The overcooked stag had been devoured, the bowls of tasteless porridge emptied. The gravy-sodden trenchers had been taken away, to be given in the morning to the poor at the kitchen gate. Frederick suddenly felt an overwhelming craving for a fragrant juicy orange. No one here had ever seen such a fruit. He imagined the orange groves of Palermo, heavy with ripe fruit. As a boy, he used to sit in their shade, watching the oranges fall. There’d be a rustle in the dark leaves. Then a soft plop. The oranges lay dotted on the moist brown soil like golden orbs. For an instant, Frederick imagined the bittersweet aroma of orange and citron, the fishy smell of the waterfront, the tang of tar from the ships, the sea …
He shook himself out of his reverie. Thinking about Palermo always filled him with useless longing. There were other longings, however, more easily satisfied. He beckoned to Manfred, his cupbearer tonight.
“Yes, my lord?”
Frederick pulled him down and whispered.
Manfred nodded, a smile on his lips.
THE GIRL, A pretty, fair-haired wench with a saucy smile, was waiting in his bedchamber when he arrived. She curtsied clumsily.
Without giving her another glance, he began to strip off his clothes. Mahmoud caught each item as it was discarded, a reproachful look on his face.
“Has she taken a bath?” Frederick asked in Arabic.
“The water was as muddy as if a water buffalo had been washed in it.” Mahmoud wrinkled his nose. “She smelled like one, too, when she arrived. They all do,” he said, picking up Frederick’s hose.
Frederick smiled. This was Mahmoud’s subtle way of indicating disapproval. Mahmoud did not like Germany, or the Germans. Least of all did he like German women. This, Frederick suspected, was because they did not like him. They were terrified of Saracens.
“Leave us, Mahmoud. I’m not to be disturbed till the morning.”
“Yes, my lord.” The voice, too, was reproachful. A king did not remain alone, ever. His insistence on privacy when satisfying his manly needs was incomprehensible.
“Mahmoud!” Frederick bellowed.
“Yes, my lord?” he asked innocently.
“How many times must I tell you to open that window before I go to sleep?”
“I beg your forgiveness, O Sultan. I thought—”
“Don’t think. Do as I say or I’ll have your worthless head detached from its even more worthless trunk!”
Mahmoud shuffled to the window and undid the latched shutters. Before pushing them out, he turned around: “It is terribly cold tonight. Ice is falling from the skies.”
Frederick glared at him.
Mahmoud salaamed and withdrew, casting a last disapproving look at the girl, who stood pressed against a pillar.
“Take off your clothes. All of them.” Frederick commanded.
She stared at him with a mix of fear and surprise. “Everything, my lord?”
Frederick nodded. “I like my women naked, particularly if they’re as pretty as you.” He smiled at her. “Don’t be afraid. The emperor is only a man like any other, a man with a need.”
Her blue eyes flashed for a moment in rebellion. Then she did as she was bid. Frederick watched her undress. Her breasts were big, with large brown nipples. He could feel himself swell.
THE GIRL STIRRED beside him in her sleep. Somewhere, there was a soft, scraping noise like the gnawing of mice. Frederick pulled the fox rug higher over his shoulders. An icy cold pervaded the darkness. The oil lamp that always burned in the far corner must have gone out. The moonlight threw eerie patterns of light and shadow onto the black and white floor tiles.
Drowsily, Frederick stretched one arm across the girl’s back and cupped her left breast in his hand. Torn between desire and sleep, he was just about to close his eyes again when something caught his eyes. He stiffened. A shadow on the floor had moved. Or had he imagined it? The girl’s breath was deep and regular. Too regular, he thought, suddenly alert. Her heart under his fingers was racing.
Someone was in the room, very close. With one rapid movement, Frederick heaved the girl over himself. As the dagger struck her, she gave a gurgling groan. He threw her off and rolled onto the floor, reaching for his sword. Before he could do so, a heavy boot, padded with something, crushed his fingers. A dark hooded figure loomed over him, the dagger poised to strike again.
