The Falcon of Palermo

by Maria R. Bordihn

  Propped up on cushions, Constance smiled at him, pale but luminous. They had brushed her hair and braided it with pearls. An embroidered chemise of aquamarine silk had replaced her birthing shift. He could smell rose water. Women were extraordinary. One moment they sounded as if they were dying, and then they looked like this. Frederick bent down and kissed both her hands. “And how, Madam, does it feel to be the mother of the next king of Sicily?”

  Constance laughed. “Wonderful. Almost as wonderful as being the wife of a man who always gets what he wants.”

  Frederick shook his head. “Not always, alas.” He bent down and whispered, “Do you know that you look magnificent? Childbirth suits you. If it weren’t for all these gawkers, I’d kiss you properly, a promise of things to come.”

  Constance shook her head. “Oh, you.”

  Frederick turned to a page behind him. He took a small ebony casket from the boy and handed it to her. “Open it,” he said eagerly.

  Constance lifted the latch. She gasped. On a cushion of blue silk lay a large oval brooch: an agate cameo of a Roman lady set in gold filigree, surrounded by two concentric circles of pearls. She held the brooch up to the light. “It’s magnificent. Is it Roman?”

  “It is indeed. The cameo is said to have belonged to the Empress Helena, the mother of Constantine. The setting is new. I thought it would make a fitting gift for another royal mother.”

  “It must have cost a fortune,” she whispered.

  “Old Mordecai reluctantly parted with another loan,” he whispered back. “One more doesn’t matter. One day the Jews will sell me to the Venetians as a galley slave.”

  Constance shook her head. He was incorrigible. His generosity would undo all his efforts. She’d never understand him. He scolded servants for throwing away candle stubs that were still usable and carefully scrutinized the chancery’s accounting books, yet he gave his friends princely gifts, and had now bought her an ornament worthy of an empress.

  Frederick kissed her forehead. “I must go now. Everyone is waiting to offer their congratulations. After that, Abu Talib should have finished casting the horoscope. I can’t wait to see what the stars portend for him.”

  Constance leaned back into the pillows. She was filled with happiness. God had replaced her lost son and her brother with a new life. With his help all else would right itself, too.

  * * *

  “SUN, VENUS, MERCURY, and Jupiter in Leo, all in conjunction, in the tenth house of the nativity. Leo being the sign of royalty, this is a most auspicious configuration for a future king, my lord.” The astrologer gave a toothless smile, his pointed hat bobbing.

  Frederick asked, “Well, what else do you see? And what do you mean by the tenth house?”

  The astrologer pointed to the large square on the parchment, which was divided into twelve equal divisions. “You see this square, and the divisions within? Each represents an area of life and character and is called a ‘house.’ The seven planets—Sun, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn and the Moon—are found in different houses according to the exact moment of birth. Depending on which house a planet is situated in, it affects the individual in a different manner. Added to that are the aspects, or angles of degrees, at which the planets stand to one another, and whether they are easy or difficult. Naturally, the planets are either malefic or benefic, depending on their nature.”

  Frederick nodded, “Yes, but go on, explain the rest to me.”

  The astrologer squinted at the chart. It was covered with planetary signs and lines in black ink. “The prince will be tall and handsome, full of pride and self-confidence. Mars in Aries will make him bold, a fine warrior and popular with the ladies.” He tilted his head to one side. “He might be a little headstrong and impulsive, my lord. Because Mars can be both benefic and malefic, you should guard against this from early childhood.”

  “Which planets are malefic or benefic?”

  “The great malefic is Saturn. Mars is the lesser malefic, but he can also be benefic, depending on his sign, position, and aspects.”

  “Is stubbornness going to be Henry’s only fault? Come on, Abu Talib, don’t tell me only what you know I want to hear, tell me the truth.”

  The astrologer touched his right hand to his forehead, his lips and his heart. “But I am telling you the truth, my lord.”

  “Aha, reading the stars?” Berard’s rich baritone echoed through the chamber.

