“Frederick’s wine is going down rather well with these lords, don’t you think?” Alaman da Costa grinned.
Alfonso of Aragon stared at his table neighbor. “Yes, they seem to be enjoying themselves,” he replied coolly. There was something piratical about the man. Alfonso would not have put a buccaneering past beyond him. That was perhaps why Frederick liked him. Against Alfonso’s advice he had entrusted Alaman with rebuilding the Sicilian fleet …
Trumpets sounded. A troupe of dancing girls whirled into the pavilion. As they began to dance, conversations came to a halt. Swaying to the strains of an Arabic song, they seemed to float above the marble floor, their graceful movements accompanied by a flutter of gossamer skirts in a rainbow of colors.
Alfonso, seated on the dais beside Frederick and Constance, watched the scene over the rim of his cup. Surely this wasn’t the court of a Christian monarch, but the palace of an oriental potentate. The Saracen girls in their seductive costumes, dancing to the soothing music; the turbaned eunuchs serving dainty delicacies to reclining guests; the golden mosaics on the walls, its tigers and palm trees gleaming in the torchlight; and in the distance, through the horseshoe arches, the moonlight playing upon the lake—Christian kings didn’t live like this. Yet he had to admit that the evening compared favorably with the raucous banquets he had attended at other courts, in smoke-filled halls full of unwashed barons devouring huge joints of venison.
His eyes followed one of the dancing girls, watched her long black hair swing to and fro with the music, her arms raised as if in an incantation. Desire stirred in him as he watched her undulating hips. They were gorgeous, these Saracen girls. No doubt about it. He almost regretted refusing Frederick’s offer. Only yesterday, this boy, barely into manhood, had suggested that he needed female company to cheer him, as he found him a bit morose lately. The remedy his brother-by-marriage had proposed had been an infidel dancing girl.
How often had Frederick succumbed to their charms? Surely he wouldn’t dream of having a Saracen mistress? Alfonso told himself that Frederick was inexperienced and so besotted with Constance that there was no danger, at least for the time being. And yet with Frederick one never knew.
He drained his cup. The wine was a trifle too sweet, but clear and strong. The dancers, at the end of their performance, were rewarded with enthusiastic applause.
Alfonso’s eyes came to rest on Frederick. He was laughing, sharing a joke with a radiant Constance. In the few months since he had first met him, Frederick had changed a great deal. At first, Frederick frequently asked his advice, particularly about military matters. Now he did so less and less. Alfonso was certain that every detail of this spectacular Eastern feast had been planned by him, right down to the hastily regilded ceiling. It was Frederick’s subtle way of letting those who counted know that he meant to emulate his grandfather Roger in every way, including that of demanding total submission from his barons.
And Constance, bewitched by her young husband and his exotic country, was encouraging him. She had polished his manners, his language, and his appearance. There was something faintly ridiculous about the way his beautiful, self-possessed sister had succumbed to this young man’s charm. Alfonso found himself frequently irritated by the two of them.
“They seem very happy, don’t they?” Berard, seated on Alfonso’s left, had followed his eyes. Frederick was offering his wife a sugared date, putting it between her lips.
Alfonso nodded. “I must admit that I’ve been pleasantly surprised at the success of this match.”
Berard smiled: “They deserve their happiness. The ways of God may be strange at times, but they are just.”
Alfonso was about to say something when a murmur ran through the crowd.
Frederick, in a long saffron tunic, his purple mantle fastened with Berard’s ruby clasp, had risen and was descending from the dais. The guests stood and bowed. With a smile and a wave of his hand he put them at ease. One by one he spoke to them, finding a pleasantry for everyone. Most of the barons on the island, and one or two from the mainland, were gathered here tonight at his invitation. Considering that until recently many had been traitors, Alfonso had to admit that it was a superb performance. Having made his way across the hall, Frederick came to a halt at the other end. He remained there for some time, talking to an elderly man in a plain blue gown with a high pointed hat, like an astrologer’s.
Alfonso turned to Berard. “Who’s that graybeard he’s talking to?”
