Gregory had spent the week studying with the Master. At times it was just the two of them; at others, Matilda joined them in preparation for what was to occur today. Gregory had devoured the teachings of the Libro Rosso, hungry to know everything about the extraordinary red book and its history. He had studied to learn and understand the particular passage that had been given to him in preparation for this day. He repeated the poem of Maximinus with conviction and passion, while looking into the eyes of his own beloved.
I have loved you before,
I love you today,
And I will love you again.
The time returns.
Tears streamed down Matilda’s face as she repeated these same words to Gregory, in a voice choked into a whisper. This poem was special and sacred to her. She had recited it from the moment she could talk: with Isobel, with her friends in the Order, and even with Bonifacio. For it applied to love in all its guises: parental, familial, fraternal, and romantic. But when the poetry was spoken directly to one’s most beloved, it took on a meaning that was exceptional in its impact, and in this case overwhelming.
Once the vows were completed, the Master came forward holding a braided silk rope, called a cordeliere, which ended on either side in elegant tassels. He gently wound the length of the soft cord around the wrists of the beloveds, tying it gently in a knot to symbolize the joining of this pair as it had been ordained by God at the dawn of time. As the Master passed his own hands in blessing over the couple’s, Isobel began to sing, in her sweet, melodic voice, the French song about love that Matilda revered.
I have loved thee a long time,
I will never forget thee…
When Isobel sang the final lyrics, the Master untied the cordeliere to release the couple. He then invited the two to exchange the traditional nuptial gifts, small gilded mirrors, while reciting one of their sacred teachings.
“In your reflection, you will find what you seek. As you two become One, you will find God reflected in the eyes of your beloved, and your beloved reflected in your own eyes.”
The Master concluded the ceremony with the beautiful words from the Book of Love, those that are also included in the Gospel of Matthew. “For no longer are you two, but you are one in spirit and in flesh. And what God has put together, let no man separate.”
He turned to Gregory. “The bridegroom may now gift the bride with the nashakh, the sacred kiss that blends together the spirits in union.”
Gregory closed the distance between himself and his beloved, wrapping Matilda in his arms and pulling her tightly against him. There were tears in his own eyes now. In the sacred and hidden space of this ancient chamber where the true words of the Lord had been protected and revered since their earliest arrival on Italian shores, the pope had just been joined in a holy and secret matrimony to the woman he loved.
The most powerful woman in Europe, perhaps even the world, was now the wife of the pontiff, a secret that would never be known to any but those in this chamber: Anselmo, Isobel, the Master, the couple themselves, and the unborn child in Matilda’s womb who had been conceived in trust and consciousness when his parents had come together in Rome three months prior.
Matilda would remember it as the most beautiful time of her life. For those two weeks in Lucca, she and Gregory lived as man and wife in the privacy of the Order’s property and grounds. It was the first time they had ever been together when they did not have the constant shadow of pretense and propriety over them. Here, they were completely protected from the outside world and were able to celebrate the joy of the birth of Jesus together with their brothers and sisters in the Way. Here they were able to pretend, if only for a blissful few weeks, that they were an ordinary, newlywed couple who lived in a world of freedom.
Gregory continued to study, fascinated and enchanted by the teachings of love that the Order claimed came directly from the Lord. As a man of spirit, he was able to embrace these in total. As a scholar, he found them challenging but also surprisingly logical and acceptable. There was very little here that should be considered heretical when examined against the canonical gospels. In truth, the “heresy” of these original teachings had nothing to do with scripture and everything to do with man-made traditions of the past thousand years—including those enforced recently by his own actions. As the pope, he was now confronted by the reality that much of what the Church currently stood for was contrary to the earliest teachings of Christianity. He was daunted by what this meant to his own legacy. Most of all, he was at something of a loss as to how the teachings of love would ever hold up in a structure by which the world could be governed financially and politically. He was not sure that such a thing was possible. And yet his time with Matilda had renewed his spirit, made him believe in love. Could he dismantle the current Church structure, wipe away the years of politics and tradition, and create a new model in which love could rule? Such an idea seemed as impossible as it was beautiful.
