Corso yelped at the pages and they whirled and thrust the tray at Frederick. He grabbed a handful of the little pastries. They were hot, and he dropped them onto a towel and ate one, standing up so that they could get him dressed.
“Concerning that which we discussed before—”
He glanced around at the first sheet, frowned, and went on. “You recall how strenuously I warned you, Sultan, against certain beasts from the desert east of Khwaresm. My information is that the terror has died, stuffed full of foul victories. Yet am I reluctant to think the peril is over. It pleases me you recognize that against this thing we are as one, the Drawn Swords of the cultured world.”
The silver-tongues of the West, rather. That was the Tartar King in Greater Asia. Prester John. The more threats pressuring the Muslims, the more liable al-Kamil would be to give up advantages in return for pledges of support and peace. This Tartar, Ghenghis Khan, a French scholastic had called King David, master of the legions of the Lord returning. Except that, if al-Kamil’s description of the Tartars were at all true, the Lord was working His wonders in mysterious ways again. The Archbishop had finished his pastries and was shaking crumbs off his lap. Frederick dropped the letter and put on his coat and a page handed him the letter again.
“Much do I welcome your embassies, Sultan, not even so much for their immediate news as for the assurance that between you and me some conversation can continue, even while the wild dogs howl against us both and the swine pollute the holy ground of Islam. Content and humble in your friendship, let me offer the modest advantages of my own.”
“Well.”
“What did he say?” the Archbishop asked.
“Nothing, but he said it so pleasantly.” Corso brought over a chair and he sat down. The boy was still flushed from the mix-up with the pies. Frederick handed him the letter. “Take this yourself to Judah ben Daud and tell him to copy out the relevant passages about the Tartars and stick them in with the other information.”
“Sire.”
“Tell me about Khwaresm,” Frederick said to the Archbishop.
“Well. Since the Tartar invasion and the death of Mohammed Shah, Jelal-ad-Din, Mohammed’s son, has been consolidating power among the younger nobility. He’s in firm control. They’re still, naturally, suffering the aftereffects of the war. They’re disorganized, and a number of the hill tribes have refused to acknowledge the sovereignty of the royal house. Jelal-ad-Din is busy bringing them back into line. All their major cities and fortresses in the north were destroyed, but the area to the southwest remains intact. Their control of Baghdad and the Caliph is unopposed. My information is that they’re starting to put pressure on al-Ashraf and en-Nasr to accept their suzerainty and acknowledge the Caliph and all that. Jelal-ad-Din will not be free to move west for another year at the least, and al-Ashraf is a tricky fighter, but en-Nasr is weak, and of course with al-Kamil and al-Ashraf both trying to take Damascus from him, God knows what he’ll do.”
Frederick put his feet up on a stool. It seemed impossible that Khwaresm had recovered so quickly from the Tartar war. “How liable are the Tartars to come back and finish the job?”
“Very liable, in time. But . . . I have the impression that they’re busy elsewhere.” The Archbishop frowned and put his fingers to his chin. “There’s more east of Khwaresm than anybody thought. Other peoples, other kingdoms—the Tartars are busy conquering their eastern flank, I’m told. Their King was in the east when he died.” He straightened up, smiling. “It may be hard to grasp, but the impression I have is that to the Tartars Khwaresm and Syria may be so far west that they can forget about them very easily. Khwaresm is the periphery of their world. I might add that this is not the impression of some of my colleagues, notably the embassies of the Greeks of Nicaea in Cairo and the envoys from Constantinople and Paris, all of whom firmly believe that from Khwaresm to the edge of the world is only a day’s easy ride and the Tartars are waiting impatiently for an alliance with us before they attack again.”
Frederick laughed. “Naturally, the center of the world is always their little kingdom, and they can’t believe that the rest of the world doesn’t have their concerns deeply to heart. I agree with you, from what I’ve heard. Is al-Kamil convinced?”
“Al-Kamil is sure he can beat Khwaresm, provided he doesn’t have to contend with a Crusade at the same time.”
“The Greeks at Nicaea. What are they doing?”
