He snorted at the ludicrous notion. She was much too young, and foreign to boot. There’d be no opportunity for their paths to cross.
With the assistance of her ladies, Matilda knelt before the throne.
Without bidding her rise, Heinrich embarked on a greeting in German. “We welcome Her Royal Highness, Princess Matilda.”
“She doesn’t understand a word,” Lothair whispered.
“Neither does…” His attention wholly on the young woman he couldn’t take his eyes off, Dieter stopped himself just in time. “Neither do her ladies.”
The king continued speaking, his gaze on the crowd, not his future bride. “From Liège we will journey to Utrecht where the formal betrothal will take place.”
This time he nodded to Bishop Otbert who obligingly translated the announcement into Norman French.
“Matilda looks like she might topple over if he doesn’t let her rise soon,” Lothair quipped.
Dieter nodded. The worried frown on his Englishwoman’s face betrayed the same concern. “She’s not used to paying homage.”
He exhaled. When had he begun to think of the beauty as his?
“Heinrich wants to make sure she knows who holds the power.”
Dieter experienced a momentary pang of pity for the little girl destined to be married to a ruthless older man who had no regard for her except as a means to an end.
His outrage intensified when Heinrich announced, “The English who have accompanied Princess Matilda will return to England forthwith.”
The elderly English knight’s bemused smile fled when Otbert translated.
Matilda raised her head and looked over her shoulder, panic in her young eyes.
Dieter’s spirits plummeted, until Heinrich announced, “Duke Lothair of Saxony will provide escort for the Princess. And, of course, some of her ladies-in-waiting may accompany her.”
His attendants scurried to lift his cape as he rose and departed the hall, leaving his bride on her knees surrounded by her agitated countrymen and women. Only his English beauty helped the wailing child to her feet.
“An unexpected honor,” Lothair said sarcastically. “I can count on you to be part of the escort?”
“Of course,” Dieter replied, welcoming the chance to discover the name of his intriguing redhead.
So Near Yet So Far
For a brief moment during the bizarre first meeting of the betrothed couple, Blythe’s hopes rose—she was going back to England—until Heinrich magnanimously permitted Matilda to travel with her ladies-in-waiting.
Even that concession proved unreliable. Six were sent packing, but Blythe was among the four deemed sufficient by Heinrich and personally chosen by the princess to accompany her to Utrecht. Blythe respected the elderly Lady Dorothea. Anthea de Drummois and Philippa Teale were the same age as Blythe, but they were fast friends who’d made it clear from the outset they believed anyone who hailed from Northumbria must be of peasant stock.
She should have felt honored but, when the princess was summoned to board her carriage in the convoy, three days traveling across Friesland loomed like an endless torment.
Sir Montague bade Matilda farewell, anger contorting his already wrinkled features. Heinrich’s mandate had rendered it impossible for the proud man to fulfill the mission entrusted to him by King Henry. Jaw clenched, he growled an apology for having failed to see the princess safely delivered to the betrothal ceremony.
Surprisingly, tears welled in Matilda’s eyes as she watched the elderly gentleman leave her apartment.
When Blythe emerged from the Palais in Matilda's wake a short time later, her spirits lifted. The ducal escort stood to attention on the steps, her Knight-in-Black in the front rank. She thought he smiled and nodded, but surely he hadn’t remembered her.
Bishop Otbert introduced Matilda to the Saxon duke who would lead the escort. Blythe paid little attention, hoping the Black Knight would also be presented. She held her breath when he stepped forward.
“Count Dieter von Wolfenberg, Your Majesty,” the duke declared in terrible Norman French.
Dieter, his name was Dieter—but he was a count, a rank far above Blythe’s lowly station as the daughter of an English knight.
Such musings were foolish, but her heart lurched when the duke massacred her language once again with a question. “May we know the names of your ladies, Your Majesty?”
When Matilda gave leave, Lady Dorothea took it upon herself to present each of the Englishwomen in turn to the duke and the count.
Bowing, the Saxons brushed a respectful kiss on the knuckles of each lady.
