Arnold now dismounted. To Frederick’s surprise, he took hold of his reins. “Your Grace, allow me to lead your horse in the time-honored way.”
The bishop himself, holding Frederick’s bridle, walked at the head of the procession through a massive guard tower, up a steep cobbled hill on which stood an imposing cathedral and the episcopal palace. Behind him followed the notables of Chur, who had ridden out with the bishop. The bishop’s own horse, far more splendidly accoutred than Frederick’s, was led by a groom walking a few paces behind. Frederick glanced down at the bishop’s three-cornered fur hat. He could not help feeling that he was being led, with a great show of outward submission, like a docile pawn of the men who truly ruled Germany: her great feudal princes, both secular and ecclesiastical.
Nowhere had he been honored thus, yet the crowds that pressed against the steeply gabled wooden houses were far less exuberant than those of the Italian cities. There was something dour and wary about the people, even the children. Mostly dark of eye and hair, these descendants of Romans and barbarians scrutinized him with the suspiciousness of mountain dwellers. Their cheering was perfunctory.
How many of them, Frederick wondered, remembered his grandfather Barbarossa, so beloved by his people, or his father, the feared Emperor Henry? Certainly, the only Hohenstaufen the younger townspeople would have known by sight was his uncle Philip, who had recently been assassinated.
Did the people’s loyalty still belong to the Hohenstaufen, or did they now only pay allegiance to their masterful ecclesiastical lord?
BISHOP ARNOLD STROKED his pockmarked nose. “The most I can let your Grace have are two hundred horsemen. The abbot of Saint Gall, together with the local barons, I am sure, will be able to provide you with several times that number.”
Frederick suppressed a sneer. Two hundred men! That was many fewer than he had expected, a fraction of the army he needed to face Otto in battle. On Frederick’s instructions, Anselm had, for the last two days, been indulging in friendly discussions of horseflesh with the bishop’s head groom. Frederick knew that Arnold could have spared three times as many men. The good bishop was hedging his bets in case Frederick didn’t gather enough support further north.
“That is far less than I expected,” Frederick replied, steepling his fingers together. “I realise you cannot leave Chur unprotected, but it is my understanding that you have nearly eight hundred men within these walls, more than half of whom are mounted. Correct?”
Taken aback, the bishop nodded.
“My dear bishop,” Frederick leaned across the table. He held the other’s gaze, “I am sure that with an effort, you could manage at least another hundred, don’t you think?”
Arnold ran his tongue over his lips. He was trapped. “At risk to the town, my lord, if you command me to do so, I will.”
“I shall remember the risk you are taking when the time comes to share some of the benefices now held by Otto’s prelates.” Frederick smiled. “In fact, as soon as I have defeated Otto, I’ll need some trustworthy men of proven ability.” He clapped the bishop on the shoulder. “Your record is such that I might consider you for the post of chancellor.”
Frederick caught Berard’s look. He’s thinking that such bizarre tactics won’t fool a man as shrewd as Arnold, Frederick thought. Yet the bishop’s small eyes glittered with greed.
“I shall give orders for your troops to be ready on the morrow, my lord. Word has been sent to Saint Gall. I myself will accompany you there.”
THEY RODE THROUGH the gatehouse into the cobbled courtyard of the Benedictine Abbey of Saint Gall. Grooms came running to lead the horses to the stableyard. The gatekeeper sent a lay brother scurrying to announce their arrival to the abbot.
Frederick, dismounting, took in his impressive surroundings. Berard had been right. Saint Gall was one of the largest abbeys in Christendom, a major center of learning and education. Founded in the seventh century by Saint Gall, an Irish hermit, it had been endowed by Charlemagne with vast landholdings. Its abbot was a prince of the Empire and its library the envy of Europe.
Encircled by massive fortified walls, the abbey was a self-contained world. A physic garden and infirmary, bake and brewhouses, mills, workshops and threshing floors, kilns, stables, and pens supplied those within its walls with almost every necessity. Guest houses for the poor, the noble, and the ecclesiastical offered hospitality to travelers. In the scriptorium, scores of monks copied, bound, and illuminated devotional texts and books from the classical world. In its school, young boys destined for the Church acquired the learning that had been safeguarded here for centuries.
