Frederick said, “I thought the Church raises a special tax for this purpose.”
“Yes, the Church declares a crusading tithe, but it’s never enough. Crusaders like the Duke of Austria, who fight under their own banner, pay for their equipment and that of their men. But the cost of feeding, transporting, and housing the men who fight under you will be yours. The price of a crusade is huge, my lord, both in lives and gold.”
“I understand that,” Frederick said. It almost seemed as if the grand master, whose interest surely lay in the recovery of Jerusalem, was trying to dissuade him. “But tell me, which route is best? How long will it take to get from Sicily to Jerusalem?”
“The traditional route has always been by land, east via Greece across Asia Minor. Then along the Mediterranean seaboard to Palestine. However, this is dangerous. The Bulgars, for example, have been known to attack even large groups of crusaders. Once you reach Constantinople, you’re supposedly traveling in friendly Byzantine territory. But, after what happened with the last crusade, the Byzantines look askance at Christian armies passing through their territories. Moreover, Byzantium herself is threatened by the Seljuk Turks. They’ll harass you mercilessly all the way to Jerusalem.”
“But that’s far longer than crossing by sea!” Frederick exclaimed.
“Obtaining enough ships for so many men and horses is almost impossible. It might be done with Genoese or Venetian ships, but the Maritime Republics aren’t keen to antagonize the Saracens. When they do, their charges are exorbitant! If you add to this the dangers of sea travel, and the far greater cost, you’ll see why crusaders have mostly preferred the land route.”
“How long will the whole thing take?” Frederick asked.
Von Salza threw his palms up, “Two years, perhaps three. I can’t tell you. No one can.”
Frederick frowned. “There must be a faster way. What we need is ships, lots of them.” He felt a surge of excitement. “I’ll build them in Sicily. They wouldn’t be wasted. Later they’ll become the navy Sicily so desperately needs.” Too late, he realized what he had said. The landgrave, thoughtfully staring into his tankard, hadn’t noticed, but the grand master flashed him a searching glance. Von Salza was close to the papal court. Although Frederick instinctively trusted him, he couldn’t be sure.
Berard, catching Frederick’s look, said quickly, “What about supplies? If the hinterland is held by the Saracens, where do we get supplies?”
“By sea. Ideally from Cyprus. Provided her king is prepared to help.”
Frederick said, “But he’s a vassal of the Empire. Surely that won’t be a problem?”
Von Salza smiled. “Yes and no, Your Grace. The Christian princes in the Levant are very concerned with their prosperity. They may pay lip service to the idea of a crusade, but they don’t necessarily want a new one. It would interfere with their Saracen trade.”
“God’s teeth! The whole of Christendom wants Jerusalem freed, and the Franks of the Levant are trading with the Saracens instead of fighting them!”
“I know, Your Grace,” Von Salza said. “Alas, trading has always been more profitable than fighting for a cause. The Christian rulers in the East have been arranging truces with the Saracens for years. This suits both sides. Trade is flourishing. Remember that Venice, Genoa, and Pisa are firmly entrenched in Palestine. The quays of Acre and Tyre are overflowing with Saracen merchandise. Ties of vassalage don’t count for much when the distance separating overlord and vassal is too great.”
“This kingdom of Cyprus,” Frederick said. “As I recollect, the Lionheart conquered the island and then sold it to the de Lusignan family. The island’s small, producing little besides wine and oil, isn’t that so?”
Von Salza shook his head. “Not at all. Cyprus is almost as large and as fertile as Sicily. It produces virtually everything a crusading army needs.” He smiled, a smile that transformed his austere features. “You’ve given me hope, my lord. Hope for Germany and hope for the Holy Land. Our order possesses estates on Cyprus and our knights are well versed in Saracen warfare. I shall do what I can to aid you.”
Frederick returned the smile. “Thank you. Your help will be most valuable.”
Von Salza leaned forward and stirred the fire. Frederick, observing him, thought what unlikely allies they made. He himself, young and skeptical, who dreamed of reviving the age of Augustus and breaking the power of the papacy, and a blunt, devout warrior past middle age, leader of a great religious and military order, who had devoted his life to the protection of pilgrims. Yet a feeling of empathy had sprung up almost instantly between them. What a man to have on his side, if he could wean him away from Rome!
