The Forsaken Monarch Page 9

  “Tell him to come quickly,” was his only reply.

  Frederick did come on the twenty-third day of May. Almost as soon as he arrived, all of the bishops and high officials in attendance were brought into the emperor’s chamber. This was no easy task, for the room was quite small. It was rather obscene to see them push to the front, hoping to be in a place of prominence. I had the odd feeling that they were vultures sweeping down upon my husband, willing him to breathe his last so they could get to the business of king making. I wanted to shield him from their prying eyes. I placed one hand on his right shoulder and held his hand with the other, as if to defend him against their intentions.

  They were still whispering to one another and paying no heed to the solemnity of the moment when I finally said, “Silence, my lords, I beg you! Let the emperor rest in peace.”

  The bishop of Utrecht had made his way to the emperor’s left side. He was to perform the rite. However, I did not see the emperor’s nephew and chosen heir.

  “Where is Duke Frederick?” I asked.

  I saw a hand go up in the far corner of the room. I was about to say something, but it was the emperor who said, “Frederick! Come to my side.”

  This small act caused him to gasp for breath. I rubbed his chest. “Be still, my lord emperor! We will take care of things. Just rest.”

  Once Frederick had worked his way to my side, the bishop said to me, “You may wish to sit on the bed with him, Empress Mathilda. It would be a great comfort to him to have his wife near.” I did as he said and again took my husband’s hand in both of mine.

  The bishop took the holy oil and made the sign of the cross. In the dim light of the candles, I saw it glisten briefly upon his finger tips. He then anointed the emperor’s body. My husband could hardly move, but his eyes were open wide as he watched the priest’s every action.

  “Per istam sanctan unctionem et suam piissimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per visum, audtiotum, odorátum, gustum et locutiónem, tactum, gressum deliquisti,” the bishop said.

  He then spoke words in the emperor’s own tongue: “Are you truly sorrowful for all the sins you have committed, and do you freely repent of the same and beg the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ?”

  The emperor replied without delay, “I do.”

  Honestly, I do not know how I kept the tears from falling in that moment. They had certainly formed in my eyes. I think it was simply an act of the will, for I thought it might alarm the rest to see female tears. I was calling upon everything within myself to help me through the pain of that moment in which I was being severed from the man to whom I was bound by God.

  The Eucharist was administered with some difficulty, for my husband had trouble swallowing. The bishop and I both raised his head to make this possible. The litany continued until at last there was nothing left for the bishop to do.

  When his head had been returned to the pillow, the emperor closed his eyes and spoke weakly. “Let all be gone except the empress and Frederick.”

  At last, the vultures had been ordered away! They filed out silently, leaving only the three of us. When the door had been firmly shut, the emperor said to his nephew, “Do you have the regalia?”

  “Yes, I placed them in the empress’ chamber,” he replied. “They will be safe there. I made sure a watch was set.”

  The emperor was apparently satisfied with this answer and closed his eyes. Frederick and I both looked at each other. He appeared to be quite afraid, whereas I simply felt deeply saddened. At length, my husband made a noise, and we both looked back to see that his eyes were open again.

  “What can we do for you?” I asked. “Is there anything you require?”

  “Only this,” he answered. “Frederick, I place my wife into your care. Treat her as your own flesh and blood. Safeguard her and provide for her welfare.”

  “I will,” he said.

  “Mathilda,” the emperor continued, turning with some effort to look at me. “To you I give the sacred regalia of this kingdom. The man who holds them holds power over the empire. You must get them to Archbishop Adalbert in preparation for the election. He will know what to do with them.”

  I did not want to receive these words. Each one was bringing him closer to the end. Yet I understood my duty. He wanted to know that all would be well after his death, and I would give him the assurance he craved.

  “If that is your will, lord, then of course, I will do it,” I said. “Ought I to give Adalbert any instruction? That is, anything regarding who should be elected?”

  “It is my firm desire that Frederick becomes emperor after me, and I have full confidence in him,” he replied. “Still, it is necessary that all things proceed in order. I have Adalbert’s word. He will oversee the election and ensure that everything is done properly. Frederick, you will have the support of the electors.”

  “I am honored by your confidence, uncle, and I will uphold the honor of this house for all of my days,” the duke replied.

  The emperor was struggling with each breath, yet he was still determined to speak. He turned to me once again.

  “My wife … my final words are for you. I know … I know that I have not … not always been a good husband to you. I have not given you … all that you deserve.”

  “That is not true,” I responded, unwilling to make his final moments about myself. “I have been happy here—happier than I ever thought I would be.”

  “Even so,” he continued, “with my passing, you will be left with a choice of how to … live out your days. There are many who will tell you to take the … take the veil and spend the rest of … your days in … devotion to Christ.” He looked at me quite firmly. “Do not do it.”

  “Why ever not?” Frederick asked. “Perhaps she wants that life.”

  “If she does,” the emperor said, “she will not have me … to get in the way … but I think that … she does not.”

  The emperor was correct about my desires, but I still did not speak. It seemed cruel in that moment to speak of the life I might live after him. I did not wish to keep him from saying anything with what precious time he had left.

