I turned back to see the looks on the bishops’ faces, which displayed a mixture of disdain, surprise, and annoyance at the new delay. Nevertheless they had no choice but to accept Henry’s decision. Mounting their horses, they rode back to their master across the river without having achieved their goal.
“Churlish knaves,” the emperor muttered. “I suppose they would have me hold the pot for Calixtus to piss in as well.”
“No, I believe the bishop of Ostia has already perfected that task,” the chancellor replied. “Though His Holiness might permit you to hold the towel for him.”
There was to be no meeting between the emperor and the pope after all. The next morning, the pope’s messengers returned and repeated the same protestations. When Henry stated once again that he must have time to call a general council of all the princes within his realm, the bishops left without so much as a word of farewell. Before the sun had set, the Holy Father made haste to return by that road on which he had come. Henry begged Calixtus to stay at least until the beginning of the following week, at which point he might be able to provide an answer, but the pope had his mind set. “I have not found the things of peace in him,” he was said to have uttered.
In later days, some would claim that it was the sight of the imperial army that had caused Calixtus to flee, but I cannot imagine how he could have been ignorant of the movement of such a large company of troops. No, this was merely an excuse. In fact, it seemed that the Holy Father had grown so doubtful of the emperor’s word that he would not remain even a few days to see the thing done.
The papal synod in Reims proceeded to hand down five decrees, three of which were plainly aimed at the emperor. The first forbade the practice of simony in all its forms and warned any man who sought to offend that “unless he repents, he shall, once pierced through with the sword of anathema, be cast utterly from the Church of God which he has harmed.”
The second decree removed any doubt remaining as to where the pope stood on the question of investiture. “We absolutely forbid the investiture of episcopacies and abbacies to be carried out at the hands of laymen. Any layman, therefore, who presumes to invest from now on, shall be subject to the punishment of anathema.” So much for the emperor’s efforts to reverse his excommunication!
The third was perhaps the harshest of all, for it proclaimed an end to imperial rights in terms not only of the sacred, but also of the profane. “We decree that all the churches’ property which has been granted to them by the largesse of princes or offering of the faithful shall remain undisturbed and inviolate for ever. And if someone shall seize, usurp, or retain them with tyrannical power, he shall be wounded with perpetual anathema.” Therefore, the very privileges that had been granted to the Church by kings were now to be placed beyond the power of kings, come what may.
As their final action, the pope, cardinals, and bishops read out the names of all those persons who were placed under the ban of excommunication, chief among them the emperor and the antipope “Burdinus,” that is, Gregory VIII. How pleased must Calixtus II have been to harm his two greatest enemies, for so he believed them to be. In truth, the emperor had forsaken his allegiance to the antipope as an act of good faith to aid the discussions, and even I sensed that he was well rid of the man. Emperor Henry did take some comfort in the news that the Reims council had determined that the ban on lay investiture applied only to the appointment of bishops, abbots, and other Church officials, but not to the actual regalia: the ring and crozier. Here he saw a small chance for future agreement. Still, there was no question as to who had produced the best result.
The lords of Germany remained at odds, even as the pope made a triumphal procession through Lombardy and Tuscany, arriving in Rome the following June to a glorious reception and the news that Burdinus had fled north to Sutri. It did not take long for the citizens of that town to surrender their fugitive, and Calixtus had the false pope humiliated and sent off to a monastery, where he lived out the rest of his days in solitude.
Having ensured his hold over Rome, Calixtus set his sights once again on the North. He boldly appointed Archbishop Adalbert of Mainz as the new papal legate within the empire. Such a boon must have sent the archbishop’s spirits into a state of ecstasy, for here was another weapon with which to wage his war against the emperor. The city of Mainz lay within his power, for he held the support of the public.
It was now Henry’s turn to act boldly. He took up arms against Mainz and forced the city to submit to his rule. Although it was all a rotten business, this action did allow the emperor to reclaim control of most of Franconia. He also sought to improve relations with Archbishop Frederick of Cologne, who for the first time in years seemed willing to listen. Enraged by all of this, Adalbert set out to rouse the Saxon nobles once again in defiance of their rightful king. But this rising was not to produce the same calamity as took place at Welfesholz. Henry moved to Goslar, and from there fought the rebels to a truce, even forcing Adalbert to come to terms.
All in all, it was a rather fortunate year, and as we returned to the Rhine Valley to savor the autumn, I found myself feeling happier than I had for many days past. Of course, the emperor’s daily pain hung over us like a dark cloud, and he attempted to treat it with an increase in all forms of drink. Even so, his spirits seemed to be high, and as we arrived in Mainz for the season of feasting, I was pleased to reside once again in that city where I had first been crowned as queen of the Romans.
On the last Sunday of November, the emperor and I made our way as always to the cathedral, there to celebrate Mass in the Gotthard Chapel. The newest of the cathedral chapels, it was the child of Adalbert’s ambition, a construction designed for easy access to the episcopal palace. The final adornment was still taking place, but it seemed fitter for such a small gathering than the immense cathedral nave. The archbishop himself was not in town, for whatever truce he had reached with the emperor was not of a kind that made him wish to spend time in close quarters with his sometime enemy. Therefore it was Hartmann, Emperor Henry’s principal chaplain, who performed the service.