Frederick stared into the flames. While he couldn’t admit it even to Berard, the idea of recovering Jerusalem and humiliating the pope, which had so appealed to him only a short while ago, had already lost much of its luster. The time, the cost and the effort were enormous. Who needed Jerusalem, anyway? Looked at dispassionately, it was just a barren city atop a rocky plateau in the middle of nowhere, a bone of contention that throughout its history had caused fearful bloodshed in return for—what? Jews, Romans, Saracens, and Christians had all fought bitterly over a city that was holy to three religions and yet had produced nothing but misery.
For a moment, Frederick was taken aback by his own audacity. To think of the holiest city in Christendom in such terms was heresy. But if one reflected calmly on the matter, it was true. God himself couldn’t deny the facts. Yet he was trapped. Carried away by dreams of glory and revenge and made giddy by the heroic atmosphere of Aachen, he himself had snapped shut the snare from which there was no escape. He had to conquer Jerusalem, whether he liked it or not.
THE BELL OF Schoenburg’s chapel had just finished ringing sext. Adelaide, lying in the great bed, stared listlessly at the leaping flames of the fire. It was only noon and but the room was as dark as night. A candlestand cast tenuous circles of light onto the wall hangings without relieving the gloom. Through the gap where the shutters met came a faint glimmer of daylight.
Light and air, Adelaide thought. She picked up the bell beside her and rang it.
“Yes, my lady?”
“Open the shutter. I’m sick of lying in a dark room.”
Her maid Irmgard stared at her in horror. “But it’s snowing. The physician said—”
“Do as I say!”
Irmgard pursed her lips, ready to do battle. “Only after I’ve covered you with another rug.”
Irmgard returned carrying a heavy bearskin rug, which she spread on the bed and tucked around Adelaide. “There, my lady. Now don’t fret.” She could not resist adding bitterly, “It’s too late for that, anyway.” Still grumbling under her breath, the stocky old woman who had been her nurse went to unlatch the shutters.
Adelaide stared through the open window at the white flakes falling against the grey sky. The sight was strangely soothing. Slowly, as she lay in the cold silence, the bitterness of the last few months began to drain from her like poison from a wound. She moved her hands under the covers, hesitantly at first, and laid them on her belly. The child moved.
For the first time she was able to touch its hidden form without resentment. Tears welled in her eyes. “Forgive me,” she whispered, “forgive me.” Since the first wave of nausea she had hated it. She’d done everything to destroy it. She’d always known that a pregnancy would put an end to her dream. While a discreet liaison was tolerated at court, as soon as it showed signs of its natural consequences a woman was branded as fallen. No one could marry her, certainly not the emperor.
Adelaide bit her lip. She’d been so careful. She’d always managed to insert the herb compresses Irmgard procured for her. For a long time her luck held. Then, one morning, she woke up retching.
With a shudder she thought of the old crone Irmgard had brought to her, at whose filthy hands she had risked not only eternal damnation but also painful death. Many women died in the attempt to rid themselves of unwanted offspring.
Poor peasants, drained by innumerable childbeds, were as affected as noblewomen, victims of a passing weakness during their husband’s absence at war or crusade, who risked death at the stake if their adultery was discovered.
She had hated not only the child but its father as well. And yet how she longed for him now. She hadn’t seen Frederick for five long months, since that dreadful day when she told him that she was with child.
His initial delight had turned to stony silence when she demanded that he divorce Constance. She tried to reason with him. She’d long suspected that he nursed the old ambition of turning the Empire into a hereditary monarchy. She told him that since Henry was king of Sicily, he needed another heir to inherit the Empire. She’d give him the sons Constance was too old to have.
He stared at her for a moment, taken aback. Then he said coldly, “There’s nothing wrong with Constance. She’s my wife and will always remain my wife. When she comes here she’ll give me all the sons I need.”