“Fuming a lot. Waiting. They’ve mended their friendships with everybody north of Lebanon and they’re just waiting for Constantinople to make a mistake and let them back in again. Incidentally, they’re madly fond of you. They’re hoping that if John of Brienne is elected the guardian of the young Emperor, you’ll fight him.”
“He’s a vicious old man, but it’s not in my interests. How is al-Kamil doing against Damascus?”
“En-Nasr is cleverer than anybody thought. Al-Kamil won’t take Damascus this year. Everything but, though. Al-Ashraf is a fool and can’t stand to be one minute with al-Kamil. There’s a letter from Tommaso d’Aquino, who knows more about that than I do.”
“Good. Let me catch up on my reading and I’ll see you tomorrow. When’s the entry?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.” The Archbishop stood and bowed. “I hope this rain stops—that elephant is more trouble than he’s worth anyway.”
Frederick threw his cloak off and sat on his heels under the pear tree. Down the walk on the far side of the hedge two young men came, talking, headed for the fountain. One of them said, “Well, it would be easy enough until you got caught, but I’d hate to have Marco refer me to Big Red.” Their feet crunched on the pebbles and the sound diminished. Frederick grinned.
From the fountain came muffled cries and an occasional splash. Most of the young men and girls from the palace were taking advantage of the masque Ezzo was putting on in Adelaide’s apartments, which would keep all the elders involved in their own rituals of sin, and the whole park teemed with midnight dinners, mad embraces and hunting games. He could hear them all the way to the pleasure house on the far side of the garden.
“Sire?” Bianca crawled under the branches of the pear tree, weighted down with blossoms.
Frederick said, “I’m right here. Did you give them a good excuse?”
She sank down beside him, her legs drawn up under her skirts, and pulled at her surcoat. “I told you, Sire, I cannot stay long. I said I was unwell and had to go to bed, and I must be there when my sisters go to our chambers.”
“But you came.” Frederick picked up her hand—she tried to pull it out of his grasp, but he held on, and she gave up right away.
“Well,” she said, “it was a dull masque.” She grinned.
“I think they’re all dull, I hate routine.” He held her hand between both of his, stroking her wrist and the backs of her fingers. “Why don’t we go over to the pleasure house? We’d be much more comfortable.” He hadn’t kissed her yet. All this while he’d been so patient, plotting like a squire just to kiss her. He thought of yanking her into his lap.
“I told you, Sire, that I refuse to meet you under a roof alone. I do have to protect myself somehow.” She lay down on her side in the short grass. “Don’t I?”
“Not from me—why, I must be twice your age. My interests are entirely paternal.”
He flopped down beside her and pulled gently at the ribbons on her surcoat, and she took them out of his hand.
“Just the same, Sire, a girl of my innocence must”— she giggled—“avoid inciting you.”
Frederick hitched himself forward on his elbows and kissed her on the mouth. She made no attempt to elude him; after all the scheming it seemed ridiculously easy. Somebody else had been kissing her, and he began to get jealous. Lifting his head a little he said, “But I like being incited.”
She shrugged awkwardly, her shoulders against the ground. “I’m sure you do. I’m just afraid I wouldn’t be able to stop you, that’s all.” Her soft voice made it sound as if she wasn
’t sure she’d want to, and he wondered how much was flirtatiousness. Probably all of it. He kissed her again and tugged the ribbons gently loose.
“It’s beautiful out here under a full moon,” she said.
“See?” Her eyes looked up into the pear blossoms, lit by moonlight.
“It’s beautiful out here when you’re here, and no other time.”
She giggled again and pretended she didn’t know her surcoat was open. Frederick ran the back of his hand over her cheek.
“You’re so beautiful—you’re going to be a beautiful woman, Biancetta, you’re going to have every man in Italy hanging by his heels.” He kissed her and slid his aim around her waist, and of course she stiffened up. Her hand rose to his shoulder and gave a little shove.
“What’s wrong?”
She squirmed around and sat up, bracing herself on one arm. “You frighten me a little, that’s all. Why don’t you just want to kiss for a while?”