  Frederick beamed at him. “Henry’s horoscope seems very auspicious.”

  “May I have a look?”

  “You know about astrology? I thought you churchmen put your trust in God alone.” Frederick grinned.

  “In my younger days I used to be quite adept at it. There’s nothing unholy about reading the stars. They only reveal the Lord’s will.”

  Berard glanced at the chart. “Hm, a lot of Leo, in a very prominent position. I see what you mean.”

  Frederick watched him, saw a passing frown. “What is it?”

  “These planets in Leo in the tenth house are all in square to Saturn. And Saturn is in the first house.”

  Berard turned to the astrologer. “What do you make of it, Abu Talib?”

  “Your Lordship, there’s no need to worry. Like most high-spirited boys the prince might have a little difficulty obeying his father. It is nothing that a little discipline will not put right.”

  Frederick grinned. “There you are. A true son of mine!”

  “As long as I’m not expected to drum sense into him,” Berard replied, “I don’t mind. I don’t want any more of the gray hairs I got attempting to do that to you as a boy!”

  Laughing, Berard and Frederick left the chamber.

  AS AUTUMN APPROACHED, a stream of messengers and informers came and went between the few remaining loyal towns of Apulia, the palace of Palermo, and the Lateran in Rome.

  Frederick’s embassy to the emperor had returned empty-handed. The Guelf had scoffed at his offer, deriding at him as the “pope’s boy,” conveniently forgetting that without the pope’s support, he himself would never have become emperor. Meanwhile, the pope had enlisted the aid of the king of France. Otto of Brunswick was a nephew of England’s King John. England and France had been at war over English claims in France, and Otto sided with his English uncle, who had supported him in his bid for the imperial crown.

  Philip Augustus of France approached the anti-Guelf faction in Germany. The German princes, however, were not receptive. Although professing outrage at the emperor’s treachery, many privately resented the pope’s high-handed assumption of temporal powers, and thought with nostalgia of the good old days when the German emperors had told the popes what to do.

  As soon as Otto crossed the Tuscan boundary, the pope excommunicated him publicly in Saint Peter’s, making him an outcast. Letters were sent to the German bishops, to be read from the pulpits of every church, releasing the emperor’s subjects from their fealty. Otto, however, continued undaunted on his path of conquest. One by one, the cities of Apulia surrendered to him: Trani, Barletta, and Bari fell one after the other. Only Brindisi held out. By the end of September even this last bastion of royalist loyalty had fallen to Otto’s army.

  FREDERICK PACED UP and down the chamber. Finally he came to a halt before his page. “Find the admiral and the archbishop, and be quick about it.” The boy scurried away.

  The messenger still remained kneeling on the floor. At last, as he almost tripped over the man, Frederick noticed him. Dismissing him, he resumed his pacing, then stopped. “That miserable son of a poxed German whore!” His fist crashed down on a lectern. The falcon on its perch in the corner shrieked in alarm, flapping its wings.

  “What a disrespectful way of referring to the Holy Roman Emperor!”

  Frederick wheeled around.

  Alaman was crossing the room with his swaggering seafarer’s gait. “So, what has the barbarian done now?” he asked, flinging his cloak across a bench. “I understand your feelings, but his mother wasn’t German, but
English, sister of the Lionheart. That, of course, does not preclude her from having been a whore. I believe the whole family has peculiar sexual habits, including the heroic Richard, who favored fair boys. As for being poxed …”

  Frederick, usually amused by Alaman’s ribald humor, gave the older man a look that stopped him in mid-sentence. “Otto and his army are encamped across the straits of Messina.”

  The blood drained from Alaman’s face. “It can’t be.”

  “It is. I’ve just had a message from the garrison commander there. Otto is waiting for the Pisan fleet, to launch his invasion of the island.”

  “If they cross to the island, we can’t stop them for long. You know that, don’t you?”

  Frederick nodded. He knew it, better than anyone else. He had lain awake at night for weeks, considering his options in the event that his counselors might be wrong. They had all assured him that Otto was unlikely to attempt a conquest of the island. They had all been wrong.

