“Before I make up my mind,” Frederick asked, “tell me: why have you decided to abandon Otto now?”
A shadow flicked across the chancellor’s eyes. For an instant, he hesitated. Then he said, “An English rout of the French and their Hohenstaufen allies was Otto’s last hope. John of England, after protracted negotiations, has finally decided not to go to war after all.”
Frederick sucked in his breath. So much for the assurances that nothing untoward had been happening in Otto’s camp. What danger he had escaped without knowing it! Frederick stretched his shoulders. He felt stiff from tension and too many hours in the saddle.
He had made up his mind. “I accept your offer, my lord von Scharfenburg. I’ll call a council tomorrow. I must keep up appearances with the electors. As you know, they’re a touchy lot and like to be consulted.” He added, “My steward will see that you and your retinue are lodged discreetly.”
FREDERICK HELD HIS Whitsun court that year at Eger, in Bohemia. After a week of hunts, tournaments, and festivities, during which young knights were dubbed, the court was to culminate in a great feast on Whitsunday. The event was attended by all the great nobles and their families. Frederick calculated that the cost of his Whitsun court would have sufficed to feed an army of five hundred men for two months. Although he groaned inwardly at the expense, he set out to charm his guests.
And they responded in kind. The older princes treated Frederick as fond fathers would. They cheered when the Duke of Lorraine, long a staunch supporter of Otto’s, paid homage to him. Kneeling before the throne, the duke bent his grizzled head. He ungirded his sword and laid it at Frederick’s feet. In a steady voice he took the oath of fealty. A roar of approval went up as Frederick raised his new vassal, kissing him on both cheeks. One of Frederick’s last great opponents had been won over. The defection of Otto’s chancellor had indeed been a boon.
VASSALAGE, FREDERICK THOUGHT, as he afterward sat in the hot sun under a purple awning and watched the new knights joust, was a peculiar institution. Unknown to the Romans, vassalage sprang up in the twilight of Rome, when men turned to each other for the security the state could no longer provide. All land was held in vassalage, in a downward pyramid starting with the king, who held his land in trust from God. The king distributed fiefs to the great nobles, in return for allegiance. These lords in turn had smaller vassals of their own, right down to the poorest knights with no following.
A great nobleman might owe his suzerain the services of an army, mounted and equipped, for several months a year, while a small landholding knight with only one squire performed a few weeks’ service. The bonds of vassalage often transcended national boundaries. If a man held fiefs simultaneously from the French and English kings, say, on whose side would he be when both these liege lords demanded military service at the same time?
Frederick sighed. The system was fraught with danger. The Romans, as usual, had had a better one.
ON WHITSUNDAY FREDERICK signed the Golden Bull of Eger, so called because of its golden seal. His lips were pressed together as he stood back while the prince-electors filed past him in the great hall to countersign the document.
The charter confirmed the German ecclesiastics in their exemption from imperial taxes and jurisdiction and granted the papacy the disputed lands in central Italy in perpetuity. By virtually renouncing his sovereignty over the bishops’ territories, he had laid the foundation for a state within a state. This would make the unification of Germany difficult if not impossible. And it was no use arguing that he had only confirmed an existing state of affairs.
Thirty pieces of silver, Frederick thought glumly. The price of an empire.
AT THE FEAST that followed, Frederick was irritable and restless. He leaned back, drumming his fingers on the tablecloth, and studied his guests. Laughter filled the hall, drowning out the lutes.
After the trestle tables had been cleared away to make room for the entertainment, the strict order in which the guests had been seated disintegrated. Bishops mingled with chaplains, dukes with counts, minor nobles with high court officials. Frederick gestured to his cupbearer to refill his goblet. He wanted to get drunk. Seriously drunk. He wanted to forget the document he had been forced to sign. To think of pleasant things. Such as Adelaide.
The minstrels in the gallery struck up a merry dance tune. Couples came forward. Frederick spotted Adelaide. He rose to join them. Like a sleepwalker he followed the music, his eyes on her. The chain of dancers swayed to and fro. Adelaide danced between a burly markgrave and Rudolf of Hapsburg. The long slashed sleeves of her ruby red gown fluttered with each step. From her forehead hung a gray drop pearl, secured to a headdress of red and gold brocade.
