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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.
An irritating pang of jealousy surged through her as the imperial crown was placed on the nine-year-old Matilda’s head. She had no aspirations of grandeur, but the child wearing an elaborate crown that slipped down around her ears had decided her fate. She sensed growing resentment among fellow ladies-in-waiting. “I’m not allowed to marry because I’m in her service. Her Highness thinks of no one but herself,” she whispered to the widowed Lady Dorothea Le Roux. “I’ll die a spinster. My younger sister will probably be wed before I’m released from this obligation.”
She didn’t begrudge Ragna happiness, but her sibling always wanted to be first in all things. She felt isolated in this foreign land, especially after Count Dieter left Heinrich’s entourage shortly before the departure from Utrecht. He’d gone without a word of farewell, though she had to admit there’d been little opportunity for conversation between them. She would never see him again, but it would be a long time before she would forget him. She sensed he was trustworthy, despite the fact he served a reputed despot. Heinrich had raged loud and long upon learning of the departure of Duke Lothair and the nobles in his retinue. She wondered at the reason behind these puzzling events.
Now, there was no one she could trust. Sharing confidences with other ladies-in-waiting was tempting, but could be dangerous. While Matilda's entourage communicated in Norman French, Heinrich’s courtiers spoke German, a harsh sounding language she had never had any reason to learn.
Caedmon and Agneta FitzRam had raised her to be tolerant. Her father’s harrowing experiences in the First Crusade had brought home to him that intolerance leads to needless bloodshed. Her mother often told the story of almost losing her husband because of hatred of exiled Saxons who had helped Scottish raiders slaughter her family.
The FitzRams had come to terms with their prejudices and hatreds and passed their belief in the power of love and understanding on to their children. Blythe was torn between wanting to accept the foreigners in whose midst she found herself, and disdain for their alien tongue and temperament.
She leaned close to Lady Dorothea’s ear. “I suppose we must call her Empress Matilda now.”
Lady Dorothea gave her a conspiratorial grin as she put a finger to her lips.
Blythe shifted her weight and recommenced her perusal of the historic surroundings, but her mind dwelt on her discontent. Her parents were intensely loyal to each other. She longed for such a relationship, but had discovered during her time in Westminster most men were only interested in one thing from ladies-in-waiting. The Germans were no different. She had been obliged to keep plaiting her hair in crown braids. Male courtiers weren’t interested in plain girls and the tight braids made her look positively menacing.
She tightened her mouth into an unattractive pout and creased her brow, transforming her face into an ugly scowl. She resolved this would be the fraulein face she’d present to the ogling Germans, though she mused they were used to seeing the same expression on the faces of many of their fellow countrywomen.
A strident fanfare jolted her back to reality.
The end must be in sight.
Her long legs were stiff from standing and kneeling—up and down, up and down. She stifled a yawn, concealing it with her kerchief. “What an ordeal! Matilda will need a nap,” she whispered to Dorothea. A cold shiver crept down her spine. She had tried unsuccessfully to find love in her heart for her mistress. Matilda had been insufferable when she was a mere princess.
The rehearsals for this grand rite had been lengthy and tedious. Blythe fell into her assigned place in the winding procession out of the cathedral, squaring her shoulders to face whatever lay ahead.
As predicted, Empress Matilda fell asleep upon regaining the imperial chambers and before the banquet. Blythe was kept busy helping with the disrobing, preparing the bath and redressing her mistress when she woke.
Heinrich had decided Matilda and her ladies would be sent to Trier before the wedding where they would receive instruction in the German language and culture from Bruno, Archbishop of Trier. Blythe welcomed the idea. Life would become easier if she could speak the language.
However, a worry nagged. Would anyone take on responsibility for explaining to the little girl what would be expected on her wedding night. Had Matilda's mother prepared her? Would Heinrich expect his conjugal rights from a child? From what she’d seen so far, he wasn’t a gentle and considerate man. Blythe’s mother had told her daughters of the exhilarating passion of the marriage bed when a man and woman loved each other.
“Not that I’ll ever need the knowledge,” she lamented bitterly.
* * *
Emperor Heinrich’s mind wasn’t on his future bride. He was preoccupied with a revolt within the borders of his far-flung empire. Rebellion was in the air in the ancient town of Köln, stoked by allies from the Saxon nobility—the treacherous Lothair in particular.
He met with his advisors. “Is our army assembled to march against the upstarts in Köln?”
The commander of his forces bowed. “Yes, sire, mostly Alemannians and Bavarians. It’s a large, well-equipped army.”
Heinrich toyed with the point of his beard. “Gut! I will reduce Köln to shame and insignificance. Her inhabitants arrogantly think they are one of the great towns of the empire. Be ready to march on the morrow.”
“But sire, will you not join your betrothed in Mainz?”
Heinrich snorted. “She’s nine! What am I supposed to do with her? I’ll come back when she’s grown up a little.”
The assembled noblemen snickered with sympathetic laughter.