Blythe bobbed a curtsey when her name was the last to be called, thrown off balance by the wave of heat flooding her body when the Black Knight’s lips touched her skin.
“Lady Blythe FitzRam,” he whispered in perfect Norman French, smiling the same enigmatic smile. “I trust you will not find the journey too tedious.”
She couldn’t drag her eyes away from his intense blue gaze. “Thank you, Count Dieter,” she murmured.
Lady Dorothea’s loud cough and tight-lipped glare jolted her back to reality. She anticipated a scolding later. Not only had she actually spoken to the Saxon count, she’d used his given name.
Elated there would be at least one friendly face among the throngs of haughty foreigners, she didn’t care if the others censured her behavior. She hurriedly assisted Matilda into the carriage and took her place by her mistress’ side.
Lady Dorothea told them Utrecht was one hundred and fifty miles away. It wasn’t a great distance, but the large convoy of carriages, wagons and soldiers moved at a snail’s pace. Heinrich called a halt in every village and hamlet in order to receive the homage of local dignitaries, but not once did he allow them even a glimpse of his future bride.
Matilda wept or slept for almost the entire first day, then sulked on the second. It was easy to lose patience, but Blythe recognized the fear and uncertainty in the little girl’s eyes and took pity.
She dozed as the miles crawled by, taking consolation in knowing Count Dieter rode beside the cramped carriage.
The convoy stopped when it was necessary to see to personal needs, and for meals. Each time, the Saxon count extended a firm hand to assist the princess and her ladies from the carriage. Throwing caution to the winds, Blythe returned his teasing smile, taking solace in the strength of his warm skin.
When they camped at night, the count quickly organized the erection of the royal pavilion in such a short time, even Matilda seemed impressed.
Heinrich did not invite the princess to his pavilion for the evening meal, nor did he make any effort to speak to her throughout the journey. Lying awake after her mistress had gone to sleep, Blythe was amused by the notion she and Dieter von Wolfenberg had more of a relationship than Heinrich and his future bride.
Longing for the journey to be over, she nevertheless lamented the looming loss of the Saxon count’s presence. The knowledge he slept in a pavilion a few feet away was comforting.
She fell asleep thinking comforting wasn’t quite the right word. Exhilarating was more like it.
* * *
Dieter was powerless to resist flirting with Lady Blythe FitzRam. Certain the duke had noticed his preoccupation, he chided himself that he was too old for such youthful nonsense, but the lady’s smile made the journey less onerous.
He struggled to keep the disgust off his face every evening when he and Lothair were summoned to dine with King Heinrich, who clearly wasn’t interested in becoming acquainted with his bride-to-be. He mentioned only once his intention for her to be crowned in Mainz after his own coronation as emperor.
He droned on about plans to subdue the troublesome Saxon nobles who were fomenting rebellion against his rule. He was clearly oblivious to the fact Dieter and Lothair were Saxons and that they were involved in the simmering revolts. Indeed, Lothair had helped finance many of them.
There was no opportunity later to discuss Heinrich’s haughty behavior—
too many ears to overhear—but Dieter had a feeling his duke would eventually request he travel south to aid the rebellion. He was eager to do his duty.
He hoped to stay with the cavalcade when it moved on to Mainz, but eventually he’d have to leave. The prospect saddened him. Lady Blythe and the princess she served had been sentenced to a life among foreigners who, thus far, had shown them little warmth. His body heated, interest stirring in his loins when he thought of warming Blythe FitzRam.
It was ridiculous. Not only was she too young, there was little chance of their meeting again in the future. It was rumored Matilda had forbidden her ladies to wed, a travesty in his opinion. Blythe was a woman born to bring a man pleasure. But he’d sworn off marriage, so the whole fantasy was moot. Nevertheless, he lay awake long after the camp fell quiet, pondering ways to contrive a meeting alone with the Englishwoman who lay asleep in a pavilion a few feet from his own.
