Source: Heinrichlied (Song of Henry), author unknown.
Now let us tell how Henry feasted at Utrecht, at the palace of William, the loyal Prince-Bishop of those lands, where Henry had come in haste to settle the succession of the fallen duke, Godfrey the Hunchback, who had been stabbed in the asshole while shitting. Boldly and fairly did Henry dispose of this matter, for he did name his own son, Conrad, to be the Duke of Lower Lotharingia, and he did also appoint a vice-duke to manage the Hunchback's lands, for Conrad was but two years of age, and not ready to battle against the West Frisians, which was part of the job description. The duchy secured, Henry called for a feast. There in the palace they did assemble, his loyal vassal lords and his brave fighting men, the Rabbit Warriors of the Alemanni, joined by a goodly assortment of German abbots and bishops, strong men all, who could eat and drink and service the kebsweiber, unlike the eunuchs who pass for clergy in Rome, except that at this particular feast there were no kebsweiber to be serviced, for it was Holy Saturday, and Henry had declared that holy weekend must be respected.
When the first pig had been consumed by the hungry virile assembly, Henry rose and bade them to postpone their drunkenness, for they had much to discuss. And straightaway, without wasting anyone's time, they did plow through the agenda, for Henry was a decisive leader, who knew how to run a meeting.
First they did discuss the whereabouts of the evil countess Matilda, the pope's whore, who had ventured into Lower Lotharingia to claim both her husband's body and his lands. Feller the Blessed of the Rabbit Warriors did then report that Matilda had retreated to Cluny, after burying her murdered husband in Verdun. Henry thereupon demanded to know whether Matilda had taken credit for her husband's murder. To this just and angry query from the King did Rupert, archbishop of Bamberg, reply. Rupert told how Matilda was spreading a most implausible rumor--that the honorable Robert of Flanders had ordered the foul deed--but that she was doing so in such manner, her sentences unfinished, her words saying one thing and her eyes another, her voice smooth as duck butter and her smile chilled as the winter night air, that all who heard her speak did know that she and the Pope had been the ones behind the cowardly blade.
Then did Henry demand a show of hands from all the clergy present, asking which of them would, at Easter mass tomorrow, denounce Hildebrand from the pulpit as a false Pope and smite him with the mighty sword of anathema, for having dared to excommunicate your beloved King who stands before you. As soon as Henry spoke did William, bishop of Utrecht raise his hand, for he was, after all, the gathering's host and Henry's most trusted advisor and in fact he was the one who had devised the plan to denounce the Pope on Easter from every pulpit in Germany, what a statement that would be! For a long moment the bold and upright arm of William reached alone toward heaven above the feasting multitude, but soon enough it was joined by the hands of Siegfried, archibishop of Mainz, Burchard, bishop of Lausanne, and the two Ottos, the one who was bishop of Regensburg and the other one, who was bishop of Constance. Finally did Pibo of Toul, who had been whispering something to Count Eberhardt, most timidly raise his hand.
Then did Henry call upon timorous Pibo, and ask him to share with the entire group whatever he had been whispering. And so did Pibo rise and tell all present how dire he thought the situation was and what he thought the King ought to do about it. For had not the Pope's power been growing throughout the land since he had first bludgeoned the King with the harsh rod of anathema? Then of the gathering at Augsburg did timid Pibo speak, reminding all present that it was scheduled for less than one year hence, and that all the princes of Germany, including the rebellious princes of Saxony and Bavaria and Thuringia, were planning to journey to Augsburg, there to meet with the Pope and convene under his blessing. The craven Pibo, insisting that he meant no disrespect, then asked if anyone present doubted that Augsurg promised to be the end of King Henry's reign, not to mention his very life? And thus, Pibo inquired, should not King Henry immediately attempt to go to Italy and meet with the Pope, there to make mortify himself and beg the Pope's absolution, in a place where the Pope would not be backed up by the armies of the Saxons?
Truth be told, this cowering Pibo, bishop of Toul, had a point. Even among the ferocious Rabbit Warriors there was nodding of heads. But then did King Henry silence the murmurs and doubts, with the following speech, generally regarded as a high point in the rhetorical history of his reign:
How would I be remembered, asked the King, were I to follow the advice of Pibo, bishop of Toul? In the memory of my children? Of my grandchildren? In the memory the world a thousand years hence? What would the people of that age think of the fourth Henry, king of the Romans? Let us pretend, for a moment, that in the memory of that age I did do what Pibo suggests. Let us pretend that I did go to Italy, that I did meet the Pope in one of his retreats, Lucca, perhaps, or one of the other castles kept by his whore Matilda. And there I did make penance, and did crawl on my knees, and did beg his absolution?
Now let us further pretend that by abasing myself so I saved my Kingdom, and outwitted the rebellious princes of Saxony and Bavaria and Thuringia, and that on that very day did the Pope anoint me Holy Roman Emperor, Imperator et Patricius, heir to the great Kaisers Augustus and Charlemagne? Let us even suppose, looking back from a thousand years hence, that my reign thereafter was glorious, that I did defeat the Normans in the Sicily and the Saracens in Jerusalem.
So how would I be remembered? How would the schoolboys of that distant age tell me apart from all the other Henrys who by then will have worn this crown?
I will tell you, Pibo. I will tell you how those schoolboys would remember me: they would remember only that the fourth Henry was the one who went to Lucca, or wherever, and crawled before the Pope. They will remember only that the power of empire knelt before the ambitions of a false monk. The name of Lucca, or whatever castle of the Lombard bitch it might be, will have become the symbol of my shame. They will mock me and spit upon my statues and say, if only Henry had been strong.
And so I say to you Pibo, cowardly bishop of Toul: No, that cannot be.
And the hall was silent then, for all were thinking of the glorious warlike deaths which awaited them and the honor they would have in heaven, despite what the Gregorians said about war and violence. And then did they drink, for they had much drunkenness to attain, and weak-shouldered Pibo did slip out without having another tankard, making some excuse about having to get to his cathedral in time for Easter morning mass.
When all were good and drunk, so drunk that one of the Rabbit Warriors of the Alemanni, Grahlert the Garland-Headed, was rebuking Henry for the lack of kebsweiber, with a familiarity born not of presumption or lack of discipline but from the bloody brotherhood of the battlefield, there did appear a beggar in their midst. Who is this beggar? asked Henry, but all around the Rabbit Warriors were too drunk to answer. Henry did then say to all, in his voice of command, which pierced through their drunkenness and would have sent them into battle if Henry had so desired, to be quiet for a moment and tell him who the beggar was. What beggar? said the Rabbit Warriors, with one impulse if not with one voice. That beggar, said Henry, that beggar right there.
Then they did all become quiet and look at the beggar, whose rags were most foul and whose frame was twisted and puny, which is the sort of thing a bold fighting man notices when he is drunk and told to look at a beggar.
But before anyone could approach him, the beggar stepped toward Henry and said, cousin, do you not know me? For I am Godfrey the Hunchback, your loyal vassal, and I say to you I am here, alive before you, and it is the assassin's body, not mine, that lies rotting in my grave.
Next in Main Story: Pont de l'Europe Next in Henry's Tale: Road Under Construction
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