“An elephant?” Enzio’s eyes rounded and his mouth opened. “An elephant?”
“The Archbishop’s bringing one back from Egypt, it’s a present from the Sultan. Go on.” Frederick shoved him. Enzio disappeared over the side of the bed; there was a soft thump. “Kiss your mother before you go.”
The boy rose and ran over to Adelaide. She bent down—Frederick grinned—and Enzio pecked her on the chin.
“An elephant.” He dashed out, and Frederick leaned back on his elbows.
“Is there an imperial decree for me as well?” Adelaide pulled a lock of her hair over her shoulder and veiled her lower face with it. Her eyes narrowed and grew dark.
“I’ll consider it.”
She came slowly toward him, her hands at her sides. The cream skin of her breasts, the coarse dark pelt between her thighs made him tremble. She knelt on the bed and slowly bent and kissed him, and he dragged her down into the silks. She pulled open the front of his shirt and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist.
“You talked to Bianca,” she said, kissing him. “I saw you.”
“I saw you watching.” He dragged a cushion from behind her head and slid it under her hips.
“Do you like her better than me?”
“Don’t talk to me when my attention is elsewhere.” He slipped his arms around her and rolled onto her. She whimpered and pressed her lips to his shoulder. He ducked his head down. Her soft moans and the rasp of her breath sounded far away. His head spun and his toes tingled. His whole body flowed massively out through his loins. He collapsed, drained away, and shut his eyes.
“Please don’t talk to Bianca.”
“Be quiet.” He opened one eye and looked at the hour-candles in the corner. At Vespers he had to sit and listen to an ambassador from the French King. It was only nones, but the candle was guttering, and he rolled over onto his back and said, “Go light another candle.”
She got out of bed, and he sprawled out; the breeze dried the sweat from his chest and face. His back stung where she’d clawed him. That irritated him, and he pursued the little nudge of feeling back to its source: he didn’t like being reminded she’d been involved. Interesting.
“You don’t love me,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed. With a long ivory comb she smoothed her hair.
He stared at the mosaic on the far wall. From there, she could see the details, but he couldn’t. “I never said I did.” If he concentrated, maybe he could force his eyes to see.
“I love you so much, though.”
“I love Enzio. Isn’t that enough?”
“That’s too bad.” He stretched; the pleasant lassitude ebbed, and he began to think of getting up.
“Do you care for me at all?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t lug you around everywhere I go.”
Too late to stop, he saw what he’d gotten into. She said, “Then when you go to Syria you’ll take—”
“I’m not sure I’m going to Syria.” He tried to force his eyes to see the little Greek horsemen on the far wall. She touched him, stroking his chest where the red hair grew thick over the breastbone. He cupped his hand over her buttock. Adelaide, dear, I’m afraid . . . Bianca Lancia’s heart-shaped face crept into his mind, her blue-black hair, her clear blue eyes. It’s all over. Her heavy head pressed against his chest.
“Let me up.”
“Where are you going?” She raised her head to look at him.
“To my room.”
“Oh, that’s right. The audience.”
He stood up and took off his wrinkled shirt. “Don’t let the candles go out.”
She snorted. He knew that she ignored the candles; when she thought he’d be there she sent pages all the way to the chancery to find out what time their candles showed. He’d proved it once by setting the chancery candles back three hours. His shirt was incredibly dirty, and the thought of putting on his hose and coat just to go six rooms over made his skin creep. He tossed the shirt onto a chair. “Have somebody wash that.”
“Take it with you.”
He spun around. “God damn you, Adelaide, if I tell you to wash one of my shirts, you can do it yourself. Don’t you ever talk to me like that again. Do you hear me?”
Her mouth dropped open. She shrank back, her arms raised against her breasts.
“Do you hear me?”
She whispered, “Yes.”
“Good.” He went to the door into the antechamber, glanced at her again, and pulled the door open. “Corso?”
“Sire.” The page dashed up, all his gold lace flashing.
“Send somebody down to my room for clean clothes.”
“Yes, Sire.” Corso spun and snapped an order to one of the other pages. “May I do anything else?”