Matilda was undaunted, however, and worked with him daily. “Solvitur ambulando,” she said to him, and taught him the powerful tradition of aligning oneself with the will of God by meeting with the divine in the center of the labyrinth. She read to him the legend of the Minotaur from the Libro Rosso and they discussed at length the allegorical applications of that story to their own.
After one of their working sessions where Gregory had been particularly inspired, he asked Matilda to take him into the presence of the Volto Santo. Anselmo secured the Cathedral of San Martino for them so that they might have it to themselves and be completely undisturbed.
Kneeling before the graceful image sculpted by the hand of Nicodemus, Gregory took a vow to preserve the Church to the best of his ability in a manner that was harmonious with the true teachings of the Way. He knew it would be a challenge, but he was determined to do so—for his love and for his Lord. He understood that he had been put in this position of unequaled authority for this purpose, and he would find a way to make it happen. It would be a difficult time and he would face enemies at every turn, but his beloved renewed her own promise to him that she would be there every step of the way, to inspire him, to fight by his side, and to love him through it all. Semper. Always.
Matilda had taken her very first vow in this place, at the age of six. She had kept it, spectacularly, as she would keep every promise she ever made.
At sunrise on Saint Stephen’s Day, Matilda and Gregory were escorted by Anselmo, Isobel, and the Master to the portico of the Cathedral of San Martino. There the newlyweds were surprised by a gift that had been given them by members of the Order. On the western pillar of the façade, a perfect eleven-circuit labyrinth had been painted in a deep crimson color. In vertical letters, the following edict was painted alongside the sacred symbol:
HERE IS THE LABYRINTH THAT DAEDALUS THE CRETAN BUILT AND WHICH NO ONE CAN EXIT ONCE INSIDE. ONLY THESEUS WAS ABLE TO DO SO THANKS TO ARIADNE’S THREAD.
In the rounded center of the labyrinth were the final words of this fable:
AND ALL FOR LOVE.
Anselmo explained that he had devised the design and the motto, with the help of the Master and Isobel, to commemorate Gregory’s vows to both Matilda and the Order during this most blessed holiday season in the presence of God and each other. It was a monument to Gregory’s blessed remembering, to aligning himself with the promises he once made in heaven: to himself, to the others, and to God. The allegory of Theseus and Ariadne was used, hiding their truth in a place only for those with eyes to see and ears to hear. For here Gregory was Theseus, the hero who would escape the dark labyrinth of Church corruption and politics that had been created to entrap the innocent in a web of harsh dogma and untruths. With the help of the saving thread of truth that had been provided by Matilda/Ariadne, this reborn Theseus would find the light and save his people, proving once again that the time returns.
Just over a century later, in the year 1200, a sculptor in Lucca would chisel the fading paint from the façade of San Martino’s into a pe
rmanent monument to the secret wedding of Gregory and Matilda, where it would remain in perpetuity.
And all for love.
Matilda and Gregory’s idyllic honeymoon was cut short when a messenger arrived in Lucca. Henry IV was crossing the Alps en route to Tuscany. He was ready to make restitution to the Holy Father and pledge his loyalty and obedience to the throne of Saint Peter.
It was determined that Matilda’s stronghold in Canossa, owing to its impregnable and protected position, would be the safest location for Gregory to receive Henry. They rode through Florence, where a formidable Tuscan escort met them at Conn’s insistence. The Tuscans were determined to protect both their pope and their countess and would take no chances of an ambush.
While it was unlikely given Henry’s weakened position that he would attempt treachery, it was never out of the question where Matilda’s volatile cousin was concerned.