With his free hand he grabbed the man’s ankles and threw him against the wall. Lunging forward, he reached for the sword. Breathlessly, he waited. A cloud passed over the moon, making the dark shape of the man disappear. He heard him wheel about. A heavy weight jumped on his back. Frederick fell sideways and knocked his head on the step of the bedstead. A searing pain shot through his head. His sword clattered to the floor.
Gasping for breath, they rolled on the floor, each trying to find a vulnerable spot on the other. Huge hands tightened around Frederick’s neck, squeezing, squeezing tighter. In the darkness, the face came closer, white teeth bared in a diabolical grin. Frederick let himself go limp. Sensing victory, the murderer slackened his grip just long enough to catch his breath. It sufficed for Frederick. He lunged at the face. His teeth sank into the soft flesh till he tasted the salty, metallic flavor of blood. The man let loose a howl of pain.
Frederick grabbed him by his doublet. Behind loomed the open window through which the man had entered. With his last strength he catapulted the assassin out of the window, past the still dangling rope, into the abyss below.
Only then did he become aware of the sound of splintering wood and shouting voices. They were breaking down the door. For a fleeting, panic-filled moment, Frederick imagined a conspiracy. Then he realized that the assassin must have shot the bolt on the door.
“Halt! I’m drawing the bolt,” he cried over the din.
The guards stared at him, drawn swords in midair, before rushing past, their torches held up to light the chamber. He realized only then that he was naked. He felt a warm trickle of blood running down his neck.
The girl lay dead, her mouth open in an unfinished scream. She stared at the ceiling with the chilly fixity of death.
In response to the captain’s query, Frederick jerked his head toward the open window. “I threw him out the window. Have his body fished out of the moat. It may give us a clue about who sent him, although we don’t really need it, do we?”
The man shook his head grimly. “No, my lord. This is the Guelfs’ doing …”
“Sweet bleeding Christ!” Manfred, a nightshirt showing below his cloak, turned white as he walked into the chamber. “Did she try to kill you?”
Frederick grinned. “No, she was just the bait. Otto’s assassin is floating in the moat.”
Then he barked at the captain: “Find the accomplices inside the castle. Put them to the rack, then have them executed. Their heads are to remain on the bridge till they’ve rotted!”
ON THE DAY Frederick went to call on the old Duchess of Spoleto, he was accompanied by a large company of mounted men-at-arms. Normally, he would have protested at such a large escort. But after the attempt on his life, he had become more amenable to warnings. The road crossed the Alsatian hills, sloping down from the Vosges mountains in gentle folds toward the Rhine.
Anselm acted as Frederick’s guide. He pointed out places of interest, explained local customs and supplied him with information and gossip about the local magnates. Anselm pointed, “Over there, my lord, on the right, Julius Caesar won a great victory over the Germanic tribes.”
Frederick stared at the plain, still treeless after more than a thousand years. How far the Romans had come, and how much they had achieved. He sank his chin deeper into his cloak. Despite the sun that warmed his back, the cold air stung his lungs. With the muffled sound of the horses’ hooves on the snow a backdrop to his thoughts, he pondered, as so often before, the question of how to recreate an empire such as that of Rome.
Central rule was the key. But how to achieve that when on every hilltop a different nobleman ruled as if he alone were king? When rebell
ion simmered in every hall? His thoughts turned to Otto. At the Diet in Frankfurt it had been decided to attack him when the season for war began in spring. Since then, a flurry of messengers had been coming and going between Otto’s court and the English king. Although his spies had not been able to find out more, this activity gnawed at Frederick like an unresolved riddle.
His counselors assured him that Otto and his uncle and ally King John had always been close and that there was nothing new to worry about. Frederick would have preferred a surprise attack on Otto now, while he was still trapped behind the walls of Cologne, before he might receive reinforcements from his uncle. But the barons had just stared at him when he suggested it. Go to war in winter? In ice and snow, over roads mired in mud, impassable to transport carts, only to freeze and starve besieging a well-provided city like Cologne? Or ambush Otto with a small detachment of knights when he rode out to hunt? That would be both dangerous and dishonorable.