  “Alaman, I want you to give orders for two fast galleys to be ready in Castellamare to carry myself and my family to Tunisia. We’ll have to return to fight another day. This is one battle we are not going to win.”

  “Are you thinking of taking the queen and little Henry, too?”

  “Can you imagine what would befall my son if he fell into the emperor’s hands? His aim is to exterminate the Hohenstaufen.”

  Before Alaman could reply, an alarmed-looking Berard walked through the door. “Frederick, you sent for me?” he asked.

  “Otto and his army are in Reggio Calabria and about to cross, on Pisan ships, to the island. I’ve instructed Alaman to have two galleys riding at anchor, ready to take myself and the court into exile.”

  Berard stared at him. No one had believed that Otto would go as far as attacking the island. It was assumed that once he had consolidated his hold on Apulia he’d return to Germany, satisfied with having reclaimed lands that the Empire had disputed for centuries. There was a certain tenuous justification in that, with which he could whitewash his treachery.

  “For how long can we stop them?” Berard asked.

  Frederick said: “If we trap them in the narrow passes leading out of Messina, for a while. But they may not land there. In that case, for a day or two at most.”

  Alaman nodded.

  Frederick continued, “I want you to ensure that the treasury and the chancery archives are removed and put on board tonight, in the greatest secrecy. Take Mahmoud, with a few helpers.” He gestured toward the Saracen who acted as his body servant and guard.

  “Mahmoud, go with his lordship and make sure no one knows about this. You have men you can trust?”

  The Saracen salaamed. “I can vouch for them, my sultan.” With a shadow of a smile he added, “No German gold could buy them.”

  Turning to Alaman, Frederick said, “Make sure the galleys are well guarded, but in such a way as not to arouse suspicion.”

  The Genoese nodded.

  Berard looked at Frederick. “Are you going to inform the council of this?”

  “In good time. From now on, I make my own decisions.” Frederick’s voice was flat.

  He looked toward Alaman. “See to it that Messina gets all the reinforcements we can afford.”

  “I’ll do so immediately.” The Genoese grabbed his cloak and left the room, with Mahmoud following.

  “Berard,” Frederick put his hand on the archbishop’s arm, “I don’t wish to impose this on you. I’ll understand if you choose to remain here. Will you come with us if the need arises?”

  Berard looked at him. “Need you even ask? Of course I’ll come with you. One archbishop or another is much the same as far as a diocese is concerned. But if we are to reclaim Sicily, I can be of more use if I am with you.”

  Frederick smiled. “Thank you, dear friend.” He put his arm around the burly archbishop. He often thought these days that Constance and Berard were all that he had left in a world that was collapsing beneath him.

  FREDERICK STOOD BY the window and watched the long line of donkeys leave the outer bailey in the torchlight. The panniers and bales looked like provisions destined for a royal hunting lodge. Caged chickens cackled in annoyance at having their sleep interrupted. On others, baskets with cabbages and apples were wedged between closed panniers.

  As he followed the donkey train with his eyes, Frederick thought how low the fortunes of Sicily had once again sunk. The contents of the chancery and the treasury, including the crown of Sicily, were wending their way to Castellamare amid hens and cabbages. He turned back to the room. There were heaps of clothing everywhere. In the midst of this disorder, Constance and Juana had been busy for hours, cutting open seams and hems, selecting jewels from an open casket and sewing the openings closed after concealing the gems inside.

  Frederick sat down on a settle and poured himself a cup of wine. He felt hollow inside. Would it ever end, this cruel game that God had played with him since childhood? Every time, just as his luck seemed to turn, fate, with a malicious twist, called forth a new disaster. He ran his finger along the rim of his cup as he watched the two women. Constance’s features were drawn, dark shadows under her eyes. Even those associated with him were sucked into the vortex of disaster that was his life.

