Frederick, standing on the quay, scanned the crowded forecastle. A group of lords and ladies under the main awning was coming down the gangplank, led by a dark handsome man with an arrogantly beaked nose.
“That must be the other brother, the Count of Provence,” whispered Berard, stepping forward with Frederick and Walter to greet them.
Walter, after introducing the count to Frederick, launched into a mellifluous speech of welcome. While listening absently to Walter’s elegant Latin, Frederick’s eyes were drawn to the count’s splendid scabbard. He tried not to stare at the rubies and amethysts and pearls.
Count Alfonso said, “My lord Frederick, may I present my sister Constance?” A cloud of pale blue silk curtsied before him. Through the veil on her bent head he could see that her hair was a rich hue of gold.
Mechanically, he extended a hand to raise her. With slender fingers she lifted her veil and smiled at him.
Frederick looked into luminous gray eyes fringed by dark lashes. Her face, although somewhat long, was unlined, with a straight, aristocratic nose and a warm, generous mouth, showing a row of perfect white teeth. Not only isn’t she old, she’s lovely, Frederick thought, astonished. He managed to say, “My lady Constance, I welcome you to Sicily.”
“I am pleased to be here, my lord.” Constance stretched out her hand. She broadened her smile, and Frederick realized with alarm that he was meant to kiss her hand. As he did so, he was aware of his clumsiness. He had never kissed a lady’s hand before. Constance gave him another smile, squeezing his hand almost imperceptibly before lowering her veil. She’s an angel, he thought, his heart thumping.
The grooms pushed their way through the crowd, bringing the horses. They mounted and began a slow progress through the crowded streets toward the palace. Frederick felt light-headed, as if he had drunk too much unwatered wine. Clearly, his bride was a great success. Berard had given him an approving wink. Even Walter wore something resembling a smile.
Riding at the head of the party beside her brother, Frederick pointed out the sights of Palermo to him. The count kept on asking prying questions that would have irritated Frederick at any other time. But now he patiently answered, smiling. Yet, despite his excitement, he kept on glancing back at the ships in bay. When would he see the five hundred knights and the gold?
ALFONSO WAS BEGINNING to lose patience. He drummed his fingers on the ledge of the huge fireplace he was leaning against. Women! Sweet Jesus, they could be so maddening, yet without them life would be terribly dull.
He’d followed his sister to her apartments as soon as the banquet had come to an end. It was their first opportunity to be alone since they’d arrived in Palermo, and he wanted to talk to Constance. Now, instead of dismissing her servants, she was giving them lengthy instructions on the unpacking of her traveling chests.
Alfonso selected a peach from a platter piled with fruit and settled down to wait, observing his sister. Constance, clad only in a linen shift, was sitting at a table littered with the paraphernalia of female adornment. Without her brocaded gown and her jewels, she looked very vulnerable. He felt a pang of protective love. The poor girl had suffered so much. Becoming queen of Hungary had brought her nothing but misery. He remembered how for months after her return to Aragon she’d suffered horrendous nightmares that even the most learned doctors were unable to prevent. Night after night she’d relive her husband’s and her little son’s murder, her escape from the nunnery into which her husband’s brother had forced her, and her flight across Hungary.
At last, the women curtsied. Alfonso waited for the door to close before asking, in a tone designed to play down the weightiness of the question: “What do you make of him?” He’d been wanting to ask this all day, since he’d first set eyes on Frederick. Beneath the awkward boyish charm he’d sensed a will of steel, like that of a prized Toledo blade. He found the young man unsettling. This was not the docile ward of the pope he had been led to expect.
Constance took out the last pin from her hair, letting it tumble down her back. She looked up at him. “I don’t know,” she said. “There’s something appealing about him. He’s certainly far more mature than an ordinary youth of fifteen.” She thought for a moment. “But he’s also much less civilized.” She picked up a comb and passed it through her hair. “Did you see the way he eats? He wipes his hands on the tablecloth and throws bones to that dreadful dirty Alaunt.”