He rolled over on his back and stretched. “Because I want you. Not to kiss—I want you to sleep with me.” He looked from the depths of the pear blossoms over his head to the white, heart-shaped blossom of her face. “That’s a compliment, by the way.”
“I know. But it does make me a little frightened, it’s like . . .” She grinned. “You don’t miss, do you?”
“Never.” He laughed and stretched his hand up and took hold of her long, heavy hair. “I can make you very happy, Bianca.”
That was the wrong approach. She frowned, and she tried to pull her head back out of reach. “Like Adelaide?”
“Let’s not talk about Adelaide.”
“She isn’t happy now. Maybe at the beginning.”
“I said—” He rolled over onto his stomach. “Let’s not talk about Adelaide, who isn’t you.” He caught her by the shoulders. She began to struggle, at first mildly, but suddenly she was twisting in his arms, panicked. He let her go, and she sat still, staring at him.
“I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to frighten you. Biancetta—” He kissed her quickly. When he drew back and looked at her again she smiled and her eyes fell.
“I’m not a woman yet; you said so. I should go.”
“In a little while. I’ll walk you back.”
She touched his hand. “Please, just—let me think it out. Let me decide.”
“As long as you decide what I wish.” He put his arms around her and kissed her hard, and her head lay back in his arms, her mouth turned soft under his. “And soon.”
The young ones around the fountain screamed and laughed, with splashes interspersed, and along the path beyond the hedges couples walked. Frederick laid Bianca back on the grass and kissed her thoroughly, his fingers curled in her hair. He shut his eyes; the earth beneath him seemed to tilt. Her arms were around his waist. Shifting his weight, he pressed himself full length against her, and she tensed again, resisting him again. It reminded him somehow of Anais, on his and Yolande’s wedding night, only that time he’d been the one resisting; she’d surprised him, popping up in his bed like that. Kissing Bianca while thinking of Anais made him guilty. He licked his tongue over Bianca’s lips and pressed his face against her hair.
“I could love you so well, Bianca.”
Even before he’d said the word, he knew that it was the key. Beneath him her body relaxed, and when he went to kiss her again, she lifted her head to find his mouth. She probably didn’t know yet, not with her mind. He moved his hand softly up her side. Her body said yes, but in her mind she probably wasn’t sure yet. And he did have to get her back before her sisters came in from the masque. He rolled onto his side and pulled her surcoat away from her body. She caught his hand.
“I won’t hurt you. I just want to kiss you.” He thought of saying “love” to her again, but that would be overdoing it. “Just let me kiss you.” He started to open her bodice, and her fingers rugged uncertainly at his hand. Bending down, he kissed her mouth while he undid the laces and pulled her gown off her shoulder. The pressure in his body mounted, driving him; he forced himself to go slowly, to be gentle, as if this were only casual, but when his hand touched her bare breast he couldn’t help stabbing his tongue deep into her mouth. Her hands clutched his shoulders, but her body kept on saying yes. He kissed her throat and her collarbone and pressed his mouth against her breast. Against his tongue her nipple stood up hard, and one of her hands brushed his hair and held him against her. O God, he thought, I could have her now, right now, under this pear tree in the park. I want to, I want to, yes, now. He sat up, throwing his hair back.
“What’s—”
“I’m proving my self-control tonight. No, don’t.” He caught her hand before she could herself. “Let me look—I like to look.” Her small breast with its erect nipple made him tremble, and her gown was open low enough so that he could see the delicate skin of her belly, soft to lie on. She sat up, her eyes on his, her face strange and her mouth quivering, and with a quick movement stripped herself to the waist and held out her arms.
“You’ll be angry in the morning.” He thrust her down into the grass again and pressed his face against her breasts, lipping her skin.
“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe I’ll change my mind tonight.”
He knelt and pulled off his shirt. “Let me know if you do.” The branches hung down all around them like strange walls; anyone passing by would have to stoop to see under. The blossoms glowed in the moonlight. He thought quickly that she would never have been willing in the pleasure house. Against his bare skin her skin was warm and soft, and the texture of it changed beneath his fingers, turning silken. “What about your sisters?”
“I’ll tell them” her voice faltered—”I went for a walk.”
