The Falcon of Palermo

by Maria R. Bordihn

  But as emperor, Frederick also understood the extent of his father’s vision. What could have been nobler than the reunification of the two empires into the old Roman one, providing peace and prosperity to its citizens? Was it not justifiable to use Sicilian gold to accomplish such a goal?

  His thoughts were interrupted by von Falkstein’s arrival. Surrounded by guards, hands tied behind his back, the governor was pushed through the doorway.

  “You wished to see me?” The voice was cold but not insolent.

  The governor, tall and well made, looked at him without fear, openly assessing him. A pointed dark beard accentuated his long face. His brown eyes were slightly melancholy, the eyes of a scholar, not a warrior, Frederick thought. Intuition told him that threatening the count would be fruitless. He changed his planned speech.

  “It is not my way to inflict the agonies of torture on anyone unnecessarily. And I wouldn’t relish doing so to this old brother here.” He indicated the monk, who had shrunk against the wall. “I therefore ask you, rather than him: where are the crown jewels?”

  “My lord of Hohenstaufen, the imperial insignia are safely with the emperor in Cologne. There’s no need for torture. I personally transferred them to their traveling cases with the help of the good monks in whose care they are. In yonder cupboard you will find the receipt, signed by the emperor himself.” He turned to the monk and commanded, “Adalbert, get the receipt.”

  Frederick noticed with amusement that von Falkstein still gave orders. The monk shuffled over to the large oaken wall cupboard on the other side of the room. Rolls of sealed parchments were neatly stacked inside. The monk took the topmost one and handed it to Frederick. It was dated more than two years ago. Neither the wax nor the ink looked fresh. Otto’s scrawl was illegible. He remembered hearing that whenever the crown jewels were transferred, a receipt had to be signed by the new custodian. With a curt nod he returned the parchment into the monk’s trembling hands.

  The regalia had eluded him in the simplest manner imaginable—Otto had removed them in good time. And he, idiot that he was, had hoped to find them here! He threw his head back and laughed “What a fool I’ve been!” he exclaimed. He grinned at the governor. “Well, at least I enjoyed myself, entering your impregnable castle. Not, if truth be told, that I deserve credit for that.”

  Von Falkstein struggled unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. For a brief instant, captor and prisoner, each having savored his partial victory, smiled at each other. Then von Falkstein’s face set itself back into its lines.

  Frederick threw up his hands. “What shall I do with you?”

  The governor stared at him. “Why, my lord, surely you must do to me what I would have done to you, had our positions been reversed.” A garrison that refused to surrender was always put to death.

  Frederick nodded. “You would have beheaded me on the morrow. I, however, am not sure I wish to do that to you. You’re a good man. Loyalty is a rare quality. Will you take an oath of allegiance to me if I pardon you and spare the lives of your men?”

  Von Falkstein swallowed. “My lord, I …” He took a deep breath. “Your Christian magnanimity is worthy of loyalty. I shall be proud to become your liegeman, on one condition.”

  Frederick was amused by the man’s audacity. “And what would that be?”

  “That while I will in every respect be loyal to you as my liege, I shall never be called upon, either directly or indirectly, to cause harm to Otto of Brunswick.”

  “Good God, man, do you know what you’re asking?”

  “I do, my lord.” Slowly, as if each word pained him, he continued, “But I can’t buy my life at the price of becoming a traitor.”

  “I’ll grant you your wish. I won’t call on you to drive a dagger into Otto. Not,” Frederick added. “that I need to stoop so low.”

  Von Falkstein fell to his knees. “My lord of Hohenstaufen, you are worthy of Charlemagne’s crown.”

  ADELAIDE CROSSED INTO the gallery and was about to descend the stairs when the sound of Frederick’s voice stopped her. She went over to the parapet.

  Frederick stood in the center of the vast hall gloomy with blackened oak beams. A group of craftsmen clustered around him.

  Adelaide couldn’t understand why he had taken such a liking to this isolated fortress. She much preferred the comforts and gaiety of Haguenau to the austerity of Trifels. Frederick, however, wanted to spend the winter here, and was enthusiastically making plans for embellishing the place.