Betrothal In Utrecht
On the eleventh day of April, they came at last to Utrecht. The cavalcade followed a wide river for some distance before entering the town.
“Probably the Rhine, Your Majesty,” Lady Dorothea explained.
Blythe recalled tales her father had told her about seeing the Rhine during the People’s Crusade. She knew it was a very long river and he’d never mentioned Utrecht.
When the carriage drew to a halt near a large church, Blythe was taken aback when Count Dieter opened the door. Standing to attention, he said, “Welcome to Utrecht, Your Majesty. May I take the liberty of informing you the town is another Prince-Bishopric within your empire. The name of the bishop is Burchard. He bids you welcome, but is presently occupied greeting King Heinrich.”
He’d spoken in flawless Norman French.
For the first time in several days, a smile replaced Matilda’s frown. “We thank you, Count…”
Not surprised her mistress didn’t remember his name, Blythe supplied it. “Count Von Wolfenberg, Your Majesty.”
Her reward was a wink from Dieter that sent her heart aflutter.
Matilda offered her hand, and he assisted her from the carriage.
Blythe admired his thoughtfulness in making the princess feel more welcome; he’d sensed she was a child who needed reassurance, and also pandered to her arrogance with mention of her empire.
Lady Dorothea shooed Blythe and the other ladies out of the carriage.
Duke Lothair approached, bowed and proffered his arm to Matilda. She accepted and he escorted her into a building that resembled a monastery. Lady Dorothea, Anthea and Philippa followed.
Blythe stopped breathing. Fate had granted a fleeting moment to speak to the intriguing man standing beside her, but she had no idea what to say.
“This is a private residence for the bishops,” he explained, as if he knew she was at a loss.
“Thank you for putting Her Majesty at ease,” she gushed, wishing she’d thought of something more personal. “You are good with children.”
“I have a son of my own,” he replied. “A little younger.”
He had a wife and family!
Flooded with shame that she’d harbored wanton thoughts about a married man, she lifted the hem of her gown and fled, her face on fire.
* * *
Watching Blythe hurry away, Dieter inhaled the faint traces of a fragrance he couldn’t name. He cursed under his breath. He certainly hadn’t meant for Johann to be the first thing he told her about himself.
On the other hand, she was clearly upset by the knowledge, which meant she was attracted to him. He shook his head, not sure why the realization made him feel smug.
However, she probably thought he was a philandering married man.
The best plan was to avoid contact, which wouldn’t be difficult. He strode into the Bishop’s Residence, trying to get his mind on the myriad details he’d been tasked with in preparation for the betrothal ceremony on the morrow.
With any luck, he might get a chance during the proceedings to explain to Lady Blythe he was a widower.
* * *
The next day, Matilda’s ladies had barely finished bathing and dressing their mistress when the Bishop of Utrecht sought an audience. The princess scowled. “These foreigners have done nothing to make us welcome,” she declared. “Let him wait.”
For the first time, Blythe glimpsed something of her shrewd royal father in Matilda. She might not turn out to be the malleable wife Heinrich expected. When she deemed sufficient time had passed, she took her place in the elaborately carved chair by the hearth and gave leave for the cleric to enter.
Gooseflesh marched up Blythe’s spine when Dieter von Wolfenberg entered behind the reed-thin bishop and bowed low. “With permission, I will act as interpreter,” he explained. “Bishop Burchard has come to explain the details of the ceremony.”
Blythe clenched her jaw. Surely, there were other people at this court who spoke Norman French.
“We thank you, Count von Wolfenberg,” the princess replied with a smile.
It was doubtful Dieter realized how blessed he was to receive the favor of a smile—Matilda had even remembered his name. Clearly, she liked him.
The gaunt-looking bishop bowed before beginning his list, pausing after each item to fill his wheezing lungs.
Blythe tensed as he swayed, fearing he wasn’t long for this world. Without his crozier for support he might keel over.
Dieter translated both the bishop’s rasped instructions and Matilda’s questions.