“Do you have any sherbet?”
“Yes, Sire. Shall I—”
“Yes.” He turned and went back into Adelaide’s room. She was still huddled in the covers, but her eyes had narrowed. He said, “Cover yourself up.”
Her hands pulled obediently at the bright silks. Frederick walked to the window and looked into the pear orchard just beyond the wall, where Enzio sometimes played. He heard the pages come in and turned, delighted at the thought of sherbet. Corso carried the cups, a younger boy, Giancarlo, the tray. Giancarlo succeeded in keeping his eyes away from Adelaide, managed to put the tray down, saw Frederick, and turned gray. Corso lifted the ewer out of its bed of snow.
“What’s wrong, Giancarlo?” Frederick said. “Haven’t you ever seen a naked emperor before?”
The page opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Corso turned to watch him. Anything the boy said would be ridiculous, and suddenly Frederick regretted what he had said. “Go on,” he said. “Leave me, Corso.”
Giancarlo whirled and ran. Corso brought the cups to Frederick, bowed, and backed calmly around the bed toward the door.
“That was cruel,” Adelaide said.
He handed her one cup. “I know.” He would have to bathe before the audience. “What do you think would happen if I walked naked down the hall?”
She was relieved that his mood had changed, and her smile glowed with it. “A lot of people would talk.”
“Do they think I end at the neckline?” He’d never dare do it. He might see Bianca Lancia and get an erection, and the flap would bring Barletta down around his ears. He laughed and finished the cup of sherbet. She was stroking his upper arm.
“You’re beautiful,” she said. “You could do it. But think of the others, the fat ones and the old ones. They need clothes to cover themselves up. Think of the Archbishop.”
Into his mind leaped an image of the Archbishop, stringy hams and protruding round belly. He made a face. “I’m not beautiful. You’re beautiful.” He took her by the chin and kissed her, and she clutched his shoulders.
Corso said, “Sire.”
“Come in.” He stood up, and Adelaide dove under the covers. Followed by the third page, Corso strode in, his arms full of clothes.
“Is the Frenchman here yet?”
“Yes, Sire.” Corso got him into his underwear and hose. “De la May, or something like that.” He stood on his toes to slip the undertunic over Frederick’s head.
“The Grand Master is waiting in your antechamber. And a messenger from the Frangipani.”
“From the—!” He straightened up and pulled on the tunic himself. “When did he get here?”
“Just at nones, Sire.” Corso held up the coat. “Do you—”
“No. Bring it.” He strode toward the door, only half dressed. The other page tore around to open the door for him, and he walked straight through to the curtained archway into the next room. Corso was close behind him. The sentries outside the archway straightened so swiftly their half-armor clashed. Corso raced around in front of him and settled into a jog—he couldn’t keep up with Frederick’s stride at a walk.
“You should have told me before,” Frederick said.
“Paolo found out when he went for your clothes, Sire.
That’s why I didn’t knock.”
“Corso, I command you not to grow up—you’re too good a page.” He wanted to run. It cost him to walk, even as fast as this. They passed through a big, empty room and into the next, and the tide of people there all swept around and bowed, glittering like waves in the sunlight streaming through the windows. A pair of Cistercians came out of the office to the right, saw him, and. paused, their heads bent. One of them was Klaus, from the Abrussi estates. Frederick stopped—so abruptly the page behind caromed off him and fell—and looked up and down the room, trying to see who had left and who had come to Barletta since the excommunication. All these people were waiting to see Piero and Marino. Half the courtiers behind him had risen again after he’d passed, and seeing him turn, they dipped down.
“Klaus,” he said, and the monk smiled. Frederick went on. He was a lay brother of the Cistercians. Remembering that comforted him. The Cistercians wouldn’t desert him, and surely . . . They passed a staircase flooded with girls, and the sentries on either side of the next archway jerked themselves upright; they were all Saracens.
“Corso,” Frederick said. “Go get Manfredo Lancia.” He stepped through the archway into a smaller room, turned left, and waited for the page Paolo to open the door for him.
