“You have my leave to withdraw now,” Frederick said.
As the two men left, Frederick stared after them. Tomorrow, the letter to Innocent, phrased in the most respectful and reassuring terms, would be on its way to the Lateran. In it, Frederick informed Innocent that he was making arrangements to bring his wife and son to Germany so that he might see them before his departure on crusade. He assured the pontiff that after his imperial coronation in Rome, on his way to Palestine, he would renounce the kingdom of Sicily in favor of prince Henry.
The way was clear for Henry and Constance to come to Germany.
BERARD WAS SURPRISED to see Frederick stride through the press of people in the inner bailey who had come to see the grand master off. Hermann von Salza was about to swing himself onto his horse. He halted and looked up.
“Your Grace?” Hermann’s bushy gray eyebrows shot up.
Frederick smiled. “No change of plans, Hermann. I just came to bid you farewell. I was held up in a council meeting and feared I might have missed you. May God go with you, Hermann.”
“Thank you, my lord. You needn’t worry. Lombards or not, the empress and Prince Henry will be safe.” He patted his sword hilt. His craggy face was softened by a smile.
Frederick smiled. “I know. That’s why I’m entrusting them to you.”
Von Salza swung himself into the saddle. He raised his hand. “Farewell, Your Grace. May the Lord keep you. With his blessing we’ll be back before winter.” With a last wave he wheeled his horse around and cantered out over the drawbridge, followed by his knights. A contingent of imperial troops that had been waiting in the outer bailey fell in behind them.
They traveled lightly, these knights, Berard thought as he watched the last banner disappear under the raised portcullis. Not a single packhorse in the cavalcade. Whatever they needed was strapped to each man’s horse. There, he thought, goes another whose loyalties must at times be difficult to reconcile. Just like him, the grand master now owed fealty to Frederick as well as to the pope. Frederick had become the order’s most important patron, granting it extensive lands in Germany. He had entrusted von Salza already with several important diplomatic missions.
Frederick had remained where he was, following the riders with his eyes. Berard crossed over to him. Around them the courtyard began to empty.
“Let’s walk over to the ramparts,” Frederick suggested. They stood together, looking down. Beneath them, the bare rock fell away with dizzying steepness for hundreds of feet. In the distance, the Rhine flowed broad and majestic in the sun. There was no sign yet of the horsemen on the narrow road below.
“If only I could have gone in his stead!” Frederick stared down at the road, lips pressed together.
Constance and Sicily, Berard thought, the two things he loves most … In the last year, Frederick had consolidated his hold on Germany. His position was now unassailable. The ecclesiastical princes were all on his side. The lay lords had been either won over or defeated. What, Berard asked himself, did Frederick feel as he stood here, above Germany’s greatest river, her heartland at his feet? How much of himself had he given to this land that had welcomed him with such enthusiasm? Sicily would always be closer to Frederick’s heart, yet it was undeniable that he felt a deep empathy with the country and its people.
His German son had an Italian name, Enzio. Frederick had recently conferred a Sicilian county on the not yet two-year-old. Frederick doted on the child. Even Berard, whose dislike of the mother had only increased with the passing of time, had to admit that he was an engaging little fellow. The boy was often to be found romping in Frederick’s chambers, climbing all over his father. How was he going to explain that to Constance? Royal bastards, provided for but out of sight, were a fact of life, but Frederick’s domestic arrangements were altogether different. At least he had come to his senses sufficiently about Adelaide to oblige her to marry one of his vassals, who seemed content to share his wife with the emperor.
On the road below, the horsemen had appeared. The cross of Jerusalem and the Hohenstaufen eagle streamed in the wind. Berard could make out Hermann’s broad figure. With luck, he’d be back before the year was out, bringing Constance and Henry with them. After that there’d be the coronation in Rome, then Sicily, and then the crusade.
PERUGIA, JULY 1217
Perugia, high above the Umbrian plain, was quiet and empty in the July heat. Behind the thick walls of the bishop’s palace, Pope Innocent lay dying.
