“Explain? You don’t have to explain anything. By the time you reach Rome, he’ll know already. I sent him a letter this morning, informing him of my decision and asking very humbly for his blessing.”
So Frederick was writing to the pontiff on his own, Berard thought, just as he had conceived this dangerous idea of becoming a crusader without his knowledge. Until now, Frederick had always asked his advice when dealing with Innocent. Berard forced a smile. “You’re becoming an expert at spreading your views.”
“Absolutely. Conrad is running the chancery very efficiently. It would’ve taken my Palermitans three times as long to produce the epistle I’m sending to the princes of Europe. I want them to hear it from me first, before those masters of distortion in the papal chancery twist the facts! In any case, the pope has been preaching the recovery of Jerusalem for years; he can’t be seen to condemn me for carrying out his wishes, can he?” he asked sweetly. “Except that it’ll be my prestige, and not his, that will be enhanced when I take Jerusalem.”
Berard nodded wearily. The pontiff was in a tight spot. But so was Frederick.
FREDERICK REMAINED in Aachen for the rest of the summer, spending long hours in the palace library or hunting in the royal forests. Though he had planned an expedition to take Cologne, he stayed his hand when secret negotiations with the archbishop there began to look promising.
With the first mists of autumn came the news that Otto had left Cologne. The Guelf was a sick, broken man, so short of funds that he agreed to leave in return for the discharge of his debts. Disguised as a merchant, he slipped out of a postern gate one morning with his wife and a few remaining retainers, and made his way to Brunswick. When some of Frederick’s counselors urged him to pursue the fugitive, he shook his head. “Let him be. He’s ill in mind and body. Why should I interfere with a war God is waging on my behalf?”
He went instead on a progress up the Rhine, culminating in his triumphal entry into Cologne. The citizens awaited his arrival with trepidation. Although they had obtained assurances of his pardon, it wouldn’t be the first time that a victor put a city to the sword for supporting a rival. Frederick, however, wasn’t interested in vengeance, only in consolidating his hold on the major trading centers such as Cologne. He demanded only a fine of five thousand silver marks. This the relieved bishop and the leading citizens handed over without demur.
Frederick, walking past the money chests while the silver was being counted, commented drily that salt herring and English cloth must be very profitable, judging by the ease with which Cologne had raised this hefty fine.
There followed three weeks of lavish banquets and tournaments in Frederick’s honor. When he finally left to spend the winter in Haguenau, the people of Cologne breathed a second sigh of relief. A town favored by an imperial visit had to foot the bill for the upkeep of the emperor and his vast retinue.
Like his predecessors, Frederick traveled constantly from one part of Germany to another. The German system of governing was very different from the Sicilian one, where the Normans ruled almost entirely from their palace in Palermo. This was made possible by the efficient centralized government, based on the Byzantine model, that they had created.
The rulers of western Europe had only the scant beginnings of such a system. They were constantly on the move in order to govern their territories and administer justice, as well as to keep their great vassals in check by their presence. Frederick, who hated this peripatetic life, nevertheless had to acknowledge that at least it saved the treasury a considerable sum of money.
IN NOVEMBER, THE eyes of Christendom turned to Rome, where Pope Innocent presided over the greatest church council ever held. Berard, conscientious as always, dictated a report about it the morning after the final session and dispatched it to Frederick over the snow-covered Alps by swift imperial couriers.
Frederick read the report three weeks later in the chancery at Haguenau and burst out laughing.
He turned to Conrad, who was sitting opposite him, going over a petition. “Listen to this,” he chuckled. “Over two thousand two hundred delegates. Imagine! The crush was so great that the poor archbishop of Amalfi was killed. When it came to the question of the imperial succession, our delegation became involved in a brawl with Otto’s representative. Rising to defend Otto’s claim, a group of envoys with Guelf sympathies began clamoring for Otto’s rights. Our side leaped up from their seats as well and the venerable hall began to echo with insults. Otto’s ambassador then resuscitated the old Guelf slander about my being the bastard son of the butcher of Jesi. At this, Manfred Lancia grabbed him by the collar and called him a godless liar. Otto’s emissary then punched Manfred, who felled him with a blow! The Holy Father rose in indignation and left the council chamber, followed by the rest of the clergy.”
