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

by Mirella Sichirollo Patzer

  At the Curia, imperial guards opened the doors. I swept down the long narrow hall between three broad and long rows rising in steps on both sides. The room could accommodate a hundred or more men, but today, only six gathered at the front around the dais where Otto sat on a throne, Heinz by his side.

  My heart skipped a beat at first sight of Heinz. At nineteen years, with his round face, deep blue eyes, and brawny height, he strongly resembled his father. Both of my sons glanced up, their countenances serious.

  The men rose and bowed. Heinz crossed the room to greet me. He embraced me and kissed both my cheeks.

  Otto sent away the others and I found myself alone with my two sons.

  I turned to Otto. “What is the meaning of preventing me from entering the Treasury?”

  “As King, the Treasury is under my authority now. It is best you not enter anymore. In that way, you will not be tempted.”

  I beheld Heinz. “And have you an opinion about this?”

  Heinz stared at the ground before his gaze met mine.

  “Heinz has no say in the matter,” Otto interjected.

  Heinz shook his head. “Otto is right. You have depleted our family’s wealth at an alarming rate and it cannot continue.”

  Beneath my gown, my legs trembled. I understood. Otto had released Heinz from honorable detention. This was their first meeting, the conflict between them likely unresolved. Heinz would not risk angering his brother further. Before I could speak another word, Otto led me to a chair. When I sat, he paced before me.

  “I have issued an official order for the return of all you have given away to churches and abbeys. You will provide me with a full accounting of the items and where they went so that I can send investigators to collect the goods.”

  “You mean to take back all my donations?” My voice turned shrill, for I could not fathom such an act. It was humiliating. I, a trusted queen, stripped of my wealth.

  “Everything must be returned,” Otto emphasized.

  “That is absurd. Consider what you ask. To seek the repayment of donations would bring you into conflict with the Church and the bishops who support you. They might excommunicate you, and this would anger the nobles who pledged their fealty to you.”

  “I care not what others think,” Otto said.

  I listened, speechless, as Otto and Heinz proceeded to interrogate me, pressing me to reveal each item I had donated.

  “I cannot remember,” I responded defiantly to each question.

  “Then I have no choice but to order search parties to scour mountains and valleys, forests and glades, for those places to which you sent your wealth.” Otto crossed his arms. “Is that what you wish?”

  I gripped the chair’s armrests. “It is obvious you are prompted to act thus because of the political and military calamities you’ve faced since your coronation. I warned you of it before I departed.”

  “That is part of it,” Otto said. “Thankmar plots rebellion, along with other dukes.”

  “And what did you expect? All he wants are his mother’s lands at Merseburg. Your father denied him, citing the importance of keeping the land undivided to maintain power. Now, you hold these lands through your succession as king. Give him his birthright, and you shall win his support.”

  “I will not go against Father’s wishes in this regard. The Merseburg lands will remain with the kingdom.”

  “Even as I will not go willingly against your father’s wishes when it comes to what he wanted me to accomplish in his name.” Suddenly, the horse farms Heinrich bequeathed me carried a new and greater value. I had no doubt Otto wanted them for himself to increase the might of his army. Why had I not seen it before? “And what of my dower lands, my family lands?”

  “Those too, I am forced to protect, at least temporarily until your spending is assessed.” Otto called for a scribe. The man entered the hall from a side door and sat at a table beside the dais.

  “You will record the list of items and locations my mother will provide you with,” Otto said. The thin gray haired monk nodded and lifted his quill, while adjusting a sheet of vellum before him.

  “I cannot recall.” Again I maintained silence before my sons.

  Otto came to stand before me. He pushed his face close to mine. “So this is the game you wish to play? You leave me no choice.” He faced the scribe. “You will write an order for all gifts granted to churches and abbeys by Queen Matilde to be seized and returned to the king’s treasury.”

  The poor monk gawked at the blank sheet before him, his eyes wide with shock and his face scarlet.

  I turned to Heinz. “Surely, you do not sanction this?”

