The Girl Empress (The Chronicle of Maud Book 1)

by Amy Mantravadi

  “You think or you hope?”

  “Will all due respect, my lady, I should be about the emperor’s business at the moment.”

  “Wait! What about Drogo?”

  “Who?”

  “Sir Drogo of Polwheile.”

  “I know not this Polwheile, but if you mean that giant of a knight, I believe he is joining the attack.”

  “No! He is of my household. I forbid him to go!”

  “You forbid him to defend you? Forgive me, Your Highness, but it is the emperor’s command.”

  I began to grow desperate at the thought that I might lose the one person with whom I shared the greatest affinity, the final link to the home of my youth. An unnatural fear now took hold of me: that were he to go to battle, he would surely be killed, and a part of myself should die with him. It was surely unreasonable, but I could not escape from that feeling.

  I pushed open the door and strode out into the field. Burchard’s eyes opened wide, so stunned was he by my action. I had it in my mind to argue further with him, when Chancellor David rushed up on his horse, intent on ending our conversation.

  “Lady Mathilda! Return to the carriage!” When I merely looked at him, no doubt with a scowl upon my face and an oath forming in my mind, he called all the louder, “My lady! I command you to return to safety!”

  “You would command me?” I stammered. “Upon what authority?”

  “Upon the emperor’s,” he answered, placing himself between the clerk and me.

  I could see in his manner that to disagree would yield nothing, so I made to walk back to the carriage.

  “We mean no offense, Empress Mathilda!” the chancellor called out behind me.

  “Ha! I have felt the offense, I assure you!” I shouted in their direction, then settled back into my seat just in time for the party to set off at a furious pace, pressing on to the north.

  I looked across and saw the ladies sitting as they were before: braiding each other’s hair and paying no heed to the clamor around them.

  “Ah, to be ignorant and happy!” I thought to myself.

  It was not until we reached Sutri that I learned the result. The Normans had fled upon seeing our forces. It appeared there was to be no battle after all. Best of all, Drogo had returned and pledged to me many times over that he would never place himself in such danger again unless it was of utmost necessity. With this promise, I was able to sleep as well as the Holy Father, which is to say that I woke up quite often and worried about the days ahead.

  We dwelt for the remainder of that year in the territories to the north, Tuscany and Romagna. It was a pleasant time in which we visited several charming cities, among them Bologna, Volterra, and Pisa. Ah, Pisa! What a magnificent work was taking place there by the sea! We were able to view the new cathedral in all its glory, its rows of arches rising up from the ground, with marble walls both white and dark, and crowned by a magnificent dome. The men told us a craftsman named Rainaldo, though he was long since dead when we visited, began it. Even now the Pisans are building a baptistery that will be the envy of all Italy.

  Throughout those months I was filled with concern for my husband. I wished to inquire after his condition, but I could not think of how to do so without giving offense. Still, I did witness a small improvement toward the end of the summer. At first I thought this was due to a lessening of his pain, but I soon learned that he had received news from the South: Pope Paschal was taken ill and now spent his days in bed, the sickness brought on by an excess of heat. It was said that his physicians believed he would not survive the autumn.

  Yet survive he did, and as the weather grew cold once again, we had word that the pope was able to lift himself from his sickbed and say Mass. I harbored no ill will toward the old man, but I guessed the emperor’s thinking: if Paschal were to die, it would present an opportunity for the situation to change swiftly. The work of a generation might be accomplished in the space of a week. It was just as Bruno had always told me: “At times, one must simply wait for a person to die.”

  Of course, no man could say whether a new pope, whoever he might be, would be more or less disposed to treat with the emperor. It would all depend on who was installed as Paschal’s successor, and who was to install him. Doubtless Rome would command that its voice must be heard, as would the rest of the Gregorians, but the emperor would place upon them his own demands, along with all Christendom.

  During the days of Advent, the pope was well enough to travel and perform his usual duties, accompanied by Peter Colonna and other nobles faithful to the papal court. The Pierleoni still held some territory within Rome itself, and soon we received a letter from Abbot Berald of Farfa that the pope had arrived in Trastevere with a new army.

  “We are at a loss, for we can see no path forward that does not involve substantial peril for ourselves and our allies,” he wrote. “All Rome seems to welcome them now with open arms. The prefect and consuls still hold Saint Peter’s Church, but the rest of our possessions across the river have fallen. The engines of war are pointed toward Vatican Hill. The pope and his allies rest now in the fortress of Sant’Angelo. Be so good as to send us word of how you wish to proceed. The count and I are well-nigh desperate for some remedy.”

  “There is nothing that can be done at the moment,” the emperor concluded, setting the parchment aside. “It would be unwise for us to return under the present circumstances, and even if I were to ride to their aid, it would take two or three days at the very least. We would not arrive in time to prevent them taking the basilica. Therefore, let us wait and see what comes of this. They may hold.”

  Then came the message that we both sought and feared. It was carried by one of the Frangipane men and arrived a few days later. I was not there when it was opened, but it did not take long for the news to spread throughout the camp.

