The Forsaken Monarch Read online

  As ill fate would have it, the emperor had called upon Archbishop Adalbert of Mainz to hunt with him that week. This was to be the latest public sign of their reconciliation, but my husband was in no state for such action. Someone made the unhappy suggestion that I should join the archbishop instead. While I was content enough to set Brünnhilda to flight over that forest, the thought of doing so in the company of Adalbert and his retinue was hardly enticing. Then again, I had been asked to do worse.

  So there we were, the two of us and the twenty other people who had been deemed necessary to the trip. We had made our way into the wood that lies in the valley just south of the castle. The sound of such a large company surely warned every animal within a mile of our presence, but this was no trouble for the she-falcon. Neither did it present a problem for the archbishop’s bird, which was larger and more powerful, but not as fiercely precise as my own. Of course, the hunt was of little importance next to the real matter at hand: the subtle game between myself and Adalbert.

  The path through that part of the wood was narrow. Any more than two horses side by side might cause entanglement in the fir trees. I had torn more than one veil riding through there with the emperor, so on this particular day I had taken the rather odd step of leaving my hair braided against my head but uncovered. This earned me a few strange looks, but I reasoned that I would appear even more foolish if my head was suddenly pulled backward by a tree branch, which might even pull me off my mount.

  Around this time in our journey, the archbishop and I began riding beside one another in the front of the company, which provided an opportunity for him to address me.

  “The weather is fine for our sport today,” he said.

  “Yes, quite,” I replied.

  “I have always loved hunting in this wood,” he added, “though I admit that not all the memories I have of this place are so comforting.”

  By this, Adalbert referred to the many months he spent as a prisoner at Trifels because of his opposition to the emperor, a most disagreeable time for us all. I was surprised that he should mention it, and he amazed me further by continuing.

  “I would not blame you if you felt some bitterness toward me, Empress Mathilda. I know well the outrage that my actions must have engendered in the imperial household. Yet I believe that you are a woman of profound reason—one who values the sanctity of our holy Church and would do all she could to see it increase. You must know that everything I have done was never for my own benefit, but due to my zeal for the commands of the Lord and my desire to see all things brought into accordance with his will. I live to serve the emperor, and I live to serve Jesus Christ. There have been times when—I’m sorry to say it—the emperor has been a danger to himself and his own rule. I only sought to bring him back into communion with the Church, thus saving his eternal soul.”

  He ceased speaking for a moment, evidently waiting for my response, but I was not about to give him the satisfaction. When I did not reply, but simply patted my horse on the head, he asked, “Do my words displease you?”

  I laughed. “No, archbishop. Your words could never affect me so.” This was a lie, but one that I hoped would serve its purpose. “I am simply amused to think that you should come here merely to make such a speech. Surely you had better things to do in Mainz.”

  “I am not sure what you mean. I am delighted to spend this time with Your Highness.”

  “Oh, I think we both know the true reason you have come,” I said, giving him a pointed look.

  We had reached a small clearing, so I alighted from my horse and took up my crossbow. I stopped for a moment and smelled the forest air. It has a particular smell, the forest. The sap of the trees, the decaying leaves covering the ground, the dirt as old as the heavens: all of them give off a smell at once fresh and ancient. No sooner had I begun to enjoy the scent, than I heard the archbishop call behind me, “And what do you believe is the true reason for my visit?”

  Sighing, I opened my eyes again and readied the weapon for firing.

  “You heard that the emperor was sick, and you had to seek out the truth of it,” I answered. “You have come here to glory in your triumph.”

  “Never, my empress!” he said, alighting himself and chasing after me. “How could you imagine such a thing? The emperor and I have made our peace with one another. I seek only his benefit.”

  While I had not desired this time with the archbishop, I had at least hoped to use it to determine whether Archbishop Adalbert was true. After his long rebellion against the emperor, I needed to know that I could trust him in the years ahead, but my spirit continued to doubt him, as if something in me sensed that his was the gold of fools. Did he really seek the emperor’s benefit alone, or was he still playing the game for his own benefit?

  I decided it was best to be honest. I placed an arrow on the string and pulled it back, bracing to shoot. As I did so, I said, “You have made a conquest of the duke of Swabia—I admit it—and you may be able to fool the emperor with this sudden repentance. After all, he is disposed to think well of you. But I see through you, archbishop. You will pour words of honey into my ears, then return to your own lodging to crow in exultation.”

  At that very moment, Brünnhilda dove upon a flock of quail, scattering them in all directions. I spotted one and let an arrow fly, missing it by the smallest of margins.

  “Damn it!” I muttered.

  “I had heard a rumor that you felt this way, but I prayed it was false,” the archbishop continued.

  I turned toward him and said, “Yes, well, I have spent many years praying that God would make false men true.”

  “This is Archbishop Bruno’s doing,” he said half to himself, looking away. “He has poisoned your thoughts and made you believe me to be a monster.”

  “You should not speak ill of the dead,” I replied, taking another arrow by the sheath and running it between my fingers.