The sickly sweetish scent of lilies wilting in the heat filled the papal chamber. In the canopied bed hung with mulberry-colored silk, Innocent opened his eyes. Two young Franciscans knelt at the small altar beside the bedstead, praying in silence. At the lower end of the chamber clustered a group of prelates. They talked in whispers punctuated every now and then by the dry cough of a frail elderly bishop.
The pope, watching the praying friars, read the words of the Miserere on their lips. He groped at the rosary entwined in his fingers. Clasping the cool ivory beads, he too began to pray to the Queen of Heaven. He felt at peace. The burning fever and racking pain of the last few days had subsided after he had received the last rites. Satan, cheated of his prize, had ceased tormenting him.
With an effort, he turned his head toward the window. Although the shutters were closed, in his mind’s eye he saw the plain of Umbria, Lake Trasimeno glittering in its center, neat fields of green and gold divided by rows of graceful poplars. Terraced hills silvery with olives ringed the plain, their summits crowned by castellated fortresses. Through this landscape of rich earthy hues the Tiber flowed on its way to Rome.
On the other side, on the flank of Mount Subasio, lay Assisi. How strange that in that belligerent imperial city had sprung up one as pure as Francis. In the years since he had taken Francis and his small band of mendicant friars under his protection, their movement had steadily grown. If only there were more like him and if I had time, he thought, more time … He closed his eyes. Even the little sunlight entering through the gap where the shutters met was too bright a reminder of the world he would soon leave.
A rustle made his eyelids flutter open again. A group of cardinals from Rome approached. Kneeling on the steps of the bedstead, they took leave of him one by one, kissing for the last time the amethyst on his hand. Innocent, with great effort, blessed each of them.
He motioned the white-haired Cardinal Savelli to come closer. The cardinal, his mild blue eyes wet, bent down. “Holy Father, it is too soon,” he said, his voice choking. “I’ve been praying for your recovery. I’m sure—”
“You’re talking nonsense, Cencio. The Lord has called me and I, like all of us, must obey. Cencio,” the pontiff whispered, “if you follow me on the throne of Saint Peter, promise me that you won’t abandon my reforms.” He tried to raise himself on one elbow. “If the Church isn’t purged of the evils that corrupt her she’ll destroy herself.”
“Your Holiness, I …” Cardinal Savelli stammered, also in a whisper, aware of dozens of straining ears behind him, “I’m not worthy. Surely the Spirit will bypass a humble man like me and choose one of the great sons of the Church. One who …”
Innocent fixed the Cardinal with a steely look. “Promise me,” he commanded.
Savelli sighed. “I promise to rule according to your precepts, should I become pontiff.”
Innocent’s eyes softened. “You’re a good man, Cencio, without guile and ambition. The cardinals will elect you for that very reason, because they can’t bear to see one of their powerful rivals on Peter’s throne.”
Savelli pressed Innocent’s hand to his face, brushing the Fisherman’s ring with his lips. The violet stone was as cold as Innocent’s hand, with the glassy chill of death. Tears ran down the cardinal’s rosy cheeks. They had been friends since childhood.
As Savelli was about to rise, Innocent beckoned him down again. Exhausted from the effort of speaking, the pope attempted to say something, then sank back onto the pillows. He took a deep breath, as if to
rouse his faltering voice for a last effort. In an almost inaudible whisper he said, “Beware of the emperor, Cencio. Frederick … of all the Hohenstaufen … ruthless ambition … too able … a danger for the papacy.”
His head fell to one side, dark eyes staring unseeing at the splendid coffered ceiling.
SWABIA, OCTOBER 1217
Constance watched the golden fringes on the purple silk curtains tremble with each step of the men who carried her.
The litter was an elaborate affair in yellow wood, with the imperial arms painted on its back and front. About a mile before the encampment she and Henry had been moved from the hide-covered wagon in which they had been traveling to a litter sent by Frederick.