  “Do not worry about my future, my lord,” I begged him. “I am happy enough to be here in the present: to be by your side.”

  He looked me firmly in the eyes. His face was gaunt. His body was broken. Yet his true strength was displayed in what he said next.

  “I see your future, Mathilda. You will be a mother of kings. As for me, I have striven with God and with man. I have had enough … enough of this world. Say a prayer for me, but do not mourn me. I go to a better place, a place of lasting content.”

  Both Frederick and I were in tears by that point. I was feeling so many things, I thought I might burst. I raised my husband’s hand and kissed it, allowing the tears to touch his skin. I leaned to kiss his brow, my lips pressing softly on to the head that had worn a crown. When I pulled back, his eyes were closed.

  “Heinrich!” I called to him, but there was no answer.

  IV

  “Oh, how fortune turns upon us all!

  Oh, how the mighty are brought low!

  One day they rise, another they fall.

  A man may reap what he does not sow.”

  Those words were often sung by Lady Beatrice, the nursery maid of my youth. There was no great skill in that writing—I myself could have composed such a verse without much thought. Yet the words were ever true. Lady Fortuna could be cruel indeed.

  How fortune had turned against the emperor! Struck down in the prime of life, when he ought to have been raising sons. I confess that his soul was not always pure, but he sought in his later years to make amends. What justice was there in his too early demise? Such designs he had for the advancement of his people, but they were not to be. Yes, Fortuna was truly Imperatrix Mundi: the empress of the world.

  The surgeons made quick work of his body, removing the bowels and the heart, which would be buried in the church of Saint Martin. They cleaned him fr
om head to toe, trimming the hair and beard, which had lately entered a sorry state. They then clothed him in his finest raiment, placing rings upon his fingers and his trusted sword at his waist. The imperial crown would of course be needed for his successor, but another of his diadems was seated on the head. Great chains of gold and jewels were placed around his neck. When all this was accomplished, the body was borne down to the river, where the royal ship was waiting to carry him back to his native land. I could not help but feel that for all their work, they could not erase the awful stain of death.

  What an awful journey that was! I had hoped to take some comfort in the soaring heights, the green of spring, and the magnificent buildings—to feel the sun on my face. Instead, we were pelted with rain from beginning to end, an apt symbol of the gloom that filled our souls. When we arrived in Speyer, we found the surrounding heath to be more of a marsh. The streets were filled with slop. The townsmen who came to pay their respects were soaked through and shivering. I rode just behind the bier, and with each step those horses took, the water splashed toward me. For just a moment, I might have envied the dead.

  The emperor’s body was borne into the cathedral, where it would lie in honor until the funeral. I took up my place in the bishop’s palace that had been home to Adalbert’s brother, Bruno of Saarbrücken, until his death. The furnishings were not as fine as they had been under Bishop Bruno, but we made due.

  A fire was made up in my room, and when I had changed out of my wet things, I sat next to it, attempting to restore some warmth to my bones. Behind me, Adelaide was busy arranging the chests, ensuring that the bed sheets were clean, and lighting the few candles that were set on each of the three tables. At one point, she offered me a glass of warm spiced wine, and I took it gladly, for even by the fire I still felt cold.

  “Would you like one of the furs, my lady?” she asked.

  “Yes, please!”

  “Wolf, fox, or beaver?”

  I did not truly care, but I answered all the same. “Fox.”

  She placed the fur over my shoulders, and I held the goblet of wine in both hands, sinking further down into the chair cushions.

  “I’ll leave you then,” she said, gathering up the wet clothes to be laundered and departing.

  This time alone was welcome. I only had an hour or so before the deluge of people would hit the audience room below, all of them wishing to speak with me. As I stared into the flames, I tried to determine what my purpose was in light of the emperor’s death. I had committed myself to help ensure that Duke Frederick was elected: if not directly, then surely by implication. However, I saw no clear path for me in Germany after that. A dowager queen is little good to anyone, and a dowager empress worse still. I had trouble gathering my thoughts in the midst of that grief, and as I sank still further into the chair, I felt myself growing drowsy.

  Don’t close your eyes! a part of me said.

  You need rest! another part said.

  You must not miss the reception! the first voice warned.

  You are the queen, and they can wait for you! the other replied.

  At length, the second voice won out. I set the goblet on the small table beside me, laid my hands on top of my belly, and closed my eyes, allowing my mind to go blank. I was weary beyond weary, worn down by the tears I had shed and the long journey I had endured. Simply to rest felt heavenly. I had almost fallen asleep when there was a knock at the door.

  With a heavy sigh, I raised myself up in the chair and said, “Who is it?”

  “Sir Drogo, Your Highness,” he called back.

  If someone had to interrupt my rest, Drogo was a better choice than most. I therefore replied, “Enter!”

  He opened the door and ducked slightly as he passed through it, closing it behind him.

  “There is another chair there in the corner,” I told him, pointing toward it.

  “Thank you.”

  He picked it up as if it were the weight of a feather and placed it next to mine, making himself comfortable in it.

