The Falcon of Palermo

by Maria R. Bordihn

  Leaning forward, he rested his chin on his hands. With every dispatch, the news of Sicily grew more ominous. The Sicilian barons were falling back into their old ways. Taxes remained unpaid and tolls collected by them were not handed to the crown. Travelers were increasingly waylaid by bandits, often in league with the local lords. In certain areas, the royal demesne lands were again being encroached upon.

  Berard had said bluntly the other day that this was only to be expected. A country with an absent king, ruled by a woman and an old bishop, must sink into chaos. There was only one thing to be done. He would have to go to Sicily. He had been away for nearly four years. But could he leave Germany, trusting in the newfound loyalty of her princes to safeguard his throne during his absence?

  He first needed Henry here, to consolidate his hold. But how could he bring his son to Germany without awakening the pope’s old fear that he was planning to join Sicily to the Empire?

  He brightened suddenly. How stupid of him. The solution had been there all along, and he had failed to see it. The crusade! That was the key. He needed talk to Berard immediately.

  HE BURST INTO Berard’s apartments, only to discover that the archbishop wasn’t there.

  “In the privy kitchen! What in heaven’s name is he doing there?”

  Gregory, Berard’s chaplain, whom advancing age had rendered increasingly obtuse, continued to thread the broken rosary he was mending, peering at it shortsightedly. Frederick would not have tolerated such disrespect from anyone else, but he had a soft spot for old Gregory.

  Without raising his head from his work, Gregory replied, “Cooking, Your Grace.”

  “Cooking?” Frederick stared at him.

  “His lordship likes to spend time stirring pots and pottering about in the kitchens, to the annoyance of the cooks.” The old man tied the last knot into the rosary of amber beads, then bit the string off with an evident sense of satisfaction. “Shall I send for him, Your Grace?”

  “No, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll go myself. I want to see this with my own eyes.”

  Guided by a frail old chamberlain, Frederick descended a spiral stone staircase into the privy kitchen.

  So called because it served only the emperor and his immediate entourage, the privy kitchen was a relatively recent innovation, and a great improvement on the older system, where everyone had been fed by the great kitchen. The much smaller privy kitchen, conveniently situated near the imperial apartments, provided greater flexibility as well as improved quality. It also offered better protection against the hazards of poisoning.

  Frederick, who in his childhood had roamed the palace kitchens in Palermo, looked about with interest.

  “This, my lord, is the wine cellar.” Behind an iron grille were rows of stacked barrels. “That’s a double lock. The keys are held by two officials, the chief butler and the chief pantler, to avoid pilferage.”

  Frederick glanced at the complicated lock. On either side was a keyhole, divided by a wrought-iron maiden holding a jug of wine.

  “Is there a lot of it?”

  “Oh, yes, Your Grace,” the chamberlain beamed. “Every year we select the choicest wines delivered by your vassals. There are several hundred casks in there, and many more in the great kitchen’s cellar.”

  Frederick smiled. “I was asking about theft.”

  The chamberlain’s face fell. “Despite all precautions, thieves are everywhere.” He sighed, “They’re a plague of the times. In the old days, no one would have dared to steal from the emperor. But today …”

  “What do they steal?”

  The old man shook his head. “Oh, everything. At night they even fish carp out of the moat. We are now chaining the ladders, so many disappeared in the years after your uncle Philip, blessed be his memory, died.” The chamberlain crossed himself before adding, “Perhaps now, with Your Grace here, things will change for the better.”

  “I hope so.” Servants had been stealing from their masters since the dawn of the world, and would no doubt continue to do so until its end.

  Frederick sniffed the air. An appetizing aroma was coming from the pastry room behind one of the arches. A baker was shoving pasties on a long-handled wooden peel into an oven, while his helper, muttering a Paternoster, was sealing the door of another oven with wet mud.

  Frederick jerked his head toward the helper. “Why’s he praying?” he asked the chamberlain.

  “A good pastry cook knows exactly how many Aves or Paters a particular pastry needs for baking, Your Grace.”

  In the next room, rows of geese hung upside down. At a table, a buxom kitchen maid was plucking a swan, carefully laying the feathers in piles according to their size so that after the bird had been roasted it could be reassembled before being served.

  The central area had a huge open fireplace with a spit large enough to roast a whole stag on. Cooks peeled and chopped at long wooden tables warped with age.

  At the end was the smaller and much cleaner saucery. Here stood Berard, his back to the entrance, a white apron tied around his ample middle. He was bending over a mortar, critically tasting the contents from a wooden spoon. “A little more ginger, I think,” he said to his Apulian cook Luca, who was vigorously pounding something with a pestle, “and perhaps a bit more cinnamon. Add a little salt, too.”