With a smug grin, Frederick added, “After a recess, during which order was restored, the council reconvened and confirmed my title to the Empire almost unanimously.”
Conrad studied his hands in silence. That had been a foregone conclusion. What interested him far more was Innocent’s reaction to Frederick’s intention of leading the next crusade.
“As expected, the pope officially called for a new crusade to liberate Jerusalem. All the ambassadors were already aware of my vow to lead this crusade, so Innocent’s call was a little belated,” Frederick added gleefully.
“And what did His Holiness say about your taking the leadership out of his hands?”
“Berard, prudent as usual, hasn’t committed this to parchment. But we’ll soon hear. Berard was to set out shortly after the courier, and should be here in another month or so. Not that it matters, Conrad,” Frederick said. “There’s nothing the pope can say, except give me his blessing.”
Conrad nodded. “You’re quite right. Outwardly, Innocent will be forced to agree. But having dealt with him for years, I know how he must resent your action. He chose you because he wanted a submissive emperor.” There was a glint of malice in Conrad’s usually impassive eyes: “Poor Innocent!”
Frederick grinned at his chancellor, then continued reading. There followed an account of the council’s main ecclesiastical decisions, which included the adoption of transubstantiation as dogma. Long a point of dispute, this was the teaching that affirmed the miraculous conversion of the bread and wine into the actual body and blood of Christ during the Eucharist.
The amused expression on Frederick’s face turned to boredom. He flung the parchment onto the table. The niceties of religion interested him not at all.
WHEN CONRAD LEFT the chancery that evening, he heaved a sigh of relief. It had been a long day.
The chancellor, despite his advancing age, worked long hours, often making his officials and secretaries labor well into the night. His energy and dedication to hard work were characteristics he shared with Frederick. Frequently, the two men sat together until late, going over state documents in silence interrupted now and then by a brief question or comment. The speed with which Frederick absorbed a complicated problem, often finding a startlingly simple solution, still impressed Conrad, particularly when he thought back to Otto’s lumbering thought processes.
The Hohenstaufen were undeniably a talented breed. Quick-witted, cunning, mercurial, and handsome, all except Frederick’s father had also possessed an easy, winning manner that was hard to resist. Sometimes, as he watched what was perhaps the most exceptional member of this outstanding family, Conrad was filled with unease. Greatness did not normally run in a male line. On the contrary, great men tended to produce sons who were but pale shadows of their fathers. The Hohenstaufen had been blessed with spectacular success, but had their luck not lasted too long already? Frederick’s uncle Philip, almost as gifted as his nephew, had met an untimely death at the hands of an assassin. Had that been the turning point? And this crusade, how would it end? Conrad usually tried to dismiss these visions of gloom as the thoughts of an old skeptic, but they kept recurring. Today, with the resurgence of the crusade question, th
ey had assailed him again.
Behind him now he could hear the official in charge locking the iron-studded doors of the chancery. The pitch torches along the walls had already been lit and were throwing pools of light onto the floorboards. As he walked along the open gallery in the rapidly falling dusk, the guards on duty saluted him by raising their halberds.
The air was bracing, a relief from the chancery, filled with wood and lamp smoke. Soon the first snow would fall. Conrad pulled his cowl lower over his head, hugging his arms around his portly frame beneath his cloak. He peered down into the uncommon calm of the courtyard. Everyone would be eating by now, he thought, suddenly feeling a pang of hunger himself. In order to reach his private chambers, he had to descend the wooden stairs and cross the cobbled yard to the west wing of the palace.
Conrad crossed the courtyard, deserted except for the heavily muffled guards standing at attention. A horse neighed in the stables behind the bailey. In the stillness he could hear laughter and voices coming from the great hall. Just as he was about to climb the outer staircase that led to the upper floor of the west wing, a cloaked figure shot from a doorway and nearly collided with him.
“My lord, I beg your pardon!” Conrad cried.
Frederick was white with rage, his lips pressed together. The nerve above his left eyebrow was twitching.