  His hands were sketching a row of columns in the air. The hands were a mirror of the man himself, of his changeable, contradictory personality. Strange that she’d never noticed it before. Well formed—almost too well formed for a man’s—with long, flexible fingers, they could switch from force to tenderness in an instant.

  “Pink marble, veined with gray.” He nodded, more to himself than to the others. “The marble’s color and opulence will contrast beautifully with the rugged exterior of this aerie. For the flooring, checkered gray and white.”

  The master stonemason, a short, wiry man with close-cropped, curly grizzled hair, said, “My lord, pink marble may be impossible to get.”

  “Nonsense, Norbert, nothing’s impossible. See me when you’ve got the samples.” Norbert was one of the best craftsmen in Germany. He had recently carved a magnificent window for the palace chapel in Haguenau.

  The stonemason and his assistants took their leave, escorted by a thin-lipped steward.

  “Adelaide!” Frederick smiled, swinging her off the last step as she came down. The feel of his hands on her made her blood course faster.

  “Let me show you what I’m going to do to this gloomy hall. It will be light, and cheerful. I’ll replace those dark oak posts that support the gallery with rose-colored marble columns. The windows will be enlarged down to the ground.” He pushed the floor rushes away with his foot to reveal wooden boards stained dark with age. “This henhouse flooring will be replaced with marble squares. No more rushes. A hall fit for an emperor!” He smiled. “What do you think?”

  “I’m sure it’ll be splendid, like everything you do.” Adelaide gnawed her lip, “but don’t you think all this expense could be put to better use elsewhere? Trifels is far too small for the court.”

  “That’s one of its attractions. I’ll have some peace. The hunting is excellent. And the views alone are worth the journey. Come.” He put his arm around her waist and pulled her with him.

  “Isn’t it glorious?”

  Perched on its cliff, the castle seemed to float above the treetops. A vista of endless forests of green and gold stretched to the horizon, interrupted here and there by a distant hilltop fort.

  Adelaide dutifully admired the scenery. She had seen it before, and found it monotonous. His enthusiasm for nature was another strange quirk of this strange man. He wanted to know all about trees, animals, even crops. It reminded her of the villeins who worked her estates. They, too, showed the same intense interest in the soil and all that grew on it. Once, during a hunt, he had actually reined in his horse and questioned a crofter working his field about his plowshare and whether he used the two-field or three-field system. The other lords had waited on their horses, stony expressions on their faces, while they watched the emperor chat to a peasant about growing peas.

  But what did it matter? He pleased her in other ways. And he was emperor and would remain emperor, of that she was certain, despite the whisperings of some.

  She pressed herself against him. In a low, husky voice she said, “The view’s lovely, but I’d rather see that marble pillar in the bedchamber.”

  “YOU REALIZE THAT sooner or later I’ll have to find you a husband?” Frederick stroked her cheek.

  She wrenched herself free and sat bolt upright in bed. “I’m not marrying a hairy old beast just because you say so!”

  “Why an old beast? I’ll find you a young beast. What about the Duke of Limburg? He’s very handsome and rumored to prefer boys!”

 
; She cuddled up to him. Nibbling the nape of his neck, she whispered, “The only man I want to marry is you. Why don’t you persuade the pope to annul your marriage to that old woman?”

  Frederick stiffened. “Don’t speak about my wife like that!” he snapped.

  Cold hatred washed over her. She stared at him, resisting the impulse to pick up the candlestick on the nightstand and fling it at him. He was just using her after all. Despite his youth, he was as hard and selfish as any other man. She’d thought he was besotted with her. When he began taking her everywhere …

  Frederick studied her dispassionately, a sardonic smile on his lips. “Come here,” he stretched out his hand. “Only one thing calms that temper of yours.”

  Let him think that. Let him think that she was his slave. A show of submission, an inner voice told her, would serve her aims better. She smiled and wrapped her arms about his neck. One day she’d have her revenge. On the steps of the altar at which she became empress.

  THE BREATH OF the two men clouded the morning air. They parried and thrust at each other on the dirty snow of the tiltyard, strewn with pebbles to give them better footing.