  He hesitated, but nodded. “Otto is right, mother. You cannot be allowed to deplete the Treasury.”

  “Then I am disappointed in you both. Impeding the work of God will bring His wrath upon you and the kingdom. I will pray for you both, for you will have need of my prayers.” With those utterances, I left the Curia.

  In the following days, my sons seized everything, rendering me unable to complete the smallest charitable act. I was no more than a prisoner here. I accepted my meals in my bedchamber, and passed the remainder of the day praying or reading. When night fell, sleep took a long time to come, but when it did, it brought terrible visions, the same prophetic dreams I had suffered from my entire life.

  I AM DRESSED in a nun’s habit. An ancient woman sits next to me beside a hearth, her legs stretched out, and hands folded on her lap. She gazes into the fire. The blaze casts her shadow onto the wall behind her. The silhouette appears exaggerated, grotesque. I sense a strange power about her. Perhaps she is a sorceress, one who practices the black arts. She is short and corpulent. Bare grimy feet appeared from beneath her oversized stained tunic of tattered sacking. Long hair the color of dirty hardened snow settles on her shoulders. Her body is stooped, her hands gnarled. Not a wrinkle mars her freckled and peculiar face, which seems unaffected by her age. Her blue eyes are stark, startling.

  As if sensing my stare, the old woman meets my gaze with frank interest.

  “Do I know you?” I ask. She is perhaps twice as old as I am. I shift uneasily. Will she cast a spell on me?

  She cackles heartily. “Why are you afraid of me?”

  I feel strangely anxious and it becomes difficult to look at her. The old woman leans back on her stool, pushes her hands into the folds of her deep sleeves, and scrutinizes me with alarming intensity. “I wish to speak to you about the king’s bastard.”

  “Thankmar?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who are you?” I hear the dismay in my voice. “Do you know who I am?”

  She continues her sharp observation of me. “You are the queen.”

  My stomach churns. “What do you want from me?”

  “I wanted to meet you.” She leans forward. “My presence distresses you and you wish to leave.”

  My legs, heavy as stone, refuse to move.

  “Fear not, I mean you no harm.” She is amused, and crooks a finger at me. In a whisper she says, “The king’s bastard is handsome, but devious, unfortunate, too. His heart is as cold as a pristine winter day.”

  I turn from her stare to look into the fire, fearing what more she might utter.

  The old woman continues. “Perhaps you are not aware how much he is reviled and feared? But I know how others regard him.”

  My skin crawled.

  “I smell treason upon him…barren dreams and failure, too.” Her face takes on a sinister appearance and then she sneers. “His wicked ways will haunt your family. Your true sons will learn of his many evils and drive the king’s bastard from the kingdom. In turn, the king’s bastard will be driven mad by his lust for land and power. He will die a violent death.”

  My hands tremble. It is not her words, but the tone of her voice that rings with foreboding. “Are you one who reads the stars?”

  The old woman tosses back her head and emits a guttural laugh. “Nay, I am blessed with a more potent gift. The f
uture shows itself to me as if it were today. I can see into a soul to uncover buried secrets and discover the truth. I use my power for the better, to warn of evil. Do not fear me, but believe in me, for I am wiser than you.”

  I manage to rise. “You cannot predict the future.”

  The woman’s mocking grin shows she is not in the least insulted. “I am long dead, and I can see the world however I choose. Nevertheless, you will harken back to my words in your hour of pain.”

  Is she a soothsayer? As I watch the old hunchback walk crookedly away, I am overcome by terror.

  FOR TWO DAYS, I pondered the bad portent and its meaning, further proof that a dangerous dissension festered between my sons. Death and darkness loomed over my family, and no amount of prayer provided an answer. I shared my dream with Otto and Heinz, but they ignored my warnings. It was easier for them to doubt the veracity. With youth on their side, they believed themselves invincible and continued to withhold my resources. My concern for the abbeys and churches who would soon receive unpleasant visits from imperials guards and the poor who would not be fed gnawed at me. I felt so abandoned. I could not leave the palace grounds.