  The pope had died after all, never having made it out of the Castel Sant’Angelo. They were forced to bury him in the Lateran church rather than next to Saint Peter. That was surely a blow for some in the papal party, but any mourning for Paschal was of necessity quite brief. Within a few days, the cardinals would appoint a new leader, and my husband was intent that the imperial right should be respected. His forbears had often chosen those who were to sit upon the papal throne, and he was unwilling to surrender this privilege. The task would not be an easy one. With his dying breath, Paschal had charged his brethren to maintain their resistance against “the usurpation of the Germans.” The hatred between the opposing sides was of such a nature that I doubted they could reach an agreement. Nevertheless, the emperor immediately rode south to influence the proceedings. It was January, and the air was very chill. I suspected that his reception there would be just as cold.

  About a week after his departure, a messenger reached our position near Bologna. I had taken up many of the duties of the imperial court in my husband’s absence, and on this day I was discussing a matter of local import with a jurist by the name of Iubaldus. As Philip of Ravenna and several of the others had joined Emperor Henry on his return to Rome, I relied heavily on Iubaldus and the remaining men of letters for instruction. We were sitting there in the villa—the name of which I cannot remember—and attempting to produce an accord between two landowners who were at odds. For myself, I cared not where either man placed his pigsty, but maintaining peace was fundamental. As we considered the matter, the rider from the South was brought into our presence and declared that he had news for us to hear.

  “Is this news of the emperor?” I asked. “Has he made any progress?”

  “Not as such, Your Grace,” the messenger replied. “By the time he reached the city, the cardinals had already chosen Paschal’s successor. I suppose we must now consider whether the emperor will abide by their decision or put forth a contender of his own.”

  “Who is it then? Who is the new pope?”

  “Cardinal Giovanni da Gaeta, though he is called now by the title Gelasius II.”

  “The same Giovanni da Gaeta who
was lately papal chancellor?”

  “The very same.”

  Here was a great misfortune. You will remember, Daughter, that Cardinal Giovanni had employed frightful slanders against the emperor, and he was one of the leaders of the anti-imperial forces within the Church. It seemed that my husband had traded his adversary Paschal for an even sterner enemy. There was little hope of a peaceful solution now.

  “What of the emperor then?” I asked Iubaldus. “He cannot approve of this choice.”

  “His Highness was not called to the synod, and thus played no role in the election process,” he answered. “However, I believe he intends to challenge this decision by the cardinals. It is only right that the lord emperor, anointed of God, should play some part in all of this. I am sure that Bologna’s own Irnerius will advise him well, as will the bishop of Braga.”

  “I hardly think the cardinals will listen to him,” I countered. “You were not there the last time he attempted to deal with these people. I thought there might be blood shed right there upon the graves of the saints. It was a woeful thing to witness.”

  “Have faith, Your Highness,” the messenger replied. “When last I saw the emperor, he was in good spirits.”

  “Is that so? Was there a goblet in his hand?”

  Both men were clearly at a loss as to how they should respond, so I decided to cease all attempts at humor and bring an end to the discussion. My thoughts turned silently from one matter to another. “I must send word to Bruno and seek his counsel. I must check on the ladies to see if they have finished embroidering my new robes. I must find a way to make the pig farmers happy. I must write another letter to my husband, urging him to act with moderation.”

  As fate would have it, moderation was not the watchword of those in Rome. This incessant breaking apart would stop for no man. One of the Frangipane brothers had the gall to make the pope his prisoner, an act that would have left us all perplexed were it not already an established strategema of the imperial party. In any case, fortunate Gelasius escaped with the help of the Roman citizens, and he held out for a short time before Henry’s forces drove him out of the city toward the beginning of March.

  Gelasius made for his native town of Gaeta in the South, while the emperor declared the papal election null and void. Now was the time for the bishop of Braga to be rewarded for his acts of fidelity: the emperor had him appointed as pope in place of Gelasius, and the former Maurice Bourdin was declared Pope Gregory VIII. It remained to be seen which of the two men could command public support, not only in Rome, but also in the lands from north to south and east to west.

  Having accomplished what he set out to do, Emperor Henry left Gregory VIII on Saint Peter’s throne and returned north once again. Despite all that had taken place, I was pleased to hear that he should be arriving in a few days, for life had become rather dull in his absence. With the larger part of the court following the emperor to Rome, I had been left in Romagna to endure the long days of waiting. It was some comfort to have both Drogo and Altmann there with me, but I found that by this point I had grown weary of our Italian adventure. Were it not for my concern regarding the uprisings in Germany, I might have requested to return long beforehand.

  “You may look for my arrival by the beginning of May, and possibly sooner,” the emperor wrote. “I must stop to make a grant unto the abbey of Farfa; the least I can do to reward Abbot Berald. Then I shall make the final turn north. I must thank you for your letters, which have been a blessing to me in this time of crisis.”

  I could not think what he meant by this last sentence, for my kind addresses had surely been joined with words of caution, for which I was certain he could not be very thankful. Even so, I hoped that what he said was true, and that he did look forward to being with me once again. I knew as well that the longer we remained apart, the longer we would remain without children, and having entered my seventeenth year, I felt I could no longer put off this duty without causing rumors to form. Then there was the issue of the emperor’s health, which I feared he would not attend to without my continual exhortation.