Although she had accepted his invitation, arriving with a large retinue and a half-blind elderly uncle, she had evaded him whenever possible during the festivities of the last days. Dancing opposite him now, she came tantalizingly close, close enough to touch, only to recede again with the next wave of music. Every time they approached each other, Adelaide smiled. Was she mocking him?
Yesterday, at the hunt, he had offered her a peregrine. Securing the bird to her wrist, his hand brushed the bare skin above her glove. She had thanked him with cool courtesy. Frederick felt weak with lust. He wanted to bury his head between the two mounds that rose and fell beneath her gown. He wanted to unpin her hair and spread it like molten gold on a pillow.
He nearly crushed the hand of a fat dowager on his right. The lady squealed coquettishly. He mumbled an apology, his eyes on Adelaide. He must have her. The wenches on whom he appeased his hunger only reminded him that Adelaide was everything they were not, even as she was toying with him. But she was in for a surprise. He’d teach her a lesson she was not likely to forget.
THE LOCK HAD been freshly oiled. The key turned soundlessly. The narrow side door swung on its hinges. Frederick bent his head and crossed into the bedchamber. An oil lamp burned on the little travel altar beside the bed.
Adelaide, kneeling before an image of the Virgin, whipped around. Her eyes widened.
“Ssh.” Frederick raised a finger to his lips.
She drew herself up. Her shift of thin white linen, girded high in the waist, emphasized her breasts. “How dare you!” she hissed.
Frederick noticed with amusement that she had hissed in a whisper. One scream would have brought her maids running from the anteroom where they slept. “Adelaide, stop teasing me, it’s quite useless.” He opened his arms.
He was barely an ell away from her. She caught a faint whiff of something like frankincense. They said that he bathed every day, in perfumed water. Was it true? His eyes, those amazing eyes, held her gaze, compelling. Trifling with the emperor at a distance was one thing. Now that he stood before her, she suddenly felt a little afraid.
He smiled, a beguiling smile. “Come,” he commanded.
Adelaide took a step forward. Frederick’s arms enfolded her. His mouth came down on hers. All her careful pretense of indifference forgotten, she kissed him back, in way she had never kissed her uncaring dead husband. She had wanted the emperor. Now she wanted the man as well.
He raised her shift and buried his face between her breasts. “I’ve been dreaming of you for so long, you little vixen …” His voice was like a caress. She pressed herself against him.
* * *
VALLEY OF THE NECKAR, AUGUST 1213
Frederick’s initial distrust of his new chancellor changed into growing respect as the months went by. He began to draw more and more on Conrad’s vast experience. Under his direction, the imperial chancery was reorganized. New directives were issued to the highest officers of state. Chests of documents were sorted and their bulk reduced. This was essential, as the entire chancery traveled with Frederick every time he moved from one castle to another.
The dusty smell of parchment and ink, and the industrious scraping of the secretaries’ pens filled Frederick with satisfaction whenever he was in the chancery.
“HOW MUCH WILL we
be able to raise this year, Conrad?” Frederick, who had been bending over a scroll, straightened. He looked at his chancellor. “The treasury is desperately in need of funds.”
Poll taxes, salt taxes, road tolls, bridge tolls, scutage, taxes on mills of every kind, all were in arrears. Many villages and vassals paid their dues in kind: so many bushels of wheat, so many sheep or barrels of wine. If the harvests were bad or a late frost killed half the lambs, taxes would be lower. Towns that had been granted the right to hold markets or fairs were the best sources of revenue. Their trading enabled them to pay their taxes in silver rather than in kind.
In the years when rival emperors had been preoccupied with warring rather than ruling, corruption became rampant. A new system of checks on bailiffs, with severe penalties for offenders, was beginning to show results.