After the excitement of the last few months she suddenly felt apprehensive. For five long years she had dreamed of nothing else but seeing Frederick again. Against opposition and mistrust she had governed Sicily to the best of her ability. A constant flood of orders and instructions, often in minutest detail, had been her only contact with her husband in all this time. Sometimes a personal note penned himself had been attached to his letters, almost as an afterthought. Although they were brought to her by a network of imperial couriers riding across Germany and Italy at breakneck speed, his letters were frequently outdated by the time she received them. Often she’d been forced to make a decision alone, at times against the regency council’s recommendation. Mostly, Frederick approved her decisions. He rarely praised her, but when he remembered to do so, she was filled with pride.
And now, within the hour, she’d see him, hear his voice, feel his arms around her. Why, then, was she so ill at ease? Her head ached. Riding in the litter at least brought relief from the rattling wagon wheels. At times during the past few months she had fancied that she would hear the creaking of that wagon for the rest of her life.
She glanced down at the small fair head against her shoulder. Poor little Henry. He, too, had hated the boredom of endless days spent in the dusty semidarkness of the traveling wagon. She’d suggested that he ride instead, but he seemed to prefer the wagon. Henry, though a handsome boy, was sensitive and small for his age. Horses, sensing his insecurity, tended to bolt under him.
Constance pressed him against her. She sighed. Soon, he’d leave the women’s quarters and have his own household. Male tutors to teach him, young lords as playmates, and older ones to school him in hawking, hunting, and the practice of arms.
Henry, her only child. In a recent letter, Frederick had mentioned more sons. He needed another son to wear the crown of Sicily, now that he was planning to make Henry heir to the empire. Was that why he had called her to him? Trying to brush aside the thought, she parted the curtain and peered out. They were skirting a forest, russet and gold in its autumn colors. The road was carpeted by fallen leaves, damp with last night’s rain, providing relief from the clouds of dust that had choked her for most of the journey.
Constance let the curtain drop. She leaned her head back. The rhythmic swaying of the litter was pleasantly soothing. Her head felt a little better. At least, she thought, Innocent was no longer alive to stir up trouble about Henry’s coming to Germany. Poor Innocent, to die so suddenly, before his time … Frederick, with his dislike of his erstwhile guardian, must have been pleased by his death. She, however, had prayed for him. Innocent had been a great pope. His successor, Honorius III, was a very different man, gentle and erudite. As Cardinal Savelli he had for years been papal legate in Palermo, frequently mediating between Frederick and his master in Rome. A friend of Berard’s, his election must have pleased Frederick.
Shouts rang out. Harnesses jingled as the riders reined in their mounts. The litter-bearers slowed their steps. Hermann von Salza’s deep voice boomed above the others. They were within sight of the imperial camp!
Constance touched her headdress, suddenly self-conscious. At their last halt, Juana had dressed her in the garments she had selected in Palermo for this moment. Over a bliaud of turquoise cendal, with pointed sleeves that reached to the floor, she wore a mantle of violet camlet edged in miniver. She had daringly decided to wear the latest Sicilian fashion on her feet: brodequins of gold-embroidered velvet with three-inch-high soles. They suited her, making her look taller and slimmer.
Would her appearance please Frederick? How much had he changed? Was he still her golden boy, or had the struggle for the Empire and the power he now wielded transformed him into a remote stranger?
The litter was set down with a jolt.
“We’re here, my heart,” she whispered to the dozing Henry, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. He looked up, wide-eyed: “Is the emperor here?” Constance smiled, trying to hide her own nervousness: “The emperor’s your father, silly. You needn’t be afraid of him.”
Emerging from the litter, Constance stared. In a large meadow rose a city of brilliantly colored tents like giant flowers put there by a magician’s wand. She clutched Henry’s hand. Before the largest tent, a splendid affair of crimson and azure silk, the imperial pennon flying from its central pole, stood Frederick. Around him clustered burly German lords, bowing deeply.
Was it truly him? He seemed taller, broader. Still clean-shaven, his face was unchanged except for the jutting angle at which he held his chin. The green eyes danced, echoing his smile.