  “He is dead then? I had not heard.”

  “We received word from Trier earlier this week, but with the emperor less than his full self, the news was rather forgotten. I mourned him. He was a good teacher and friend.”

  “I am sorry to hear of his passing. We did not always agree, but I respected him.”

  “He was a greater man than you will ever be,” I concluded. I turned my back to him and readied my bow to shoot once again. I knew it was wrong to say such things to an archbishop, but I suppose I could not help myself. I imagined the look on his face, had I seen it, would not have been pleasant.

  There was rustling in the grass and my muscles tensed. All thoughts of the archbishop ceased as I pulled back the string. I inhaled, then sent the arrow toward the noise at random. Instantly, there was a noise as of a beast in pain.

  “The empress has hit something!” Adalbert called, and several of the men ran off in the direction of the noise.

  We watched as they circled the region where the arrow had flown, but they found no animal—just a trail of blood leading away from the site.

  “Stay here! We will stalk it!” one of them called.

  I sighed and placed the weapon back upon my horse. “There will be no need for this as long as they are scaring everything away,” I complained.

  I walked back into the clearing and whistled for Brünnhilda, who appeared out of the trees and landed upon my arm. I pulled out a small morsel for her to eat. Throughout all of this, the archbishop said nothing. Finally, I decided to break the silence.

  “My uncle David is soon to be crowned king of Scotland.”

  “That is in place of your other uncle?” he asked.

  “Yes, Alexander. I never met him, but Prince David was often at the English court.”

  “I remember your mother well. She was a great queen, and an even greater woman. She would be proud of what you have achieved.”

  To hear my mother spoken of well always did my heart good. However, I suspected flattery.

  “Are you attempting to appeal to my sentiment?” I asked.

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nbsp; “No, I speak the truth! Do you not remember the first time we met? When I traveled to Westminster with Duke Frederick to sign the treaty? You were so small! I think you were afraid at the sight of me.”

  “Could you blame me? You were come to snatch me away from everything I knew. I didn’t know a word of German, and my Latin was dreadful.”

  It occurred to me that the archbishop might still consider my Latin dreadful, but fortunately, he dared not say so to my face.

  “And here you are now, having helped to guide our kingdom through one of its darkest hours. I am not ignorant of all you have done to help bring about peace between the emperor and the Church: how you have influenced him toward the cause of the Lord. You and I are more alike than not. Our methods are different, but our ends the same. And you must know that it was not I who made the emperor sick, nor do I wish him so.”

  I was unwilling to admit that we were the same, but I could not deny that there was some truth in his words. I placed Brünnhilda back in her cage and turned to face him once again.

  “Say that I choose to believe you—that your repentance is real,” I offered. “I will still need to see the truth of this in your actions. From now on, you must be the emperor’s man through and through. You must strive to follow all his commands. You must do right by this house.”

  “All this and more, I will do,” he answered solemnly.

  “So the leopard wishes to change his spots,” I mused. “We shall see if your word holds true. Now, on to business. What do you wish to ask me?”

  “May I speak plainly?”

  “I find it to be best.”

  “Very well. Is the emperor dying?”

  I sighed deeply. “God only knows that.” Before he protested, I added, “He has an illness, the exact nature of which remains a mystery. He grows worse by the year—even by the month.”

  “Then we must make ready for the possibility of a succession. As the chief elector, it will fall to me to guide the rest.”

  “Why do you think I forgave you?” I asked. “When I first came here as a child, I had no thought but keeping my head above water. I sought merely to survive and convince people that I could be queen of the Romans. But now that I have lived with my husband through many tests, I feel that I have a part in his legacy. If we are not to have children, then I must at least defend what he has built. I have no desire to see everything that my husband has worked for die with him.”

  “Nor do I. That is why it is essential that you and I work together. Has the emperor said whom he favors to follow after him?”

  “Duke Frederick, of course.”

  “You say ‘of course,’ but they have not always been on the best terms.”

  “Common blood covers over a multitude of sins. Surely you know that.”

  “Duke Frederick is a worthy successor,” Adalbert said with a nod of the head. “He has a keen mind and is a friend of the Church.”

  “And he is of the imperial house, with a son already born,” I added.

  “I know this is a difficult time for you, made no easier by the controversies surrounding myself, but I have every hope that the kingdom will come through this even stronger. I am only sorry that God has not granted you children of your own.”

  That phrase, “children of your own,” seemed to ring in my mind. For a moment, I imagined myself holding a newborn babe. I felt a swell of pride that I had accomplished this. Yes, I, Empress Mathilda, had ensured the future of my dynasty. I felt something else too. Was it love? I was never a particularly maternal type. After all, the world had forced me to be cold. Yet I felt the stirring of something else within me, as if I was already bound to the child in my arms. But it was nothing real: a vapor, a passing of the wind. Those who dwell on dreams are not fit for this world.

  “Never mind that,” I finally said. “Do right by the emperor. Do right by this house.”