War to these lords, he had learned to his dismay, was a seasonal occupation to be pursued with a minimum of discomfort and for only just the length of time they owed their overlord as the price of their vassalage.
Frederick sighed. What he needed was a well-drilled Roman legion, ready to march with unquestioning obedience at the call of a horn …
“Over there, my lord. Schoenburg Castle.” Anselm pointed to the towers of a hilltop castle against the horizon.
Frederick had almost forgotten the purpose of this outing.
THE SUN FLOODED the solar in which the dowager Duchess of Spoleto received him. She was wrapped in furs and propped up with cushions in a high-backed Italian chair beside a brazier. Her ladies sank into a low curtsy.
He had come alone, leaving his escort below. He took her veined hand and brought it to his lips. “My lady, I am honored to meet you.”
The old blue eyes scrutinized him. “They say you resemble Barbarossa. I think you look just like your father, you know,” she said. “Your mother was disappointed when she saw that you had his coloring.” Although she was as thin and frail as a little sparrow, her smile was lively. “But you’re far better looking than Henry ever was.”
“You flatter me, my lady.”
“No, I don’t. I never flatter anyone, these days. At my age I don’t need to any longer. Come and sit by me.”
“Waltraut,” she called, “bring the emperor a stool!”
She smiled. “Although she didn’t want you to be emperor, I’m sure your mother would be proud of you. So young, and already a legend. You know,” she chuckled, reaching out to take his hand, “my ladies talk of nothing else but you.”
Frederick laughed.
Matilde looked up. “Ah, there you are, Adelaide!”
Frederick caught his breath. The young woman who had just entered had the cool crystalline beauty of a northern winter. Her flaxen hair was so fair it was almost white. She wore a gown of pale yellow wool, girded under her breasts with a brocaded girdle. She bent down to kiss Matilde.
“This is my niece Adelaide,” Matilde said. “Since her husband’s death she lives with me.”
The old duchess patted Adelaide’s hand. “Maybe the emperor will find you a suitable husband. I’m too old to haggle over land and dowries.”
Adelaide lowered her eyes. As she lifted them again, their eyes met. Frederick mumbled something about a fortunate bridegroom.
For the next hour, Frederick listened as Matilde rambled on about the past, recalling events from her life and her friendship with his mother. As the sun lost its brightness, Matilde’s chatter slowed down till it came to a halt. Gently, Frederick extricated his hand from hers. She had fallen asleep.
A glance outside told him that it was getting late. They would be returning in the dark. He still hadn’t become accustomed to the short daylight of winter here. Rising to his feet, he walked softly across the room, taking care that his spurs did not clink as he walked.
Adelaide followed him. She was so close that he could smell a faint scent of violets. At the door, he took her hand. “Farewell, Adelaide. I don’t often have the pleasure of encountering such beauty. I hope we’ll meet again.”
She curtsied. “That would please me, too, Your Grace.”
On the ride back to Haguenau, Frederick found himself whistling a merry Sicilian tune. He would send her an invitation to court, chaperoned of course, as soon as was decently possible.
ON HIS RETURN, he found the outer bailey filled with men and horses. Grooms were scurrying about the torchlit courtyard, carrying leather buckets of water and oats for the horses. Frederick glanced at the surcoats of the men holding the reins. He looked at Anselm. “Do you recognize that coat of arms?”
Anselm nodded. “The bishop of Strassburg.”
“At this time of day?” Frederick slid off his horse and strode up the stairs. In the hall he nearly collided with Berard.
“You’ve a most unexpected visitor waiting for you, Frederick.”
Frederick grimaced. “I know. What does the bishop of Strassburg want at this hour, and unannounced, too? Bad news?” He was both hungry and tired.
Berard’s eyes widened for a moment. “Bishop of Strassburg?” Then he nodded. “Come and see for yourself. I’m sure you’ll find this very interesting.”
The portly man in a beaver-trimmed hat warming his hands by the fire in the audience chamber bore no resemblance to the bishop of Strassburg, even from behind. He turned around slowly and removed his hat.
