The Falcon of Palermo

by Maria R. Bordihn

  Frederick glared at her. “And what do you think you’re doing here?”

  “I am your wife. It is my right to be with my husband.” She drew herself up to her full height, at which she reached just below his shoulders. “I am coming to sleep in your bed tonight, since you do not seem to have any wish to come and sleep in mine.”

  Frederick laughed. “Are you now? And which one of your scheming uncles has put you up to this, I wonder?” He took two steps toward her. “I think, madam, it is best that we make one thing very clear. You, a dowerless girl, married me to become empress. I married you, Heaven only knows why, to add the kingdom of Jerusalem to my domains. We’ve both obtained what we wanted, although I fancy that you’ve got the better part of the bargain. As for bedding you, I will do so when and if I feel like it. In the meantime, go back to your apartments and leave me alone!”

  Yolanda’s naturally sallow complexion turned the color of wax. “That means that I’ll never be your wife, that whenever it suits you, you can have our marriage annulled!” she whined. “That’s exactly what Uncle Hugh said you were planning!”

  There was such genuine distress in her eyes that Frederick felt a stab of pity. He put an arm around her. “Come now, Yolanda. I couldn’t rid myself of you if I wanted to. There’s too much at stake. Go back to your waiting-women and your embroidery, and be a good girl.” He took her to the doorway and heaved a sigh of relief when, with a timid smile, she closed the door behind her.

  BARI, MAY 1226

  The hounds had just pointed a covey of partridges. The party spurred their mounts forward. Frederick, glancing about, noticed that Manfred’s sister hadn’t followed. He wheeled his horse around. Bianca was trying to free her hat, which had become entangled in the branches of a tree, while keeping her falcon steady on her wrist.

  “Here, let me.” He handed her the little green felt hat. “You should avoid low branches. They can knock you off your horse!”

  She inclined her head. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “I love rescuing distressed maidens.” He glanced at her bird. “That’s a lovely peregrine. What’s her name?”

  “Guinevere, Your Grace.”

  “Why, I, too, once had a falcon called Guinevere, in Germany. An exceptional bird.”

  They heard the whooshing of wings above them. A cloud of birds was flying east. “I’m afraid they’ve been flushed.” He laid his reins across his saddle. “Let’s wait for the others.” After a moment’s silence he asked, “Well, little one, are you content with the bridegroom I’ve selected for you? I tried to find a man younger than your sister’s husband, mindful of your dislike of old men!”

  “Your Grace was very kind to trouble yourself. How can I not be content with what God and you ordain for me?” The dark blue eyes fixed him evenly.

  Was she mocking him? Manfred’s little sister, who always cheered him, was stiff and formal today, without trace of the impish fun he so liked about her. She was only two years older than Yolanda, yet in her company he always felt at ease. At times, he found himself speaking to her as an equal, a friend almost. At other times, he wondered what it would be like to kiss her.

  “Ah, God.” He smiled, “Do you believe that God exists, Bianca?”

  Without flinching, she said, “Of course I do, everyone does!”

  “But why? How can you be sure?”

  “Because the Church tells us so.”

  “Just because someone tells you something doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s true, does it?”

  She nodded, “Yes, I know, but the world is too beautiful for there to be no God. Do you think the devil made these?” she picked up a little bunch of spring flowers tucked into her saddle and held them up.

  “No, although my friend Francis might tell you that he did, just to beguile you. But the devil certainly makes many other evil things. God and the devil must have much the same relationship with each other as I have with the pope, each trying unsuccessfully to vanquish the other.”

  Her eyes widened. She leaned forward, touching his arm. “My lord,” she whispered, “you must never, never speak of this. People are burned for less. It’s dangerous. Now that your relations with the new pope are troubled, it is even more so!”

  Frederick stared at her. Then he smiled. “Why,” he said, “you’re flapping your wings more anxiously than Berard, who’s always dreading my next misdemeanor!”

  She drew back her hand. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended Your Grace. Please forgive me.”

