The Girl Empress (The Chronicle of Maud Book 1)

by Amy Mantravadi

  I set out upon that road with little in the way of experience to guide me. It would take more than a crown to create in me an empress. Yet that sojourn did leave its mark upon me, and were I to have revealed the inner thoughts of my heart upon returning north, I might have been so bold as to declare myself no longer a girl, but a woman ready to fulfill her duty. Ah, the blessed ignorance of youth! Even so, I cannot deny the effect those days had upon me.

  We had all gathered in Augsburg shortly after Christmas to make our final preparations for the journey south. I will grant that the word all implies a more extensive company than was gathered at the time, for with rebellion still raging in the North, my husband was unable to spare his thousands of men-at-arms to accompany the imperial convoy. Instead we made do with a small force composed mostly of the emperor’s own household knights, a good stock of secular and church officials, and two men of particularly noble blood: the Duke of Carinthia, Henry of Eppenstein, and Count Henry of the House of Welf, brother to the Duke of Bavaria. The former owed his presence to the plain fact that his lands abutted the March of Verona, which Emperor Henry hoped to retain. The latter was brother-in-law to the late Countess Mathilda of Tuscany, and he was in charge of overseeing his family’s claims south of the mountains.

  With such a small force at his command, any chance of victory for the emperor would depend upon his ability to influence others. He would first need to gain the support of the northern Italian regions just below the mountains. Having ensured their allegiance, he could then proceed south and bring pressure to bear upon the papal lands. My chaplain, Altmann, was in no fit state to ride, and thus it was determined that he ought to join me in the carriage for the duration of our travel. Although some might have objected to such an idea, I was glad of the company.

  We made our way along the Via Imperii, the ancient path leading from the northern sea to the mountains. Passing through them along the narrow way, the road descends through the Italian hill country to Rome, from which there is easy access to the Middle Sea. That was no easy road, but it was easier than any of the other paths that led either through or around the mountains. I was eager to see those hills that men call the Alps. On many occasions Bavarian minstrels who sang of those high meadows, falls of water, and gray heights crowned with snow had graced the emperor’s court. The mountains seemed to live within their very souls, and they claimed it was only the brave who dared set foot in the lowlands.

  Before long we climbed through the rising hills, and for the first time I could see mountains in the distance. A sense of wonder came over me—I could think of nothing so magnificent as these lands. Only the eternal sea, with its unbounded power and unfathomable depths, also provoked such awe.

  “She is a great wonder, is she not?” Altmann said.

  “Yes, but why do you address the mountain so?” I replied.

  “I should think it would have been evident. Who can know the mysteries of those heights? Only the men of Babel were bold enough to tread there. I feel that one could stare at those mountains day upon day, yet still not comprehend them. Such is the case with a woman, no?”

  “Perhaps, but I might have guessed that you would see in those fierce hills a picture of the masculine.”

  “It is not the sole dominion of the sons of Adam to be fierce,” he countered. “Have you never heard of the great lady Brünnhilde? She was as fierce as they come.”

  “That name is wholly foreign to me,” I admitted, “though I may have heard it spoken in passing.”

  Altmann didn’t respond immediately, but cast his gaze out the window at the Alps, apparently seeking inspiration. At length he spoke.

  “You are perhaps aware that in the ancient days, before the gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ traveled to the wild regions of the North, the people of that land made their homes among the trees, with the starry heavens serving as their roof. The manner of their worship remains largely a mystery, but we know they served many gods. Not as you and I serve God, mind you. Their deities had none of the goodness of the true Creator, being mere creations of human fancy, the alleged power behind every snapping twig and crashing wave. In such a manner savage men still live today in the far corners of the world, enveloped in the darkness of ignorance, having no knowledge of the light. Great tales were told in those days, passed down from generation to generation, and the greatest of all I will tell you now.

  There was a Schildmaid, Brünnhilde, a daughter of the gods, who lived in the farthest reaches of the Northland, condemned by the high god Wotan to be imprisoned within a ring of fire in punishment for some misdeed . . . I remember it not. It is said that the warrior Siegfried, a man without fear, passed through the fire by aid of sorcery and released her from her bondage. Freely they gave their hearts, pledging eternal devotion one to the other, and for many happy nights walked together beneath the stars. At last Siegfried was forced to set out, but swore that he would return and marry none but her. Are you certain that you have not heard this all before?”

  “No, indeed, I have not. I bid you tell me more,” I replied, enchanted by his tale.

  “Very well, then. When he arrived in her realm, the witch Grimhild placed the faithful Siegfried under a spell that caused him to forget all he knew of Brünnhilde, even the pledge of love that he swore to her. He was married instead to the daughter of Grimhild. That crafty mother! She purposed in her mind to have her son, Gunnar, wed to the shieldmaiden instead, but was forced to muster Siegfried’s help to win her. Brünnhilde, not knowing that Siegfried was troth plighted to another, was all too happy to go with him. Only too late did she understand that her love was lost to her for all eternity.”

  “So she married Gunnar?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why?” I protested. “If Brünnhilde was indeed a powerful warrior, surely she could have escaped. She did not have to bind herself to an inferior man.”