  Steel ground on steel. Frederick’s sword pressed against Manfred’s, immobilizing his arm. With clenched teeth Manfred held the pressure for as long as he could. Then his sword clattered to the ground. He conceded defeat with a grin. “This time you win. But I’ll have my revenge in the lists!”

  Frederick laughed. It was true. There was no one to equal Manfred with a lance. Whether in the gaiety of a court tournament, bent on pleasing a lady whose colors were pinned to his sleeve, or in the frenzy of a battle charge, Manfred excelled in the art of unseating his opponent with a swift powerful thrust of his lance.

  Frederick clapped Manfred on the back. “Half a capon, some hot ale, and a chunk of bread is what I need now,” Frederick removed his helmet. He was pushing back the woolen cowl underneath when a movement caught his eye. On the terrace above, against the gray sky stood a burly figure in a traveling cloak.

  “Berard!”

  Frederick ran up the steps. They embraced. Berard held him at arm’s length. “You look well, Frederick. This dreadful climate agrees with you.” He glanced at the snow that still lay thickly on the battlements of Trifels. “In Rome, the sun was shining when I left. The first almond blossoms were out. I almost wanted to remain there.”

  Frederick laughed. “I’m glad to see that I rate higher in your estimation than the Eternal City. How was your journey?”

  Berard smiled. “The last leg by barge up the Rhine wasn’t too bad. The Alps, however, and the roads …”

  “Come, join me in breaking my fast. I never eat before practice,” Frederick linked his arm through Berard’s. “I’m marching next week against the Duke of Brabant. His Flemish mercenaries are supposed to be even better fighters than our Saracens.”

  “The ferocious Henry of Brabant?” Berard asked.

  “The same. Otto’s last ally of importance. His daughter is Otto’s wife. Though he’s not quite so ferocious anymore. His army was decimated at Bouvines.”

  “… THE GREATEST CHURCH council in history,” Berard was saying.

  Frederick cut himself another chunk of bread and dipped it into the duck’s gravy. He stared at it for a moment. “You know, Berard, the fasting rules of the Church don’t make sense. Duck, frog, beaver, eggs, unborn rabbits, all are classified as ‘not meat.’ What penance is there in eating duck on a fast day, as opposed to the flesh of a stag?” He shrugged. “Well, I suppose with over two hundred fast days a year the Church has to be lenient. But go on, tell me more about this council.”

  Berard spooned honey onto his frumenty. “Hmm, this honey is excellent.” He savored another spoonful. “Peach blossoms, I think.”

  Frederick smiled. Berard’s dedication to good food and fussy taste in culinary matters always amused him. He traveled with his Apulian cook, and exchanged recipes with other prelates. “I’m glad the honey’s to your taste, but tell me about the council.”

  Berard looked up, “You’re sure you want to hear about it?”

  Frederick shook his head. He smiled. “No, but I need to know what’s happening in Rome.”

  Berard leaned across the table. “Imagine, Frederick. Four hundred bishops, seventy archbishops, eight hundred abbots, the patriarchs of Jerusalem and Constantinople, representatives of countless princes and towns, as well as envoys of every Western king will be present in Rome in November. The whole of Christendom will be represented at this council. Perhaps even united.”

  Frederick grimaced. “And what’s the reason for this grandiose undertaking?”

  “Mostly to settle important matters of law and dogma for the universal Church. But it’s also to decide on the imperial succession.”

  Frederick’s eyes widened.

  Berard nodded. “I know, but that was a private pact between the pope and you. He wishes to ratify this officially. You need not fear. Innocent was very pleased with the Bull of Eger. He refers to you as his ‘most beloved son.’ The council will endorse Innocent’s will and confirm Otto’s deposition.”

  “Hmm. And since when has a church council had the authority to depose an emperor? Innocent is arrogating to himself rights no pope has ever had before.”

  “Now, Frederick,” Berard leaned back and smiled, “you can’t have it both ways. You owe the imperial crown to Innocent’s support. I grant you that the German princes elected you, but without the support of the papacy their rebellion against Otto wouldn’t have gone far.”

