A group of men was approaching, led by Frederick’s herald. On the muddied surcoats over their chain mail Frederick recognized the arms of France: golden fleurs-de-lis on a field of powder blue.
Their leader, a tall figure with a neatly trimmed black beard, bent one knee on the trampled grass. “Sire, I am Josseran d’Aubrecicourt, herald of France. My lord King Phillip sends you greetings. He hopes Your Grace is in—”
“For sweet Jesus’ sake, what news?” Frederick demanded.
“At dawn yesterday, battle was joined between us and the enemy at the town of Bouvines. King Phillip inflicted a crushing defeat on them. The English fled in disgrace. Some of the greatest lords in England, including the king’s brother, were captured, and scores of noble knights and squires, too. Hundreds were slain. The rout was so great that even the men-at-arms and the archers were able to take prisoners, some three or four apiece.”
By now the entire camp had been roused. Disheveled lords were emerging from their tents, fumbling with their clothing. A crowd had formed before Frederick’s tent. His mouth was dry. “What of Otto?”
“Most of the Germans were killed or taken prisoner. The rest fled in disgrace. The Duke of Brunswick’s men were decimated. His standard-bearer was killed beside him. He himself escaped on his marshal’s horse after his own horse was killed under him.”
Frederick swore. First the French had tackled Otto alone, depriving him of his revenge, and then they let him escape!
“Where is he?”
“No one knows.”
The Frenchman beamed. “The imperial treasury was found in his camp. It will be sent to Your Grace, suitably escorted. In the meantime, the king bade me hand you this.”
He turned around and gestured to a young knight.
The knight held out to Frederick a bundle wrapped in a length of blue velvet. As soon as he felt the parcel, Frederick knew what it contained. His disappointment receded somewhat. He untied the rope and raised up the smoke-blackened cloth for all to see. One wing of the embroidered eagle was missing, slashed out by a cut.
For a moment, silence reigned as the gathered lords stared at the tattered banner of the man who had once been their emperor. The old Duke of Lorraine, long a friend of Otto’s, crossed himself, while his son Thibault looked away. Others shouted with joy, brandishing their swords. As the news spread, cheering swept through the camp.
In the east, above the mist that hung over the Rhine, the horizon turned from the first pearly gray of dawn to a deep orange. The sun was about to rise over the Hohenstaufen camp.
THE FORTRESS TOWERED on an outcrop of granite high above the town of Annweiler. Dense forests surrounded it, sloping down steeply to the town. From its square keep, the pennon of Brunswick fluttered in the cold wind under a gray sky. Looking up at Trifels Castle from his horse in the marketplace, Frederick caught his breath. No wonder the exchequer’s reserves and the imperial insignia were kept there. It must be the safest stronghold in Germany.
The castle was the principal link in a chain of fortresses guarding the paved Roman road that led west from Speyer on the Rhine toward Alsace and the salt mines of Lorraine. Since time immemorial, heavily laden trains of sumpter mules had wound their way along that road with cargoes of salt and other commodities for the Rhenish towns.
By now, nearly all the imperial strongholds that were part of this defensive system were in Frederick’s hands. Most had surrendered without a fight. A few had been taken by assault or siege. Trifels, however, would not be an easy conquest. Although Otto was virtually powerless now, the governor of this castle remained loyal to the Guelf.
Winter is coming, Frederick thought. He must take Trifels before the end of the campaigning season. Not only did he need Otto’s gold, but he also wanted Charlemagne’s crown. Trifels had become a symbol. The castellan’s stubborness only reinforced his determination to conquer it.
The jingle of a harness interrupted his brooding. Conrad was riding up to him.
“What a position!” Frederick exclaimed, gesturing to the castle.
“Aye, my lord. It has never been taken since your grandfather built it. Your father fortified it further. He imprisoned Richard the Lionheart here, while he waited for England to scrape together his ransom. The almost vertical glacis it’s built on makes assault with siege engines impossible.”
