With some effort we reached the eastern entrance to the church, where the archbishop of Cologne and the archbishop of Trier awaited us. The horse halted, and Drogo, in whose embrace I felt most safe, carefully helped me to the ground. Maintaining my grip on his arm, I took a few carefully placed steps toward the archbishops, trying to favor my left foot as much as possible without appearing lame.
“All this work, and I am only at the door,” I thought to myself.
Archbishop Frederick recited the sacred words writ in ages long past. He bid the crowd declare if they would accept as their queen “Mathilda, daughter of the king of England, come here today to be crowned, and pledge to serve her in perpetuity, according to the laws of God and man.” They answered back either, “Volumus!” or, in the German tongue, “Wir werden!” raising their right hands in a show of fealty and devotion. Scattered cries of “Salve regina!” echoed around the square.
Archbishop Bruno stepped forward now, as it had been agreed that he would carry me down the length of the nave to the western front. It was an inelegant solution, but the most practical one.
“Permit me, Your Highness,” he said, and bent down as I placed my small arms around his neck. He lifted me up with the greatest care, being sure not to leave the hem of my gown askew.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
I answered in the affirmative, and Archbishop Frederick motioned toward the open door, which was set underneath an arched portal. With the utmost caution we crossed the threshold and entered the great Dom. We were now in the northern aisle, and I could not see the entirety of the church for the large number of men and ladies crowded among the great pillars, which seemed endless.
“So many people,” I whispered.
“Ja, and they are all here for you,” Bruno replied. “You must take courage from that.”
Whatever I took from that, I doubt that it was courage, but there was no time to ponder such concerns. The heralds’ trumpets were already playing, and after a brief pause for all my ladies to take their places, we turned to the left and began to move in procession—first the standard bearer, then Archbishop Frederick, followed by the Duke of Swabia carrying the crown, then myself and Archbishop Bruno, and finally the ladies. We quickly arrived at the nave, which presented a view much like that of the Dom in Speyer, though of a slightly different style. Light poured down from the high windows, illuminating our path in a kind of heavenly glow.
We passed people of great import from all parts of the empire, lords and ladies of the royal court, ambassadors from countries near and far, and a great number of clergy. At the very end of the line, just before we reached the stairs, was Emperor Henry, standing next to a woman I could only conclude must be the Margravine of Austria, his sister Agnes. Her younger son Conrad and Chancellor Adalbert sat farther down. Agnes smiled at me as I caught her eye, and thus my first impression of her was a positive one.
“Perhaps she is more personable than her brother,” I mused.
At last Archbishop Bruno placed me upon the royal seat, and the archbishop of Trier was free to resume his ceremonial role. I tried with some difficulty to fix my mind on the words that the archbishop of Cologne spoke, though I was perpetually aware of the many eyes staring at me. Could I really rule over them, and how might such a thing be accomplished?
“Accipe hunc sceptrum cum Dei benediction tibi collatum, in quo, per vitutem sancti Spiritus resistere et eicere omnes inimicos tuos valeas, et cunctos sancte Dei ecclesie adversarios regnumque tibi commissum tutari atque protegere castra Dei, per auxilium invictissimi triumphatoris domini nostri Iesu Christi.”
So the archbishop pronounced the sentence, even as he placed the golden scepter into my right hand. This was the usual moment at which the imperial sword was given to the new king, but such a weapon of justice was not deemed proper for the weaker sex, or so I was told. Instead I was granted the scepter and orb, each of them covered in jewels of equal magnificence. Now Archbishop Bruno brought forth the golden ampulla, which stored the holy oil of anointing. While all nations may anoint their rulers in such a manner, the Germans do so twice. This was the first anointing, in which Archbishop Frederick dipped two fingers into the oil and then made the sign of the cross on my forehead. As he did so, I could almost sense the divine presence enveloping me with that sign, setting me apart for God’s work and covering me with a layer of protection. I do not know whether this experience was authentic or imaginary.
Then came the fated moment. In a manner both careful and determined, the archbishop of Cologne lifted the royal crown and carried it in great ceremony toward the throne. All was silent, so much so that it was possible to hear the sound of a stray bird that had found its way into the heights of the cathedral. It seemed that all nature had come to witness this. The archbishop lifted the crown high above my head, and as my eyes moved upward I saw the briefest of flashes as a ray of light from one of the windows landed upon the diadem. No sooner did it appear than it was gone, and he set the crown into place. It was a bit too large for my small head, though the craftsman who had first shown it to me claimed that it would match my fully grown frame. The people then chanted the hymn “Laudes regiae,” proclaiming Christ as the king of kings and beseeching him to grant the new queen help.
“To Mathilda, crowned of God, great and pacific queen of the Romans, life and victory!”
They recited it in Latin, but I knew the words according to the Normans. There followed then “Te Deum laudámus,” that much-beloved hymn so familiar to me, though it did go on for an inordinate amount of time.
“Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of hosts! Heaven and earth are full of the majesty of thy glory!” they chanted.