  “I shall, my lady. You have my solemn word.”

  The men finally returned to the clearing, bearing the bloody carcass of a wild boar. My arrow had hit it, but it took a long chase and several more blows to kill it. It seemed that the day had gone well after all, though it remained to be seen whether I had also taken down Archbishop Adalbert.

  As the year 1124 wore on, I arranged for several physicians to visit the emperor in secret, but none of them could cure his disease. How the life seemed to drain from him! He was constantly tired, and his appetite had all but disappeared. And the pain—oh, the pain! I have seen few people suffer as he did. We found more of the loathsome bulges beneath his arms, and the one on his neck continued to grow until it could be plainly seen. I was forced to take over many of his duties, and the season of Advent came and went with little joy to be had. We received news of a rather extraordinary papal election in which those two warring families—the Pierleoni and Frangipani—were at each other’s throats once again. But what did I care about such things when my husband was dying?

  Too late I had come to understand my position as empress. Too late I had found myself able to address him as a wife. I had never been able to relate to him as a girl. Indeed, I hardly saw him in those years! It was only when I became a woman that I was able to have something resembling a marriage, though the odd nature of our union seemed to prevent the deepest levels of affections—or did it? True, I had never burned with passion for him, nor he for me, but in those closing days, I felt my heart torn to such a degree that I concluded, despite all the evidence, that I did care for him deeply: not so much as a lover, but as a partner and family member.

  I came to recognize this, but it was too late. He was naught but a shadow of his former self. Everyone at court had guessed it by then. They sensed that the end was nigh, even if they did not dare to say so to the emperor’s face. They plotted and schemed, but I was left to hold his hand in the dark of night, when he seethed in pain rather than slept. The passing of my mother and brother had been hidden from me. I mourned them only from afar. The loss of Archbishop Bruno was another blow, for he had taught me much of what I knew. But the slow death of Emperor Henry occurred in front of my very eyes, and it was a torment to endure. His body was broken, and my heart doubly so.

  I say everyone knew by this point that the emperor was dying, but he still refused to acknowledge it. Against my advice and his own better judgment, the emperor made ready for a great progress to Utrecht during the New Year. Even in his infirmity, he would brook no talk of surrender, and thus we set off over land from Mainz to Liège for Easter. We then returned to the Rhine by way of Aachen and began sailing north. I remembered the first time I had sailed along that river, as a young girl traveling with my betrothed to my coronation. Now the fates had reversed our course, and we were sailing back to Utrecht, where we first clasped hands and spoke vows to one another. The circle comes back round in the end.

  We had only made it as far as Duisburg when the emperor needed to rest for a few days. He had spent the entire time in the boat lying down, but now even the movement of the water seemed too much for him. One evening, I was sitting by his bed, for I was determined to watch over him as much as possible. With great effort, he raised his head and said to me, “Empress Mathilda, see to it that all the lands that I ought to have returned to the Church as part of our agreement make their way to their rightful home. If I do not make right by that accord, the Lord may hold me in contempt, and I shall bear the weight of it eternally.”

  “You are not dying yet,” I said, with far more confidence than I felt. “Get well, and then you can see it done yourself.”

  He was able to rise the next morning and we traveled on to the palace at Nijmegen. Here again was a repetition of our earlier steps. We stayed there two days while the emperor continued to suffer.

  “I pray the good Lord takes him soon,” I heard Adelaide whisper. “He has endured this torment long enough.”

  I was unwilling to admit defeat, for I hoped that the care he would receive upon our arrival in Utrecht might help him in the short term, but I did send word
down river to Duke Frederick and bid him make haste toward our position.

  “I fear your uncle is not long for this world,” I wrote. “He will have need of you before the end.”

  Finally, the spires of Utrecht came into view. Such a pleasant sight it might have been under other circumstances, but now I saw nothing but a herald of woe. We entered the same palace I had stayed in years before and settled the emperor into his bed: a bed from which I feared he would never rise. It was a dark room without a single window. The only furniture was the bed and two chairs. I requested to put him in a more suitable place, but with what little breath he had, my husband demanded to stay in that dreary chamber. As I did not wish for him to waste what little strength he had fighting this battle, I relented.

  There was nothing left to do but sit, wait, and hope. It was very near Whitsunday—the feast in honor of the birth of our Church—but all I could see were the signs of death.

  The hours seemed eternal. More than once, I fell asleep in the chair beside my husband, only to wake with a sudden terror. In those hours, I thought back over the many days we had spent together: the first meeting at Liège, the triumph through Rome, the awkward moment in which I discovered his illness. He had never told me he loved me—never said he found me comely—but he was a true husband to me nevertheless. Though I had no desire to be with him in the beginning, I felt at the end that I must remain with him: I must complete the vow I had made to be with him until death. What was more, I had no desire to go elsewhere.

  The emperor would struggle to breathe, at times opening his eyes and asking in a faint voice, “Is Frederick here yet?”

  “No, my lord, he is not yet come,” I would answer.