Alfonso laughed. If these were her only objections, then all was well. “Well, he may not be the paragon of virtues the Holy Father made him out to be, but at least he doesn’t belch. What can you expect of a boy who has grown up surrounded entirely by men? I am told that he spends his days in the chancery or hawking, and reads Roman history half the night.”
He placed the peach pip on a pewter plate, careful not to soil his fingers. “I’m sure that like a thoroughbred, his blood will tell with some training. All he needs is some feminine influence to refine him a little.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll do that in no time at all.”
“It may not be so easy; I’ve been told by the archbishop, who is obviously fond of him, that he’s as stubborn as a mule. If even his friends say that about him …”
“Did the archbishop say that?”
“Well, not exactly. He said that I should be patient with him, as he is a bit headstrong.”
“That,” Alfonso agreed, “is a tactful way of saying that dear Frederick is used to having his own way. Nevertheless, I am convinced that your gentle persuasion will work wonders.”
“Do you think he’ll grow to like me, even though I am so much older than he is?”
“Judging by the way he looks at you already, I would say that he’ll be besotted before the week is out.”
Amused at the thought of a fumbling youth smitten by his elegant sister, Alfonso went over to the open window, left unshuttered to allow the cool of the night to enter. The bay of Palermo shimmered in the moonlight like a sheet of beaten silver. “Look at this view,” he called over his shoulder.
Joining him, his sister gazed into the night. The air was fragrant with jasmine. Torchlights flamed on street corners and flat rooftops, where people sat and enjoyed the cool of the evening. A distant sound of drums and tambourines floated in the air, coming from the Muslim quarter.
“It reminds me of Granada,” she said. “Do you remember when I accompanied you on an embassy to the caliph? The gardens in the Alhambra had fountains just like these. I was but a child, but I remember thinking they were the most glorious gardens I had ever seen, even though they were Muslim gardens on Christian soil.” Constance laid her head on his shoulder and sighed.
“What is it, my precious? I’m sorry it had to be Sicily, but with our help Sicily will revive.”
“It’s not that. I was just thinking how much I missed you and Pedro when I was in Hungary. Having you here it is almost as if we were children again. Poor Frederick, it must be sad to have no brothers or sisters, no family at all. I’m lucky to have two wonderful brothers. You will stay for a while, won’t you?” There was a hint of anxiety in her voice.
“Yes, my sweet. It will take some time to settle the knights in. And I promise to visit later on—not, you understand, to clasp my lady sister to my heart, but just because the Sicilian peaches are the best in the world.”
He put his arm around her and gave her a reassuring hug. “I think I should let you get some sleep.” He brushed her hair with his lips.
THE WEDDING DAY dawned, a cloudless August morning. By noon the city was sweltering. Since sunrise townspeople and country folk had been jostling each other for the best places from which to view the pageant. Immense crowds lined the streets. They crammed the rooftops and hung from every window. The mansions along the royal route were festooned with tapestries and garlands of flowers. Church bells began to peal. As the procession came into view the people broke into frenzied cheering.
Mounted heralds, the arms of Sicily and Aragon on their surcoats, led the way on
horses with flower-bedecked bridles. Behind them, on foot, appeared Saracen musicians, playing tambourines, pipes, and sackbuts. The crowd gasped as line after line of Aragonese knights rode past on their great warhorses, banners flying, their black armor glinting in the sun.
At last, shouts of “Il re! Il re!” rang out. Frederick, on a white stallion under an emerald canopy upheld by six turbaned Saracens, gripped his reins tighter. He shifted his shoulders to balance King Roger’s magnificent vermilion mantle. The cheering swelled to a deafening roar. Flowers began to rain down. For the first time, the people of Palermo were acclaiming him in a procession. How many remembered him as a boy, scrounging roast chickpeas from the street vendors? They were his people, his kin. A bond more powerful than blood.
Behind him the crowd cheered Constance. As they turned a corner, he glanced back over his shoulder. She looked lovely. In pale lemon, a gemstudded circlet securing the veil on her flowing hair, she waved to the crowd. “Federico e Costanza! Federico e Costanza!” the people now chanted, stamping their feet. “Federico e Costanza! Federico e Costanza!”
