When she could stand it no longer, she approached him.
“Where are you going?”
His answer was clipped as he strapped a double-sided axe to his favored warhorse. This was clearly not a messenger’s mission. “I have business to take care of.”
“What kind of business?”
“My business.”
He wouldn’t budge. Neither would she. Finally Conn broke the stalemate. “How is your good mother this morning?”
She dropped a satirical curtsy. “The same, but many thanks to you for your kindness in asking after my mother’s welfare, good sir.” She snapped at him now. “Don’t change the subject. I need to know, Conn.”
“No, you don’t. And please don’t ask me again. If you do not ask me, I do not tell you. If I do not tell you, you do not know. Understand?”
“I understand the manner of men you are taking with you.”
“I am taking loyal men who have nothing to lose and do not know what fear looks like.”
She was exasperated so decided to play to his protective nature. “You’re scaring me.”
He didn’t buy it. “Nothing scares you.”
“You do, right now.”
He turned to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Tilda, I am the one person on earth you will never have to fear. My sole mission under God is to protect you, against all threats and against all harm. Do you trust me to do that?”
She nodded solemnly. “Of course.”
“Then pray for my safe return, little sister. And stay out of trouble until I come back to you.” He kissed the top of her head and ruffled her hair the way he had always done since she was a teenager.
Matilda watched him go, followed by the ragtag Incorrigibles, all of whom had multiple weapons hanging from their mounts. She shook her head with trepidation. These men were capable of anything.
Antwerp, Belgium
February 26, 1076
CONN’S MEN rode hard across the Alps, galloping north to reach Flanders in time to intercept the soldiers from Lorraine. Godfrey and his own troops were returning to the palace of Verdun on the heels of his victorious adultery accusation at Worms. The Incorrigibles shadowed them now, riding deeper in the forest so as not to be seen by Godfrey’s entourage. When the Lorraine group had settled to make camp for the evening, Conn’s warriors did the same, close by but well secluded by the density of the trees.
They had a plan to attack at first light, making it appear that the duke had been the unwitting victim of highway robbers. It was not exactly honorable combat, to ambush sleepy soldiers who were completely unprepared, Conn had to admit. But the stakes were so high where Tuscany was concerned, with Matilda’s safety specifically at stake, that he had ruled out the necessity of playing fair. This was why he could not allow Matilda to know; she would have never allowed such a plan to be carried out. Assassination was not in her. For all her strength, she was more of a mystic than a warrior. He knew that battle made her ill for days afterwards and gave her nightmares, although it was a secret observed only by those in her immediate circle. She fought in real combat because she had to, not because she enjoyed it.
They were outnumbered by the Lorraine soldiers, and at a disadvantage in terms of territory: Godfrey’s crew would know the region well, but the Tuscans were strangers. Further, it was February and bloody cold, which the warm-blooded Italians found very hard to take. Cold was akin to pain for them, and they did not fight as well with frozen fingers, whereas the Germans were used to this ungodly ice. Conn needed a plan that leveled the battlefield and reduced his risks. This is what he had come up with, and he prayed it would work.
It had not been difficult to convince any of the Incorrigibles to accompany Conn on this mission, particularly after he told them in some detail—much of it fabricated for dramatic effect—about the horrific and depraved sexual practices that the hunchback inflicted upon their divine and perfect countess against her will. The Incorrigibles had been horrified that Godfrey had ever dared to touch Matilda in that way and immediately agreed to seek their revenge on the monster.
Umberto, the eldest of the band, who had had his mercenary start as an orphaned teenager on Bonifacio’s original campaign against piracy, was positioned to keep watch on the duke’s camp during the frozen night. Umberto wasn’t the most savory character, but he had in his own way a type of affection for Bonifacio’s little girl, and like all these men held a peculiar code of honor. He hated the hunchback, as most of Matilda’s men did, because of the threat he posed to their girl and because he regarded the people of Tuscany as little more than objects who existed for the whims of the German king. At the moment, he hated him even more for living in this godforsaken frozen hell that had turned his toes to ice in his boots.
It was in this state of agitation that Umberto the Incorrigible witnessed movement in the Lorraine camp. He grabbed his sword, the long, sharp one with the double blade, and he moved with the stealth of a forest creature to get a closer look.
He could not believe his eyes. Godfrey himself was moving toward him. Had the hunchback seen him? No. The man was clearly unarmed. What was he…? Ah, of course. What other reason would any man risk freezing cold in the middle of the forest in the pitch dark? The call of nature. Godfrey had to relieve himself.
Umberto paused for a moment. He had learned many things from the great Bonifacio, but one of them was this: when you are outnumbered, you must take any advantage that is put in your path. Place survival above all, and the result will most often justify the method. He had also learned something else from Bonifacio: anyone who threatened his little girl had to be eliminated.