  Frederick nodded, afraid of himself, afraid of how deeply her naïve concern had touched him. A shaft of sun had pierced the clouds, gilding her dark head. A torn leaf was entangled in the hair behind her ear. He wanted to stretch out his hand to remove the leaf. Instead, he said, “Let’s find the hunters. They must have followed the quarry.”

  FREDERICK BEGAN TO avoid Bianca Lancia whenever he could. He scolded himself for his foolishness. And yet he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Sometimes, if he caught a fleeting glimpse of her, hair demurely covered by a net of silver filigree, passing at the other end of a staircase or a courtyard, he felt a catch in his heart. Furious with himself, he’d summon a girl to his quarters and make love to her.

  Mahmoud, who at times caught the direction of his master’s eye, furrowed his brow. One day, as he was assisting him with his bath, the Saracen, with a familiarity born of years of intimacy, broached the subject.

  Frederick was indignant. “By the beard of the Prophet, I can’t bed the girl! She’s Manfred’s sister, and she’s betrothed to one of the greatest lords in Sicily. Imagine how the scandalmongers all over the Empire would enjoy this.”

  Mahmoud handed him a sponge. “It will be worse if you continue to fret. No one need know about it. Once you have had her, the itch that steals your peace will leave you.”

  “And what about the bridegroom on the wedding night? He’ll run straight to her brother and return her!”

  “That is easy.” Mahmoud permitted himself a smile. “There are ways and means of making a man believe he is deflowering a girl who is no longer a virgin.”

  Frederick raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Really? How interesting.” He leaned back against the wooden tub, lined with linen towels to protect him from splinters.

  The Saracen nodded, “And most efficacious they are, too. Many a bridegroom has been hoodwinked thus.”

  Frederick grinned. “I have no doubt, you rascal. But I couldn’t subject Mistress Lancia to such an indignity. Hand me the towel, this water’s getting cold.”

  Mahmoud opened a large linen bath sheet. As the Saracen dried him, Frederick said, more to himself than to Mahmoud, “I couldn’t do it to her, or to Manfred. Let her be wedded as soon as possible.”

  The Saracen gave Frederick a startled, almost pitying look. He feels sorry for me, Frederick thought. The greatest ruler in Christendom, and here I am yearning for a sixteen-year-old like a moonstruck stable hand! He saw Mahmoud shake his graying head in perplexity as he reached for the perfumed massage oil.

  “SALAAM ALEIKUM.” THE ambassador bowed his turbaned head.

  “Peace be with you,” his interpreter translated.

  “Aleikum es salaam.” And peace be with you, too, Frederick replied in Arabic.

  A smile spread across the ambassador’s bearded visage. “We had heard that the emperor of the Franks can speak our tongue, but did not give credence to such rumours. Now I see that Your Majesty verily speaks the language of Allah. I am Emir Fakhr-ed-Din, envoy of my lord Al-Kamil, sultan of Egypt. If Your Majesty will permit, I wish to present a few small and unworthy gifts, which my lord begs you to accept as tokens of his friendship.”

  Frederick inclined his head. “Any gift that comes in the name of friendship will be valued by me.” The emir waved his hand. He stood back as two towering black Nubians stepped forward. Back and forth the two slaves went, unrolling Eastern rugs that shimmered like silk, splendid saddles, and gem-studded ewers wrought of silver, which they arranged a
t the foot of the dais.

  The ambassador was tall, with a close-cropped black beard and sharp, aquiline features softened by well-formed lips. He wore a yellow tunic over baggy cream breeches, a golden turban with a large yellow diamond, and a curved dagger with a jeweled hilt. His dark eyes were large, without the cruel gaze often found in sharp-featured men. He was the first Muslim prince Frederick had ever met. He liked what he saw.

  But what was the reason for this embassy? Tokens of friendship, from the sultan of Egypt to the emperor of the Franks, on the eve of a crusade? Frederick’s regent in Palestine, Thomas of Acerra, had reported in a recent letter that the sultan of Egypt was in trouble. But just how serious was that trouble? Saladin’s empire had been divided among three brothers of the Ayyubid family. One, Al-Ashraf, was sultan of Babylon, another, AlMu’azzam, sultan of Damascus. They had recently fallen out with the third, Al-Kamil, sultan of Egypt. Could it be, Frederick asked himself as he stroked the falcon beside him while the two black giants carried in more gifts, that Al-Kamil was desperate enough to enlist the aid of the Christian emperor against his brothers?