  “Ah, but you see, her heart was broken by the one she loved, and all her hopes had faded. Once she could no longer have Siegfried, she felt herself dead to the world, no longer possessing the will to resist.”

  “This is dreadful. How does the story end?”

  “The way all such tales must. Siegfried was brought down by the sword of a jealous foe, his body placed upon a fiery bier; and Brünnhilde, for want of succor, threw herself upon the flames, wishing rather to die than to live ever after in despair.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then I said, “Altmann?”

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “I have never before heard such a story of woe as the one which you now tell me. But why must all the queens of legend suffer at the hands of love? Did not the Carthaginian queen, Dido the Fair, also surrender her body to the flames when parted from noble Aeneas? Did not Cleopatra offer her breast to the asp, that its venom might rid her of her love for the Roman general?”

  “Yes, it is as you say,” he replied.

  “Why must it always be so?”

  “There I am obliged to grant you a straight answer, Your Grace. It is in the nature of the female to make great outward displays of emotion and to allow herself to be guided by the feelings of the moment rather than the cold hand of reason.”

  “I do not think that is true,” I objected. “A woman may give way to emotion from time to time, but it need not control her. And in any case, are not men borne off by the fury of war to commit deeds that, in sober judgment, might seem rather monstrous? Yet how the poets praise them for doing so!”

  “Perhaps, and being pledged myself, I am glad to see that you set little store by the demands of the flesh and that odd yearning which tends to drive even the most reasonable of young ladies mad.”

  “I give you my full assurance, sir, that I would never throw myself on a fire for any man, nor would any woman of sense do so! We must acknowledge that some dishonor our sex through flights of fancy leading to despair. But a woman may be ruled by reason as much as any man.”

  He smiled in return. “It is right that you should thi
nk so, my lady, for I believe it will serve you well in your role as consort.”

  I leaned my head back and gazed out the window. Soon enough we would come upon the city of Innsbruck, of which I had heard only good things. From there we would take the Brenner Pass through the mountains and down to Lago Garda and the town of Verona, which was the portal to Italy. As I looked upward, I thought for a moment that I glimpsed an animal of some kind standing high above. It had a brown coat and stood on four legs, perched rather dangerously on a narrow ledge. I strained to gain a better view, but was too far away to make out its figure properly. I asked Drogo about this later, and he concluded that it must have been one of the highland goats basking in the afternoon sun, oblivious to the great movements of men taking place far below, with only the choughs for company.

  They say that the Carthaginian general Hannibal once marched his army over the Alps and into the river plains of Lombardy accompanied by a band of fighting elephants. How he accomplished this, I cannot fathom. Truly, the skills of the ancients must have far exceeded our own. It was enough for us to come at last to that lake the Italians call Garda and to rest upon its banks with naught but dogs and horses to tend.

  We spent a few happy days in fair Verona, home to a stadium built by the Romans of old. I was rather impressed by the structure, both for its sheer size and for its magnificent design. Even so, I was assured that it was as a child’s toy in comparison to the Colosseum of Rome.

  “Wait until we are in the holy city, and then you shall see a true wonder of the world built with human hands,” Chancellor David said.

  From there we moved east, taking the road that leads between the mountains and the Adriatic. We paused briefly in Vicenza and Treviso, and on each occasion the emperor met with the local officials to ensure their fealty. As it happened, most of the people in those towns were only too happy to receive such regal visitors from the North, hopeful that the imperial visit would bring with it an abundance of royal favor.

  We descended into Venice on a clear day, the fifth before the ides of March. The emperor was to be the guest of the doge and dogaressa. The doge at that time was Ordelafo Faliero, heir to one of the city’s great families. His father had supported Emperor Henry IV throughout his dispute with the pope, and thus the son was viewed as a friend of the empire. The dogaressa was a distant relative, being a daughter of the counts of Boulogne, the most recent of whom had married my mother’s own sister, Mary of Scotland.

  Lying in the center of the Laguna Veneto, the island city had long been known for the extent of its trade, and by the year of our Lord 1116, it had become a point of transit not only for goods, but also for pilgrims on their way to and from the Holy Land. Even as our convoy progressed along the highway, we passed men and women traveling in both directions, some hoping to gain respite for their souls and others hoping to line their purses with coins of gold. “Venice is the entrance to Jerusalem,” they used to say, and every day the ships arrived with foreign wares to sell.

  Having arrived in the port town of Mestre, we boarded crafts that would carry us across the laguna to Venice itself. It was close to high tide when we made the crossing, and the water moved to overtake some of the smaller islands. A cluster of these isles contains the city, while the one they call Lido guards the entrance to the Adriatic. A more perfect harbor one is unlikely to find in all the kingdoms of Europe. We sailed to the isle of Rialto and laid anchor next to the doge’s palazzo, which lies at the heart of the city. The houses there were built upon the very edge of the water, and at high tide one might step from the canals directly into any one of them, taking a small step upward and through the front door. Merchants moved along the water in vessels of every imaginable form, some large and ornate, others so plain as to remain unnoticed. It was a strange and wonderful thing.

