Chapter 1: The Emperor’s Last Winter

The winter of 1125 bit hard in Mainz. Frost sheathed the cathedral’s spires, and the Rhine moved sluggishly under its crust of ice. Within the stone-clad corridors of the imperial palace, silence pressed as heavily as the snow piling against the walls. Servants whispered, and courtiers moved with the careful gait of those walking upon thin ice. Countess Mathilde von Falkenstein, widow of a minor Rhineland noble, stood in the antechamber beside a smoky brazier, her gloved hands clasped before her. She was tall for a woman, her hair hidden beneath a wimple, her blue eyes sharp beneath heavy brows. The summons from Archbishop Adalbert of Mainz had come at dawn. Now, as the bells tolled Sext, she waited. The door creaked. A page boy—no more than twelve, cheeks red from the cold—bowed low. “The Archbishop will see you, Lady Mathilde.” She followed the boy into a vaulted chamber where Adalbert, prince of the Church and kingmaker in all but name, awaited her. He wore his red robes, a cross gleaming on his breast, and his eyes, bright with intelligence, missed nothing. “Countess,” he said, gesturing to a seat. “You know why you have been called.” Mathilde inclined her head, feigning innocence. “The Emperor’s health is much discussed.” Adalbert smiled thinly. “And much worse than is admitted. Henry V will not see the spring. The Salians die with him. The Empire stands at a precipice.” She nodded, careful with her words. “The princes will not easily agree on his successor.” He leaned forward, voice dropping. “Your late husband swore fealty to the Salian house. But these are new times. The Staufers—the Hohenstaufen—gather support, as do the Welfs. And yet, I have heard whispers that you, Countess, hold documents of value. Letters from the Emperor’s own hand. Letters that could sway the princes.” Mathilde’s pulse quickened. She had such letters—testaments of Henry’s wishes, half-promises, veiled endorsements. Dangerous things, in the wrong hands. “What would you have me do?” she asked. Adalbert smiled, his voice smooth as velvet. “I would have you choose wisely, for your future—and for the Empire’s. Trust the wrong man and you may find yourself on the losing side of history.” As she left the chamber, Mathilde’s mind raced. The fate of the Empire, her lands, her very life—all balanced on secrets inked on parchment. And in the corridors outside, other figures moved, each with their own ambitions, each watching her. —

Chapter 2: Shadows in the Cathedral

Snow fell thick and silent as dusk seeped into the city. Mainz Cathedral loomed, torchlight flickering along its nave, echoing with the distant prayers of monks. The political heart of the Empire now beat within this sacred space, where rival princes and bishops gathered under the guise of religious devotion. Mathilde entered the cathedral, her breath clouding before her. She knelt at a side altar, eyes lowered—yet her mind worked feverishly. She was not alone for long. A presence settled beside her: Count Berengar von Amsberg, a seasoned courtier known for his shifting loyalties. “Countess,” he whispered, his head bowed in mock prayer. “News travels swift. The Emperor’s fever worsens.” She did not look at him. “And who will wear the crown when he is gone?” “Whoever wins the Archbishop’s blessing—and the Reichsfahne,” Berengar murmured, meaning the imperial standard, the symbol of authority. “But you, I hear, possess something else of value.” Mathilde’s hand tightened on her rosary. “Rumors, Count.” Berengar smiled, his lips curving just so. “If those letters name a successor, they are worth more than gold. The Hohenstaufen brothers—Frederick and Conrad—would pay dearly. But so too would Duke Lothair of Saxony.” He pressed a ring into her palm. “A token. My master, Duke Frederick, requests a meeting. Tonight, at the Golden Swan.” He melted away, leaving her with the ring—and a choice. She rose, genuflected, and moved to the nave, glimpsing the princes in their cloaks of sable and wolf, each eyeing the others, each weighing alliances. The Empire teetered, and every gesture, every whisper, could tip the scales. As she stepped back into the snow, Mathilde felt eyes on her—some friendly, some not. The letters hidden beneath her cloak felt heavy, as if they burned with the weight of the Empire itself. —

Chapter 3: The Golden Swan Conspiracy

The Golden Swan tavern was noisy with the laughter of merchants and the clatter of dice. In a private room above the main hall, Mathilde sat across from Frederick of Hohenstaufen, his presence filling the space despite his youth. His brother Conrad lingered near the window, vigilant. Frederick’s hair was cropped close, his eyes the color of storm clouds. “Countess, we have little time. The Emperor may not last a fortnight. The Archbishop’s influence grows by the hour.” Mathilde set the ring on the table. “Why should I trust the Hohenstaufen?” Frederick’s smile was thin. “Because if Duke Lothair becomes king, the Church will tighten its grip. The princes will be pawns. But with Staufer rule, there is a place for those who support us early. Your lands—your position—could be secure.” She studied him. “And if I side with Lothair?” Frederick shrugged. “He is old, childless. The Empire will fracture anew when he dies. Is that what you wish?” Conrad stepped forward. “You have letters. Let us see them. We can protect you.” Mathilde hesitated, fingers tracing the edge of her satchel. “I have Henry’s testament. I will show it—if you guarantee my safety, and the safety of my estate.” Frederick nodded. “Swear it before God, and I shall.” She drew out a parchment, the Emperor’s seal still intact. Frederick read, his brow furrowing. “He names me—yet speaks also of Lothair. Clever. He hedges his legacy.” Mathilde’s voice was low. “My loyalty is not bought with words alone.” Frederick met her gaze. “Then let us bargain. But beware: Adalbert of Mainz plays his own game. He will set the princes against each other to keep his own power. Trust no one—not even me.” As she left, Mathilde’s heart pounded. She had cast her lot, yet nothing was certain. Outside, the snow had ceased, and the city shimmered beneath a cold, indifferent moon. —