We then came to the Mass, and I was forced to stand up from my seat and walk the few steps to the altar, once again doing my utmost not to betray any weakness or constraint. Undoubtedly the crowd had guessed at my malady when I was carried to the western front, but I could not allow this vision of their queen to be weighed down by a sense of ill health—not when the choir chanted the glories of the anointed monarchy.
I slowly dropped to my knees on the colored tile, taking care to keep the crown steady. This was the one point in the ceremony where I could express my wishes, for I had been asked in the days afore which hymn I would prefer for the sequence. My mind had immediately turned to one that Father Anselm taught to me: “Veni Creator Spiritus.” As the choir chanted, I raised up my own prayer to the Creator that he might indeed send forth his Spirit to rest upon me and grant me heavenly aid. As the host was lifted up, I prayed that the Savior would cause me to ascend to some higher realm where the treasures of divine wisdom were stored.
In such a manner the ceremony progressed until “Spiritus Sancti gratia” was sung and Bruno carried me back the way I had come. Such a feeling of relief swept over me that even the pain in my ankle seemed to lift and my whole body felt lighter. My bearer also seemed to enjoy the moment, for he said to me with a smile, “The thing has been accomplished, and it is well done.”
The following day, the archbishop’s quarters were being emptied as quickly as they had been filled. Those things belonging to the emperor’s household were made ready to be carried down the river to Speyer, whence my betrothed would depart to the South: first to visit la Grancontessa, Mathilda of Tuscany, on whom the affairs of that land largely depended, and then to attend His Holiness Pope Paschal at the church of Saint Peter in Rome. My own possessions were loaded onto carts for the journey over land to Trier, where Archbishop Bruno was to take up my instruction, preparing me for the day when I would wed Kaiser Henry and reign with him as Kaiserin Mathilda.
As I waited for all to be made ready for our departure, I asked to return to the Dom and see it in its natural state. It was agreed that my chaplain, Altmann, should take me hence, as he was familiar with the grounds. I had not yet been able to explore the entirety of those chambers, and my guide was more than happy to answer my questions about the carvings, parchments, tapestries, and sacred
vessels. Whereas some may have found my childish zeal disagreeable, he seemed to embrace this chance to inform others about the inner workings of that world. Finally we came to a small chapel just off the threefold nave, a room set up for private devotion more than public spectacle. Lovely tapestries upon the walls portrayed the life of one of the apostles, though I could not make out which one.
“Wer ist das?” I asked in my best German.
“Dies ist Jakob, der Apostel von Christus.”
“Ah, Saint James. I suppose I should have known that.”
Sure enough, each panel portrayed a different tale from the saint’s life: the falling of the Holy Spirit upon the gathered saints, the great council at Jerusalem, the writing of his epistle, and finally his martyrdom. Silver thread wove through the large fields of blue, and the saint’s eyes looked perpetually toward heaven, even to the very end.
I had paid so much attention to these works of craftsmanship that it was only after thoroughly examining each one that I noticed what was at the center of the room: a square glass reliquiarium upon a marble stand. What I saw inside, my eyes recognized before my mind could accept. It appeared to be a human hand, but unlike any other I had seen. If it was indeed a real hand, it must have been very old, for it was of no natural hue, but rather a dark gray that spoke of death long ago, or perhaps the effects of fire. It was repugnant, and yet I found myself stepping forward to view it more closely. The fingers curled inward, but the nails were mostly intact.
“I see you have found the hand of Saint James,” a voice behind me said.
It was Archbishop Bruno, who had apparently entered the room when I was not aware. His presence was a great surprise. My imagination had, for the space of one second, been certain that the matching withered hand was coming to seize me from behind and pull me to some dark place.
“Archbishop,” I said, with a small bow of the head, “is what you say true? Did this hand belong to the apostle?”
“That is the story, yes.”
“But I thought he was buried in Santiago. Why else do the pilgrims flock to that site?”
“His body lies there, but the city was able to gain this relic for display in the cathedral. For a man whose words have been studied as much as his, the hand is of special significance.”
“So they cut it off?”
“Perhaps it broke off of its own accord.”
I turned to look again at the withered member. I had seen many relics in England, but none as exalted as this. Yet I still felt somewhat disturbed by the sight of it. I tried instead to imagine its power.
“‘Blessed is the man that endures temptation: for when he is tried, he shall receive the crown of life.’ This very hand must have written those words,” I said. “It is a strange thing to be so close to that which seems so distant.”
“The past often reaches out to us, to illumine that which we cannot understand,” he replied.
Altmann must have grown tired of this conversation in a foreign tongue, for at this point he begged leave of both of us and returned to make preparations for our departure. I guessed that Bruno had not come merely to speak about relics, and when asked he informed me that it was time for us to depart if we were to make the most of the remaining daylight.
“But I have yet to meet the emperor’s sister,” I protested.
“Margravine Agnes has already departed Mainz with her sons.”
This disappointed me greatly, and the archbishop must have sensed my regret, for he quickly changed the subject of conversation.
“Ich habe ein Geschenk für Sie,” he said, revealing a parcel that he had kept hidden behind his back.
I attempted to quickly shift my mind to the new language, but the longest phrase I could assemble was, “Danke, Erzbischof.” I accepted the book from him and opened it to the title page, which read, “Commentarii de Bello Civili.”