“I know,” Conrad nodded. “It’s a perennial problem. Like weeds in a garden, it springs up every year.” He pulled out a grubby ledger from under a pile and studied it. “Without the latest report from the bailiffs of Swabia, I cannot say for certain, but I think we should be able to raise—”
Conrad broke off as the door opened. A page bowed in the doorway.
“My lord, dispatches from Palermo.”
Frederick turned the letters over, scanning the seals. He brightened as he saw the quartered arms of Aragon and Sicily. Constance wrote all her personal letters to him herself, in a tall, even hand. Her Latin was almost faultless. He was lucky to have such a wife. Despite initial opposition from the regency council, who had balked at being headed by a woman, she had won their respect. And when it came to raising taxes from the recalcitrant Sicilian barons, she was very successful.
He smiled as he read. Dear Constance. He’d known she wouldn’t disappoint him! The money he had asked for had been paid to a Florentine banker in Messina, whose representative in Basle would pay the funds. The harbor of Catania had been dredged. The town walls of Bari were being repaired, although the repairs were costing far more than expected. They could not be completed until next spring. And little Henry, who was nearly three, was playing with a wooden toy sword …
If only he could bring the boy and Constance to Germany. But the pope would see his old terror, the union of Sicily and the Empire, resurrected at the mere mention of his son’s presence in Germany. Henry had been crowned king of Sicily and must remain there. He couldn’t afford to antagonize the pope. Not yet.
He thought of Sicily and sighed. For how long would he be able to rule two countries? Although he worked long hours governing Germany, he spent almost as much time on Sicily. He often stayed up in his apartments till late at night, dictating letters for Palermo to wary secretaries trying to write as fast as he talked. He took pains not to flaunt his involvement in Sicilian affairs, yet of course many knew about it. What could be construed as divided loyalty might one day be used against him. Particularly when the barons awoke to the fact that once he had secured his position, he would brook no further interference from them … He returned to Constance’s letter. He smiled at her endearments and the prayers for his welfare with which she ended all her letters.
As he put the parchment down, the chancellor cleared his throat. “My lord, a word with you before you go. I need to speak to you about those Jews accused of killing a Christian child.”
Frederick’s brows shot up. “Have they been found guilty?”
“No. The judges are unable to pass judgment. You stipulated that they ascertain whether the law of the Jews really incites them to murder Christians. No one can understand their laws. They’re in Hebrew, in a book called the Talmud.”
Frederick shrugged. “Then let them find a convert from Judaism who can translate that book.”
“There are no such converts in Germany. There may be a few in England or Spain.”
“Well, write to my brother of Aragon. Ask him to send two converts versed in Jewish scriptures. I’ve always wanted to know what their laws are really like.”
Conrad shot him a surprised look. “That will take time. The townspeople are angry at the delay. They’re clamoring for justice, the way it was always done. Their lord agrees with them.” Conrad leaned forward. “Sire, let them burn the Jews and raze their quarter.” Lowering his voice, he added, “Several princes grumbled when you established a special court to investigate this case. Don’t jeopardize their new loyalty to you for the sake of a few old men.”
Frederick gave him a steely look. “I won’t hand them over to a blood-thirsty rabble till I’m sure of their guilt.”
“But my lord, they’re only Jews. Jews have always been tried by local courts. They’ve never had the right of appeal to the imperial justice.”
“I don’t care,” Frederick snapped. “This custom that every town and every lord have their own court is a travesty of justice anyway. How often do you think their decisions are guided by prejudice, greed, or revenge? Don’t you think that a reeve appointed by the local lord to sit in his court will favor his master’s interests over those of the accused?”
“In many cases, I’m are sure you’re right,” Conrad agreed. “But it’s still better than no justice. Our itinerant imperial judges could never cope with every suit about a stolen cow brought by one villein against another.”
“Well, then we’ll have to improve the system, won’t we? I don’t believe these Jews are guilty. When I think of the learned Jewish scholars of Palermo, I find it hard to believe that their holy book tells them to crucify Christian children to mock Our Lord. They deserve a fair trial. If they’re found guilty, they’ll burn. If not, I’ll take them under my personal protection.”