“Oh, that’s Jacob Anatoli, a famous Jewish scholar. Frederick admires him greatly.”
Alfonso’s black eyebrows shot up. “What, he invited a Jew?”
Berard nodded.
“I can’t believe it, even if he must borrow money from them …” Alfonso shook his head. The Jews, too cunning and wealthy by far, took shameless advantage of the Church’s ban on moneylending. While most educated people didn’t believe the stories of well-poisoning and ritual murder that periodically erupted in frenzies of Jew-killing, they still despised the Jews. They had, after all, crucified the Lord. “I hope this doesn’t reach my brother of Aragon’s ears. I wouldn’t like the king to get a wrong impression.”
“My dear count,” Berard said, “Frederick needs the support of all his people if he is to rebuild his country. There are many prosperous Jews in Sicily. He has to show tolerance.”
Alfonso nodded. Berard was placating him. He signaled a page to refill his cup while he watched Frederick return and sit down beside Constance.
Frederick said, “What a sight, these traitors all eating my salt like loyal subjects. Look at the one over there, talking to Walter.” He whispered something to Constance that Alfonso couldn’t hear. They both laughed. The object of their derision was the fat Count of Caserta, far gone in his cups, who was telling Walter a story. He was gesticulating wildly, stabbing the air to make a point between hiccups, oblivious to the look of growing distaste on the chancellor’s face.
“By spring,” Frederick said to Constance, his eyes glittering, “the rest will all be dead or on their knees. And this lot will have given back every stolen braccia of land.”
Alfonso saw Constance shiver. She drew her shawl about her shoulders as if to shield herself. What had frightened his sister? Was it the dangers of the coming campaign, or the merciless hatred in Frederick’s eyes? Alfonso felt a flicker of unease. The wine is getting to me, he thought. There was no cause for alarm. Good fortune was favoring Frederick. The barons here tonight appeared reconciled. And most of the rebels on the island had recently taken an oath of fealty.
Yet it remained to be seen how long this truce would last. As for the unrepentant barons in mainland Sicily, only defeat would reduce them to obedience.
CONSTANCE SAT IN the window seat, a book open in her lap, and looked out to the sea. The sun was setting over the water, the last streaks of orange turning to gold. She never tired of watching the sea, or the view of Palermo at her feet. Soon it would be Christmas. What would a Christmas court be like in a climate so mild?
A commotion made her glance down. Frederick and a party of Aragonese rode into the bailey. Hounds barked, grooms ran about, holding bridles, dragging mounting blocks. Bags of feathered game were carried to the kitchens. In the background, the falconers remained on their horses, their charges on their fists, waiting for everyone to disperse before taking the falcons to their mews.
Frederick slid off his horse, ignoring the groom who rushed forward to help him. With a laughing remark to Alfonso, who was carefully adjusting his cloak before stepping onto the waiting block, Frederick disappeared from view with purposeful strides. He was always in a hurry.
Constance smiled. How typical. They were so different, and yet she loved them both. Whenever she saw that head of curly auburn hair, she felt a surge of joy. Almost against her will, she had fallen in love with her new husband. At first, she had simply been flattered. He was so obviously in love with her that she found herself returning his smiles, responding to him out of kin
dness, almost without being aware that her gestures were becoming real. Frederick treated her as her first husband never had. He tried so hard to please her, he laughed and joked with her, he even asked her advice. On several occasions he had actually followed her counsel. Her experience as regent of Hungary after Almeric’s death, before his brother had seized the throne, had stood her in good stead after all.
The courtyard had all but emptied now. Frederick often came unannounced at this time of day. Perhaps he would come now. She called to one of her ladies, who was working on an embroidery in the chamber. “Have the fire lit, Sancha.” While the winter days of Palermo were mild, the evenings could get chilly. “And have some wine and cheese brought up, too, in case the king should come,” she called after the girl, who had gone to summon a servant.