  “Is that the spiced wine?” he asked, pointing to my glass.

  “Yes,” I said, retrieving it. “Did you not get any?”

  “I didn’t even know they had it.”

  “Want a drink?” I asked, extending the goblet to him.

  “No, thank you,” he assured me. “I would hate to taint it in such a manner.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  I took a sip, but it suddenly occurred to me that maybe I had dismissed the matter too easily. It was a good moment to say something of import, so I did.

  “You know I think of you like an older brother, Drogo. We have been together so long.”

  “I am truly honored, Your Highness. I am not worthy of such consideration.” He bowed his head slightly.

  “I also value your opinion,” I continued, returning the goblet to the table and turning back to face him. “Tell me, do you wish to remain in my service now that the emperor is deceased?”

  “Why would I not?” he asked, his tone a bit sad.

  “You once expressed an interest in becoming a minister of the Church.”

  “But I made a commitment to Your Highness. I could not break that simply because your position changes.”

  “Your loyalty is honorable, Sir Drogo, and I am so thankful for your service. That is why I am giving you a chance to do what you wish. Do you want to remain a knight in my service or enter the Church?”

  “I certainly wish to stay with you, at least until you are safely back in England.”

  “Is that what you want then? For me to return to England?” I asked, leaning back in the chair. “You do not like it here in the empire?”

  “Oh, I like it,” he said, “but it is not my home. Cornwall is my home, and I have a better chance of seeing it if I return to England.”

  “But what of your friends here? I think you are close with several of the men in the imperial household.”

  “Yes, but I am also old enough to understand that friends come and go, but your home is always your home.”

  There was a break in our conversation as we both watched the flames dance and spark. Suddenly, it occurred to me that it must be getting rather late.

  “My apologies, Drogo, but I must ready myself for our visitors. They will all want to tell me how saddened they are by the emperor’s passing. I am not sure how that will make me feel better, but there you have it. The thing must be done.”

  “How are you doing?” he asked. “You did not speak much while we were sailing back.”

  “My thoughts were enough to keep me company.”

  “Do you have no one who can help share the burden of your grief?”

  This seemed an odd question to me, perhaps because of the nature of my marriage with the late emperor. I certainly grieved him as I would a beloved brother. Perhaps that was what made me feel guilty: that my love for him, though perfectly real, was not quite the thing of which the minstrels sang. I still had a right to grieve, but I felt it would be difficult for anyone else to enter into that grief with me when the bond I had shared with the emperor was hard to explain.

  “Perhaps my grief is not as deep as you suppose,” I concluded.

  “I do not believe that,” he said, shaking his head. “Even if he wasn’t the perfect husband, I know you will miss him, even as I miss him. Are there no ladies who hold your confidence that you might speak with them openly?”

  “No, I cannot say there are,” I replied sadly. It seemed an awful thing to admit.

  “Really? That seems most extraordinary.”

  “Does it?” I asked with a laugh. “I suspect it is a common problem affecting queens. I spend more time with men than women, not by choice but out of necessity. The women I do see often are so far below me in rank and understanding that it is difficult for me to form strong friendships with them. I would like a female companion very much, but God has not seen fit to grant me one as of yet.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” he concluded.

>   With that, our conversation ended, and I braced myself to receive people. Scores of mourners lined up that evening to wish me well, though I would rather have been left alone. Their pitying eyes were almost too much to take. The questions seemed to come like a deluge of hail: “What will you do now? Do you intend to remain in the empire? Oh, we hope you do! Have you spoken with Duke Frederick? What will he do? Were you with the emperor at the end?”

  Then there were the comments that were well meant, but seemed to miss their target: “How fortunate that you did not have any children to mourn this loss!” “You know, the duke of Bavaria’s son is seeking a wife.” “I’m sure you weep all through the night.”

  Some earnest sisters came from Bingen to express their grief and let me know that, should I be so disposed, they would happily receive me into their number. I smiled, said a word of peace, and sent them on their way. What I truly desired more than anything was sleep, but it was denied me.

  Be glad you are not here to suffer through this, husband, I thought, even as I smiled at yet another wife of a local lord who had come to give me her opinion.

  The following morning, I awoke before dawn to the sound of Gertrude ordering the other ladies around in the room next door. I sighed and stared up at the painted wood beams above me: one red, one blue, and then back to red again. I had striven in vain to pull myself away early from the crowd, and my slumber had therefore been far too brief to grant me much relief from my weariness. Every muscle in my body felt oddly sore, and a fog lay over my mind. I laid there for a few minutes, not possessing the will to rise. Then there was a knock at the door and Gertrude called, “My mistress, it is time to wake!”

  “I’m already awake!” I called back.

  She entered the room at once, opened the chest that sat at the foot of the bed, and began to pull things out of it, or so I gathered from the sound. I had to sit up to get a clearer view.

  “Gertrude, what on earth are you doing?” I asked.

  “Helping you get ready for the funeral,” she replied, then called to the younger maids, “Girls! Get in here and help me dress the empress!”