A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

「Northern Italy, the Tuscan Duchy, Mantua」

Henry was in a church in Mantua, keeping a respectful distance before the Statue of the Virgin Mary. There was still some time until vespers, so the interior of the Church was empty.

Vespers symbolized the end of the day, to be followed by rest until the morrow. Henry, however, did not intend to rest. On the contrary, he was about to set out after the service. Mantua was very close to Canossa, and he could arrive there before dawn.

He would go to show his humility and repentance to Hilbrand—the man he utterly despised, the so-called Holy See—hoping to please him.

The darkness of night and the glimmer of dawn would make him appear all the more fragile and pious.

He walked through the magnificent nave. His grandfather, Emperor Conrad, had built his Church here on the site of a Merovingian Dynasty Church dedicated to Maria. His grandfather had hoped the Salian Emperors would rest in the arms of the Holy Mother upon their deaths, thereby declaring the Salian Royal Family’s birthright to rule Italy.

However, the Empire’s rule over Italy was always weak. Therefore, after his grandfather’s death, the promise made in life was unsurprisingly broken by Henry’s father. His grandfather was laid to rest in the Salian lands in Saxony.

But now, it seemed to have made no difference. The original goal was never achieved; his grandfather, his father, and even his child who had died in infancy had found no peace. Those cold-blooded Saxons had destroyed everything, not even sparing the dead.

He knelt before her statue. For centuries, pilgrims had come to Mantua seeking the intercession of this gilded, enthroned Maria, and she had indeed worked miracles.

As a child, Henry had found comfort in her serene gaze. She had been by his side his entire life, and he firmly believed it was she who had blessed him, allowing him to safely navigate a childhood fraught with conspiracy and violence. (Henry IV ascended the throne at age five, with his mother acting as regent.)

Those were incredibly difficult years. The dignity of the Salian Royal Family was trampled into the dust, the Emperor became a plaything of the Nobility, and even his own mother abandoned him.

For a long time after coming of age, Henry was unwilling to recall those humiliating times.

He gazed at Maria, and her benevolent expression sent him back into his memories.

He thought of his many enemies. Hilbrand, under whose magnificent papal robes beat the heart of a twisted monk, had been scheming against him for decades, attempting to destroy his power.

Otto of Nordheim, the former Duke of Bavaria and his onetime kidnapper, who changed allegiances more often than he changed his clothes.

Rudolph of the Rhineland, the Duke of Swabia, who, upon learning that Hilbrand—that hypocrite who had always opposed his authority—had been elected Pope, had ignored his prohibition and rushed to Rome, brazenly showing signs of treason.

And then there was his mother, the Regent Empress Dowager Agnes. She had elevated Rudolph to the position of Duke, and when he visited her palace in Rome, she was still whispering instructions to that snake—and God knows what else.

He shook off his anger, letting the image of his mother fade, replaced by the gentle-faced Holy Mother on her throne.

Whatever the future might hold, he had not come here for regrets or recriminations; he had come to express his gratitude.

For he was still alive, still wearing the crown that symbolized the supreme authority of the Empire.

She had guided him from the Hell of Harz Castle to the salvation of Speyer, the cradle of his family. The victory at Speyer was one of his few recent consolations.

He believed that he would ultimately destroy every obstacle and, under the protection of the Holy Mother, ensure that his enemies—those who stood before the throne of Charlemagne, those who arrogantly tried to force him from it—would all receive their just punishment.

Maria’s gilded fingers clasped the chubby little hand of the infant Jesus on her lap.

She was not the mother of Hilbrand’s Lord, an unforgiving Judge from the Old Testament.

She was the woman who had conceived and nurtured the true God—the God who walked the earth, who bled, and who lived.

His fingers lightly brushed her feet.

God’s justice and man’s justice are often not the same.

Yet, Henry believed, Maria was willing to make an exception for him.

For in her wisdom, Maria saw the meaninglessness of Henry’s death.

Because his death, unlike that of her Son, would bring no good to the world.

For he would never become a savior of souls.

In this world, however, he could still change people’s lives.

”Thank you for defending my royal authority,” he whispered, ”and thank you for saving me from death.”

His enemies would continue to try and erode his power, but his heart still beat, he still stood, and he was still crowned.

The matter of Empress Bertha’s fertility was a ray of light amid the dark news of the last two years.

The birth of a healthy boy could shatter the alliance between the Saxons and the Duke of Saxony, and deal a fatal blow to Rudolph and Ilderbrand’s plot to destroy the Salian Dynasty.

It was impossible for him to love her, but she was his Empress, the mother of his future heir.

She too was a piece in a political game, as were they all.

Henry made the sign of the cross before the three urns placed in front of Maria’s Holy Image. They held the ashes of his sister, Mechthild, and the heart of his father.

He prayed to the Holy Mother for them, and in his prayers, he tried to speak with a father he barely remembered, but whose shadow had loomed over his entire life.