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Of Emperors and Pontiffs
By Alex Gabbard
Copyright © 1999
Liam of Bard am I, minstrel of this tale, tho perhaps Liam von Bard should I be but for the mere detail that no such Bard exists in all of Germania. Homeward I look toward the Norman, yet of an Alamanni mother, Margret von Forchtenberg, whose gift was the German tongue among others I have the good fortune to sing. Duke Klaus of Alsace amid forests of the Vösges, my father, a Frankish noble of small note, good of intentions whose swordsmanship on the fields of Flanders with William set his reward; my home as a youth. That place I have not seen since.
My father was he who set before me the ways of the world with the finest teachers of court. Certain he was that I should seek the cloth. Not I, tho never to speak it; not of Cluny and sackcloth, but with the Emperor's good graces and courts to perform in princedoms and kingdoms alike, I should find my way. A clever man, he, that I should live well by grace of God, but cleverer am I to seek the courts of far away lands. Romance in the voice, my spirit yearns to tell, and for my songs I have received tender kisses from damsels who have taught me the ways of the world far from sackcloth.
This land of rises to climb, forests to trek, rivers to dip, and maidens to conquer has become my soul far from youthful Flanders. It is here that this tale unfolds. I? Merely the eyes of the tale, a tale risen in truth to be sure. Marvel do I at the fates who picked such a scoundrel as I to sit among Emperors and bishops, amid their courts and pulpits. How it is that I should be the bearer of this tale is only my good fortune.
Dear father, if I should see you again, this tale to tell. The ere of mine has brought me to these Germans whom I shan't attempt to say I understand. Ah, but the court of the Emperor; inviting as I, a mere minstrel, have found such fond patrons among all the courts of Salien and Helfenstein, each its own fief unto itself until the Emperor motions forth.
Thereupon lies the tale; the princes, the dukes and the counts of afar muffle their tongues to bow in his presence, shoulder to shoulder, if but for the briefest of moments as battlefields beckon in the hearts of those who speak of their own blood of Karl der Grohs and visions of the crown that is said to be rightfully theirs... should the Emperor happen to fall.
It has been spoken that Heinrich of the crown is the noblest of the Holy Romans. But I, such a poor Norman as I, find among the Franks of William a storied lot to which many a songman bespeak and set in legend of our time stories of the crown seekers. William of the horsemen stands in the breeze of the far isle casting to the time when Briton will be his alone. While to his back is an entire continent, not a mere isle. To seek one's dominion of history rearward is to face Heinrich the bold. Wisdom is to look afar as William seeks.
'Tis now the time of Heinrich, the tale I cast in song, for he who is Holy Roman Emperor, he who shapes our fates among the winds from Aachen while William, but one subservient noble, casts forth to conquer the Britons.
Lo, but the Norman brothers of the Italian boot have a say, for he who lauds to be Pope, the supreme pontiff, does so at the behest of proud Heinrich alone, much to the distaste of the Romans who long for those ages past when storied Legions marched to the Limes of Germania, of the time Italy's own emperors ruled, now just myths of olde. Cast he may to the Normans of the southern boot to enjoin them to save the chair of St. Peter for the Romans, but he who is to be Pope, I hear in the low breaths among the corridors of Archbishop Gebhard, is of the Germans, the one with ring and staff of Eichstätt, he who is appointed, nay anointed, of Heinrich.
A German Pope among the Romans brings astir the tongues of ill. Noble birth is he, far from the squat Hildebrand sent by the high Leo to the Norman to expunge the unsacred. Ere is the word of the minstrels before me, yet legends make, that Hildebrand stepped aside to avoid St. Peter's for Gebhard of Eichstatt and won favor of the Emperor. Romans of simony who wish to barter the chair for gold, as has been their lot, the Emperor giveth the chair, ring and staff to his chosen, and armies to aid, should come the call. Cardinals who claimeth the chair bow to Victor, Pontiff.
So it came, the noble argument; Popes receiveth their dominion from on high, not the gift of a mere Emperor. As does the Emperor who crowneth himself supreme in the eyes of God, not a crown bestowed of a mere Pope, Archbishop of far away Rome. Yet the Pope leads no armies and must call to the Emperor.
A cooler head, this Hildebrand, who among the churchmen of Rome came to prevail. That without his favor, the Emperor and his princes should descend the Italian boot alead of hordes to set forth by force upon his dictate the fortunes of St. Peter. Nay, cooler heads, indeed, all bide the time to ascertion.
Lo, the grumblings grew loud among the rich and unwise of Rome, apart from the pius of God who likewise sought St. Peters, yet ignoble a birth as Hildebrand may be, 'tis of his lot to quell the foolishly spirited that wish to set forth the lance toward Heinrich. Emperor he be, and upon each knoll, hill and castle unto his throne as far as can be seen among the Franks, Saxons and Germans alike draws the sword in his honor, the binding of kindred blood.
Aye, 'tis a troubling time, this.
Fair Empress Agnes, her young the Emperor next, layth not with others but bold Heinrich, true to him as true can be. Yet in the shadows are eyes who see that this court is strong on the shoulders of Heinrich alone. A foundation that shaketh can rid the court of him for the young Heinrich, a lad but of six years, cannot so lead. Such renders weakness for the taking; the bide of time draws nigh.