He had never before mentioned bringing her to Germany. Adelaide had assumed that her presence in Sicily was indispensable. If Constance were to come to Germany … Panic washed over her. In despair she threw herself at his feet. “Marry me, Frederick, I beseech you! I’ll be ruined if you don’t!”
Frederick looked down at her, “I offered you a husband to safeguard your reputation. You didn’t want one. Now you’ll have to live with the consequences of your thwarted ambition.”
“I’ll kill you,” she screamed, “I’ll have you assassinated!”
“Do that if you can, my dear. In the meantime, I have pressing matters to attend to.” He turned.
It was then that reason deserted her. Blinded by tears and rage, she screamed, “I’ll rouse the German princes against you! They’ll chase you away like the butcher’s bastard you really are!”
That afternoon she had been banished from court. She left under armed escort. Even in enmity, though, Frederick had remained generous. The fief of Marienheim, with its extensive lands, was to be hers in perpetuity. She had written him letter after letter, begging his forgiveness. The commander of her guard assured her that her letters had been delivered. Yet no reply ever came.
The chamber was getting colder and colder. Outside the snow continued to fall. Adelaide burrowed deeper into the covers. She felt tired. Her pregnancy had been difficult from the start. Her legs had become so swollen that for the last few weeks she had been confined to bed. And the child would not be born for another month at least. Maybe, like so many women, she’d die in childbirth. The thought didn’t seem so frightening any more. It was oddly comforting to think of death, of deliverance …
She closed her eyes and drifted into sleep.
When she awoke, the shutters were closed and the room was once again in semidarkness. Fresh wood had been laid on the fire. Irmgard was sitting by the fire, carding wool into a basket.
Suddenly, a sharp, stabbing pain shot through Adelaide’s lower back. The bedsheets felt wet. She slid a hand under her back. They were wet.
“Irmgard, quickly,” she cried, “I’m bleeding!”
The old nurse jumped up. Flinging the covers to one side, she pushed up Adelaide’s shift. Her face relaxed. “It’s only water, my lady.”
“Water?” Adelaide blushed. Surely she couldn’t have …
“Your waters have broken. It happens to all women at the onset of labor.”
Adelaide’s eyes widened. “Onset of labor? But the child isn’t due for at least another moon!” A dreadful, cold fear gripped her.
Irmgard shook her head helplessly. “We had better call the midwife.”
She went over to the door and called to the women spinning in the adjoining chamber to send to the village for the midwife.
“WALTER, COME AND see how well this one’s eating!” Frederick stroked the bird’s head again, before offering it, with a thickly gloved hand, another piece of raw fowl, which it snapped up hungrily.
Walter von der Vogelweide smiled. “She’s getting used to her new surroundings. And to you, Your Grace.”
After their capture in the wild, young birds were kept in darkness for several days in a separate loft in the falcon mews. Then, gradually, they were exposed to their new habitat, every day a little longer, until they lost their fear of humans. It was essential, however, to get them to eat quickly.
This one was a particularly easy hawk. Or perhaps just a very greedy one. Frederick stroked her head, whispering blandishments as he fed her. “There, my beauty, there. Don’t be afraid. We’ll have much fun together.” Despite his lulling tone, the peregrine, tied to his wrist, fluttered her wings. She refused the next morsel. Frederick glanced at Walter. “Do you think she’s had enough?”
Walter nodded. He undid the jesses and took the bird, smiling. “You certainly have a way with birds of all feathers, if I may make so bold.” He handed her to a waiting falconer, to be returned to her perch in the darkness.
Walter, whom he had recently appointed to the prestigious post of chief imperial falconer, was known for his irreverent wit. The most celebrated of Germany’s minnesingers had a long, melancholy face and veiled green-brown eyes. He was still youthful despite being in his forties. Although not really handsome, he had a way with women. It was rumored that his famous love lyrics were inspired by the great ladies who, during their husband’s absences, had succumbed to the charm of their court poet. This explained, malicious tongues said, his frequent and precipitate changes of patron.