Fueled by Conn’s stories of the hunchback’s depravity, Umberto made the snap decision that this man did not deserve a noble end. He whispered “for Bonifacio and Matilda” as he charged the hunchback from behind, plunging his double edged sword into Godfrey of Lorraine’s buttocks. The blade tore into the hunchback’s intestines, giving him neither the time nor the ability to scream. Umberto withdrew his bloody sword and ran back to Conn with the signal to his men to break camp and ride. He would explain later what he had done. It had not been pretty, but it had eliminated their target without risking any of their own men in open combat.
The hunchback languished in excruciating pain for several days before dying. His horrific execution, unanticipated and unplanned as it was, had an interesting and beneficial side effect for Matilda. It sent a message throughout Europe: anyone who threatened Matilda of Tuscany would be dispatched by whatever means necessary. Even the protection of the king would not be enough to save her enemies from the wrath of her defenders. The men of Italy respected the show of strength, and their support for Matilda swelled to its greatest levels, visible in terms of military might and tribute sent in her name.
For Henry IV, this was a very bad omen.
Germany
Easter 1076
THE SENTENCE of excommunication arrived on King Henry’s doorstep at the beginning of Holy Week in the year of our Lord 1076. It did not come as a surprise, and the Germans had been planning their formal response to the pretender pope. There could be no backing down now that war had been declared. It would be necessary to maintain the continued attack against Gregory based on the criminal findings from the Synod at Worms for many reasons, chief among them to keep the German feudal lords aligned with Henry’s strategy. Many of them were distrustful of this king and his acquisitive, narcissistic nature, to say nothing of the whispered rumors that followed him everywhere regarding his darker personal proclivities. Finally, they were by nature a superstitious people, and deposing a pope who had already been saved by God from an angry mob was cause for grave concern among many of them.
Henry’s closest “spiritual adviser,” Bishop William, chose to launch the first line of defense from his seat in the cathedral at Utrecht on Easter Sunday. Following the service in celebration of the risen Christ, William preached a vitriolic condemnation of the pretender who would be pope. He em
phasized that God had chosen Henry as king and that this is what the people needed to cling to in their faith. If Henry was God’s anointed king, then surely this pope who would call himself the ruler of the world was an imposter who had to be removed.
It was a controversial sermon, and an ill-advised one on a day as holy as Easter. For many German citizens, such vitriol on the highest holy day was unthinkable. Shocked by the behavior of their bishop, the nobles of Utrecht agreed in secret to convene an emergency council meeting the following day to discuss this current state of affairs. The meeting never occurred. The next morning, the citizens of Utrecht awoke to find that their cathedral had burned to the ground on the holiest night of the year. The cause of the fire was never determined. The event was deemed to be a portent, sent by God to the people of Germany to reveal that they were following the wrong path in condemning his chosen pontiff.
Bishop William did not back down. He continued his invective against the pope, with the king by his side. He blamed the destruction of the cathedral on papal sympathizers who were working to create just the kind of fear that was beginning to build in Germany. Three weeks after the catastrophic fire, the bishop gave yet another impassioned speech in an attempt to rally support from other clergy around Europe. He would never know what impact that speech would have. Bishop William, perfectly healthy and robust when he retired to bed that night, died in his sleep.
King Henry IV was instantly immersed in a serious crisis. The sudden death of his chief spiritual supporter within a month of the destruction of the cathedral was just too much for the majority of his citizens. They believed what Bishop William had said—that God had spoken—but he had spoken against their king and in favor of this pope.
And this pope, Gregory VII, was ever the astute politician with miraculous timing. Wasting not a single moment, he launched a full campaign against the king’s reputation. Matilda came enthusiastically to his aid. She paid homage to her heroine, Queen Boudicca, by imitating the Celtic warrior queen’s canny propaganda strategy that had helped her to defeat the might of Rome a thousand years prior. Pamphlets referring to Henry’s tarnished character were circulated throughout Italy and Germany.
The pope’s own writings regarding Henry IV were vague, referring only to “sinister deeds,” “dishonorable acts,” and “unheard-of wickedness” without providing specific evidence. Because rumors of Henry’s depravity stretched across Germany and northern Italy, Gregory and Matilda’s strategy allowed for unlimited speculation.
The ambiguity was ruthlessly effective.
The restless German lords and vassals were sufficiently spooked by recent events, and excited by Gregory and Matilda’s ingenious propaganda, to demand that the king make amends with the pope. The excommunicated monarch had been given a year from the date of the anathema to repent his wickedness and swear renewed fealty to the Holy Father. Henry scrambled to gain support, but the macabre and gruesome murder of Godfrey the Hunchback was a shadow over the German feudal lords. No one else was going to risk such a hideous fate, and certainly not for a king who just might be a monstrosity against God after all.
Pisa
April 1076
“I WAS NEVER the mother to you that Isobel was.”
Beatrice croaked the words through cracked lips. She was dying, as she had been for months, slowly and painfully. But it was clear to Matilda, and to her mother, that the end was approaching more rapidly now. Both had things to say before the inevitable.