  Of the three, it was Al-Kamil who held Jerusalem.

  THEY HALTED IN an olive grove at the edge of the sea. While Frederick waited on his mount, Fakhr-ed-Din and his retinue prostrated themselves in prayer, facing east.

  The emir had been at Frederick’s court for almost two months. He had discovered that he had much in common with the emperor. Of an evening, they would often sit together, playing chess or debating. The emir’s passion were horses and falcons. He was also well versed in the arts of dialectic, astronomy, and poetry. Like the emperor, he enjoyed a game of chess with a worthy adversary.

  The emir, rising from his prayer mat, reflected that it must have been these very characteristics that made Al-Kamil select him as his ambassador. Informed about the Frankish emperor’s tastes, he had chosen the man most likely to find favour with him. The sultan, like the emperor, was himself a cultivated man of unconventional habits.

  As soon as his guests had completed their devotions, Frederick gave the order to remount.

  The emir glanced at Frederick. They were riding along the flat coast of Apulia, where land and sea were almost level with each other, toward Barletta. Although he had halted the whole company twice, so that his Muslim guests could say their prayers at the appointed time, the pace at which he rode was punishing. Fakhr-ed-Din, watching him for signs of fatigue, saw none.

  For the last few weeks, they had been playing a game of mental chess with each other. To his surprise, Frederick hadn’t shown much interest in the proposition he had made him. Was he so sure of success that he preferred armed conflict to a treaty that might deliver Jerusalem to him? The more he knew him, the less he thought this likely. Frederick, unlike his barons, was not a man to rush into battle for the sake of glory. It wasn’t reluctance to be seen concluding a treaty with the sultan either, of that he was certain. Frederick had an admirable disregard for the opinion of others. Like his own master, the emperor was a skeptic. And, like Al-Kamil, Frederick, too, had fallen foul—and was likely to continue doing so—of the powers of orthodoxy in his realm.

  Frederick’s reluctance to commit himself to an alliance with Al-Kamil could only be mistrust. As he adjusted his aching buttocks to a different position in the saddle, the emir reflected that his caution was commendable. He was an impressive man, this Christian emperor. And unlike most awe-inspiring men, he was also likable.

  “WHAT ARE YOU going to do?” Hermann von Salza asked.

  Frederick passed his hand over his chin. “Nothing.”

  “But this could be a unique opportunity to drive a wedge into the enemy camp,” Manfred said. “With the sultan of Egypt neutralized by a treaty, you can concentrate on fighting his brothers.”

  “Is it betrayal that’s worrying you?” Berard asked.

  “I’m sure the sultan’s offer is genuine,” Frederick said. “What worries me is time. We aren’t ready to leave for another year. Much can change in that time. Should Al-Kamil defeat his brothers in the meantime, he’ll no longer have any need of me and my army.”

  “Although I, too, was hopeful when this embassy arrived, I think you are right to reject their offer, Frederick,” Hermann said. “You can’t rely on Saracens. Their ways are as shifty as the sands of the desert.”

  “Fakhr-ed-Din leaves next week. I’ll tell him that I wish to consult the princes of the Empire before committing myself to a treaty. And that I will send an ambassador to Egypt to continue negotiations with the sultan before the onset of winter.”

  Sensing the unasked question, Frederick smiled: “Berard will first go to the sultan’s court in Cairo. After that, he will travel to Damascus, to see what the other brother might be induced to offer.”

  Piero della Vigna leaned forward, a frown on his high scholar’s forehead. “With all respect to the archbishop, is it wise to send a churchman to the infidels? Might it not offend them and predispose them against you?”

  Piero della Vigna epitomized the new type of official Frederick was encouraging. Unlike the men who had been administering chanceries in the West since the fall of Rome, Piero neither was of noble birth nor had he taken holy orders. He was the son of a bishop’s steward, who by dint of his brilliant mind and hard work had managed to study at Bologna. Frederick, recognizing his abilities, had made him chancellor of Sicily. Like most men of humble birth who rise above their station, his burning ambition was fueled by a sense of inadequacy.