The procession swept into the cathedral square. To the sound of trumpets, he and Constance ascended the steps toward the altar that had been erected before the bronze doors. There Berard awaited them with the officiating clergy.
A herald stepped forward. Unrolling a scroll with the great red seal of Aragon, he read out the terms of the marriage settlement. Those within hearing distance gasped in astonishment. Berard shot him a quizzical look. Frederick smiled back nonchalantly. He watched the barons, clustered nearby, and caught them exchanging glances. Good, he thought. Let worry gnaw at those traitors. The reading had been his idea. Within minutes the news would spread through Palermo. He had selected and coached the herald himself, doubling the number of knights and the gold.
Berard took the ring from a silver paten and blessed it. “In the name of the Lord, I bless this ring and this union between Aragon and Sicily.”
Taking the gold band, Frederick slipped it on and off three successive fingers on her hand, saying: “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” He then pledged her his troth: “With this ring I thee wed and with this gold I thee endow.”
Constance gave him a glowing smile. He took her hand and kissed it, letting his lips linger. She blushed, and lowered her eyes.
The public ceremony now ended and the invited guests entered the cathedral. After the glaring heat in the piazza, the interior, fragrant with incense, was cool and restful. Frederick and Constance knelt before the altar. Berard gave each a lighted taper. He extended his pallium, a stole of white lambswool, symbol of his episcopal authority, over their bowed heads. After Mass was over, a priest emerged from the sacristy bearing a silver casket tarnished by age. Whispering to Constance to remove her circlet, Frederick opened the casket, lifting out of it a crown of Byzantine design, in the form of a scarlet skullcap studded with gems, with two long jeweled pendants hanging on either side. Though his hands were steady as he placed it on Constance’s head, his voice trembled: “This was the crown of my mother. May you wear it for many years in happiness.”
A murmur of surprise ran through the congregation. Constance sank to her knees. She looked up at him, her eyes moist. “Thank you, my lord. May I be worthy of this great honor.”
Frederick smiled. “Come,” he said, extending his hand. Together they walked down the nave, out of the cool dimness of the cathedral into the sunshine outside.
* * *
THE INTENSE HEAT of summer had given way to long golden autumn days. Preparations for the campaign to flush out the rebels on the mainland had begun. The army would leave at the end of the short Sicilian winter.
Frederick threw himself into the process of learning how to equip and train an army: he observed the Aragonese knights feint with Saracen swordsmen to learn the Muslim way of warfare, inspected barrels of dried sardines and strings of cheeses in the storehouses on the waterfront, watched armorers temper hissing steel in vats of cold water. He clambered about requisitioned ships, talking with muscular sailors and wrinkled shipwrights hammering the old hulls into seaworthiness. When no one could find an adequate supply of army tents, he suggested that the palace silk works produce them instead of weaving the gorgeous fabrics for which they were famed. He pored over maps with Alaman, Berard, and Alfonso. During the afternoons, while the court came to a standstill, he worked with his secretaries.
Frederick glanced at the hourglass. He had promised to take Constance hawking and it was already past the fourth hour. He beckoned to the tall Saracen guarding the door. “Mahmoud, send word to the queen that I’ll be there shortly.” His childhood friend had turned into a brave and loyal man with broad shoulders. Mahmoud’s attention to detail was the only vestige of the careful, shy boy he had once been.
Frederick signed the last parchment and handed it to a black-gowned secretary to sand and seal. He was about to leave when the sentry outside announced the archbishop.
“Escort his lordship in.” If Berard had come all the way to the summer palace, it must be important. They greeted each other with a hug.
“Sit down.” Frederick said. “I won’t be able to see you for long, though. Constance has been waiting for hours. What news do you bring?”
Berard gave him a folded parchment. “A letter from His Holiness, Frederick. I’m afraid it’s not good news. I’ve had a letter from him myself.”
Frederick broke the seal and read in silence. When he put the letter down, his lips were pressed together. “So Innocent thinks he rules Sicily, too?”
“Frederick, I told you the pope wouldn’t accept your appointment of bishops without his consent.”
