found Heinrich in his rooms. He gazed out the window at the bailey, and I went to him. He had dressed with care. His golden silk over-tunic embroidered with a black falcon, the symbol of his royal house, was the most magnificent piece of clothing he owned. A large sapphire pendant hung around his neck, its chain partially obscured by his fair collar-length hair and beard. Light from torches in brass sconces on the walls illuminated the brilliance of his robe and jewels.

  I glanced to see what had caught his attention. Servants fetched urns of water and towels for Rudolf and his men. Stable lads brought sheaves of hay and buckets of water for their horses. At least they were accorded a bit of hospitality, and for this, I was grateful.

  “They still wait!” I exclaimed incredulously.

  “Indeed they do.”

  “Is that wise?” My discomfort was profound. “You risk the ire of a neighboring king.”

  “Trust me. Rudolf wants Swabia. I’ll offer him something, but not Swabia. Waiting will unsettle him. He’ll be more pliable when I bargain for the Holy Lance.”

  I inhaled a quick breath, unable to disguise my disappointment. “Please reconsider, for my sake. It is dangerous, and I fear for you, for us. It will bring death to our family.”

  Annoyance flashed across his features. We had discussed the Lance many times over the years, our opinions always in opposition.

  “I cannot do as you ask.” He faced me with a conciliatory expression. “But I promise that if I acquire it, I’ll take the utmost care with it. Come; let us sit for a while longer.” He gestured to two chairs flanking a table upon which rested a flask and two silver goblets. He poured wine into the vessels and handed one to me. He sensed my discomfort. “Have some honeyed wine first. Then we’ll greet our guest.”

  I drank quickly to hasten the wait, but Heinrich sipped with deliberate, excruciating slowness. He swallowed the last few drops and with a satisfied sigh, rose. “It’s time to make our grand entrance.” He offered me his arm and we made our way to the Great Hall.

  The falcon-master waited. Perched on the man’s leather gauntlet was Heinrich’s prized eagle. The massive bird was hooded, yet alert to movements in the hall. Heinrich called for him at important gatherings, believing the presence of a fine hunting bird on his arm garnered additional respect. The master handed Heinrich a gauntlet to don, then transferred the bird to his arm.

  Together we entered. Guests had filled the room to its capacity, and they greeted us. Franco sat at his customary place to the right of the high table. For this occasion, he had dressed in full military regalia, his right hand poised on the engraved hilt of the sword hanging from a scabbard at his waist, ready to draw should any mischief arise. Otto awaited us at the high table. He looked fetching in his azure tunic with black silk cuffs around the sleeves and neck. Torchlight illuminated the brilliance of the circlet he wore.

  A buzz of curiosity filled the room, yet Heinrich remained unperturbed. We took our places and he gestured for everyone to sit. A succinct but impressive drum roll rang out as the doors swung open. Our guards entered first, vigilant, prepared to suppress any commotion. Burgundians, surrounded by armed guards, followed. Their movements formal, our men came to a halt before the dais. They bowed, but slightly, so they could keep watch over the Burgundians.

  King Rudolf strode from the middle of their ranks with a herald at his left and the commander of his guard at his right. As he moved, his men parted and bowed to him in allegiance. At the dais steps, Rudolf removed his helmet. With an exaggerated sweep of Burgundian pageantry, he handed it to the commander.

  Heinrich scrutinized him, as he did all men who came to stand before him, regardless of their rank.

  Rudolf’s herald bowed with refined ceremony to present his overlord. “Rudolf, King of Jurane and Upper Burgundy, comes in peace and offers his good wishes to His Royal Liege, Heinrich, King of Saxony, Thuringia, Swabia, Lotharingia, Franconia, and Bavaria.”

  We, of course, knew his identity beforehand, but no one had informed the courtiers. Gasps of surprise echoed in the hall at the revelation.

  Rudolf listened solemnly to the long introduction.

  “I welcome you, Rudolf of Burgundy.” Heinrich swept his arm to the left. “This is my son, Prince Otto.”

  Rudolf’s attention shifted to our son.

  Otto bowed his head.

  “And my queen, Matilde of the Immeding clan of Ringelheim.”

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” We bowed our heads simultaneously.

  “What business brings you to Aachen?” Heinrich’s guarded tone did not surprise me. The meeting was so important that Heinrich chose his words with care, unwilling to risk losing the Holy Lance.

  “I come to speak to you of an important matter.”

  “What matter?” Heinrich stroked his eagle’s back, the effect intimidating.

  Rudolf did not flinch. “The matter of Swabia.”

  “I have already appointed a man to rule Swabia on my behalf. There is nothing to discuss.”

  “I disagree. Queen Bertha, my wife, the late duke’s daughter, is sole heir. On her behalf, I claim her father’s fiefs and serfdoms.”

  Heinrich’s silence irritated Rudolf. He shuffled his feet and frowned. I prayed any negotiation would fail.