  Frederick smiled. “The archbishop is no ordinary churchman. I have no doubt that he will carry out his mission with consummate tact.”

  The chancellor dropped his eyes. He toyed with the dagger at his belt.

  Frederick, glancing at the hour candle, rose. It had burned past the third hour of the afternoon. “The embassy will leave before winter. In the meantime, my falconers await me. I’ve received two arctic Ger falcons, procured for me by the bishop of Lübeck, yesterday. I’m off to watch their first training session with live cranes.”

  Seeing the long faces around the table, he said. “Raise your spirits. The conquest of Jerusalem is not an easy task, and not one to be undertaken hurriedly, but in the end, we will prevail.”

  A WEEK LATER, Frederick himself accompanied Fakhr-ed-Din and his retinue to the harbor. Frederick embraced him and kissed him on both cheeks.

  The emir said, “Farewell, my lord. May Allah grant that we meet again, and as friends.”

  Frederick raised his hand in a last farewell to Fakhr-ed-Din, who waved back from the deck. The galley slowly turned and made its way out into the open sea.

  THE MINSTRELS STRUCK up a merry dance tune. In the great hall of Bari’s newly completed castle feet began to tap. Soon, a number of young people formed a large circle.

  Frederick hadn’t seen Bianca for several months while he had been away. She’s grown even lovelier, he thought as his eyes followed her among the dancers. Her future husband was a lucky man. She had spirit and understanding far beyond her years, in fact beyond that of most women.

  As she swirled past the dais, Bianca glanced up. He inclined his head and smiled. Her heart began to pound. She felt the color rise in her cheeks. The tempo of the dance increased. She closed her eyes, letting the music carry her, not wanting to look up again. Why had he been avoiding her? He couldn’t possibly know her secret. She would take it with her to her marriage bed and to her grave. At the thought of the man she had to wed, she felt her chest tighten. How often would she come to court once she was married, how often would she still be able to see him?

  Tonight, as so often before, Yolanda wasn’t present. It was said that after more than six months, he still hadn’t taken her to his bed. The empress was rarely seen, whether of her own volition or because he kept her sequestered in her quarters no one knew, although he took her with him whenever the court moved, perhaps, as some said, afraid that her father would abduct her to get his kingdom back. He had finally sent that red-headed Alb
eria home to her husband. To deposit a cuckoo’s egg in the marital nest, it was bruited. Perhaps …

  A woman screamed, “Fire!” Within seconds the hall was in chaos. Benches and tables were overturned. People shouted, pushing and shoving, frantic to escape the flames. Bianca found herself cut off, pressed against a wall by a surging stampede of people. The fire swept across the floor rushes, fanned by a breeze from the open windows. The tapestries on the walls were burning now, too, flames devouring stags and knights. She was trapped by a sea of burning rushes. Everyone was gone. Terrified, she looked around for a way out. The windows were too far away. She screamed.

  Smoke enveloped her, making her cough. She could hardly breathe. She raised her skirt and pressed it over her nose. With the tip of her shoe she kicked the rushes around her away, trying to make a clearing for herself.

  A figure in a blue cloak appeared in the doorway, one end of his cloak pressed over his nose and mouth. He glanced at her and disappeared. The figure in blue reappeared with another man. Both carried wet cloaks in their hands. They began to beat a path toward her. Tapestries were crashing off the walls, falling to the ground in flaming heaps. The heat was unbearable. Bianca coughed, gasping for air. The smoke stung her eyes. The man in the blue cloak reached her. Glancing at the ceiling, he yelled a warning to his companion, slung her over his shoulder, and ran toward the door. An instant later the great bronze luster on the ceiling came crashing down.

  Outside, in the torchlight, men were running about like ants, filling buckets on ropes with water or sand, making barriers to stop the fire from spreading to the rest of the castle. Her rescuer put her down and whipped the cloak off his head. “Now I know what hell must be like.” In his blackened face, streaked with sweat, his teeth gleamed white as he smiled down at her. Behind him, Mahmoud, too, divested himself of his cover.