I remember being tired that morning, so it was with great pleasure that I sat down for the Scripture reading. In the warmth of my winter cloak, and with the scent of incense and the light of the candles creating a most serene aura, I was in great danger of passing into the land of slumber. This was no place for a queen to venture in public, yet I could not help myself. I struggled to comprehend the words issuing from the chaplain’s mouth. Although it was now the season of Advent, he was reading from the book of Jonah, an odd choice.
“‘Then Jonah prayed unto the Lord his God out of the fish’s belly, and said, “I cried in my affliction unto the Lord, and he heard me; out of the belly of hell cried I, and you heard my voice. For you had cast me into the bottom in the midst of the sea, and the floods compassed me about: all your surges and your waves passed over me. Then I said, I am cast out of your sight, yet I will look again toward your holy Temple. The waters compassed me about unto the soul. The depth closed me round about, and the weeds were wrapped around my head. I went down to the bottoms of the mountains; the earth with her bars was about me for ever, yet you have brought up my life from the pit, O Lord my God.”’”
“I imagined we might hear some words of prophecy relating to the birth of Christ,” my husband whispered into my ear.
“I know. All this talk of fish bellies makes me long for a decent meal,” I replied.
“Perhaps he thinks we are the Ninevites and in need of repentance.”
Even as Hartmann began to chant the litany of Eucharist, a loud sound seemed to break the spell of the service. Someone had entered the hall and allowed the great wood door to shut loudly. I looked up to see the source of this noise, even as Hartmann continued his prayer as if there had been no interruption. I could see that it was the clerk Burchard. To my great surprise, he marched down the aisle and straight to the emperor’s side, placing a hand upon his shoulder.
“What is the
meaning of this?” Emperor Henry half whispered, half shouted.
“I must speak to you and the empress,” he replied. “It is a matter of utmost significance.”
“Now?” I asked. “Can it not wait until the end of the Mass?”
“No, I am afraid it cannot. You must come with me immediately.”
The look in Burchard’s eyes was almost desperate. I could see that there would be no refusing him.
“Let us go,” I said to the emperor. “I must know what he has to say, or I will go mad.”
“Very well,” my husband replied, and the three of us moved with all haste to depart the chapel.
Once we had entered the portal connecting the Gotthard Chapel with the cathedral, Burchard turned toward us and began to recite his tale.
“My emperor, Empress Mathilda, what I have to tell you is most grim. We just received word from a messenger who came across country to bring this news.”
“So what is it?” the emperor asked, clearly impatient.
“My dearest lady,” he continued, turning his eyes toward me, “I am afraid that what I have to say concerns your family.”
He paused for a moment, evidently seeking the courage to continue. My heart was filled with dismay, and I suspected strongly that he was about to tell me that my father had suffered a terrible accident or had been claimed by the plague or some such misfortune. I was on the point of ordering him to tell me more when he proceeded.
“A few days ago, King Henry and his court set out from the port of Barfleur to make their return to England. The king and many of the leading nobles were in one ship, but there was another—a marvelous white creation made just for the occasion—and on this vessel the prince and his companions traveled. They set out in the evening. King Henry’s ship arrived in Dover without any ill effects, but the other ship . . . the White Ship . . . it was never sighted.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, hoping that there was some misunderstanding.
“My lady, the ship was swallowed up by the sea.” With great difficulty he concluded, “There was but one survivor, and he of no name.”
For a moment I simply stared at Burchard. His words seemed so strange—so foreign, as if he were speaking in another tongue. “Swallowed by the sea . . .” My mind strained to take it in, and then at once my lips uttered, “William! My dear brother! William!”
“Yes,” the clerk replied, “he is passed from this world.”
“This cannot be!” the emperor said. “He is the heir!”
I was in such distress over this loss that it was only when my husband spoke those words that I comprehended the full significance of what had happened. Prince William, the future king of England, was never to reign. My father had no other legitimate sons. Indeed, he had no other legitimate children of any kind, except . . . I turned to look at my husband, my eyes filled with tears, but my spirit filled with a strange determination.
“My brother is departed from this world. William Ætheling is no more,” I said. “There is now only one person alive in whom the royal lines of England and Normandy are joined together. I, Mathilda, empress of the Romans: I am the heir.”
REFERENCES
Anonymous, Liber pontificalis
Augustine, Confessions
Caedmon, Hymn
Cicero, In Catilinam
Einhard. Life of Charlemagne. Translated by Samuel Epes Turner. American Book Company, 1880.
Eusebius of Caesarea. The History of the Church from Christ to Constantine. Translated by G. A. Williamson. London: Penguin Books, 1989.
Meyer von Konau, Gerold. Jarbücher des Deutschen reiches unter Heinrich IV und Heinrich V. Leipzig: Verlag von Duncker & Humblot, 1907.
Gildas, On the Ruin of Britain
Henry of Huntingdon. The History of the English People 1000–1054. Translated by Diana Greenway. Oxford University Press, 2009.
W. L. North, “A brief description of how the case between the king and the Lord Pope began and proceeded,” translating the account by Hesso of Reims, appearing in the edition of W. Wattenbach in MGH Scriptores XII (Hannover: 1856)
Officium stelle quotes are from Peter Dronke, Nine Medieval Plays (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994)
Tertullian, On the Apparel of Women
Titus Livius. Ab urbe condita
Wipo of Burgundy, Gesta Chuonradi II imperatoris
This is only a partial list of those sources that were specifically quoted. A more complete list can be found at www.chronicleofmaud.com.
The Girl Empress (The Chronicle of Maud Book 1) Page 41