Conrad took an involuntary step back. “Is something amiss, your Grace?”
“She can rot in hell,” Frederick hissed between clenched teeth, more to himself than to Conrad. “If it weren’t for the child, I’d have her head!” Conrad had no need to ask whom Frederick was referring to. So Adelaide had finally overreached herself? It didn’t come as a surprise to him. Neither did he blink at the news that she was carrying a bastard. What surprised him was the violence of Frederick’s reaction.
Frederick, mumbling something about ramparts and fresh air, turned and stalked off.
Conrad climbed the stairs to his chambers, where his servants would have a hot dinner and a glowing fire ready for him. It was probably a good thing that Adelaide had fallen from grace. Her hold on Frederick had begun to spread dangerously beyond the bedposts, which was where a mistress’s influence should stop. Conrad himself, although an ordained bishop, had for years enjoyed a discreet relationship with a comely widow. He had recently moved her to a pleasant three-story house in Haguenau, where he visited her when the inclination moved him. This, he thought with mild regret, was unfortunately not as often any more as in his younger days.
As he pushed open the door to his lodging, he thought with idle curiosity that it would be interesting to see who would replace Adelaide in Frederick’s favor.
ON A GRAY afternoon in January, a messenger rode into the bailey of Haguenau to announce that Archbishop Berard was within a few miles of the town. He would reach the castle before vespers. Frederick decided to ride out and meet him.
Despite the icy air that bit into his lungs, he felt exhilarated as he cantered out under the massive portcullis of the main gate. Once past the town, the country became solitary and still. The woods on either side of the road were black and somber under a light dusting of white. Large snowflakes began to fall. He spurred his horse into a gallop. The stallion, as pleased as his master at his freedom, raced ahead, hooves thundering over the frozen ground. His escort, weighed down by armor and mounted on sturdier horses, struggled to keep up with them.
At the summit of a hill, Frederick reined his mount in abruptly. In the valley below, he could see a line of horsemen, followed in the distance by a lumbering baggage train. Patting the shuddering animal, he waited for the convoy to approach. As he recognized Berard, he had to smile. Even at this distance, Berard’s bulk and slumping seat were unmistakable.
Wrapped up to his nose in a furred cloak, a fur hat pulled down almost over his eyes, he was a picture of misery. Absurdly, Berard, who was at best an indifferent horseman, always rode the most splendid destriers, the only kind capable of carrying his weight. The column, having recognized the imperial standard, came to a halt. Berard, too, reined in his mount. Cautiously, like a tortoise, he raised his head just far enough to see what the disturbance was. At the sight of Frederick he broke into a smile.
“Frederick!” Suddenly infused with life, he leapt down with astonishing agility and clasped Frederick, who had also dismounted, in a great hug. Then he held him at arm’s length, “Is something wrong?”
Frederick laughed. “Nothing, Berard. I just felt like welcoming my brawling ambassadors back from Rome!” He looked around. “Where’s our hero?”
“Manfred had to remain in Italy. His mother’s very ill. He’ll follow as soon as he can.”
Frederick remembered, as if in another life, the beautiful countess who had bandaged his arm on the morning after the ambush at the Lambro. “Have a Mass said for her every day till we get word that she’s well. She brought me luck.”
Berard gave him a searching look. “Such faith in the efficacy of prayer is something new, Frederick.”
“I’ve appointed a new chaplain,” Frederick said, “a truly saintly man. He prays in my place if I can’t or don’t feel like attending Mass. I’m sure his prayers will be heard.” With a grin, he added, “That must’ve been a tremendous punch Manfred packed!”
Berard laughed. “He certainly lost his temper. In his defense I’ve got to say that that envoy was insufferable.”
Still beaming with pleasure at the honor Frederick had shown him, Berard turned and indicated a tall stranger who had been riding beside him. Cloaked in a white mantle with a black cross on his left shoulder, he was waiting to be introduced.
Even from a distance, Frederick had noticed the man’s excellent horse-manship. He also noticed that despite their large escort, he had kept his hand on his sword hilt until the riders on the road were identified.