Mahmoud, who trailed Frederick like a shadow, gathered up the dispatches from Sicily and prepared to follow him.
In the doorway, Frederick paused. “I want you to issue a proclamation that from now on, every citizen of the Empire shall have the right to appeal to my courts, whether he be a villein, a Jew, or a prince.”
Conrad stared at him, aghast. “The barons will resent such interference with their rights. They’ll—”
Frederick silenced him with his hand. “The German lords are weary of disorder. I think for the sake of peace they may well be prepared to sacrifice a few privileges here and there.”
“If you insist, Sire,” Conrad said doubtfully.
Frederick had no doubts. Since Eger, he had been buoyed by a new confidence. For the first time, he felt totally certain of success. Even the recent flurry of activity in Otto’s camp, which not long ago would have gnawed at him, didn’t worry him. They were just the death throes of a lost cause … Within a short time, the whole of Germany would be his. He strode briskly out of the chancery, humming snatches from an Arabic song.
UPPER RHINE, JULY 1214
Unable to sleep, Frederick paced up and down in his tent. Although it was midsummer, the night air was damp and chilly. The army was encamped in a clearing close to the river. For the past few weeks they had been constantly on the move, harassing the enemy, waiting for news from the French.
For the hundredth time, he asked himself, pacing, how he could have been so stupid. It was no use telling himself that even Conrad, who knew Otto so well, hadn’t thought it possible. The betrayal by his chancellor had jolted Otto out of his deranged lethargy. In a burst of energy reminiscent of the great feats of his youth, he crossed the sea to England. There, he persuaded King John to change his mind and go to war against France. King John and his army landed in Aquitaine. At the same time, in a concerted movement, Otto and the Duke of Brabant invaded France from the north.
Phillip of France called on Frederick for aid. At a hastily arranged Diet in Koblenz, he summoned the south German lords to war. Under his leadership, they attacked Otto’s rear on the upper Rhine, thus relieving the pressure on the French. Siege warfare was a slow and tedious business. When the message from King Phillip had come three days ago, they had been laying siege to a particularly stubborn Rhineland lord. Holed up in the keep of his castle with his garrison, he refus
ed to surrender even after they breached the outer walls. Leaving a small force to continue the siege, Frederick and his army set out with all speed to join the French for the decisive battle with Otto.
Frederick hugged himself. This coming confrontation would decide the future of three nations. If they lost now against the English, half of France would become part of England. Otto of Brunswick, backed by a victorious King John, would be emperor for good, while John of England would become the most powerful monarch in Europe. What an irony. “John Lackland” the greatest monarch in Europe! Once the landless youngest son of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine, John had seen all his brothers die before him, finally becoming king.
Frederick glanced at the hour candle, burning with infuriating slowness. He longed to break camp and be on his way. By nightfall they would have joined the French. Outside, he could hear the men of the watch talking. From the next tent came Rudolf of Hapsburg’s loud, uneven snoring. He flung himself onto his pallet and closed his eyes in another attempt at sleep. Thoughts kept on racing through his brain, wrestling with each other. Finally, after a long time, a welcome heaviness began to invade him. He turned on his side and drifted into sleep.
Somewhere, a dog barked. Horses neighed. Then came the thud of running footsteps. An agitated exchange of whispered words outside his tent. Frederick opened his eyes and sat up.
The sentry poked his head into the tent. “Messengers from the French king have arrived. They insist on seeing Your Grace.”
Frederick grabbed his cloak and stepped out into the starlit night. His heart was racing. If Phillip’s messengers wanted to see him at this hour, something dreadful must have occurred.
Torches driven into the ground threw some light between the dark rows of tents. Outside each tent hung its occupant’s shield with his armorial bearings. The greatest lords were grouped around Frederick’s own tent at the top of the hill. In decreasing order of importance the tents ran down toward the river. The poorest knights found themselves right at the water’s edge, plagued by gnats. Their squires bedded down at their masters’ feet, while the ordinary fighting men slept in the open.
The Falcon of Palermo Page 17