Canossa
January 1077
IF KING HENRY IV arrived in Matilda’s territories expecting to be treated as royalty and admitted immediately into the presence of the pontiff, he was bitterly disappointed. Gregory VII was determined to extend the power play and emphasize his own position of absolute authority. He flatly refused to have an audience with Henry and gave no immediate indication of when, or if, he would change his mind. The king had arrived with a retinue of royals and bishops who were hoping to regain the pope’s favor by begging forgiveness for their own transgressions against him at the Synod of Worms. Gregory was aware of each and every man who had stood against him—and his Matilda—and had proclaimed harshly against them all. He was not inclined to be generous to any of them.
Henry arrived with a formidable ally who refused to be ignored. Hugh, abbot of Cluny, was a leader of the German entourage, having been named Henry’s godfather when the king was an infant. Gregory was unmoved by this show of strength. He was the pope, after all, and despite the fact that Hugh reigned from the influential monastic settlement of Cluny, this man was still just an abbot. It was Matilda who offered to end the stalemate, and Matilda who volunteered to conduct the initial meeting with her cousin and Abbot Hugh. Arrangements were made for a first encounter to occur at her fortress in Bianello, outside Canossa.
The countess of Tuscany was a brilliant, bold, and accomplished woman. She also had enough experience with her cousin to know that he was not to be trusted. And yet when he came to her in the manner of a supplicant, pleading with her, as his “most beloved and generous cousin” to intervene on his behalf to Gregory, she softened. For all her military experience and genius, Matilda was a student of the Way of Love and believed in the power of those teachings, including forgiveness. It was this belief that led to her first substantial argument with Gregory.
“I cannot believe that you are taken in by his false supplication.” Gregory stared out the window of their bedchamber at Canossa, over the jagged, snow-covered mountains. He was trying to keep his anger in check, but he was at a loss to understand how such a brilliant woman could have been so easily duped.
Matilda, pacing the chamber, was equally agitated. “I’m not an idiot, Gregory. No one knows what and who Henry is more clearly than I.”
“Then perhaps your condition has impaired your wits,” he snapped. “Perhaps this is why women do not rule.”
Matilda froze in her tracks. At three months pregnant, her condition was still a secret easily concealed by the voluminous skirts that were the fashion. But Gregory was aware every minute of her state, which was a constant source of worry for him. There were massive responsibilities upon his broad shoulders as pope, as a leader, and as a man. The impact was taking its toll, clearly. As he watched the blood drain from Matilda’s face, Gregory immediately regretted his outburst. He moved toward her and grabbed her hands.
“I’m sorry, Tilda. That was unfair. And untrue.”
She did not pull away from him, but she did not embrace him either. There were tears welling, but she refused to shed them. Instead, she made her point with a calm she did not feel.
“Perhaps if women did rule, there would be less war, less death, less destruction. Did you not glean any of this from our teachings while in Lucca? That it is the loss of the female principle in leadership, and in spirituality, that has caused so much devastation all around us? The balance was destroyed with the Fall of Man, when women were disinherited and disempowered. When all that is pure and powerful about feminine wisdom was packed away and sent into exile so that mankind would be enslaved by a need for power with nothing to temper it. Even men like you—as great as you are in heart and spirit—more often than not cannot overcome their nature. And it is the male nature to desire power and wage war when opposed or threatened. Women, conversely, have a different nature. Ours is to collaborate and mediate, to seek peace over death. And yes, as I stand here before you with our child growing in my womb, I want him, or her, to be born into a world where there is peace and prosperity. And if that makes me weak, then so be it. God’s will has decreed that I be in this condition at this time and place. And it makes me want to see an end to senseless suffering.”
Gregory was in too agitated a state to listen closely to what felt like a chastisement. “I am trying to protect you, and our child—and perhaps all of Italy—from Henry. And after all he has done to you through your lifetime, I simply cannot believe that you will forgive him this readily.”