Frederick nodded. Moreover, one of Otto’s ablest lieutenants, Diemar von Falkstein, was the governor of the castle. It was sure to be well garrisoned and provisioned.
“What is the south side like, Conrad?”
“Just as steep and even more densely wooded.”
“And von Falkstein, what manner of man is he?” Frederick asked.
“Brave and honorable.”
“You mean we can’t buy him?”
The chancellor smiled. “Would you put a corruptible man in charge of the imperial treasure, Sire?”
Frederick shook his head. Then, looking at his chancellor, “You’re a persuasive man, Conrad. You try and convince him to surrender. I’ll be magnanimous. I’ll offer him a safe-conduct to Cologne if he wishes to join his master. Go and parley with him in the morning.”
“It won’t be easy. He has some very old-fashioned notions,” Conrad said. “However, I shall try to justify your growing faith in my abilities.” There was a glint of amusement in the chancellor’s eyes.
“Do that,” Frederick said with a smile. “You’ll save me a lot of bother. This place is as impregnable as I was told. Only slow starvation will batter down those walls. Or the force of reason …”
Frederick glanced up at the darkening clouds. “Let’s ride up closer. I want to take a look at it from the other side before the rain.”
FREDERICK PEELED OFF his sodden gloves as he listened with growing irritation to Conrad. Having spent the morning inspecting the encampment in the pouring rain, Frederick was in no mood for what he was hearing.
His new body servants removed his wet cloak and boots. He would have much preferred the familiar services of Mahmoud, but he had had to concede that on campaign, the Saracen and his men were too visible a reminder of his foreignness.
“We’ll be here till next spring if this hardheaded idiot can’t be made to see reason!” Frederick growled.
The chancellor spread his hands. “He won’t hand over the fortress to anyone but Otto. He took an oath to that effect and nothing will make him change his mind.”
“You read him the bull of Otto’s excommunication?”
“He told me it’s a forgery. But he said that even if it were genuine, he takes orders only from his lord, not from the pope in Rome.”
“A man after my own heart,” Frederick said.
“My lord, I was just thinking …” Anselm spoke up.
Frederick looked up. “Yes, Anselm?”
“Why don’t you speak with von Falkstein yourself? He naturally sees Conrad as a traitor to the Guelf cause.” Anselm sketched a bow toward the chancellor, as if to apologize. He went on, “Your presence, Sire, might sway him. By all accounts he’s honorable. He won’t betray a flag of truce.”
“How can I be seen to negotiate the surrender of what is rightfully mine? We’ll begin the siege at dawn.”
THE HORSES’ HOOVES skidded on the sloping ground, slippery with fallen leaves. A putrid smell of rotting vegetation hung in the air. It had been raining for days. Up on the rock, Frederick could hear the trumpets calling the besiegers in small groups for the noontime meal. Rain was dripping from the nosepiece of his steel helmet onto his chin. Ahead of him rode his standard-bearer, holding the dripping banner aloft. Behind him followed an escort of knights and men-at-arms, more a formality than a necessity. There was no danger.
The enemy was securely ensconced in the fortress, unyielding still, but at least safely contained. Slowly, very slowly, in weeks or even months, they might come to their senses as hunger began to gnaw at their insides. This was going to be a long, grim siege, Frederick thought as he rode on in the swirling mis
t. It might well last through the winter. And it wouldn’t be easy to convince his vassals to remain here that long.
They crossed the bridge into Annweiler. The town itself was almost deserted. At the army’s approach the townspeople had fled into the forests, taking with them whatever possessions and livestock they could, and abandoning the rest to the inevitable pillage. Only there had been no pillage. Frederick had issued warnings that no towns were to be looted, under pain of death.
Now, after the news that Annweiler had not been sacked had reached the townspeople, some were cautiously coming out of hiding. In the empty marketplace, a family of villeins were pushing a creaking handcart piled with belongings through the churned mud. One of their children was leading a black pig on a rope, probably their most valued possession. Cold and tired as he was, Frederick smiled. It would not be long now before a delegation of leading burghers arrived, imploring his mercy and swearing allegiance, as had happened elsewhere.