Her heart pounded. She could hardly breathe. Then his arms were around her, hugging her with the old disregard for ceremony.
“Constance!” Kisses covered her face. He held her at arm’s length. “You’re even more beautiful than I remembered!”
After kissing her again, he bent down. “And you’re Henry?” he asked.
The boy nodded, gravely appraising the smiling stranger before him. “Yes, my lord.” He edged closer to Constance.
“You don’t have to call me that. I’m your father. I’ve missed you so very much.” Frederick stretched out his arms.
For an instant, Henry’s lips puckered rebelliously. Then he allowed himself to be picked up. Frederick hugged the stiff little body. He set him down again, ruffling the fair head. “In time, we’ll get to know each other, my son. I’ve got a lovely black pony waiting for you, with a red saddle especially made for you!”
Henry stared at the ground. “Yes, my lord,” he said in a small voice.
CONSTANCE RAISED THE mirror and scrutinized herself. Large gray eyes looked back at her from the polished silver with veiled melancholy. Her pale skin was still smooth, except for two lines that ran along the sides of her mouth, and a web of fine creases around her eyes. She pulled the skin taut with two fingers. For an instant, the lines disappeared. She let go and smiled at herself.
Her brave smile died, chased away by a thought far more oppressive than the fear of growing old. Old age, at least, was approaching her at a pace that was mercifully slow. But the problem confronting her wouldn’t wait. She put the mirror back into the inlaid coffer on the table and sighed. What, oh Lord, must she do? For months she had wrestled with this question. She could ask advice from no one. In any event, it was not the answer that eluded her, but the courage to face its consequences.
Frederick, with a regularity that must have the entire court gossiping, had appeared in her apartments every night since her arrival six months ago. And while he never questioned her, she sensed his disappointment as month after month went by.
The image of his mistress rose before her. She had seen her only once, yet till her dying day she would remember every feature of that perfect oval face, every elegant fold of the crimson velvet gown, laced under her breasts in a style that emphasized her condition. They had glared at each other across the packed hall at the Christmas court in Nuremberg. Adelaide’s handsome limp-wristed husband strutted like a coxcomb with his beautiful pregnant wife on his arm. The Margrave appeared content to share the wife that had been provided for him. Everyone knew that in her swollen belly Adelaide carried the emperor’s bastard.
Pregnant mistress and barren wife! After the initial pain subsided, Constance, in her
lighter moods, was able to savor the irony. She derived a bitter satisfaction from imagining Frederick’s feelings when, as he must do, he contemplated such injustice. Did he, she wondered, ever see it as retribution for his sins?
Constance closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands. She had to tell him. At the next opportunity, when he was in a good mood, she’d tell him. The longer she delayed, the greater his anger would be. What, Merciful Mother of God, would his reaction be? There was only one course of action open to Frederick. He must divorce her and marry a young princess who could give him the heirs he needed. Frederick’s reasons for wanting more children were more pressing than those of other rulers. He had no brothers or uncles who could provide for the Empire or Sicily. She had to make it as easy as possible for him. She’d take the veil, retire to a convent. Honorius would grant him an annulment. Unlike Innocent, who had frowned on the dissolution of marriage for purposes of expediency, the new pope would be more sympathetic to Frederick’s plight.
Her eyes filled with tears. She loved God, but she loved Frederick, too. Was it her fault that she had been left in Sicily while her remaining child-bearing years ran out like sand in an hourglass? Last year still, she would have been able to bear him another son. Now it was too late …
“My lady, what is it?”
Constance had been too absorbed in her grief to hear Juana enter. She raised her tear-streaked face. “It’s nothing.” She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand and attempted a smile. “It’s nothing,” she repeated.
Juana gave her a doubtful look. “Worry is gnawing at you, my lady. Soon there’ll be nothing left of you.” She pointed a stubby finger at Constance. “Look how thin you are getting. There’s nary any flesh on your hips, nor anywhere else.” In a lowered voice, she added, “And then the emperor will turn from you. Men don’t like women like wattle sticks.”
The Falcon of Palermo Page 24