“My lord, you do not know me. I have presumed on my friendship with the good bishop to have me escorted here in secret. I am Conrad von Scharfenburg.”
Frederick’s heart missed a beat. Otto’s chancellor! As coolly as he could, Frederick asked, “And what, my lord Conrad, might your business here be?”
“What I have to say is for your ears only. May we speak alone?”
Frederick hesitated.
“Don’t, I pray you!” Anselm put a restraining hand on his arm.
Conrad laughed. “Do I look like an assassin? All my life I have wielded the pen to far greater effect than the sword.”
Frederick jerked his head toward the door. “Leave us. I will hear what he has to say in private.”
Frederick gestured to a bench. “Pray be seated. Just because we’re enemies doesn’t mean we can’t observe the niceties of hospitality.”
The chancellor shot him a surprised glance and sat down. Frederick went over to a credenza and filled two silver goblets with wine. He handed one to Conrad.
Frederick scrutinized his uninvited guest. So this was the man behind Otto’s success. Was he also responsible for his errors? he wondered. The chancellor didn’t look as his renown would have made one expect. He looked more like a mild-mannered priest than the formidable politician and prince of the Church that he was. Even his robe, although lined with costly fur, was of a dull slate blue that differed markedly from the brilliant colors normally worn by the great. Perhaps he cared more for power itself than for its trappings. An interesting thought, that. After taking a sip of his wine, Frederick asked: “Well, what is it you have come to negotiate?”
“I have come,” Conrad said slowly, “to offer you my services.”
Frederick managed to keep his face impassive. Otto’s position must be much worse than they thought. It would not do, however, to show his elation. “God’s truth,” he said with indignation, “Why should I trust someone who is betraying his master?”
“Because you are a man of reason and not a sentimental fool. I have proven my worth in many years of service to Otto. He is doomed. Whether I leave him now or not will not change the course of his destiny. But it may well prove advantageous to both of us. You need a chancellor. And I wish to continue serving Germany.”
“You want to be my chancellor?”
“Naturally. I’d be wasted in any other post. There is no man in Germany better qualified to help you rule the Empire than I.”
Frederick stared at him. Then he began to laugh. Great guffaws of laught
er shook him.
Conrad observed him impassively.
When he had calmed down, Conrad asked, “Well, what say you?”
“I could now, could I not,” Frederick said, “feed you to my mastiffs?”
“Yes, you could. But I don’t think you will. Feeding me to your dogs would be wasteful in the extreme.”
Frederick looked at him, intrigued. “Why so?” Despite the distaste he felt for Conrad’s betrayal of Otto, he admired his self-assurance and cool logic.
“Because I’m more useful to you alive. If you appoint me chancellor, you will not only gain an able and loyal administrator—”
At this, Frederick began to laugh again.
“… a loyal administrator,” Conrad went on unperturbed, “but also the allegiance of several great princes, including the bishop of Cologne.”
“The bishop of Cologne?” Frederick asked with quickened interest.
Conrad nodded. “Otto behaves more irrationally with every day that goes by. The only reason all his allies have not yet abandoned him is because they trust in my stewardship. Once I am gone, most of them will follow.”
“Mmm.” Frederick rubbed his chin. “What makes you think that I’ll succeed where he has failed?”
“Your Uncle Philip failed in his bid for the Empire because he was too weak to beat Otto’s Guelf faction. Otto was deposed. In his case it was not weakness but foolishness. Against my advice he antagonized the pope. You, my lord, are neither foolish nor weak.” Conrad smiled, “I see now that you couple that with another weapon.”
“Which one?”
“A winning manner. That, too, is a great asset.”
Frederick looked at the older man and shook his head. “Surely flattery is beneath you?”
“Not at all. And if it happens to be true, it suits me even better. But the proof that I speak the truth,” Conrad said with sudden solemnity, “is my presence here.”
Frederick twisted his seal around his finger. He had a deep aversion to turncoats. They reminded him of those who had dispossessed him as a child. Yet Conrad’s defection would greatly strengthen his position. He did need a chancellor. As long as his luck lasted, Conrad would serve him well enough.
The Falcon of Palermo Page 16