The abbot, erect and elderly, white hair circling his tonsure, came striding briskly down the arcaded walk, followed by the prior and subprior.
“Welcome, my lord of Hohenstaufen. Our house is at your disposal. The brother hospitaller here will show you to your quarters. I’m afraid they are simple, my lord, but I trust you will find them adequate nevertheless. Your men will be taken care of in the outbuildings.”
“Thank you, father. How can I find fault with quarters that once offered shelter to Charlemagne?” Frederick smiled. “As you can see, we are weary and grateful to be here.” They and their mounts were covered in a gray layer of dust, the flanks of their horses foaming.
“I would be pleased if Your Grace would do me the honor of dining with me tonight.”
“The honor, Father Abbot, will be mine.”
Abbot Ulrich von Sax smiled. Frederick saw him cast a discreet glance at Mahmoud, turbaned and scimitared. No doubt the first Saracen the abbot had ever seen.
“This is Brother Johannes, our hospitaller. He will take care of all your needs. I bid you a good rest, my lord.” The abbot bowed.
They followed the friar across the courtyard and through the cloister to the guest wing reserved for high-ranking ecclesiastics and the nobility.
FREDERICK SAT BY the open window, clad only in his unlaced tunic and hose. The sun fell on the floor rushes. He had moved the table closer to the window in order to have more light. The chamber, although spacious, was dark and chilly, with only one small unglazed window, but in the sun it was pleasantly warm. The cloister, with its well-tended herb and flower beds, was peaceful. While it did rain a lot, these northern summers were not as dreary as he’d thought. The rivers and forests of Germany were beautiful, the fields lush without the need for waterwheels, and the sun surprisingly hot. There was also a frankness about the people, exemplified in the abbot, which he liked.
He picked up a parchment from the pile on the table. Among the dispatches and letters waiting for him at the abbey there had been one from Constance. Her voice echoed in his mind as he read her letter for the second time.
“My worshipful lord and beloved husband, I greet you and send you God’s blessing. … All is well in your realm, thanks to God and the good men who are helping me. The burdens of state weigh heavily on me, beloved, and I wish you were here. … Our son is well and walking already. You would be proud to see him. … I am in constant fear for your safety. I am having prayers said for your success and speedy return every day in the chapel. … I call the blessing of the Virgin Mary and all the saints upon you. May they keep you safe and bring you back to me soon.”
He dropped the letter and sighed. Well, at least she was praying for his success. That was an improvement on her previous attitude. He regretted the way they had parted and the things he had said in anger. For the first time, he realized how much he missed her. He’d make amends, send her a jewel perhaps, as soon as he could, as soon as he had gained a foothold in Germany. But when would that be?
Otto had strengthened his position in northern Germany. As soon as he heard of Frederick’s approach, he marched south at the head of an army several thousand strong. Frederick’s next objective was Konstanz. So far, no German city had acclaimed him. Chur, a family possession, did not count. If he wanted to rally those German princes who were still wavering, he had to secure the cities. Abbot Ulrich had
called a meeting of Swabian barons in the abbey. With their aid, Frederick hoped to raise a force strong enough to defeat Otto in battle.
He reached across the table for some writing material. Constance was proving an able regent. Even Walter praised her in his dispatch! He sat thinking for a moment before dipping his quill into the inkhorn. He wrote rapidly. Endearments became entangled with advice on everything from placating the pope’s new legate to collecting port tolls in Messina. Every now and then he paused to sharpen the goose quill absentmindedly with a small knife. As he thought of Palermo, a sharp longing gripped him. He longed for the sea, for the bells of San Giovanni and the calls of the muezzin …
Absorbed in his thoughts, he didn’t hear the clatter of boots in the cloister. There was a knock on the door.
“What is it, Mahmoud?”
Mahmoud’s tall form was blocking the view beyond the door-frame.