  “I may have something you want. Perhaps it might persuade you to reconsider.”

  “And what do you have that I want?”

  My heart beat faster.

  Heinrich remained expressionless.

  “The Holy Lance”

  At the mention of the relic, an excited tension fill
ed the air. Few were unaware of Heinrich’s desire to own the lance.

  “I offer it to you in exchange for Swabia.”

  Heinrich’s jaw flexed. “My interest in the Holy Lance is no secret, but I’ll not trade Swabia for it.”

  “Then we have nothing more to discuss.” Rudolf turned away.

  “On the contrary, we have much to discuss.”

  Rudolf stopped and turned around. “I am listening.”

  “No doubt you are aware the Lance is cursed. If you keep it too long, ill luck will befall you.” Heinrich paused for effect. “Your recent defeat at the hands of King Ugo of Lower Burgundy proves your luck already fades. The slaughter of your men by Ugo’s forces is common knowledge. With your army exhausted, you are vulnerable. Your kingdom is weak, your coffers depleted. A most precarious position, would you not agree?”

  Rudolf scratched his chin.

  “The curse of the Lance already spreads its treachery on you. And it will worsen until your life, and the life of your family, is affected.”

  Rudolf clenched his fists.

  “Your silence confirms you know I speak the truth. I have much to offer in exchange for the Lance.” Heinrich nodded to a group of guards near the hall’s doors. The first man strode forward. In his hands, he carried an ornate chest. He faced Rudolf and raised the lid.

  Rudolf’s brows arched.

  “Enough gold coins to replenish your army.”

  The guard backed away.

  A second soldier stepped forward with a large leather sack. The bag was substantial and weighty; he required both hands to carry it. He laid it before Rudolf and bowed as he withdrew.

  Rudolf untied the cord, opened the bag, and removed an embossed silver goblet.

  “A bag full of goblets, vases, and platters made of the finest silver from my Saxon mines.”

  At Heinrich’s signal, Father Rufus came forward with a sealed scroll tied with a red ribbon. He handed it to King Rudolf.

  Heinrich resettled himself in his chair. “In exchange for the Holy Lance, I give you the Swabian town of Basel. I cannot transfer the entire duchy to you, but Basel sits in a strategic location, on the border between Swabia and Upper Burgundy. Basel has a large population and is rich in commerce and trade, with many trained artisans, and numerous guilds. I’ll sever it from Swabia and deed it to you—for the Lance.”

  Rudolf stroked his beard and glanced at Heinrich in disbelief. “What trick is this?”

  “Basel is the sole town in Swabia of any worth, a fact of which you are aware. I regret parting with it, but it is a fair exchange for the Lance. There is no trick.”

  After an unbearable amount of time, Rudolf spoke. “You refuse to give me Swabia?”

  “I assure you, Basel is the next best thing. The deed is legitimate. The extra taxes will replenish your coffers and armies and soothe any feelings of humiliation that might linger over your recent loss of Lombardy to King Ugo. If anyone else made you this offer, it would be reasonable for you to be suspicious, but everyone knows I am a man of my word. That, in itself, should leave no doubt of the sincerity of my offer or, shall we say, compromise.”

  “If I accept your offer, how long before Basel is mine?”

  “Make your mark on the document. Have a man of your choice witness it. My son, Otto, will act as my witness. I’ll recall my warriors stationed there and transfer them to other assignments. Basel shall be yours this day.”

  Rudolf studied Heinrich. “And all you ask from me is the Holy Lance?”

  “Yes.”

  I saw respect flash across Rudolf’s features. “Your gifts may be of benefit, but—”

  It appeared as if he would refuse the offer. My heart leapt with relief.

  “What if I want more from you?”

  “What more can you want?”

  “Your friendship.”

  The statement caught me by surprise. Heinrich leaned forward in his seat.

  “You are a wise, powerful king, highly respected by your subjects and your enemies. Your son, Otto, shows promise of the same qualities. It is better to be your ally than your foe. But I must make one request before I can accept your terms.”

  “Tell me, then, as long as it is reasonable.”

  I could not imagine what more Rudolf sought.

  “I have one heir, a son, Conrad, and a daughter named Adelaide. If anything should happen to me, his inheritance is at risk. I ask for your word…you will accept him for fostering. Guard my kingdom and care for my son until he is ready to rule Burgundy. And keep an eye on my daughter should I no longer be in this world to safeguard her.” He turned to Otto. “Will you protect Conrad as an older brother protects a younger one? And will you ensure Adelaide comes to no harm?”

  How wise of Rudolf: his request showed how much he loved his children. That was the moment he won my heart. I admired him for his foresight for ensuring the protection of his lands and offspring, should he meet his demise. It would link Burgundy to our kingdom.

  “I accept,” Heinrich said. “I swear I’ll foster Conrad and care for him and your daughter as if they were of my blood.”