A more probable explanation for his wanderings was his outspokenness. Scathing criticism of the great was often woven into his verses. He spared nobody: The barons, the clergy, the moneylenders, and particularly the pope all came under his scrutiny. He felt strongly about German unity, and argued against papal interference in German affairs. He was, without doubt, Germany’s greatest poet. He was also one of the first German bards to write in the vernacular. Now everyone, not just the educated who were versed in Latin, could understand his songs.
Frederick had taken an instant liking to this unlikely courtier. His lyrics spread Frederick’s views far more effectively than any imperial decree. And his erudition and outstanding knowledge of falconry were a source of delight to him.
A falconer entered, doffing his moss-green hunter’s hat. “I beg your pardon, but the lord von Seebach is below. He requests to see Your Grace.”
Frederick frowned. “Von Seebach himself?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Frederick groaned. Not another tearful plea from Adelaide—he’d thought she’d given up writing those. But why would her castellan come in person? He peeled off the thick falconer’s gloves.
RUPERT VON SEEBACH, cloaked and gloved, twirling his beaver hat in his hands, stood waiting in the snow. He looked ill at ease.
“Your Grace, the lady Adelaide’s pains began more than a month early. After a long labor, in the early hours of yesterday, she gave birth to a son. The child is fine.” He stared at the dirty snow.
“And the mother?”
Rupert shifted his feet. “She begs you to come. She has bidden me tell you that this is the last request she’ll ever make of you. Your Grace, I do believe that it may go ill with her. Her women say she’s lost a lot of blood and is very weak. It would …” Rupert bit his lip. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I …”
So she’d bewitched even the man he set to guard her. To think that for a moment, he’d felt himself weaken, felt a flicker of remorse, had even feared for her … “Tell her,” Frederick said, “that the boy is to be christened Enzio.” With that, he turned on his heels.
HAGUENAU, APRIL 1216
Frederick, sitting in a window seat of the library, watched the clouds drift westward across a serene April sky. He had an uninterrupted view across Haguenau’s thatched rooftops. On many could be seen large nests, still empty. Soon, the storks would return from the south. The snow had begun to melt in large patches, revealing the straw-colored grass underneath. The last vestiges of an exceptionally harsh winter
would soon be gone.
Storks were considered harbingers of good luck. Shortly after his arrival in Haguenau, Frederick, irritated by the clattering noise they made with their long red beaks, had ordered a nest in a tower near his apartments to be removed. The servants had been aghast. The nest was particularly auspicious: it appeared just before his arrival. Rumor held that as long as the nest remained, the Hohenstaufen luck would hold. Although he scoffed at such superstition, he had nevertheless allowed the nest to remain.
At the approach of spring, he’d catch himself glancing up at the tower. Once, when the storks seemed to be taking overlong, he had casually asked one of his pages: “Are the storks back in town yet?” The youth, aware of the question’s reason, answered, “Not yet, my lord.” Within days there was a furious clattering of beaks outside his bedchamber. Frederick relaxed.
Although the day had been warm and bright, the sun was setting into a hazy horizon. During the night it would rain. He was beginning to know the local climate. He was, it was true, becoming Germanized. Recently, he had been amused to hear one bishop in his cups lean over and tell another equally inebriated prelate that the emperor was becoming less foreign every day.
He often spent time in the library, reading or, more often, grappling with a problem. It was one of the few places where he could escape his courtiers and think undisturbed. The marvelous collection of manuscripts in Barbarossa’s library had been started by Charlemagne. Frederick’s awe of his great predecessor had faded somewhat. He’d been disconcerted to discover that his hero had never learned to write, despite keeping stylus and wax tablet under his pillow to practice his letters. Frederick had begun to suspect that perhaps Charlemagne had just been a gifted Frankish chieftain, and not the great universal Caesar of popular myth. He put down the book he had been holding. It was a new edition of Boethius, sent to him recently by the abbot of Saint Gall, where it had been copied. The abbot’s friendship had never wavered. Every now and then he’d send him a beautifully illuminated volume, accompanied by his blessings. Today, however, he lacked the calm mind reading demanded. Problems seemed to be multiplying. The Lombard cities were restless. The crusade loomed closer and closer on the horizon. And Sicily …
The Falcon of Palermo Page 22