Chapter 4: A Feast of Rivals

The great hall of the Archbishop’s palace blazed with torchlight. The scent of roast boar and spiced wine mingled with the sharper tang of ambition. Nobles and prelates clustered in tight knots, their voices low, eyes wary. Mathilde moved among them, her veil modest, her manner deferential. Yet every word she uttered, every smile she gave, was calculated. She spoke with Berengar, who offered gossip; with Count Gottfried of Franconia, who hinted at secret alliances; with Abbot Ulrich, who murmured of divine right and the sins of kings. At the high table, Archbishop Adalbert presided, his expression serene. To his left sat Duke Lothair of Saxony: grey-haired, stern, his eyes missing nothing. Across from him, Frederick of Hohenstaufen laughed with his brother Conrad, yet his gaze flickered to Mathilde, a silent warning. A hush fell as a servant entered, bearing a sealed letter. He knelt before the Archbishop, who broke the seal and read. His lips pressed tight, then he stood. “His Imperial Majesty, Henry V, is dying,” Adalbert announced. “The princes must prepare to gather for election. The Empire must not founder.” Lothair rose. “The law is clear: the princes elect. Let all ambitions be set aside for the good of Christendom.” Frederick stood as well. “Let the best man lead, not the most favored by priests.” Tension thrummed. Mathilde felt the eyes of the court upon her. She could remain silent, or she could act. She stepped forward, her voice steady. “The Emperor leaves words for his lords. Let them be read, so that his wishes are known.” A ripple of surprise. Adalbert beckoned her. She advanced, drawing forth the sealed testament. The Archbishop accepted it, eyes cold, mouth tight. As he read aloud, the room held its breath. The Emperor’s words were measured, ambiguous—naming both Frederick and Lothair as worthy men, urging peace and unity. When the reading ended, the hall erupted in argument. Mathilde faded into the shadows, knowing she had thrown the match into a powder keg. Now, all she could do was wait—and survive. —

Chapter 5: The Prince-Electors’ Pact

Dawn brought no peace. In the cloisters, the seven prince-electors—archbishops, dukes, and counts—gathered to negotiate. Mathilde, summoned as a “witness to the Emperor’s will,” was led to a small chamber where the great men of the Empire argued. Adalbert presided, his words honeyed. “The Emperor’s message is unity. Yet unity is not found in division.” Lothair spoke, calm and implacable. “The House of Welf has always served the Empire. I ask only for what is just.” Frederick, younger and fiercer, countered. “Blood and service count for more than age. The Empire needs strength, not compromise.” Mathilde watched, silent, as alliances formed and frayed. Berengar whispered to her, “Adalbert favors Lothair—he fears the Staufers’ ambition. But the Rhineland lords could tip the vote.” She nodded, weighing her options. Her own lands lay between the spheres of influence. She could urge the Franconians to back Frederick—or withdraw her support, and let the Archbishop’s will prevail. The debate grew heated. Voices rose, fists pounded the table. At last, Adalbert called for a recess. As Mathilde slipped outside, Frederick caught her arm. “You have influence with Franconia. Speak for me, and when I am king, you will not be forgotten.” She met his gaze. “And if I refuse?” He smiled, thin and cold. “Then you may find yourself friendless in a new order.” She freed her arm, her heart pounding. The path narrowed before her. Each step must be taken with care, or she would fall into the abyss. —

Chapter 6: Betrayal in the Snow

The snows returned, swirling through Mainz and muffling the city’s sounds. Mathilde, wrapped in her cloak, moved swiftly through the alleys. She had arranged to meet Count Gottfried—her last hope for a neutral voice among the electors. She found him near the city wall, his breath ghosting in the cold. “You come late, Countess.” “I had no choice. The Archbishop watches all.” Gottfried’s eyes were wary. “And what do you want?” “Peace. I beg you—do not let Adalbert dictate the vote. The Empire needs balance, not domination by the Church or by any house.” He hesitated. “The Archbishop controls the bishops. But if Franconia stands with Swabia—” A sound interrupted them. Steel scraped on stone. Men emerged from the shadows—soldiers, bearing the livery of the Archbishop. Gottfried drew his sword, but it was too late. “Seize her,” the captain commanded. Mathilde was dragged through the snow, her pleas ignored. In the bishop’s dungeon, Adalbert awaited, his face grave. “You meddle too much, Countess. The Empire is no place for women’s schemes.” Mathilde straightened, pride burning. “Without me, you would have no testament—no leverage.” He regarded her coldly. “And now, I have both.” He turned away, leaving her in the dim cell, the weight of stone and fate pressing down. She realized then that she had been a tool, a pawn—her ambitions crushed beneath the machinations of greater men. —

Chapter 7: The King in Spring

It was Easter when news reached the city: Emperor Henry V was dead. The electors gathered at the Rhine’s edge, the great lords clad in black, banners furled in mourning. Mathilde, freed from the dungeon by Berengar’s intercession, stood among the crowd, a silent observer. In the cathedral, the Archbishop crowned Lothair of Saxony as King of the Romans. Frederick of Hohenstaufen watched, his jaw tight, his eyes promising future war. Mathilde felt the tide shift. Her lands were confirmed, her title secured by Lothair’s grace—yet she knew it was merely a respite. The seeds of future strife had been sown. As she left the city, the bells of Mainz ringing for the new king, Mathilde glanced back at the spires. She had survived the winter of intrigue, but the Empire’s peace was fragile, its unity an illusion. In the end, her choices had shaped history—but history, as ever, belonged to the victors. —