“Do not say so, Mother,” Matilda admonished, wiping her brow again with a cloth dipped in cool water. “You have been my best friend and my adviser. I could have done none of these things without you.” She was crying now. She had tried so hard not to cry, but she could contain it no longer.
“Just know…” Beatrice was struggling now. “I love you so. And…I am sorry for the times…for the times I…for your unhappy marriage.”
Matilda nodded. She knew what a toll that decision had taken on her mother, knew that her mother had lived many years to regret so much about that terrible period of time. Beatrice did not know about the hunchback’s recent execution. Matilda had decided it was best not to tell her, lest she worry that blame for it would be placed at their door.
Beatrice wandered in and out of delirium for the rest of the day, sometimes babbling, other times lucid. Late in the afternoon she startled in her bed, grabbing Matilda’s hand.
“I see him, Tilda.”
“Who, Mother?”
“Your father. Oh, how I loved him and love him still.” She paused for a moment, lost in what she was seeing. A slow smile crossed her face. “He is proud of you. Our daughter. He watches you from his place next to God. And…I am going with him now.” Beatrice used what was left of the strength in her body to squeeze Matilda’s hand. “He loves you, Matilda. And so do I. Love…”
Beatrice’s voice faded away on that one simple word that defined all that had mattered most in her eventful lifetime, her feelings for her beloved and for their daughter, and what they had been together as a family. Her smile broadened before she closed her eyes for a final time. Beatrice of Lorraine was lost to this world now and on her way into the next, where her one true love waited to welcome her into the arms of God, where they would be together for eternity.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rome
September 1076
Matilda paced the bedchamber of the Isola Tiberina, the fortified tower that was her haven in Rome. She moved to the window to peer at the sun, rising over the Tiber that ran like an artery through the city and the surrounding territories. Gregory was asleep in the bed behind her, or so she thought, until he startled her with an observation.
“You are so restless, my Matilda.”
Matilda slept sparely, and fitfully, which Gregory was discovering as he spent rare and precious nights with her. When awake, she was always moving. Her essential nature would not allow her to rest and had not since she was a little girl; she had too much to accomplish, too many things to think about, and what often felt like infinite responsibilities to her people and their land.
Matilda turned from her place in the window and smiled at him, an expression that was surprisingly soft and sad. “God has given me many blessings in this life. Peace is not one of them.”
He nodded his understanding. “What is bothering you so much this morning?”
“Godfroi. The hunchback’s nephew and namesake in Bouillon. I have word that he would press his advantage since the killing of his uncle and claim his rights as the heir to my own lands. Is there no end to what these men think they can take from me?”
“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
“Because I haven’t seen you in months, and I did not choose to waste our first night together in strategy discussions when we had more important matters to attend to.”
Gregory rose on one elbow now, considering her from the bed. They had spent a magnificent night together, and he wasn’t inclined to let it end just yet. He wasn’t due back at the Lateran until evening. “Do not worry about it for another minute, my love. Henry is trapped and knows it. His dukes and bishops are demanding that he make peace with me. Godfroi will not dare make such a claim without the support of the king and his bishops, which he will not have. I will send word to the bishop of Verdun this very day that he is to take control of your affairs and protect your inheritance in Lorraine. Consider it done.”
Henry was in a severely weakened political condition following a meeting at Tribur, where the German nobility had convened to reinforce support for the sentence of deposition against him and to decide upon a successor to the throne. The assembled men had been unable to come to an agreement in deciding on the new king, and Henry reigned another day. However, the Tribur contingent had insisted that the sitting king make peace with the pope immediately and pledge his absolute obedience. It was declared, by Henry’s own dukes and bishops, that he would forfeit the throne if he had not made appropriate reparation to the pope by Febru
ary 22, the anniversary of his sentence of excommunication.
Gregory was right. His countess had nothing to fear at the moment.
The flourishing Roman sun shone through the window, highlighting Matilda’s unbound hair. Gregory thought, as he often did, that she was an utterly breathtaking sight. He raised the coverlet and invited her back into bed. “Come, my dove. I will endeavor to give you the peace that you long for.”
She joined him then and allowed herself to be enfolded in the warmth of his love for the remainder of the morning, and well into the afternoon.
When it was time to leave Rome, Matilda was less distressed than usual; Gregory had made a commitment to her that thrilled her to her toes and gave her something beautiful to look forward to. He had agreed to spend Christmas with her. In her beloved Lucca.
Lucca
Christmas Eve 1076
THE ANCIENT, subterranean chapel that had served as the sanctified center of the Order for a thousand years glowed in the light of several dozen beeswax candles. Pine branches and winter flowers adorned the walls, draped from the sconces and tied with ribbons. Anselmo, the esteemed bishop of Lucca, was in attendance for the ceremony. He clasped Isobel’s hand in his as they took their place on the side of the altar. Gregory and Matilda stood together in the central space facing each other, joined by outstretched hands, while the Master stood behind the altar, with the Libro Rosso open to a page from the Book of Love. He read from it, although he did not need to as he knew these words by heart and had for more years than he could remember.