  A nearby village had suffered a fire. I was desperate to help them somehow. My only hope resided with Brother Ansgar whom I immediately summoned. The good friar traded in relics. He scoured the duchies and Papal States for sacred artefacts, rescuing them from the hands of unscrupulous traders. Over the years, I had purchased or traded many fascinating rarities from him.

  I glanced up as a guard escorted the portly, round-faced monk into the gallery where I sat on a wooden bench. I smiled as he bowed before me.

  “Brother Ansgar, what a pleasant surprise. I trust you had no problem gaining entrance.”

  He frowned in puzzlement. “Not in the least.”

  I relaxed a little and slid to the edge of the bench to make room for him. “Please sit. I have something I wish to sell; a most amazing relic originally from Pavia. A rarity indeed.”

  He bore an odd expression, not one of curiosity, but more like worry.

  I unlaced the large pouch on the bench beside me, removed the sackcloth wrapped item, and unfolded it. A golden cross, the length of my forearm, lay on my lap.

  He sucked in a breath at the sight.

  “The cross is made of cedar and overlaid with enameled gold.” I handed the treasure to him. “The figure of Christ is carved from walrus tusk ivory.” I pointed to the corners. “The inscriptions around the edge of the cross list the relics contained in the cavity beneath the ivory figure of Christ. The secret compartment in the back contains one of Mary Magdalene’s fingers.”

  With utmost care, he turned the cross over to reveal its backing and slid open the wooden cover revealing a hollow area cut in the wood. Nestled inside, a dried human index finger pointed downwards with its outer surface to the front.

  “Many miracles have been attributed to this cross.”

  My tears fell at the sight of this relic of Mary Magdalene, a woman who had walked and talked with Christ and had witnessed his death. Through such an item, people prayed, entrusted the care of the souls of their departed loved ones, and sought cures for their physical ailments. Secreted at the bottom of one of my travelling chests, my son’s men had failed to discover it in the searches of my belongings. I had saved it for the chapel at Quedlinburg Abbey and wanted it rest on the altar there.

  “How much are you asking for it?” Awe tinged his voice.

  “I purchased it for one hundred gold coins. I would like the same amount in turn. I wish to aid a nearby village that was recently ravaged by fire. There are families without a roof over their head. The coins will go a long way towards helping them rebuild.”

  “A steep price, indeed.” He stroked his chin.

  “If you are not interested, others would be eager to possess such a relic.” I reached for it and he handed it back to me.

  “I am interested, of course, but I cannot contemplate such a purchase.” He looked uneasy.

  “Pray tell me why?”

  “The King commands it. I was searched and warned not to do any trade when I was permitted entry at the gates.” Brother Ansgar bowed his head and stared down at his hands.

  “I understand,” I said, my voice little more than a whisper.

  “If matters change, send for me if you still wish to conduct business. I shall be happy to return at your summons.”

  With trembling fingers, I re-wrapped the precious cross and tucked it back into its pouch.

  With nothing more to say, he rose and gave me a brief bow.

  Humiliated, I watched him walk away down the length of the gallery.

  I hastened to my bedchamber. Several chests concealed my personal jewels. From the largest, I retrieved a golden necklace embedded with carnelians and rubies, a sapphire brooch set in gold filigree, and prayer beads of pure gold with crystal and pearls. I held them in my palm, feeling their weight, their coolness; they had once been the necessary accoutrements of my royal rank. Lovely, and yet pale compared to the simple joy of giving to others. After dropping them into a blue velvet bag and lacing it shut, I tucked it into the brocade pouch hanging from my belt, and hurried to the goldsmith’s workshop.

  I made my way through a heavily-guarded narrow hallway and entered a roomy annex. There I found the goldsmith working between a furnace and worktable, pounding a piece of heated gold into a chalice. The room sweltered with heat. Despite the open windows, the cool breeze failed to make the room tolerable. He possessed the most gifted hands in the kingdom. Over the years, he had designed and constructed breathtaking chalices, jewelry, and coronets for my family. Shelves lined two entire walls upon which rested a glittering array of gold and silver drinking vessels, rings, buttons, torcs, and brooches. Within various chests lay garnets, jasper, sapphires, rubies, amethysts, and emeralds. He glanced up, set down his mallet, rose, and bowed.