He and his lords were lodged in the town hall, a two-storied wooden building across the marketplace. Soon, he thought, I’ll be in a hot bath. He had been up since daybreak. As they crossed the square, a woman’s scream rang out. Frederick reined his horse in and listened. All was silent. He jerked his head toward the left. “Quickly! Up there, behind the church.” Two abreast, he and his men clattered through the narrow lane in the direction from where the scream had come.
THE MAN’S SMALL shifty eyes darted with fear. A burly foot soldier whose red face bespoke a fondness for ale, fell on his knees before Frederick’s horse. “My lord,” he stammered, “they were robbing yonder house, the one with the open door. When I came upon them she struck me with that wooden pole.”
The woman was lying face downward in the mud, where the soldier had been dragging her when they came upon him. Sobs racked her thin form. An old man with a long white beard, who had been cowering in terror against the wall, bent over her. Against the peeling plaster of the tenement stood a donkey as old as its owner. On its back was an array of household possessions carefully wrapped in bits of cloth and strapped together. Thieves did not waste time packing their loot in this way, Frederick thought. The two must be returning to their abandoned home.
“Old man,” Frederick commanded, “help her up.”
The girl was but a child, a thin, waiflike creature with stringy yellow hair. Thirteen or fourteen at the most. She stared up at Frederick with brown eyes huge with fear. One glance at her confirmed what he had suspected. Her dress of patched gray homespun had been ripped open down the front. On the white skin of her left breast was an angry red weal.
The soldier flung himself forward until he was on all fours. He raised his hands. “Have mercy, my lord. I didn’t touch her, by the milk of the Holy Virgin, I swear it, I was only—”
A murderous rage rose in Frederick. “I gave orders that no woman was to be raped! For attempting to violate this child, you should hang!” he yelled. “But I’ll teach you myself what you get for lying to the emperor!” He grabbed his ax. The blade hissed through the air. With one stroke, he severed the man’s head. The head thudded to the ground, rolling a few paces before coming to a halt. The sightless eyeballs stared up at the gray sky in a glaucous haze. Blood gushed from the trunk. Frederick threw the bloodied ax on the ground. His face was red. Above his left eye a nerve twitched.
He took his reins. Just as he was about to turn his mount, he remembered the girl and the old man. In his anger, he had forgotten them. They stood huddled together, the graybeard’s arm around the girl’s shoulders. Tears streaked down her grimy cheeks.
Frederick raised his hand. “Go in peace, both of you,” he said. “And know that from now on, there is justice in Germany.”
THE CHAMBER WAS in an uproar. Saddles, bags, chests of all sizes were everywhere. Servants dragged chests and panniers to the waiting baggage carts. Four guards staggered past, carrying a money chest on two wooden poles.
Frederick raised his arms above his head. His page slipped his mail hauberk over his padded undertunic. Within the hour he would be leaving for Speyer while his officers continued the siege.
“Frederick!” Manfred strode into the chamber, out of breath.
“What’s the matter?”
“There’s a villein outside who’s making a great stir. He wants to see you. I passed just as the guards were dragging him away.”
“What does he want?”
“Says he can help us take the fortress. He won’t speak to anyone but yourself. A madman, no doubt, but I thought you’d want to hear him out.”
“Bring him here.”
The bent figure of an old man in tattered homespun was shoved into the chamber by two burly guards.
Frederick’s eyes flickered with recognition. “Leave us,” he commanded, waving his attendants out. “You, Manfred, stay!”
Frederick saw Manfred finger his dagger, as if to reassure himself.
With great difficulty, the newcomer knelt.
“Speak!” Frederick said
“I would have come earlier, my lord.” His long white beard quivered on his chest. “Your men wouldn’t let me. They chased me away twice.” He glanced about vacantly, as if he had forgotten the purpose of his presence.
“What did you want to tell me? About the fortress.”
