She reassured them as best she could, insisting that the townspeople would disperse once they realized that they could not gain entry to the palace itself. Her words rang hollow even to herself, for the fury of the mob showed no signs of abating. Theirs had been a spontaneous act of panic, and they’d been ill prepared for an assault. But now those in the hall could hear cries for axes, for a battering ram. When Constance heard men also shouting for kindling and torches, she knew they dared not wait for cooler heads to prevail or for the craven city officials to intervene.
Calling to Baldwin, she drew him toward the dais. “I must talk to them,” she said softly. “Mayhap I can make them see reason.”
He was horrified. “My lady, they are mad with fear. There is no reasoning with them.”
She suspected that he was right, but what else could she do? “Nevertheless, I have to try,” she said, with a steadfastness she was far from feeling. “Come with me to the solar above the hall. I can speak to them from the balcony.”
He continued to argue halfheartedly, for he did not know what else to do, either, and when she turned toward the stairwell, he trailed at her heels. The solar was dark, for no oil lamps had been lit, and the heat was suffocating. Constance waited while Baldwin unlatched the door leading out onto the small balcony; she could feel perspiration trickling along her ribs and her heart was beating so rapidly that she felt light-headed.
The scene below her was an eerie one. The darkness was stabbed with flaring torches, illuminating faces contorted with anger and fear. She saw women in the surging throng and, incredibly, even a few children darting about on the edges of the crowd as if this were a holy day festival. Some were passing wineskins back and forth, but most drew their courage from their desperation. They were still calling for firewood, urging those closest to the street to find anything that would burn. It took a few moments for them to notice the woman standing motionless above them, gripping the balcony railing as if it were her only lifeline.
“Good people of Salerno!” Constance swallowed with difficulty, worried that they’d not hear her. Before she could continue, they began to point and shout. She heard her name, heard cries of “Bitch!” and “Sorceress!” and then “German slut!”
“I am not German!” There was no worry of being heard now; her voice resonated across the courtyard, infused with anger. “I am Sicilian born and bred, as you all are. I am the daughter of King Roger of blessed memory. This is my homeland as much as it is yours.”
She wasn’t sure if it was the mention of her revered father’s name, but the crowd quieted for the moment. “I know you are confused and fearful. But you’ve heeded false rumors. The Emperor Heinrich is not dead! Indeed, he is already on the mend. I had a letter from him just this morn, saying he expects to return very soon.”
She paused for breath. “You know my lord husband. He remembers those who do him a good service. When he leads his army back to Salerno, he will be grateful to you for keeping his wife safe. You will be rewarded for your loyalty.” Another pause, this one deliberate. “But this you must know, too. The Emperor Heinrich never forgets a wrong done him. If you betray his faith, if you do harm to me or mine, he will not forgive. He will leave a smoldering ruin where your city once stood. Dare any of you deny it? You know in your hearts that I speak true. You have far more to fear from the emperor if you bring his wrath down upon you than ever you do from that usurper in Palermo.”
She thought she had them, could see some heads nodding, see men lowering clubs and bows as she spoke. But her mention of Tancred was a tactical error, reminding them that his supporters were just thirty miles away at Naples, while Heinrich’s army was decimated by the bloody flux, fleeing with their tales tucked between their legs. The spell broken, the crowd began to mutter among themselves, and then one well-dressed youth with a sword at his hip shouted out, “She lies! That German swine breathed his last the day after he fled the siege camp! Send her to join him in Hell!”
The words were no sooner out of his mouth than one of his allies brought up his bow, aimed, and sent an arrow winging through the dark toward the balcony. His aim was true, but Baldwin had been watching those with weapons, and as soon as the bowman moved, he dove from the shadows, shoving Constance to the ground. There was a shocked silence and then a woman cried, “Holy Mother Mary, you killed her!” Someone else retorted that they had nothing left to lose then and more arrows were loosed. Crawling on their hands and knees, Constance and Baldwin scrambled back into the solar and she sat on the floor, gasping for breath as he fumbled with the door. Several thuds told them that arrows had found their mark.
Once she could draw enough air into her lungs again, Constance held out her hand, let him help her to her feet. “Thank you,” she said, and tears stung her eyes when he swore that he’d defend her as long as he had breath in his body, for that was no empty boast. He would die here in the palace at Salerno. They all would die unless the Almighty worked a miracle expressly on their behalf. She insisted that he escort her back to the hall, for at least she could do that much for her household. She would stand with them to the last.
She expected hysteria, but her women seemed stunned. Constance ordered wine to be brought out, for what else was there to do? They could hear the sounds of the assault, knew it was only a matter of time until the mob would break down the doors. As the noise intensified, Martina drew Constance aside, surreptitiously showing her a handful of herbs clutched in the palm of her hand. “They work quickly,” she murmured, and would have dropped them into Constance’s wine cup had she not recoiled.
“Jesu, Martina! Self-slaughter is a mortal sin!”
“It is a better fate than what awaits us, my lady. They are sore crazed and there are none in command. What do you think they will do to you once they get inside? On the morrow, they’ll be horrified by what they did this night. But their remorse and guilt will change nothing.”