Blythe tried to concentrate on remembering the details in case her mistress forgot a step, but all she could think of was how at ease Dieter seemed in the presence of royalty. Heinrich must trust him completely. She’d heard Saxons opposed Heinrich’s rule. If Dieter was his faithful servant, perhaps he wasn’t a good person. After all, an honorable married man would not be flirting with other women.
Perhaps, he was no different from the young noblemen at King Henry’s court who thought Matilda’s ladies-in-waiting were fair game since they couldn’t marry.
Realizing belatedly the bishop was ready to lead the procession to the ceremony, Blythe assisted Matilda to don a fur-lined cape, then raised her allotted corner of the heavy garment off the planked floor.
Very conscious of the presence of the enervating count directly behind her as they began the short walk to the neighboring church, she nigh on faltered when he whispered. “I’m a widower.”
* * *
The ceremony betrothing Heinrich to Matilda seemed to be progressing without a hitch, but Dieter wasn’t interested in the historic event as he stood beside the duke in Adalbold’s Dom. The magnificent architecture of the Kerkenkruis absorbed his attention. In honor of Emperor Conrad, Bishop Adalbold had constructed a church at the centre of five churches built in the shape of the crucifix.
Dieter had done what he could to lessen Lady Blythe FitzRam’s upset, though she looked as bored with the proceedings as he felt.
He fully understood the necessity for rulers to form strategic alliances, but the betrothal of a child to a grown man was a travesty as far as he was concerned. He wondered if King Henry worried about his young daughter.
After Utrecht, the imperial cavalcade was scheduled to travel on to Mainz where the nine-year-old Matilda would be crowned empress. However, when Dieter answered the pre-dawn summons to Lothair’s chambers the next morning, his duke’s grim features confirmed the time had come to abandon any pretense of supporting Heinrich.
“We leave within the hour,” Lothair said abruptly. “Our troops have gathered near Warnstedt, ready to march against Heinrich. I must be there to lead them. Time is of the essence.”
“I will take care of things at Wolfenberg en route,” Dieter replied.
“Nein,” Lothair replied forcefully. “You are better suited to aid the resistance brewing in Köln. They need an organizer—someone they trust.”
Dieter admitted inwardly he preferred involvement in plotting and intrigue to fighting in an open pitched battle. However, o
rganizing a rebellion was dangerous and would take months, if not years. He couldn’t risk taking Johann to Köln. It would mean a long absence from Wolfenberg. Nevertheless, he couldn’t shirk his duty. “I am your man,” he declared.
Lothair slapped him on the back. “Heinrich doesn’t know what he’s in for. My lieutenant has the men mounted and ready.”
They hurried to the stables and rode out to the meadows beside the Rhine where they joined the duke’s armed escort.
As the troop galloped away from Utrecht, immense regret filled Dieter’s heart. He would never see the lovely and innocent Blythe FitzRam again. She could have no notion of the turmoil that lay ahead as Heinrich’s tyranny stoked the fires of rebellion across Saxony. He hoped the coming inferno didn’t consume her.
Empress
On the twenty-fifth day of July in the year of our Lord One Thousand One Hundred and Eleven, Matilda was crowned Holy Roman Empress in Mainz.
Heinrich was notably absent, not having returned from Rome where he’d been crowned emperor two months before.
As the lengthy coronation ceremony of her mistress proceeded, Blythe stood in awe in the basilica, recalling the detailed history she’d been told upon first arriving in Mainz. The voice of the young priest choked with pride as he conducted Matilda's ladies-in-waiting through the Mainzer Dom.
At the time, Blythe had not appreciated the compulsory history lesson. Now, however, she gazed with admiration upon the massive gold cross commissioned by Archbishop Willigis, the heavy bronze doors made by Master Berenger, and the stunning stained glass windows illuminated by the bright summer sunshine. She recalled the guide explaining the cathedral was not simply one church, but a complex which included those dedicated to Sancta Maria ad Gradus, and Saint Johannis, the latter built five hundred years before. She had to admit it was a very magnificent and appropriate place for a coronation.
The Black Knight’s Captive Page 3