The Grand Master, Rinaldo of Spoleto, and a tall Italian Frederick didn’t know stood and bowed when he entered. The Italian sank down on one knee. “Your Majesty.
“Rise. Hermann, your pardon a moment.”
The Grand Master bowed. “Sire.”
The Italian said, “Your Majesty, Piero Frangipani sent me. The Romans have chased the Pope out of the city for setting the ban on you.”
Frederick threw his head back and crowed. The Italian twitched, and Rinaldo emitted a burst of harsh laughter. Corso was back, Bianca’s elder brother in tow. The messenger from the Frangipani knelt, twisting his velvet cap in his hands.
“My deepest respects and love are reserved for the people of Rome.” Frederick pulled the gold ling off his little finger. “Here. Manfredo, take charge of this man, he’s to be fed and given a full suit of good clothes, and he’ll be at the audience.”
Manfredo nodded. His forehead wrinkled up. “Yes, Sire.”
Frederick couldn’t keep from grinning. He bent and hauled the messenger to his feet. Clutching his ring, the man suddenly started to babble thanks—his eyes staring over Frederick’s head. Manfredo took him by the arm.
“Wait,” Frederick said. “Where is he?”
“Rieti, Sire.” The messenger sank down on his knees again.
“Good. Go.” His chest swelled with triumph. They’d run the Pope out of Rome. Out of his own city. He didn’t want to look at the Grand Master and see the misery that would be drooping the old man’s mouth. Rinaldo was still grinning. Frederick chewed his lip. “Corso, send somebody for Michael Scot. Hermann, come inside. Corso, I want a bath. Get the water hot. Hot, damn you, not tepid.” He headed for the inside door, and a page yanked it open. The Grand Master followed him.
The sunlight in this room nearly blinded him; unimpeded by balconies, it shone through all the windows, reflected off the gold and the mosaics. He walked into the center of the room and started to take off the undertunic, but before he had his hands to his throat a page was there, lifting it over his head.
“Hermann,” he said. “Is he out of his mind?”
The Grand Master stood bent-legged beside the door. “They think so in Rome, obviously.”
“Speak German, I need the practice.” He switched languages. “I shall order prayers for his guidance. Sit.”
“Thank you, Sire.” The Grand Master lowered himself into a chair and sighed. The pages brought Frederick a gown. He stood still so that they could belt it and sat down. One of them got a chair under his rump just before he would have fallen flat.
“I hoped and prayed that His Holiness would realize how treacherous is his course. How strewn with temptations into grievous error. As I pray for you, Sire.”
Two servants came through, lugging wood for the fire in the bathing room. Frederick said, “Hermann, the world is my arena. I know how to deal with it. My blood prepares me. What can he act on but experience? Is there no way to vindicate myself?”
“I know that you’ve tried,” the Grand Master said. “But I know as well how the Holy Father feels about your transgressions.”
“They are not transgressions.”
“My Lord—”
Wrong approach. Michael Scot came in, smiling, and bowed. Frederick waved at him impatiently. “Hermann, I’ve sinned, but I’ve also begged him to allow me to expiate my sins.” He curled his, bare toes into the carpet. “He’s accusing me of things I’ve never even considered doing. Did you see the bill?”
“Della Vigne sent me a copy.”
“I love the Church, Hermann. Since my childhood I’ve had neither father nor mother, and Holy Church fostered me.” In Latin he said to Scot, “Did you cast that horoscope?”
“Yes, Sire.” Scot sank down on a white fur robe thrown across a low chest. His eyes rolled toward the Grand Master.
“Since the founding of the Christian world,” the old man said, “the Popes have judged the Emperors. Which is only right—because if the Pope does not, who will?”
Frederick slapped his palms down on his thighs. “I have no objection to being judged by the Church, Hermann. By the Church, not by a man who sits inside the robes of his office and will not uphold his own law.”
The Grand Master frowned, puzzled. Corso had come In, his arms full of soft linen. Exasperated; Frederick stood up; the old German there didn’t understand the essential difference between Gregory and his office. “Come along with me.”