In the morning they would all know, the entire court would know, but he didn’t tell her that. Let her find out in the morning. Naked in the spring grass, with the pear blossoms perfuming the air, she couldn’t meet his eyes, and a blush colored her throat and cheeks. When he stripped off his clothes she shut her eyes and turned her head away. She was shy, she was frightened, and he made himself go slowly. Quietly. In his arms she shivered; her mouth brushed timidly over his skin. Beyond the hedges a girl murmured, and a boy whispered cajolingly. Do it in the hedgerows, children. He kissed her thighs, and her flesh quivered. Do you still want to? Pressing against her, like a lance, and her body trembling, calling him, but her mind hesitating. Like limbo, swaying on the verge of . . . I can make you want to. She had pear blossoms tangled in her hair. Her hands moved lightly over his hips, and she whispered. “Yes, do it. Do it.” With all his muscles aching with a sweet, dizzy agony he did it, as gently as he could. She was a virgin, but it came out all wrong—she only gasped, and he cried out.
The Grand Master had left Brindisi for Acre; the Archbishop had gone to Rieti to plead Frederick’s case before the Pope and to find out all he could about the Pope’s plans for Frederick’s absence. Enrico had gathered up a little fleet and they were due to leave Brindisi a few days after the solstice, on a day Michael Scot had said would be the most propitious. Frederick took off his coat and unlaced the front of his shirt. It was hot and there was no wind.
Rinaldo of Spoleto had been running around frantically asking everybody for advice on how to defend Sicily, and Frederick hadn’t even left yet. Somehow this whole Crusade thing had gotten out of control. He couldn’t remember when he’d finally made up his mind, because as recently as two or three weeks before he’d still been saying, “If I go on crusade . . .” Gradually it had turned into “when.”
“Papa,” Enzio said, “come down and see the elephant with me.”
Frederick looked down, startled—he hadn’t seen the child come up. “Not now, Enzio. I’m thinking.”
“But, Papa, you’re going to be gone for so long.”
Frederick turned and hugged him. “I know, sonny, and I’m going to miss you.” He kissed the boy’s neck just above his filthy collar. “But I’ve got a lot of things to do.”
Enzi
o’s arms wound tightly around his neck. “You can’t even come down and look at the elephant?”
“No. I’m sorry. I’ll see you tonight, before bedtime, and tell you a story.”
“Oh. All right.” Enzio kissed him. “Don’t forget.”
Frederick stood up. “I won’t.”
Enzio trotted down the gallery toward the stairs, past a couple of notaries returning to Piero’s office from the chancery; at the head of the stairs Enzio turned and waved to Frederick. He waved back, grinning. Michael Scot came up the stairs past Enzio and turned to watch him run across the courtyard. The heat was enervating, and Frederick hoped Michael wasn’t in the mood for conversation—it was so pleasant just to stand here, leaning against the wall, doing nothing.
“Sire,” Scot said. “You ought to do something about Rinaldo. Nobody trusts him anymore.”
“He’ll be all right.” Frederick kicked a chair around and sat down in it. “He just wants to make sure everybody knows he’s important. Did you do Bianca’s horoscope?”
“Yes.” Scot perched on the railing next to the wisteria. “She’s a wonderfully talented girl, very deep. Marvelous young person. It’s wise of you to get a few fire signs into your circle—so many of your friends are earthy. And you’re a Capricorn, of course.”
“Unh-hunh.”
“And I checked up on the time you’ll be at sea. It ought to be good weather the whole time. A fair voyage.”
“Damn. I was hoping for storms. I’ve never been in a storm at sea. Is Enrico back from Brindisi yet?”
“Not yet.” Scot’s eyebrows bounced gleefully. “He’s probably combing the harbor taverns for new pirate stories—that’s his stock-in-trade. Between him and the Grand Master we certainly do have a surfeit of war stories.”
“Don’t make fun of them or I’ll make fun of you. You know Hermann isn’t fair game. Did you check on—”
He looked toward the railing. Somebody had ridden in, and down in the courtyard people were starting to shout and laugh. “What’s that?”
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