Frederick was totally ignorant of the etiquette of marriage. He’d laughed when she pointed this out to him. Never, he said, would he be able to wait to see her. And he would certainly not send some pompous steward to announce his arrival hours in advance. As if to make his point, he had taken her into his arms, in front of her ladies, and kissed her on the lips.
The thought of Frederick’s kisses, his lovemaking, brought a flush of shame to her cheeks. Some things she couldn’t even bring herself to confess to her chaplain. The next morning she’d kneel in prayer, asking for forgiveness. He touched her in places where no decent woman should allow herself to be touched. Instead of satisfying his need quickly, in the position the Church decreed as the only natural one, he toyed with her like a doll, savoring every moment and prolonging her indignity. She sighed. It was the only shadow on her happiness and she didn’t want to think about it now.
She was crossing the room when Frederick appeared in the doorway, still cloaked and spurred. He embraced her. Her ladies withdrew hastily.
He glanced at the book in her hand. “What are you reading?”
“A new French romance about the knights of the Round Table. Alfonso’s wife Blanche sent it. It’s a wonderful story, written in verse.”
“Let me see.” He paged through the beautiful calligraphy. “Why don’t we have a reading of it tonight at supper? You tell me it’s the latest fashion.”
Constance suppressed a smile. Although Frederick was terribly curious about details of life at other courts, he tended to assume a mocking air whenever they were discussed.
“That would be nice, my darling, but don’t you think you should change first?” she smiled, brushing a twig from his windblown hair. He had a charming raffish look about him when he wasn’t assuming his new role of remote Byzantine monarch. She ran her hand along his unfashionably clean-shaven, bronzed features.
Frederick threw off his cloak. He let himself fall onto the settle. Patting the cushion beside him, he said, “First, come and sit here.” He raised her face, his eyes darkening. “You look lovely.” She drew back. She knew that look of his only too well. “The servants will be here to light the fire any moment,” she said quickly, removing his other hand from her waist.
“All right, my prim and proper Spanish queen,” he said with mock exasperation. “But tonight I’ll keep you awake all night.”
Two serving women came in with a load of firewood and a brass tray with food and drink. Constance got up, poured a cupful of wine, and handed it to him.
“Ah, just the thing for a tired huntsman.” He stretched his legs in their muddy boots and gave a sigh of contentment.
“Why don’t you play something for me? I love to hear you play your harp,” he begged, taking another sip of mulled wine while sinking deeper into the bench cushions.
She went to fetch her harp from the corner. As the fire began to crackle, the soothing strains of the music echoed through the growing twilight of the room, filling her with contentment. She had found a new life, a sense of belonging.
WITH THE END of the winter rains came the season for warfare. The combined Sicilian and Aragonese forces were encamped in a city of tents outside Palermo, ready to leave for Messina, from where they were to take ship to the mainland. The campaign was to be led jointly by Frederick and Alfonso.
A farewell banquet was held in the great hall to celebrate their departure. A troubadour’s rich voice filled the hall with a Provençal song of courtly love:
The love reigning within my heart
Keeps me warm in harshest winter …
I do not want the empire of Rome,
Nor be elected pope,
If I cannot return to her,
For whom my heart burns and cracks;
And if she does not cure my ills
With a kiss before the New Year,
She’ll kill me and condemn herself.
I am Arnaut who gathers the wind
And hunts the hare with the ox
And swims against the incoming tide.
As the last plangent note of his lute died away, conversation resumed around the long tables.
Frederick was fond of these singer-poets, who had come to Sicily in Alfonso’s retinue. Used to the languor of Arabic music, he found the Provençal verse lyrics, with their tales of courtly love and heroic exploits, refreshing. He had even attempted, not very successfully, a few verses of his own. He raised his goblet to Alfonso. “Here is to the man who will lead us to victory.” Instead of drinking, he handed the cup to Alfonso.
The Aragonese knights roared their approval at this honor. Alfonso, who looked already a little flushed, took a deep draught before returning the silver cup with an inclination of his head.