All remnants of calm were leaving her now. “I refuse to be a hypocrite, Gregory. Jesus teaches us forgiveness, and that is the path of the Way as I have been taught, and as I follow it. Therefore if a man professes repentance and begs forgiveness, who am I to judge whether or not he is sincere? That is for God alone to do.”
“I am the pope,” he snapped. “It is my obligation to act as God’s intermediary on earth. And as such, I have determined that Henry’s apology is insincere and unacceptable. Tell him to return to Germany and let his own people deal with him as they will. I understand that Rudolf of Swabia has been prepared to take over the throne from him if I refuse pardon. And I do.”
Matilda was torn. The fiery side of her nature wanted to storm out of the room and abandon him to his arrogance. But she loved him, above all else, and she knew that it was part of her mission as his partner to help him through these spiritual challenges. And hadn’t she just emphasized that female rulers were most capable of diplomacy and mediation in times of war? She took a breath and addressed him with quiet strength. “What would you like me to do, my love? I have to give Abbot Hugh an answer, and I simply will not tell him to send Henry back to Germany. What would you have him do to prove his penance?”
Gregory thought about it for a moment. His first instinct was to snap back at her that there was nothing Henry could do and that his decision was final. But he softened somewhat as he looked at her. There were dark circles under her eyes, contrasting deeply against her otherwise alabaster skin. She looked terribly fragile. This was taking a toll on her too.
“Tell Abbot Hugh that I would see Henry make a very public display of his repentance, to be witnessed by all the citizens of Canossa. I would see him take the hair shirt and kneel before the gates here in the snow, abandoning all pretense of his royalty, and begging like the most humble pilgrim for admission into my presence. Ask that he arrive at the gates of Canossa in this way tomorrow, and I will consider hearing his petition.”
Matilda accepted this concession from him. It wasn’t ideal by any means, but at least he hadn’t refused completely. She left Gregory in their chambers and went in search of her messenger to deliver the terms that had been provided by the pope. She did not return to him in their chambers that night, electing to sleep with Isobel.
The following day dawned gray and frigid. Against a backdrop of threatening skies and freezing winds, Henry IV approached the formidable gates of Canossa, along with his retinue of penitents. They were led by Abbot Hugh of Cluny, who brought them to the gates and knocked, seeking admission for the king and his followers.
Hugh,
carrying a crozier and intoning prayers of penance, led a procession up the long and tortuous mountain path to Matilda’s stronghold. Immediately behind him was the humiliated king, dressed in the cilicium, the garment of repentance that was made of coarse fabric and goat’s hair. It was designed to irritate the skin, to tear it and cause terrible itching as a mortification of the flesh. To further demonstrate the extent of his repentance, Henry walked the rocky and freezing path in his bare feet. An assemblage of once proud bishops and nobles, all of whom had attacked Gregory at the Synod of Worms and called for him to be deposed, followed their king in similar postures of penitence.
The people of Canossa and the surrounding areas who had come out to witness this spectacle lined the road to the fortress. Some jeered, throwing rotted vegetables at the tyrant who would call himself their sovereign. Others watched in silence, perhaps aware that history was happening all around them, perhaps simply in awe of this high drama between a pope and a king.
Upon arrival at the gates, the king stepped forward to knock and formally request admittance. His practiced speech rang out through the frozen air.
“I seek an audience with the Holy Father. I come as a penitent, to declare repentance of my sins against him and the church that he represents. I come in humility. I come as both a man and a king to seek his blessing and forgiveness.”
A papal legate delivered the response in an announcement from the tower that faced the front of the fortress. “The Holy Father has rejected your petition. He does not feel that you have, as yet, shown that your penance is sincere.”
There was stunned silence in reply. Was it possible that even following such a humiliation, the pope would not receive the king? Henry turned to Abbot Hugh for support. The bishop of Cluny replied, “The king has humbled himself before God and his blessed messenger here on earth. Do you now see how he bleeds to show his penance? Can the Holy Father not find it in his heart to at least hear a further plea of forgiveness and a vow of obedience?”