Constance could not repress a shudder, but she continued to shake her head. “I cannot,” she whispered, “nor can you, Martina. We’d burn for aye in Hell if we did.”
Martina said nothing, merely slipped the herbs back into a pouch swinging from her belt. She stayed by Constance’s side, occasionally giving the younger woman a significant look, as if reminding her there was still time to change her mind. Constance mounted the steps of the dais, holding up her hand for silence. “We must pray to Almighty God that His will be done,” she said, surprised that her voice sounded so steady. There were a few stifled sobs from her women, but when she knelt, they knelt, too. So did the men, after carefully placing their weapons within reach. Those who’d not been shriven of their sins sought out Constance’s chaplain, following him behind the decorated wooden screen that he was using as a makeshift confessional.
Michael had not joined the others to confess, confirming Constance’s suspicions that his Christian faith was camouflage. He was a good man, though, and she hoped the Almighty would be merciful with him. The eunuch had stayed in a window recess, monitoring the progress of the assault by the sounds filtering into the hall. “My lady!” he called out suddenly. “Something is happening!” Before anyone could stop him, he unlatched the shutters, peering out into the dark. And then he flung the shutters wide.
By now they all could hear the screams. Baldwin hastened to the window. “The mob is being dispersed by men on horseback, madame! God has heard our prayers!”
The crowd scattered as knights rode into their midst. The courtyard was soon cleared of all but the riders and the crumpled bodies of those who’d been too slow or too stubborn. Having come so close to death, Constance was hesitant to believe deliverance was at hand, not until she saw for herself. Kneeling on the window seat, she watched as the last of the rioters fled. But she had no time to savor her reprieve, for it was then that she recognized the man in command of the knights. As if feeling her eyes upon him, he glanced her way, and at once acknowledged her with a gallant gesture only slightly spoiled by the bloodied sword in his hand.
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“Dear God,” Constance whispered, sitting back in the window seat. Martina was beside her now and when she asked who he was, Constance managed a faint, mirthless smile. “His name is Elias of Gesualdo, and he is both my salvation and my downfall. He arrived just in time to spare our lives, but on the morrow, he will deliver me into the hands of his uncle—Tancred of Lecce.”
The following four months were difficult ones for Constance. She knew Tancred well enough to be sure she’d be treated kindly, and she was. Tancred and his queen, Sybilla, acted as if she were an honored guest rather than a prisoner, albeit one under constant discreet surveillance. But she found it humiliating to be utterly dependent upon the mercy of the man who’d usurped her throne, and she could not help contrasting her barrenness with Sybilla’s fecundity, mother to two sons and three daughters. She was even more mortified when Heinrich adamantly refused to make any concessions in order to gain her freedom. It was not to be her husband who eventually pried open the door of her gilded prison. Pope Celestine agreed to give Tancred what he most wanted—papal recognition of his kingship—but in return he wanted Constance transferred to his custody. Tancred reluctantly agreed, and on a January day in 1192, Constance found herself riding toward Rome in the company of three cardinals and an armed escort.
She’d not find freedom in Rome, for the Pope saw her as a valuable hostage in his dealings with Heinrich, but at least she’d not be living in the same palace with Tancred and his queen. And a prolonged stay in Rome was not entirely unwelcome, for she was not eager to be reunited with the man who’d put her in such peril and then done nothing to rescue her from a predicament of his own making.
The cardinals seemed uncomfortable with their role as gaolers and set a pace that would be easy for Constance and her ladies. There were only three now, Adela, Hildegund, and Dame Martina, for her Sicilian attendants had chosen to remain in their homeland, and after the horror of Salerno, Constance could not blame them. They’d been on the road for several hours when Constance saw their scout galloping back toward their party, his expression grim. Nudging her mare forward, she joined the cardinals as they conferred with him. As she reined in beside them, they forced smiles, explaining that there was a band of suspicious-looking men up ahead who might well be bandits. They thought it best to turn aside and avoid a confrontation.
Constance agreed blandly that it was indeed best, her face giving away nothing. They had forgotten that Latin was one of the official languages of Sicily, and while she was not as fluent as Heinrich, she’d caught two words in the conversation that had ended abruptly as she came within earshot—praesidium imperatoris. It was not bandits they feared. The men up ahead were members of Heinrich’s elite imperial guard.
Constance did not know how they happened to be here, but it did not matter. Dropping back beside her women, she told them softly to be ready to act when she did. She could see the riders for herself now in the distance. When the cardinals and their men veered off the main road onto a dirt lane that led away from the Liri River, Constance followed. Waiting until the guard riding at her side moved ahead of her mare, she suddenly brought her whip down upon the horse’s haunches. The startled animal shot forward as if launched by a crossbow, and she was already yards away before the cardinals and their escort realized what had happened. She heard shouting and glanced back to see that several of the cardinals’ men were in pursuit, their stallions swift enough to outrun her mare. But by then the imperial guards were riding toward her. Pulling back the hood of her mantle so there’d be no doubt, she cried out, “I am your empress. I put myself under your protection.”