  “Domina, it pleases me to see you.” He wiped the sweat from his brow.

  I set my pouch onto the wooden counter, unlaced it, and shook out the jewels. “I have come to sell my jewels.”

  He assessed them then glanced at his hands. “I am sorry Domina, but I cannot help you.”

  His words took me aback. “I do not understand. You have traded or sold trinkets for me in the past. What has changed?” I regarded him intently, and braced myself for his answer.

  His face reddened and he clasped his hands nervously together. “Domina, the king ordered me to refuse any requests you might make of me.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell between us. “I understand.” Heat flushed my cheeks as I returned my jewelry to my pouch. “Forgive my imposition.”

  “It is no imposition to aid you, Domina.”

  I summoned my dignity and left the room. As I made my way along the long gallery to my chambers, I contemplated my position as dowager. Otto had made me as poor as a pauper. I could not believe my sons were capable of such harshness.

  By the time I reached my rooms, a new plan had formed in my mind. The answer to my dilemma resided beyond the palace walls. In the morning, I would seek another goldsmith, one beyond my son’s control.

  DESPITE MY MELANCHOLY, the morning dawned bright and sunny. A fine rain had fallen through the night, and rooftops glistened in the April sunshine. It was after the hour of Sext: the liveliest time in the palace, with visitors coming and going through the gates; an ideal time to ride into Aachen to locate a goldsmith who might purchase my jewels. Mounted on horseback, and accompanied by Sister Ricburg and two of my personal guards, I rode toward the portcullis. From the murder holes in the walls of the gatehouse, numerous eyes watched us approach. The porter and two guards stepped from the shadows.

  “Please raise the portcullis,” I requested.

  The porter shook his head. “I regret, Domina, that I cannot.”

  I gripped the reins and narrowed my gaze. “Pray tell me why?”

  He watched me with dull eyes beneath scowling brows, and crossed his musc
ular arms across his chest. “The king orders it.”

  “What exactly has the king commanded?”

  “I am not to permit you or your attendants to leave the palace without his written permission.” His face softened. “My regrets, Domina, but those are my orders.”

  I reproached myself for not anticipating Otto’s cunning. How naive I had been. Every muscle in my body tensed, but I reminded myself that this man was not to blame. He merely followed the king’s command.

  Though humiliated, I maintained my composure. “I understand. A son’s protection for his mother is admirable. I bid you a good day.” With a gentle tug on the reins, I circled my horse. Sister Ricburg cast me a sympathetic glance as we rode back to the stables.

  My anger had been building steadily, a cup full of wrath. I re-entered the palace and made my way to Otto’s private chambers.

  The door was ajar. From within came the disharmony of voices raised in argument. I paused to listen and stepped closer to peer inside.

  Otto sat in a chair near the brazier, a tankard in his hand. Thankmar stood before him, his back to the door, his posture stiff. Otto had recently appointed Gero, Count of Merseburg, to oversee Thankmar’s familial lands, an act that had further cut Thankmar’s rights over them.

  “I ask you one last time, brother. Merseburg and the lands surrounding it belong to my mother’s family. It was her dowry to our father. They are both dead, and I ask nothing more than those lands.”

  “Your mother forfeited those dowry lands by her lies to our father. The lands rightfully passed to him. Besides, he gave you other lands in compensation.”

  “I would gladly return them in exchange.”

  “I am tired of this discussion.” Otto gave a dismissive wave.

  “You are refusing me?” Thankmar enunciated each syllable.

  “You are my half-brother,” Otto said in a mollifying voice. “Is it not better for us to unite and work together?”

  “I ask you again, do you refuse my request?”

  “Yes, I have no other option. To divide the land weakens my power.”