“A messenger. From the count of something-or-other. I can’t understand him. The abbot sends him.”
“Show him in.”
“Your Grace,” the messenger fell to his knees, his breath still coming fast. Sweat was pouring down his begrimed face.
“Here, drink this.” Frederick handed him his own half-empty cup of watered wine. The man drank, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I bear an urgent message from the Count of Kiburg. Otto of Brunswick and his army are encamped at Ueberlingen, on the northern shore of Lake Konstanz. Tomorrow, he will cross the lake and make his formal entry into Konstanz at vespers.”
Frederick caught his breath. The Count of Kiburg was a loyal supporter of the Hohenstaufen. There could be no doubt about the truth of his warning.
“But that’s impossible. A week ago Otto was still in Nuremberg. How do you know this is true?”
“The man who brought the message, one of our spies, came from Otto’s camp on the lake last night.”
Frederick let out an obscenity. The city of Konstanz was only twenty-six miles north of Saint Gall, half a day’s ride at the most. He had no idea how much further Ueberlingen was, but it couldn’t be far if Otto could reach the city in less than a day.
“How many men does he have?”
“Over four thousand, my lord.”
Frederick blanched. “Mahmoud, my cloak and boots, quickly! Send Manfred to the abbot. Ask him to assemble all the lords who are already here in the chapter house within the hour. And call the archbishop. I want him here immediately.”
In his haste, he nearly fell over the messenger.
“The brothers will lodge you overnight.”
“Thank you, my lord. There is one more thing my lord bade me tell you.” The man hesitated, clearly uncomfortable.
“Yes?”
“He said to tell you that if you remain here, your life will be in danger. Otto of Brunswick is capable of violating the abbey’s sanctuary. My lord suggested that you take refuge in his castle of Kiburg. You and your party could get there before nightfall.”
* * *
“THESE ARE UNWELCOME tidings indeed, my lords,” Abbot Ulrich said. He looked at Frederick. “What, my lord Frederick, do you propose to do?”
Frederick glanced at the tense faces in the chapter house. In addition to Berard, Alaman, and Manfred, there were a number of ecclesiastical princes present, amongst them the powerful abbots of Pfaeffers and Reichenau, as well as several Swabian barons.
“I suggest we ride for Konstanz tomorrow morning at first light.”
This was greeted by an uproar.
Frederick raised his right hand, commanding silence. They stared at him with open dismay.
“My lords, I know this may seem risky. But I must reach Konstanz before Otto does. I cannot allow him to take possession of such a strategically important city.”
The abbot of Reichenau, a portly prelate with the shifty eyes of a weasel, rose from his seat. “But my lord, we don’t have sufficient men. The bishop of Konstanz has declared for Otto. He won’t change his mind at the sight of a paltry force such as ours. Would it not be better to wait till the other princes have arrived, and then march on Konstanz with a substantial army?”
“Then we’d have to engage in a long siege. If we get there before him, we will be able to ride into the city unopposed.”
The abbot of Reichenau raised his thin eyebrows. “How, my lord Frederick?”
“By the powers of persuasion. I am the rightful emperor. I have both the Lord’s and the pope’s blessing.” With sarcasm he added, “Surely even the bishop of Konstanz would not wish to offend two such formidable powers.”
“But what if your plan doesn’t work?” one of the barons objected. “We’ll be trapped outside the gates, a certain prey for her bishop and possibly for Otto.”
Heads nodded. He had voiced what they were all thinking. Frederick’s plan was foolhardy. While they supported his cause for a number of reasons, none were prepared to risk their lives for it.
The abbot of Saint Gall stood up. He surveyed the gathering of prelates and princes before him with scarcely concealed irritation. “My lords,” he said in a firm voice, “I myself will ride with the Emperor Frederick to Konstanz tomorrow.”
A murmur of astonishment went up from the assembly.
Surprised, Frederick glanced at the frail, patrician figure of the abbot in his austere black habit. The least warlike of men, the old abbot was the last man he had expected to support him in this. He gave him a grateful smile.
The abbot of Reichenau was clearly annoyed. “Is it wise to subject your person to such danger?”