Frederick slammed his palm onto the table. “Damnation, Berard, you know better than anyone that a bishop wields immense power. Bishops govern cities, administer justice, collect taxes, at times even command armies. How can I not have the right to appoint the most worthy, loyal man to the post? What does the pope in Rome know about who the best candidate is? Or is the most suitable man the one who has paid the highest bribe for the appointment, who will look after the interests of Rome?”
Seeing Berard’s face, he added, “I’m sorry, Berard. I know that not all churchmen are like that, but you know that many are corrupt. They fornicate, line their pockets with bribes, and openly practice simony. Small wonder that the people don’t heed their preaching any more.”
Frederick slumped in his chair. He passed his hand over his eyes. The papacy was encroaching from all sides like a relentless tide. How was he ever going to free himself?
Berard leaned forward. “I know how you feel, and you are essentially right, but this is a legal matter. According to your mother’s concordat with the papacy, when she recognized the pope as suzerain of Sicily, she agreed to Rome’s right of veto in the election of Sicilian bishops.”
“Are you saying, then,” Frederick asked, “that I must accept the pope’s decision?”
“I am.”
“That means that by forcing me to accept a bishop of his choice in every diocese, the pope will effectively be ruling Sicily?”
“No, but he can certainly exert considerable influence,” Berard admitted.
Frederick leaped up. He began to pace. “Innocent thinks he rules Christendom like a Caesar. He treats the kings of Europe as proconsuls, graciously tolerated so long as we do his bidding. … Look how he humiliated poor John of England. This jackal on the papal throne is getting far too big for his embroidered slippers …”
“Frederick!”
Frederick stopped pacing. He stared at Berard. All anger had gone out of him. He felt empty. A pawn, he thought, that’s what I am. First of the Germans, now of the pope. Nothing but a pawn. He sat down. “What shall I do, Berard?”
“Be patient. Don’t antagonize the Holy Father. Try to persuade him. Innocent is only trying to protect the Church and uphold her principles. I’ll go to Rome if you wish, plead your case.”
Frederick wasn�
�t listening. A thought had occurred to him. Yes. It might be possible … “I could of course curtail the power of the bishops. Replace them in their secular functions with a body of trained officials, loyal only to the state, as the Romans had …”
Berard shook his head, exasperated. “Frederick, you can’t change the world. Where would you get such officials? Since the fall of Rome the Church alone has kept learning alive. Bishops trained in the cathedral schools have been running the Christian world for eight hundred years.”
“The Romans had better roads, better bridges, safer cities, and their justice system has not been matched. Why? Because they were superior beings?” Frederick paused. “No. They succeeded because they didn’t throw up their hands and cry that it was the will of God.”
“The Roman world may or may not have been better,” Berard said, “but it’s gone forever. You’ve inherited an excellent administration. Many of the Byzantine and Saracen systems used in Sicily are descended from Rome. Be content with that.”
“I don’t want to be content. I want to do better. I’ll train my own officials, in my own university. I’ll establish a secular one, where no pope can interfere …”
Berard sighed. He shook his head. “There’s no point in arguing with you when you’re in this sort of mood.”
Frederick rose. “Well, at least there’s one papal appointment I don’t regret,” he put a conciliatory hand on Berard’s shoulder. “Since you’ve come all this way, won’t you dine with us tonight? I’m giving a banquet for some newly converted barons. Observing them at close quarters will be interesting.”
“I’ll be delighted. You’ve done wonders here.”
Frederick laughed. “If only retiling and regilding didn’t cost so much …” He had begun to restore a summer residence of his grandfather’s, built in the middle of an artificial lake on the outskirts of Palermo.
Calling to Mahmoud to see to the archbishop, he strode down the steps toward Constance’s apartments.
* * *
THE OPEN PAVILION was filled with laughing, drinking guests reclining on divans arranged along the walls. From the screened musicians’ gallery came the sound of lutes and mandolins. As the evening progressed and the muscat wine flowed freely, what had started as a formal banquet, with many of the guests uneasy, was turning into a lively gathering.
The Falcon of Palermo Page 5