“Frederick, this is Hermann von Salza, Grand Master of the Teutonic Order. An old friend of mine. We met at the council. We were both bound for Germany and decided to travel together.”
Von Salza stood well over six feet tall. Although well past middle age, he had the muscular leanness of a young warrior. The tanned, leathery web of wrinkles on his face bespoke years spent under the relentless sun of the East. He knelt in the swirling snow.
“Sire, I am honored to meet you.”
Frederick extended his hand. “Rise, my lord. Let’s leave before we’re covered in snow. You will, naturally, be my guest.”
Von Salza inclined his head. “I thank you, Your Grace.” Steel blue eyes looked at him levelly from under bushy gray eyebrows.
Frederick smiled. He had heard much about this man and his order. Newer than the other two orders of militant knights, the Hospitallers and the Templars, the Teutonic Knights too were dedicated to the protection of pilgrims and the nursing of the sick in the Holy Land. Called Teutonic because only Germans of noble birth were admitted, they were the strictest and most elitist of the three. Von Salza might be very useful to him in the coming crusade.
Turning to Berard, who was stamping his sodden boots on the ground, Frederick said, “You should travel in a covered wagon, you know.” He took his elbow. “Come. You look as though you could do with a roaring fire and some mulled wine!”
Berard added, “And a seat that doesn’t wobble!”
THE PAGE REFILLED Frederick’s cup, an expression of grave concentration on his features as he carefully ladled the hot wine into the tankard. Frederick ruffled his fair hair. He was Anselm’s nephew. The child, for he was little more than that, had overcome his initial fear, and now followed him everywhere. He somehow felt sorry for these young boys, sent to learn the manners of knighthood at his court. Although it was a great honor that would stand them in good stead later, they must long for their families, their mothers, if they had any …
Frederick took a mouthful, savoring the wine’s aroma. Beside the spices and honey, there was another taste, slightly metallic, a taste of gravelly sun-baked earth. Sicilian earth. Berard had brought sev
eral casks of this garnet-colored wine from Sicily.
A slow-burning fire crackled in the hearth. Berard, Frederick, and his cousin, the Landgrave of Thuringia, were seated around the fire listening to the grand master. Von Salza was explaining the difficulties of campaigning in the Holy Land. “One of the principal problems of each crusade has been the absence of a central command. Every prince wants to do it his way. The Germans don’t see eye to eye with the French, the Genoese can’t stand the Venetians, and the Christian princes in the Levant claim superior knowledge and try to overrule everyone. During the third crusade the Lionheart and the French king never stopped arguing, countermanding each other’s orders at every turn. Saladin was delighted.
“You, too, my lord,” von Salza said to Frederick, “will face this problem. A crusade never is, and cannot be, the effort of a single nation. Even if you establish yourself as supreme commander, you’ll still have to deal with contingents from different lands, having divergent loyalties, interests, and fighting methods.”
“Yes, but I won’t have any fellow sovereigns to contend with,” Frederick put in. “No one with the standing to dispute my leadership. It will be my crusade.”
He got up. Resting his palms on the table, he faced the others. “The first and second crusades were called by the papacy; the third was conceived jointly by the kings of France, Germany, and England. The disgraceful fourth crusade ended at Constantinople. The next crusade will be led by me. Crusaders from elsewhere will be welcome, provided they obey my orders.”
Von Salza stroked his beard. In a respectful tone he said, “I wouldn’t be so sure, my lord. The Hungarian envoy hinted that his king might join. I’ve heard that the Duke of Austria is going to take the cross. Once a crusading movement gathers momentum, it acquires a life of its own. From all over Europe, princes and paupers, knights, nuns and monks, whores, mountebanks and swindlers, those seeking salvation as well as those seeking escape from wives, debts, or boredom, will follow you. Men, seeking forgiveness or glory, will pawn their wives’ jewels and mortgage their lands to finance armor and horses. Entire families will waive their right to an inheritance so that one member may fight for Jerusalem, the glory accruing to all. You can’t control it. The advantage is that the more great lords join, the less your financial burden will be. But it’ll still be enormous,” the grand master warned.
The Falcon of Palermo Page 21