  “And you, Otto, do you swear?” Rudolf asked.

  “Yes, I offer them my protection.”

  Relief crossed Rudolf’s face. “Then I accept your offer.”

  “Ply these men with food and drink and find them somewhere to lay their head this night,” Heinrich commanded of a nearby servant. He stepped off from the dais and placed his arm around Rudolf’s shoulders. “Come, I invite you and your men to a fine Saxon banquet.”

  FROM THE HIGH table, Otto and I watched Heinrich pace. The Bishop of Halberstadt and a dozen friars sat around a large rectangular table beside the dais. Bright morning sunlight filtered through open windows. A fresh breeze wafted into the room. The atmosphere was heavy with anticipation. My sense of foreboding increased as we awaited King Rudolf’s arrival with the Holy Lance. My husband’s life-long dream was to come true, as were my darkest nightmares.

  Quick, determined steps heralded two guards who snapped to attention. One announced, “King Rudolf of Burgundy.”

  Rudolf, his deep blue mantle flowing behind him, burst into the room, his guards in tow. He strode the room’s length with purposeful steps, shoulders straight, and a determined countenance, a man to admire and respect. As he drew near, I noticed the long narrow object wrapped in leather he carried across his hands.

  Heinrich stepped forward, patted his new friend on the back, and invited Rudolf to join us at the high table, though his eyes barely wavered from the item in Rudolf’s hands.

  “How fare you this morning?” I asked our guest.

  “My every comfort was seen to. I thank you for your hospitality.”

  I gave him my warmest smile. “I am glad to hear it.”

  Rudolf eyed the clergy then Heinrich. “I am eager to finalize our exchange. I plan to stop in Basel on my journey home.” With great care, he passed the relic to Heinrich. “May it bring all you desire.”

  Thus, the Lance passed from hand to hand, from a Burgundian king to a Saxon king. A simple act, yet one I knew would cause complications and muddy our future. I gripped my chair’s armrests and leaned forward.

  Heinrich stared at the leather-bound spear, as if overwhelmed to hold it in his hands. He passed the sacred relic to the Bishop, who laid it on the table and unlaced its bindings.

  The clergy hovered over the relic, touching it with admiration, scrutinizing its every mark, whispering over its every detail. The whispers turned to nods, and the Bishop stepped from the table and approached Heinrich.

  “Majesty, the relic is genuine.”

  Heinrich expelled a long breath and led Rudolf to where Brother Rufus waited with parchment, ink, and quill at the ready. He gestured for Otto to join them. “Come, let us seal our pact.” With his finger, Brother Rufus indicated where Heinrich was to sign.

  Heinrich dipped the plume and signed with care before passing the writing instrument to Otto, who witnessed the
document. Rudolf scripted his signature with his commander as his witness.

  I held my breath as the Bishop handed the Lance to Heinrich.

  With a look of satisfaction, Rudolf studied Heinrich. I had not moved from my place on the dais, but I watched with great trepidation. Spellbound, my husband examined the spear from top to bottom, touching it as a lover caresses a lost love returned. He scrutinized it, aglow with admiration at its antiquity. A thousand years old, the iron and brass weapon appeared to be in exceptional condition, better preserved than I had imagined. The artistic precision was unsurpassed by any military weapon standard. Leather strips bound the blade to the Lance. Someone had hand-scratched crosses onto each wing at the blade’s base.

  “Are these the nails?” Heinrich stroked the iron pins rooted into the Lance.

  Rudolf nodded. “They are believed to be remnants of the nails that pierced the Lord’s body, embedded into the Lance in the shape of a cross to ensure it remained distinct from other lances.”

  Heinrich brushed his thumb across the tip. It nicked him.

  I gasped and rose to my feet. Time stood still as my old dream stirred to life. I tried to scream, but could not.

  A drop of blood appeared on Heinrich’s thumb. He put it into his mouth to quell the blood.

  My body trembled as I hurried off the dais.

  When he removed it, I saw no mark marred his skin.

  Bewildered, I noticed a drop of blood on the blade. It dripped slowly. Another drop appeared on its tip. It too, fell. Then another, and yet another.

  Blood flowed over Heinrich’s hands and arm in a crimson cascade, staining Heinrich’s sleeves and pooling at his feet in an unrelenting flow. The metallic aroma filled my nostrils as the scarlet gush soaked Heinrich’s entire right sleeve and splashed his tunic.

  My vision darkened and my head swirled. Unusual heat emanated from the Lance. In my mind’s eye I saw a warrior, weapon raised. The arm descended. The man screamed.

  Visions of death and blood, centuries of them, flashed through my mind, one after another. The Lance flying through the air to pierce flesh; a thief cutting the throat of a man who slept with it in his arms: a man accidentally dropping the Lance in a river, and the whoosh of an arrow that penetrated his chest. The visions seared themselves into my mind.