  At last, Constance and Juana packed the garments back into a chest, removing all evidence of their activity. Juana bade them a good night and left the room. Constance, already in her night shift, a cloak over her shoulders, came over to him. She sat down beside him and leaned her head against his shoulder. A deep sigh escaped her. “Frederick, can’t we go to Aragon? At least there we would be safe.”

  He shook his head. “It’s too dangerous to cross the open seas. Pisan ships will be on the prowl as soon as our flight is discovered. But they can’t patrol forever, and then we can slip out of Tunis.” He gestured to the chest that contained the dresses with the jewels. “Was that really necessary?”

  “When I had to flee from my husband’s brother in Hungary, the jewels I had sewn into my hems saved my life.” With a sigh she added, “If we get taken by the Pisans, they’ll certainly take my jewels, but there’s a good chance they’d let me keep my clothes. One can bribe one’s way out of confinement with enough jewels.”

  Frederick admired the calm with which she had taken the news of their impending flight and prepared for it. He got up and yawned. “Let’s sleep. I’m exhausted and so must you be.” He put his arm around her waist. He had chosen to sleep tonight in her bedchamber. On his way to bed he blew out the sputtering candles. They had nearly burned themselves out. Somewhere, a church bell chimed matins. It was two o’clock in the morning.

  THE NEWS FROM the garrison in Messina, watching the enemy across the narrow straits, remained the same. Otto was still waiting for the Pisan fleet. As the days went by, the tension in the palace rose. Tempers became more and more frayed. All forts commanding the harbors where the enemy might land had been strengthened. Since Messina seemed the most likely target, its garrison had been reinforced with the best available men and an additional contingent of Saracen archers.

  Constance spent her days in the nursery, surrounded by her women, cradling her baby son. She tried to stay away as much as possible from Frederick, who was beginning to show the strain too. On the fourth day the weather changed. Clouds began to drift across the blue skies, harbingers of colder weather.

  THE MAN STANDING guard outside the loft looked up at the sky. Black clouds blanketed the heavens. He stepped back under the wooden shelter and pulled the cowl of his brown cloak over his head. A cold wind had begun to blow from the sea. It was turning into a gale.

  “No birds will be flying in this weather, I promise you,” he said to his companion, rubbing his callused hands together to keep them warm. They had several more dreary hours to go before their relief was due.

  He had barely uttered the words when the pigeon whirled toward them. Flapping its wings to keep its balance in the blowing wind, the bird gripped the perch in f
ront of the pigeonhouse, impatient to enter the safety of the loft.

  The two sentries rushed forward. Stroking its feathers and murmuring reassuringly in Arabic, the older man relieved the pigeon of the message tied to its tail, while the younger one fed it a pellet of seeds and honey. Pulling on a rope, he opened the trap door to the loft. The pigeon fluttered eagerly into the warmth of the dovecote.

  Holding the tiny brass cylinder in his raised hand like a trophy, his companion ran toward the guardroom.

  “A message from Messina, for the king. Have it delivered immediately.”

  CONSTERNATION SHOWED ON the faces of those bending over the tiny scrap of parchment.

  Straightening, Walter of Palear shook his head. “It’s impossible. It must be a forgery.”

  The others nodded. Carrier pigeons were vulnerable to attack by trained falcons. Sometimes wind brought them down in enemy territory. If spotted, such birds could be sent on their way again after their message had been changed.

  “I agree that it makes no sense at all,” Berard stroked his black beard, “and yet, somehow, I don’t think it is a forgery. What would they be achieving with it? In a day or two, at most, we’ll know whether it’s true or not.”

  Frederick, so tense that his knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the table, turned to Mahmoud. “Ready an escort of fifty men. I’m riding for Messina.”

  “Frederick, don’t do anything rash. This could—”

  “Berard, don’t argue with me,” he cut him off. “I’ve been sitting here for weeks on your advice when I should have been in Messina.”

  Berard said, “That’s utter nonsense. There’s nothing you could have done there except endanger yourself. If this is a trap, the Germans will be waiting for you. Without you as a rallying point, Sicily is theirs.”

  Frederick gave him a hurt look. That was the last quarter from which he had expected attack.