  Frederick’s face flushed. “That itself is proof of the papacy’s unacceptable power!”

  Berard said quickly, “The other matter close to the pontiff’s heart is the new crusade.”

  “Another one?” Frederick groaned. Innocent’s pontificate had so far been filled with them. The crusade against the Albigensian heretics in France. The fourth crusade to recapture Jerusalem. The crusade against John of England. The tragic “children’s crusade” in which thousands of French and German children had perished.

  Frederick said, “Under Innocent’s rule ‘crusade’ has become a convenient term for stifling resistance to his authority.”

  “Innocent is a great pope,” Berard said. “You are too harsh on him. He’s going to lead the next crusade himself, despite his age, to revive the crusading spirit.”

  Frederick put down his tankard with a jolt. “What can a brittle old pope, steeped in incense, possibly know about fighting Saracens? Surely not even Innocent can delude himself that he’ll succeed where great warriors such as Barbarossa and the Lionheart failed!”

  “The pontiff has had a lifelong desire to secure the Holy Places for Christendom. He reasons that if he heads the crusade, great princes will follow, supplying men and gold.”

  Frederick looked down at his hands. Jerusalem! How evocative of glory that name was. Since the first crusade had established the Christian Kingdom of Jerusalem a little over a hundred years ago, the city itself had been lost and won several times. Jerusalem had been in the hands of the infidels now for nearly thirty years.

  Crusading had become widespread, fashionable almost. If the hardships and dangers were many, so were the rewards. Crusading offered a remission of sins in the next world and a deferment of debts and taxes in this one, with the added prospect of travel, bounty, and excitement.

  Frederick shuddered as he thought of the immense prestige that would be attached to the papacy if Innocent succeeded in recovering Jerusalem. He had lost his appetite. Signaling to the page for a handbasin, he rinsed his fingers. “If you’re not too tired, come with me to the mews. I want to see if my new Ger falcon is getting used to her lodgings.”

  Berard glanced up from his unfinished food. “Frederick, there’s something else I wish to talk to you about. Will you spare me a moment?”

  “Of course.” He sat down again and poured some more ale into his tankard. Taking a mouthful, he put it down, wrinkling his nose. “I don’t know how you, w
ho are so discerning, can drink this.”

  “Come now, Frederick. When you’re in a bad mood, you criticize everything. When things go your way, Germany is the land of your hero Charlemagne, her people are more loyal than your Sicilians, and her snowy winter landscapes magnificent. And as for the German wenches that pass through your bedchamber …”

  Frederick shot Berard a surprised glance. So the palace gossip reached him, too. Casually, he said, “What do you mean? Before you can bed them, you’ve got to order them to have a bath. Bad for their health, it seems!”

  “Frederick, it’s not your wenches that worry me, it’s Adelaide I must talk to you about.”

  Here it comes, Frederick thought. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Better get it over with quickly. “What about her?” he asked.

  Berard looked at him. “By flaunting your adulterous liaison with this woman, you’re playing into the hands of your enemies. And you are antagonizing the pope. Adelaide is dangerous. Because of her family connections many of those who matter listen to her. Her own serving women are spreading the rumor that she’ll become your wife. I’m certain that Adelaide herself makes sure they do.”

  “That’s absurd.” Frederick shook his head in disbelief.

  “I don’t think, Frederick,” Berard said, “that you realize how ambitious Adelaide is. She wants to be empress. Before I left for Rome, someone I trust overheard her saying to a group of barons that you should have a German wife. She argued that your wife, in addition to being foreign, is away governing Sicily instead of being at your side. And the lords, aware of who that new wife would be, heartily agreed with her.”

  “Oh, she’s just jealous of Constance,” Frederick said. He suspected that Berard was about to suggest that he give her up. He added, “Why I can’t imagine, since she’s here and Constance is in Sicily, but that’s typically female.”

  Berard leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Frederick, listen to me. Adelaide is stirring up resentment against you with her talk. You’re too foreign for the German princes anyway. They’re bound to resent many of your reforms. Unless you tread carefully, they’ll soon be disappointed by your lack of docility as well.”