“Civil wars? Is this a book about warfare?” I asked.
“Ja und nein. This is the commentary of Julius Caesar regarding his battles against Pompey.” As if pointing out a redeeming feature, he added, “It will provide an excellent opportunity for you to study Latin!”
“I know this book.”
“Ja? You have read it? I am most impressed.”
“Strictly speaking, it was read to me. Master Godfrey included selections from it in our daily lessons.”
“Who is Master Godfrey?” Bruno asked.
“He was my first tutor, save for my mother and her ladies.” I suppressed the desire to add, “He was a complete idiot.”
“Do you remember anything from the book?”
“No, not a word. For one thing, he was not very skilled at explaining, nor did he set much store by it. For another . . . I was rather easily distracted.”
“I see. Well, any worthy endeavor deserves a second attempt.”
“I suppose.”
“You suppose rightly,” he concluded. “Now we must be off to Trier, ere the candle burns too low! Come, there is much yet to learn, and too little time in which to learn it. The philosophers of old will be our guides, for we must be as innocents in our actions, but wise as serpents in the ways of the world.”
X
Augusta Treverorum, northern capital of the Roman Empire of old, jewel upon the River Moselle, crowned with nobility down to the present day. Long before the legions of Rome walked those streets, the Treveri laid down the ancient foundations—they the descendants of the great prince of Assyria. As a sojourner from the East founded Rome itself, so its northern twin came into being. Here Constantine the Great first revealed his power and oversaw the creation of the magnificent Trier that lives on today. ’Twas he who strengthened the walls, built the imperial palace, and constructed the bathhouses that yet stand. The greatest remainder of those days is the Porta Nigra, the Black Gate, which for some time the local residents stripped of its dignity, believing it to be the perfect quarry for their more modern ambitions. It was only of late that a monk by the name of Simeon sought out that structure as a place of meditation, and in so doing hallowed the very ground. A monastery was then adjoined to the gate, and men named it the Simeonstift. Now the Porta serves as a place of worship for our Lord, and may it continue to do so for as long as the city stands.
In mighty Trier was Archbishop Bruno’s seat, and there he taught me the language and customs of the German people, as well as general matters of philosophy that he believed a royal consort must understand. Here it seems proper, Daughter, that I should carry on solely in our own tongue, for were I to set down such dialogues in their original form, they should be so foreign to you as to prevent your proper understanding. Suffice it to say I knew the German language by the end of that year, hearing little else from sunrise to sunset.
The Aula Palatina, palace of the Roman emperors, was by that time in the hands of the Church and the archbishop. Having fallen far from its former grandeur, it was hardly a proper residence for Trier’s most esteemed inhabitant. Instead Bruno had his private quarters nearer the Dom, just to the south of the Simeonstift. A chamber was set aside for me in the monastery with a window overlooking the cloister. It was my first time living among men of the cloth, and I found the experience strange indeed.
Though I was among them, I was not one of them. I watched them moving to and fro, some to the scriptorium, some to the rectory, and others to the gardens. They did not allow a moment to pass without putting it to some good purpose, save for some mild revelry in the evening. They followed the office of the blessed Virgin to the letter. It was a life unlike that in a royal castle, for the inhabitants were always busy but never appeared so.
I too followed a regimen. You will remember Archbishop Bruno’s gift to me upon my coronation, the volume of commentaries by Julius Caesar. Master Godfrey had read to us from such works for an hour at a time, and in those days I could scarcely think of anything duller. However, upon my arrival in Trier, Bruno determined to provoke in me a love for the ancients.
“Do not think of this merel
y as an example of Latin text,” he instructed me. “Here before you is a guide for those who would ride into battle. Moreover, it speaks to the primary instincts of human nature.”
“But Archbishop, as a royal consort, why do I need to learn about warfare? In what tale does a queen lead men into battle? I have never heard of such a thing.”
“Die Schildmaid is praised in legends and songs,” he replied.
“That is not the same as a queen, which is what I am.”
“Shall you be satisfied if I provide an example?”
“Perhaps.”
“Well, then . . . Herodotus wrote of Queen Artemisia of Caria, who under the command of Xerxes led a fleet against the Greeks at the Battle of Salamis. I trust this satisfies your query. Now I think you must translate for me ten lines in payment.”
“I do not think that should count, since it took place on the water,” I countered, but noticing the look in the archbishop’s eye, I decided to surrender. “Which lines?”
“Here at the top of the page. First in your own language, then in German.”
“I doubt Queen Artemisia was forced to perform such a task,” I muttered to myself.
I began to read out as Bruno had instructed. It was a section near the beginning, starting with Caesar’s address to the men under his command.
“What is happening here?” Bruno asked when I had finished.
“Caesar blames Pompey for the state of civil war, and Pompey blames Caesar.”
“And who do you think was to blame?”
“How should I know, sir?”
“The text provides clues, does it not?”
“Yes, but . . .” My voice trailed off.
“What is it?”
The Girl Empress (The Chronicle of Maud Book 1) Page 19