Maud thought herself quite fortunate to be spared her husband’s fumbling nocturnal embraces since he was obviously fond of her, and continued to interest himself in her education. Wherever the Imperial court had traveled, from the towering snowcapped peaks of Bavaria, to the misty castles of the Rhineland, the dark green pines of the Black Forest, the cobbled streets and soaring spires of Paris, or the tranquil waterways of Venice, she had been instructed in those subjects that the Emperor felt a consort should know.
Now Maud had a working knowledge of law, history, mathematics, and philosophy. In addition to Norman French, she could speak Latin, German, and even a little Italian. As the Emperor was the head of Christendom, along with the Pope, with whom he was often in armed conflict, she had also been exposed to a comprehensive study of church affairs, as well as her husband’s cynical attitude toward the Holy See.
On her right the litter now passed a crumbling stone church and close beside it the ruins of an ancient marble temple. Amid the fallen scrolled arches stood the gleaming white statue of a young man. One of his arms was missing, the other held a broken urn; his sightless eyes seemed to bore right through her. Maud looked quickly away; she had never seen a man unclothed, and the sight of the naked youth made her uncomfortable.
However, her fleeting glimpse of the statue had been sufficient to inform her that it was probably early Roman in origin. Statuary was one of many unlikely subjects she had learned during her travels with the Emperor. Despite its formal etiquette and stiff atmosphere, the Imperial court was often visited by unusual travelers. There were crusading knights returning after years in the Holy Land, Normans from Sicily, wandering scholars from Paris, troubadours from Provence, and visiting Semites and Moslems, bringing with them translations of classic works from ancient Greece and Rome.
Maud found her encounters with these people of great interest and excitement, affording her a glimpse into unknown worlds. A jongleur had taught her to play a few simple chords on the viol; a physician from Joppa had taught her some rudimentary Arabic; and she was laboriously reading her way through a translation of a Greek tale of a wanderer called Ulysses.
In the distance Maud caught a glimpse of the lichened stone tiers of the Colosseum, and beyond, the soft blue hills of Tuscany. She knew she was most fortunate to be leading such an unusual life, and she never ceased to be grateful to the Emperor.
Of course, there were a few pinpricks. While she was generally respected and liked, Maud was also aware that the Imperial court had more than its share of intrigue and gossip. Not everyone approved of her accomplishments or her education. Behind her back there were those who whispered that such activities were not seemly for a woman, that the elderly Emperor pampered his young Norman bride, whose time would be better spent learning more wifely skills, such as producing sons. A woman’s main task in life was raising children, and why were none forthcoming, buzzed malicious tongues.
Maud paid them scant attention. Let people gossip to their heart’s content, she thought, so long as the Emperor approved of her.
The litter slowed to a halt in a broad courtyard with a large fig tree in the center surrounded by a wealth of flowers, pale yellow, soft white, and dusky rose. Maud leapt out, dashed past a pink-veined marble fountain spouting water, up crumbling white steps flanked by two stone lions, and into the cool entrance hall with its blue mosaic tile floors.
“Where is His Imperial Highness?” she called to a servitor in white livery.
“In his reception chamber, but he is occupied, Your Grace—”
Maud did not wait to hear the rest but raced down the passage to the reception chamber.
“You will be so proud of me,” she cried as she pushed open the door and burst into the dark stone chamber.
She stopped in dismay. She had expected him to be alone, but instead saw that two strangers with somber faces attended him. The Emperor, dressed in gold-encrusted robes of state and covered with a cloak lined in white ermine, was seated in a wooden armchair, his legs propped up on a cushioned stool. Two glowing braziers sat on either side of him, making the chamber stifling. Hazy sunlight, filtered through rose-colored leaded windows, illuminated his long face, creased as old parchment today, and softened the iron-gray strands of his hair and beard. When he was ill he always looked older than his forty-seven years. He exchanged a brief glance with the two strangers, then turned his heavy-lidded eyes toward her.
“In heaven’s name, how many times have I told you not to rush into a room like a high wind?” The Emperor put a hand to his heart, then addressed the two visitors who were staring at her. “You must forgive my wife’s excessive high spirits. I fear I spoil her, thus her manners often leave something to be desired.” He signaled a servant. “Shut the door, I feel a draft.”