“Oh, yes. The fortress.” The old man nodded. “You saved my life and the honor of my granddaughter. She’s all I have left in this world. In my youth, long before you were born, I was a man-at-arms of the bishop of Speyer. The Emperor Henry, afraid the English might liberate Richard of England, brought him here in great secret and imprisoned him in the castle.”
“Go on.”
“We brought the king during the night from Speyer to the hunting lodge in the forest beneath the castle. From there, the same night, we took him blindfolded through the underground passage that connects it to the castle.”
“Gesùmmaria! And that passage still exists?”
“I think so. Few knew about it. We were sworn to secrecy. We kept the secret.” The old man stroked his beard. “I think, my lord, that the new castellan does not know about the passage.”
Frederick nodded, eyes shining. “Obviously, or he and the treasure would long have disappeared toward Cologne.”
He turned to Manfred. “Quickly, call Conrad and the duke!”
Manfred shot him a worried glance. “My lord, this could be a trap.”
Frederick shook his head. He was helping the old man up. “If this works, old man, you shall never want for anything again.”
THE CHESTS STOOD in rows along one wall of the treasury. Their lids had been flung open. Some contained ceremonial vestments, stiff with gold thread and precious stones. From the glittering silks and damasks rose the faint aroma of the peppercorns that protected them from moths. Others were filled with gem-studded vessels of gold and silver plate. On the far end, in rows of money chests, gleamed crude silver ingots for the imperial mints.
“Open the confounded thing!” Frederick bellowed, standing before yet another coffer.
The elderly monk in charge of the treasury flinched. With trembling hands he unlocked another beautifully wrought lock.
“Damnation!” Frederick stared at the open casket before him. Empty. Empty just like the other two reserved for the crown jewels. On the lining at the bottom, the spot where the imperial crown had rested was marked by a perfect octagon where its weight had crushed the blue silk. Next to it was a rounded depression where the orb had lain. The sword of Saint Mauritius, said to convey invincibility on the emperor, was also missing, as was the Imperial Cross, a reliquary containing a nail from the True Cross.
Frederick glanced about him. Only one door led into the treasury from the chapel below. This had been barred with three huge padlocks. The keys in the monk’s hands had been taken from the governor himself when they had burst in on him. There had been no time for him to spirit the insignia away—unless von Falkstein had hidden them when the army first appeared in Annweiler. Th
at was a possibility. “Bring the governor!” Frederick bellowed.
While he waited, Frederick’s mind wandered from the missing regalia to the stroke of luck that had delivered this fortress into his hands. Manfred and his men had easily found the passage in the disused hunting lodge. The narrow tunnel issued into a well shaft with steps hewn into its sides. They forced the iron grid covering the top of the well and clambered out into a courtyard. The entrance to the keep was just a few paces away. They overpowered the two guards lounging at the keep door and reached the hall, while a few handpicked men crept to the gates. Holding a dagger to his wife’s throat, they forced the governor to order the garrison to lay down arms.
It had all been over in minutes. Frederick drew his mantle close. A bone-chilling cold filled the chamber. In a corner, the monk was praying, moving his lips and fingering the beads of his chaplet. The officers at the door were restlessly shifting from one foot to another.
Strange, Frederick thought as he glanced at the bare whitewashed walls, how redolent with meaning this room was. It was here that the vast ransom paid by England for the Lionheart had been stored. And it was to this room that the Norman treasure, stolen by his father, had been brought from Palermo. He had been a rapacious man, his father. Greedy and harsh, but able. Perhaps even brilliant. But for his untimely death, he would have succeeded in his planned annexation of Byzantium, which would have accomplished the fusion of the Eastern and Western empires.
His tutor William had often told him as a child the story of the black day when King Roger’s treasure was taken from the palace in Palermo. Loaded onto oxcarts, heavily guarded by German soldiers, the wealth of the Normans made its long journey over the Alps to this room. Frederick, with his Norman soul, understood his mother’s seething anger at the callous way his father used Sicily’s resources for his own ends. From that day on, William told him, the empress had dressed herself in mourning.
The Falcon of Palermo Page 18