The cardinals did their best, angrily warning the Germans that they’d bring the wrath of the Holy Father down upon their heads if they interfered, insisting that the empress was in the custody of the Pope. The imperial guards merely laughed at them. Constance and her ladies were soon riding away with their new protectors, the knights thrilled to have recovered such a prize, knowing that their fortunes were made. Constance’s women were elated, too. But while Constance felt a grim sense of satisfaction, she did not share their jubilation. She was still a hostage. Even an imperial crown did not change that.
Two years after Constance’s fortuitous encounter with Heinrich’s imperial guards, Tancred was dying in his palace at Palermo. His was a bitter end, for his nineteen-year-old son had died suddenly in December, leaving a four-year-old boy as his heir, and he knew fear of the Holy Roman emperor would prevail over loyalty to a child. Upon learning of Tancred’s death, Heinrich led an army across the Alps into Italy once again.
Upon their May arrival in Milan, Constance had gone to bed, saying she must rest before the evening’s feast given in their honor by the Bishop of Milan. Adela had been concerned about her mistress for some weeks, but this open acknowledgment of fatigue, so unlike Constance, sent her searching for Dame Martina. Once they’d found a private corner safe from eavesdroppers, she confessed that she feared the empress was ailing. Martina was not surprised, for she, too, had noticed Constance’s flagging appetite, exhaustion, and pallor.
“I’ve spoken to her,” she admitted, “but she insists she is well. I fear that her downcast spirits are affecting her health …” She let her words trail off, sure that Adela would understand. They both knew Constance was troubled by what the future held for Sicily and its people. She’d not said as much, but there was no need to put her unspoken fears into words, for they knew the man she’d married. “I will speak with her again after the revelries tonight,” she promised, and Adela had to be content with that.
When Adela returned to Constance’s chamber, she was relieved to find the empress up and dressing, for that made it easier to believe she was not ill, merely tired. Once she was ready to descend to the great hall where Heinrich and the Bishop of Milan awaited her, her ladies exclaimed over the beauty of her gown, brocaded silk the color of a Sicilian sunrise, and the jewelry that was worth a king’s ransom, but Constance felt like a richly wrapped gift that was empty inside.
Heinrich was waiting impatiently. “You’re late,” he murmured as she slipped her arm through his. They’d had one of the worst quarrels of their marriage a fortnight ago and the strain still showed. They’d patched up a peace, were civil both in public and private, but nothing had changed. They were still at odds over Salerno. Constance agreed that the Salernitans deserved punishment. She’d have been satisfied with razing the town walls and imposing a heavy fine upon its inhabitants, for they’d acted out of terror, not treachery. Heinrich saw it differently, saying they owed him a blood debt and he meant to collect it. Constance thought that his implacable hatred toward the men and women of Salerno was a fire fed by his awareness that he’d made a great mistake, a mistake he would never acknowledge. But despite her anger, she’d not reached for that weapon, knowing it would rebound back upon her. Glancing at him now from the corner of her eye, she felt a flicker of weary resentment, and then summoned up a smile for the man approaching them.
She’d met Bishop Milo two years ago at Lodi and it was easy enough to draw upon those memories for polite conversation. She was accustomed to making such social small talk. This time it would be different, though. She’d barely had a chance to acknowledge his flowery greeting when the ground seemed to shift under her feet, as if she were suddenly on the deck of a ship. She started to say she needed to sit, but it was too late. She was already spiraling down into the dark.
Constance settled back against the pillows, watching as Martina inspected a glass vial of her urine. She’d asked no questions during the doctor’s examination, not sure she wanted the answers, for she’d suspected for some time that she might be seriously ill. She was about to ask for wine when the door opened and her husband entered, followed by a second man whose appearance, uninvited, in the empress’s quarters shocked her ladies.
“I want my physician to examine you,” Heinrich announced without preamble. “You are obviously ill and need care that this woman cannot provide.”
Constance sat up in bed. “‘This woman’ is a licensed physician, Heinrich. I want her to attend me.” Unable to resist a small jab, she added, “She studied in Salerno and was with me during the assault upon the palace, where she showed both courage and loyalty. I trust her judgment.”
He mustered up a smile that never reached his eyes. “I am sure she is competent for womanly ailments. Nonetheless, I want Master Conrad to take over your treatment. I must insist, my dear, for your health is very important to me.”
That, Constance did not doubt; it would be awkward for him if she were to die before he could be crowned King of Sicily, for then he’d have no claim to the throne other than right of conquest. “No,” she said flatly, and saw a muscle twitch in his cheek as his eyes narrowed. But Martina chose that moment to intervene.
“Whilst I am gratified by the empress’s faith in my abilities,” she said smoothly, “I am sure Master Conrad is a physician of renown. But there is no need for another opinion. I already know what caused the empress to faint.”
Heinrich did not bother to mask his skepticism. “Do you, indeed?”
Martina regarded him calmly. “I do. The empress is with child.”
Dangerous Women Page 39