Fanfares sounded. A procession of dishes appeared, carried in by vermilionturbaned Saracens. A roast peacock, reassembled and decorated with its own feathers to resemble the living bird, drew murmurs of admiration. There were pheasant and swan, too, decorated in similar fashion. Great mounds of flat unleavened bread and spiced vegetables swayed past on huge platters.
Alfonso leaned over to Frederick, about to say something, when he suddenly clamped his hand to his mouth. He jumped up, a panic-stricken expression on his face. Clutching the tapestry behind him for support, he swayed briefly before crashing to the ground in a splatter of vomit. A horrified murmur went up from the assembly. Everyone clustered about the count, who was doubled over, gripping his belly.
Constance bent over him, her face ashen. She wiped his mouth with a napkin. Frederick called for a physician. His squires lifted Alfonso and carried him to a chest by the wall. He was shivering, his teeth chattering. Silence descended on the guests as they stood around the count, waiting for the physician. Walter voiced what everyone was thinking.
“This might be poison. Poison meant for the king.”
Constance looked up at Frederick, her eyes wide.
It was true. He had shared his cup with her brother. Reading her thoughts, Frederick flashed her a reassuring look, shaking his head.
The tall, distinguished figure of Ibn Tulun, Frederick’s physician, made his way through the press of bodies. After he had been given a detailed account of the events, he insisted on knowing what the count had eaten and drunk. Only then did he turn to the groaning man and begin to examine him. When he raised himself his dark features were grim. He sought Frederick’s eyes. “Your Grace, a word with you. In private, please.” He gestured to Alfonso’s squires. “Carry his lordship to his bedchamber and see to it that he is kept warm. I’ll attend to him after I have spoken with the king.”
“Well,” Frederick asked as soon as they were behind closed doors in the guardroom, “Is it poison?”
“No, my lord, it’s not poison. It’s worse.”
Worse than poison? Frederick’s heart sank. Ibn Tulun wasn’t given to exaggeration. “Well, what is it? If it’s not someone trying to assassinate one or both of us, why are you so glum that you’ve lost your voice?”
“Your Grace,” the Saracen began, “unless I am mistaken, and may Allah grant that I am, the sickness that has struck the Queen’s brother is called kholera. It kills most of those it touches, and it spreads like Greek fire.�
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Frederick paled. “Have there been other cases?” he asked, his voice tight.
“I have heard reports of what I took to be common dysentery, from the town. Without examining the patients, I cannot say, but it never comes singly.”
“How can we stop it from spreading to the army?”
“My lord, we are not sure how this sickness is contracted.” Ibn Tulun spread his hands. “There’s little we can do to stop it from reaching the army except forbidding them contact with the town.”
“Do whatever is necessary, no matter how much effort it requires. Move the whole army to another town. You have full powers to take the most effective measures.” He grabbed the physician by the arm. “I’m going to call an urgent council meeting. But first go to the count. Report to me in the council chamber.”
Frederick turned to go. He stopped. “And don’t tell the queen how ill her brother is.”
Ibn Tulun bowed. “I’ll do my best.”
As he clattered down the spiral staircase, the physician following behind, Frederick felt a terrible, icy fear knotting his stomach. If this spread to the army, it would be the end of all his hopes, the end of his kingdom.
DEATH HUNG OVER the city like a pall. Day after day the bells of Palermo tolled for the dead. Relay prayers were said in the churches, imploring God to turn the evil away. The miraculously preserved body of Saint Rosalia, Palermo’s patron saint, was carried through the streets. As the procession passed, the citizens fell to their knees, crying out to their saint to intercede with God on their behalf. And still, by the hundreds, the people of Palermo continued to die.
The stench of death and decay filled the pillared hall of the palace. Men lay on straw pallets in rows on the marble flooring, retching into basins, gripping their bellies while their bowels emptied themselves into the already sodden straw. At the first outbreak of the disease in the Aragonese camp, the highborn among them had been moved to the greater comforts of the palace. Within days the lodgings were overflowing and the great hall was converted into an infirmary.
The Falcon of Palermo Page 6