  But I have not yet mentioned the worst news of that spring! You see, Emperor Henry V had up to that point been able to escape the ban of excommunication on account of the agreement he made with Pope Paschal II. However, Gelasius II had made no such promise, and he took the first opportunity afforded him to once again proclaim the anathema against the former bishop of Braga, now known as Antipope Gregory VIII. In addition, he did what Paschal had not been able to accomplish, proclaiming the emperor himself to be an excommunicate, cast out of God’s holy Church.

  My husband was now in the same position as his father, even as Bruno had warned; and as for me, I was the wife of the most hated man in Europe. Under such circumstances, one is tempted to declare, in the words of the ancients, “O tempora! O mores!”

  Word came to us that I was to receive my husband at the same villa near Bologna where I had resided for the past few months. This pleased me, as I had grown fond of my new home, having found that city to be a true jewel of Italy. Scholars travel from all the Christian kingdoms to attend the studium, the greatest school of law yet created. In every part of the city, one might find French, English, Portuguese, or German pupils. I met one man who had traveled from the land of the Poles and another from Constantinople. For the most part, they preferred to remain with those of their own tongue, but there was also intercourse between the nations.

  Once or twice I found myself in Bologna in the morning hours and marveled at the sight of hundreds of scholars walking to and fro, some with bundles of parchment in their arms, others with a basket full of writing instruments, and all looking most intent on their purpose. Tutor and student alike took part in this daily dance. I wished to attend one of those lectures, though the discussion would likely have ventured into subjects far beyond my knowledge.

  Certain of those lecturers achieved a degree of fame, none more so than Irnerius, the lawyer whom my husband had sought out upon our first arrival. There was no one more expert in the laws of ancient Rome and their application to the present day. The clerk who served me during that time, Iubaldus, was one of his students and a tribute to his master. It was he who shared with me a secret that I will now pass on to you: no work of literature can ever be accomplished on an empty stomach. Thus it was his established policy to conduct much of his work in houses with a good supply of wine and other morsels to satisfy the appetite.

  Have I mentioned the towers that seemed to line every street? The canals that so skillfully allotted water to every home? Of such things I could speak for hours, but now is not the time. I will simply say that I wish even now that I could enter those gates once again.

  One day before my husband arrived, I was brought down by the same familiar illness that I had experienced several times since traveling south. The affliction was of a feeble sort, though it did leave me with hindered breath, an unending cough, and above all, weariness. I was determined to set this aside and join the others on the day of Emperor Henry’s arrival, but unhappily it took some effort to rise up from my pallet and walk, so to speak. Thus the feast was well under way by the time I was dressed and ready to attend. As I moved to take my seat on the dais, I noticed that though the members of the court seemed to revel in the dance and drinks, those at the head table were more subdued. They all rose to their feet as I walked by, even the emperor, who, rather than waiting for a servant, moved himself to help me to my seat. This small kindness was most welcome. Perhaps he had missed me after all. Indeed, he seemed to confirm this when he said, “I am pleased to see you, Lady Mathilda. I heard that you were taken to bed yesterday, but I am glad that you are up and about. Do you have a fever?”

  “No, none at all,” I replied honestly, for despite my discomfort, I felt neither the rising heat nor the harsh chill. “Let us speak rather of Your Grace. How was your journey from Rome?”

  “It might have been better had not that fool, Gelasius, set his will against us. I declare he
makes it his goal in life to vex me.”

  “Give it time, Your Highness. Soon the Church will unite behind Pope Gregory VIII, and there will be no more talk of excommunication,” said Philip of Ravenna. “The reign of that usurper Gelasius will not last the summer. Already I have heard rumors that he is unwell. This is surely the Lord’s judgment.”

  “I fully agree,” Irnerius said. “He may have the support of the cardinals, but all men of the law see the justice of your cause. I will undertake to prove the righteousness of your actions, which are in line with imperial law from Constantine to the present.”

  I felt that both men failed to consider the array of forces lined up against the emperor, but I reasoned that it was better to say nothing about the matter. I had begun to eat the roasted hare that had been placed in front of me when my husband set his hand upon my shoulder.

  “Mathilda?” he said in a hushed tone.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  He seemed to waver for a moment, as if searching for the proper words. Then he continued, “How have you been these last few days? How did you take the news?”

  This was beyond his usual level of concern, and I was touched by it. “I assure you, there is no need to worry. I admit that the news of Gelasius’s declaration did cause my spirit distress at first, but as we saw with your father, such things may be reversed. I have every confidence that this will work out for the best.”

  Now I was the one expressing more hope than was warranted, but I could not speak harshly to my husband, who in any case already had most of Christendom calling him to repentance.

  “You misunderstand me,” he replied. “I was not speaking of that.”

  “Oh? Well, if you want to know, I promise you I am in good health. I have committed no sin that merits great penance. I am a bit tired, and I will miss the liveliness of Bologna, but such things must pass in time.”

  Evidently I had still not guessed at the emperor’s meaning, for he sighed and even appeared somewhat grieved by my answer. I began to fear that there was some calamity of which I was not yet aware.