  The doge and dogaressa waited upon the palazzo steps to receive us. Emperor Henry was first to climb out of the ship, and he lent his hand to me as I followed. We ascended together. I could see clearly that the dogaressa’s attire was of a different style from that favored in the North, and for a moment I wondered if she would find my own raiment overly rustic. My good ladies had made every effort to place as many of the royal jewels upon my person as possible, but nevertheless I feared that before the dogaressa I was bound to suffer in comparison.

  “Benvenuto mio signore!” the doge proclaimed, stepping forward to embrace the emperor. “E ‘passato troppo tempo da quando ho visto la tua faccia!”

  Based on the experiences of the past few weeks, I knew that my husband was not very skilled in the languages of the Italians, and thus it did not surprise me when he responded in Latin.

  “A parting too long, but one that we will now remedy. The city is even fairer than I remember. You must be commended for receiving us in this manner, and for your continued friendship and allegiance.”

  “Everything has been made ready for Your Grace,” the doge replied. “Several of the rooms have been decorated in the new style. We hope you like them.”

  “Truly, that is a great relief!” the emperor said. “Do not ask me to recount for you the many hours upon this journey that I have spent in agony of spirit, wrestling with this very question: how are my rooms to be furnished? Never mind the pope—it’s the tapestries I’ve come to see!”

  For a moment, both the doge and dogaressa simply stared at him with looks of confusion, and I thought perhaps the emperor’s meaning was lost on them. Finally the Venetian let out a hearty laugh and said to his wife, “Sta scherzondo!” She immediately joined him in laughter, though I sensed a lack of ease about her person.

  “Come!” the doge declared. “We have food and drink made ready for you inside, the best that our city has to offer. The Byzantines and sultans of the East shall find their repast no finer than that which we present to Your Highness.”

  As we made our way up the stairs and toward the entrance of the palazzo, the doge placed his arm around the emperor’s shoulders. It was an odd degree of familiarity, but I reasoned that it must be based upon experience.

  “We have many things to discuss,” the Venetian said with some excitement. “You will tell me of your war with the Saxons, and I will recount my battles against the Hungarians.”

  “I do hope there will be some time to judge the current matter at hand,” the emperor replied.

  “Ah, yes, yes! All will proceed in due course.”

  Of all the great houses I entered during my time in Italy, the ducal palazzo of Venice was by far the most magnificent and certainly different from the rest. It was built of a kind of light-colored stone, with marble columns supporting a chain of arches into which were carved images of birds, beasts, flowers, and stars—seemingly whatever had caught the mason’s fancy. There were large windows in every room looking out toward either the canal or the main piazza. Rich fabrics, all of them acquired from eastern traders, were draped from the windows and the ceilings. The carpets, I was told, had been crafted in Persia; the ivory for all the carved figures brought from Africa; and a scimitar covered in jewels, which was displayed in the dining hall, had apparently been seized during the doge’s siege of Acre a few years earlier.

  Most extraordinary of all were the mosaics that covered both the walls and the ceilings. Plants and birds, the like of which I had never seen, danced upon a field of gold leaf. I wondered at their beauty. One of the largest displayed the crest of the famiglia Falier, with its blend of silver, blue, and gold. High above, the four patrons of Venice—Gabriel, the Virgin Mary, Saint Mark, and Saint Theodore—looked down on us, bestowing a silent blessing.

  As we sat down to eat, the doge called for the wine to be brought forth. It was of a good Tuscan vintage and somewhat sweeter than that of the Rhineland. Thus I found it more to my liking. There were several creatures living in the house that appeared to be small apes, and one of them perched itself on its master’s shoulder for the duration of our meal, receiving from the doge’s hand a few small morsels. It was a strange little thing, perpet
ually twitching and examining each of us in turn. I wondered if this might be the simia from my book.

  The servants continued to present dishes seasoned with diverse spices, their names often a mystery to me. One of these was so divine that I summoned the courage to inquire as to its origins.

  “What you are tasting is known as kinnamon,” the dogaressa told me.

  “It is wonderfully sweet,” I replied. “Where is it grown?”

  “There is little agreement on the subject. Some say that it comes from Ethiopia, where the traders drag it in from the sea with their nets. Others believe that it is used by the birds of Arabia to build their nests, but no one knows where they find it.”

  “But the traders of Venice have traveled throughout the world,” I argued. “Surely they have discovered the answer to this riddle.”

  “If they had, it would hardly be in their interest to tell, now would it?”

  “I cannot guess your meaning.”

  Smiling, she said to me, “Have you never heard the saying, ‘A man will sacrifice all he has for a rare stone, but will give nothing for the pebble outside his front door’? Those who sell this kinnamon know that it is better to leave its source a mystery, thus encouraging public interest. In any case, I doubt that even the men of Venice know for certain where it comes from.”

  “Where do you think it is grown?” I asked the doge, turning to face him. “Is it like any other plant, or does it descend from heaven itself?”

  “You must forgive the lady Mathilda,” the emperor said. “She is very forthright in her manner. It is the English way, I think.”

  “It is no matter,” the doge answered. “If you were to ask me, I would say it comes from the east; very far to the east. But God knows that the merchants will not surrender their secret.”