Who the Regent be but Empress Agnes with the lad, and both thrust into this time of struggle that her passions do not see. Hers, it is said, is to abandon the admonishings of husband and needs of child alike to seek her cloister retreat in the face of seekers to St. Peters. Among the varied decisions of court and diocese from princedoms far and wide; oh, if only an old man Heinrich to become. Peace in the land is not to be. The feared she would not see; fair Agnes findeth great good fortune among life's civilities where strength is born of her husband and protection provided. And young Gebhard of Eichstätt the fair who is to advise, co-regent to rise among the highest of regard by the Emperor, Chancellor throughout all of the Empire, then to be placed Pope. Marvel those who question, from whence cometh and for what reason doeth this young bishop rise to the Chancellory?
But those eyes who see, it is said, plotted the demise of Heinrich and the casting off of Agnes to her cloister. With regency taken from the incapable Heinrich the younger, and Gebhard drawn to St. Peters, a new court of Emperor rises for he who gathers about him the dispicables to perpetrate the deed and build upon sand rather than stone. It is he of the noble birth, the blood of Charlemagne coursing through his veins, and many they be, who set upon the path to rise to the crown. Yet it is he who must gather to him the well wishes of the Pope, and there sits the German who Heinrich has placed in the chair of St. Peter, pius Victor the second, none but Gebhard von Eichstätt.
Ah, such richness of lore to verse make, for me, a minstrel who brings to the court my wanderings among courts afar and the confidences of damsels and bravados made from tankards of wine.
Nay, these Germans take to that darkened richness of hops made beerish in Bavaria, the land of the Saliens and Helfensteins, among whom my wanderings have found much favor. There I findeth the looseness of tongue that tells of intrigue among those who wish to be braggarts up from silence. Yet, foolishness lay not among the Helfensteins, those who need not be braggarts but hold forth the long lines of churchmen, even rising to Chancellor to the Emperor as young Gebhard of family Helfenstein advises the Empress. Here are men of their word; they who choose to accept the Emperor's selection that rewards with placements amid high bishops for life. Good fortune, indeed; Salzburg, Regensburg, Eichstatt among them without need to be other than subservient to the crown from which gifts of great wealth flow.
It is this that the dark princes face in the intrigue whispered. How to win those whom the Emperor has selected and gifted, especially those of modest years? That alone keeps the intrigue at a mere whisper for life is good in Heinrich's dominion. Yet the house of Saxony rumbles in the north with hoofbeat and clash of sword, the sort that can be set against the Emperor as capitulation is turned to an unseen knife over a table of revelry, or substance that taketh life.
These Germans; what sense to make of them, says I. Each a master of plot contrived to crown themselves, for no more than the merest droplet of Charlemagne's blood within them, yet none a supporter of the other while all seek the other. A strange lot. Still, the whispers are afoot. Heinrich, it was said, strong but subject to the ill of deposed Popes and their kindred, Sylvester, Gregory, Clement, and Damascus, and certainly Benedict who, no doubt, sought bid for a third papal seat among the Romans who would gladly have given him St. Peters rather than a German riseth.
Advisors among the German court speak of Romans who harbor sharp stilettoes to prick the Emperor for St. Peters, doing so to allow one among them to bring a new house to the throne, one determined on the battlefield. Nay, but the jousting of word among them, whom Hildebrand knew all too well, speaker of the time near at hand when the cardinals and bishops were to gain the long sought papal state unto themselves, free of the Emperor. The quest, that glory said to be rising from the ashes of ancient Rome, all at the hand of the princes of God for patience's reward. So speaks Hildebrand, and all listen. Bide the time.
The time, as prophesied, did come to pass; as Heinrich the younger scampered in his sixth year did Heinrich the bold pass with unexpected suddenness. Thereupon the hounds of the court did drive the much saddened Agnes to her cloister, and Victor the second, once Chancellor to the court, then appointed the bishop of Rome, did find unexpectedly a mysterious end in Tuscany. Lo, Gebhard the German, nay Pope Victor the second, had passed. And the chair of St. Peter did come to Frederick of Lorraine, chosen Pope Stephen, aided by Hildebrand who consoled the court with quiet and patience; election by the cardinals free of the Emperor at last.
Then riseth Heinrich the younger to manhood. Thereupon came the great encounter in his 24th year, Emperor of all the Empire known as Holy and Roman, cunningly did Heinrich wish to rise up in arms to win return to investiture of Popes. Gregory the eighth sat upon St. Peters, none other than Hildebrand, spoken by the Emperor as unfit usurper of the chair and of ignoble birth. Nay, speaketh the college of cardinals, Pope chosen from the hand of God to remain.
With power of excommunication laid upon young Heinrich, he then also came to be abandoned by mutinous princes demanding abdication of crown, did foundations of his Empire lay in need or crumble. Repentant before Gregory, barefoot in the snow of Canossa, penitent of dress against the chill, three days before admittance and absolution. Ah, but did Heinrich secretly plot return.
Youth of the crown, abiding his own time, gathered about him forces of will that lay upon Rome for a year and another to its destruction. Gregory, staunch to deny hand to crown the young Emperor, fled to one Castle Sant’Angelo never to yield. Thereupon rescued by Guiscard the Norman of the Italian boot south, who’s army lay Rome sacked as well.
Then did Romans speak of Gregory with angry eyes to see ruin about them. Now dispirited, abandoned, broken, Gregory, nay Hildebrand, with final breath did lift all excommunication but Heinrich. Death upon him, death in exile, never to yield.
Lo, Hildebrand lay cold in the grave while Heinrich the younger cast forth to secure right of investiture known to his father. Aye, but the strength of words of yore had slipped from him. ‘Tis true, the bide of time lay at his feet without princes of sword to muster. Thus giveth St. Peters to the cardinals forevermore.
This tale of Emperors and Pontiffs, all true, assuredly as I am Liam of Bard, a tale told for no more than invitation to your table, young prince.
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