Abbot Ulrich gave him a withering look. “The Emperor Frederick’s cause is a just one. I believe that his accession to the throne of Charlemagne will bring peace to Germany. There has been enough strife and bloodshed. The land and the people are exhausted. I, unlike some of us, have faith in the Lord.”
The abbot of Reichenau sat down abruptly, red in the face.
A towering man with a vivid scar across his chin stepped forward. Count Rudolf of Hapsburg was head of a great family long associated with the Hohenstaufen.
“My lord Frederick, I too, with all my men, will join you.”
The abbot of the great abbey of Pfaeffers rose too, slowly. “I also, my lord, will accompany you.”
Seeing himself outnumbered, the abbot of Reichenau conceded defeat. “In that case, I, too, will join you tomorrow.”
Within moments, every man in the chapter house had pledged himself to follow Frederick to Konstanz.
THEY FOLLOWED THE old Roman road along the southern shore of the lake in a northwesterly direction. By the time the sun stood at its zenith, the towering walls of Konstanz were visible in the distance. Straddling the infant Rhine as it left the lake on its long journey to the North Sea, the city, once a Roman station, was now a bishop’s see. Konstanz had been granted her freedom charter by Frederick’s grandfather Barbarossa. The capable rule of her bishops had made Konstanz one of the wealthiest free cities in the Empire.
They halted in a forest clearing by the roadside, not far from the city. Frederick dismounted and handed his reins to Mahmoud. He looked around uneasily. The memory of the last ambush was still vivid in his mind. This time, he’d posted sentries all around. Nevertheless, they would do well not to tarry here any longer than necessary.
Beside him, the abbot of Saint Gall was being helped off his palfrey. The abbot looked tired. The long ride had been too much for a man of his age. “It grieves me, my lord abbot, to see you so wearied on my behalf. Perhaps you should remain here a while longer, while we press on?”
Abbot Ulrich smiled, his blue eyes sparkling in their web of leathery creases. “When you’re as old as I am, which God grant you, you’ll realize that a little fatigue more or less makes no difference. I’ve been used to aches and pains for a long time now.”
Frederick nodded, touched. “Thank you, Father.”
“I’m only doing what I consider my duty. There’s no merit in that.”
Freder
ick extended a helping hand as the abbot lowered himself onto a mossy boulder.
Abbot Ulrich smiled up at him. “Do not worry, these old bones may creak, but they’re still fit to do the Lord’s work for a little while longer!”
Frederick went over to Berard and drew him aside. “You have the documents in an accessible place?” he whispered.
Berard patted the left side of his tunic. “Right here, close to my heart.”
“Good.”
He turned to Manfred. “Tell Mahmoud to have the garments brought.”
The other lords were standing about, many stamping their feet to loosen their stiff joints after the long ride. Stepping onto the root of an oak tree, Frederick raised his voice, “My lords, I suggest we all don our finery now. Please make haste.”
The impact of their arrival before the city walls would certainly be enhanced by a show of splendor. Servants began scurrying back and forth from the packhorses with clothing draped over their arms, carrying leather coffers. Within minutes, the dust-covered riders in their dull traveling cloaks had been transformed into a splendid gathering. Jeweled miters shimmered in the dappled sunlight; cloaks in a rainbow of colors flashed with gold thread and gemmed clasps. Even the horses had been changed into elegant steeds by the addition of rich trappings.
Mahmoud was putting the finishing touches to Frederick’s hair with a comb. He stood back to admire his handiwork. A fir-green camlet cloak trimmed in beaver was draped over his shoulders. At his throat sparkled Berard’s ruby clasp. He was girded with a sword encased in a scabbard of gold filigree. On his feet he wore scarlet boots of soft kid. Gloves of the same leather, worked with gold thread, covered his hands.
“How do I look?”
Mahmoud beamed. “Like the Prophet Mohammed himself.”
“I hope not,” Frederick smiled, “that wouldn’t do at all for the good burghers of Konstanz.”
The Falcon of Palermo Page 14