He walked across the mottled carpet to the side door, let a servant hold the curtain, and went through into the vast tiled bathing room. In its center the shallow pool steamed, half full of water. He threw off his gown and stepped into it, gasping at the heat, and waded out until the water came to his waist. Sweat popped out on his chest. He splashed himself, sank down on his heels, and scrubbed his hair with his hands. Swiftly his body accustomed itself to the heat of the water, so that when he stood the air seemed cold. Corso was standing on the edge of the pool. Frederick held up one hand, and Corso tossed him a cloth. The others had ranged themselves around the tiled edge.
“No news from Constantinople,” he said, “is there?”
Rinaldo sat on his heels, “No, Sire. I’m sure they’ll elect him, though.”
Frederick wrinkled his nose. The little boy they called the Emperor of the East wasn’t old enough yet to rule, and the Pope had been engineering the election as Regent of John of Brienne, the ex-King of Jerusalem. Frederick was now King of Jerusalem, having married John’s daughter, the heiress. John was old but energetic, and he hated Frederick. Scrubbing himself with the cloth, Frederick decided that he hated John back. Arrogant old bastard. John was in Rome, along with all the bishops and nobles Frederick had booted out of Sicily in the past eight years, and he suspected they spent their time together plotting revenge.
“Hermann. The Popes never excommunicated Diepold or Walter or Markwald or any of the others for robbing Sicily when I was gone.”
The Grand Master frowned. “No.”
Frederick combed his long hair through his fingers. The idea of going on crusade returned to him; there was something charming about the whole idea. The door from the next room opened, and the Admiral, with six of his friends, walked in, bowed, and sent a page running for chairs for him and the Grand Master. Frederick walked around in the pool, frowning and shaking his hair dry.
“Hermann, go to Syria as soon as you can find a ship.”
“Sire?” The Grand Master twitched. The others around him muttered, their eyes on Frederick. Michael Scot, smiling and cynical, perched on a window sill and watched them.
“Go to Syria. Ricardo Filangieri and the Duke of Limburg have been rattling around there with nobody to supervise except Tommaso, and he’s t
oo busy elsewhere. They may need some getting into shape.”
“Sire—for what?”
“And, anyhow, you have a perfectly good reason for being there—to govern your order.” He beat his hands on the water and grinned. “Enrico. Get a ship for him, hah?”
The Admiral bowed. “Sire.”
Enrico da Malta had been a Genoese pirate before Frederick made him Grand Admiral of Sicily. Frederick studied him covertly. Sometimes, when he could do it without seeming too eager, he got Enrico to tell him pirate stories. Piracy sounded like fun, like an adventure. He lowered his eyes, almost embarrassed. What do you want to be when you grow up? They were all watching him, the way they always did. They watched me being born, they’ll watch me die. He put one hand on his chest, feeling the bones under the heavy skin and the curling little hairs. Why don’t the hairs on my chest grow as long as the hair on my head and my beard?
“They’re going to canonize Francesco,” Michael Scot said comfortably, and Frederick looked over at him and laughed. “I thought that would amuse you.”
“They make him a saint, they excommunicate me.” He scrubbed himself vigorously. The Grand Master was talking quietly to Enrico. Rinaldo glanced at them and leaned forward.
“Why shouldn’t they make him a saint? Didn’t he receive the very wounds of our blessed Lord? Francesco was very holy. Everybody said so.”
“I never met him,” Frederick said. “I just mean that it’s odd. They’re inconsistent, the Curia. We’re both heretics, Francesco and I.”
“You’re no heretic,” the Grand Master said. “Don’t let them talk you into believing that.”
“How is Francesco a heretic?” Enrico said.
“For Christ’s sake,” Frederick said. “He received the wounds of Christ without the intercession of the priest, didn’t he? He made a Sacrament of his own, body, didn’t he?”
“That’s rather a new interpretation.” The Grand Master smiled. “You’ve got a lively mind, Sire.”
“Thank you for the compliment.” He walked back to the shallow end of the pool and sat down to wash his legs.
Enrico laughed his high, braying laugh. “Francesco and Federigo. Saint Emperor.”
Antichrist Page 2