  “Gesùmmaria, Gregory was right!” Frederick exclaimed.

  Berard whipped around. A scullion carrying a pail of hot water almost dropped it as he recognized Frederick. Regaining his wits, he fell to his knees, as did everyone else.

  Berard grinned. “Old Gregory’s a mule. He should have sent for me instead of telling you where I was. Now I’ll never hear the end of this. But since you’re here, try this cameline sauce I’m experimenting with. It’s wonderful for venison. By putting in less cinnamon and more ginger, it acquires a sharper taste. I got the recipe from Cardinal Colonna’s cook in Rome.” He dipped a long-handled wooden spoon into the yellow mixture and held it out to Frederick.

  “No thanks,” Frederick laughed, “my midday meal is still heavy in my stomach. Winter fare!”

  “As you wish, but promise to dine with me tonight.” Berard leaned closer: “I can offer you an additional inducement. I’ve got six jars of candied oranges. Just arrived from Palermo.” He kissed his bunched fingers. “They’re sublime!”

  Berard’s apartments, Frederick knew, were like a hamster’s warren. Chests and cupboards and jars contained all sorts of Italian delicacies, which Luca transformed into nostalgic Italian dishes that Berard shared from time to time with Frederick and a small circle of friends. Although Frederick contented himself with whatever the local kitchen offered, Berard knew that he had a weakness for Sicilian sweetmeats, candied citrons and oranges in particular.

  Berard waved his arm at the paralyzed kitchen staff. “Get on with it, all of you.”

  He untied his spotless apron. “Keep on pounding till it’s perfectly smooth, Luca. Only then add the bread. Mind you, squeeze all the vinegar out.”

  Turning to Frederick, Berard asked, “And what brings the mighty into the bowels of the earth?”

  “I’ll tell you presently.” Frederick took Berard’s elbow. “Let’s go up.”

  “IT MIGHT WORK,” Berard said a little later, seated in Frederick’s privy chamber. “Innocent will have his suspicions, but as you say, in the eyes of the world, he has to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

  Frederick’s eyes gleamed. “It’s perfect. Even the poorest knight puts his house in order before going on crusade. He can’t expect me to leave without seeing my son and wife. Once Henry is here, I’ll have him elected as my successor. There’s nothing Innocent can do afterward. With Henry installed as king of Germany, the Empire will be secure, and I can go to Sicily to put order into that nest of vipers.”

  Berard scratched his beard. “You, too, were elected king of Germany as a child. And yet it came to naught …”

  “Yes, but I was in Sicily and my father was dead. I’ll be alive and
liable to reappear at any moment at the head of an army. Henry’ll be here, visible to the people and protected by a regency council of loyal bishops who’ll rule Germany in my absence. The ecclesiastical lords are all on my side.”

  It was true, Berard thought. By heaping privileges and lands on them, Frederick had succeeded in turning the princes of the German Church into his keenest supporters. They might even support him against Rome. But at what a price … The more imperial lands and rights, such as mints and tolls, Frederick gave away, the more he eroded the crown’s power. On the other hand, as Frederick had often pointed out to him, the princes of the Church could not threaten his throne the way secular lords might if they became too powerful. They had no dynastic ambitions.

  “I grant you that’s true,” Berard allowed, “but how are you going to convince the lay princes to elect Henry in the first place? They have always balked at the creation of a hereditary empire. An imperial dynasty would seriously curtail their power.”

  Frederick smiled thinly. “Henry will be the sixth Hohenstaufen king of Germany. Wouldn’t you call that a dynasty? The princes seem to have missed this obvious fact, perhaps because they’re clinging to the delusion that they’ll remain kingmakers forever. As for convincing them, leave that to me. I’ll offer them inducements they cannot resist: gold and land.”

  He picked up a walnut from a pewter bowl on the table. “Afterward, if they get too big for their boots, I’ll take it away from them. That’s what my grandfather did with Henry of Brunswick when his power went to his head.”

  “That’s also what started the feud between the Guelfs and Ghibellines that led to civil war,” Berard said. “Would you bring renewed bloodshed to a country you’ve just brought peace to?”

  “There’ll be no more feuds. With a pacified Empire and a prosperous Sicily behind me, I’ll crush anyone who opposes me as swiftly as this nut.” Frederick put the nut between his teeth and cracked it in half.

  ADELAIDE, CONTRARY TO her expectations, hadn’t died, but recovered from her confinement with astonishing speed. More than half a year passed before Frederick saw his little son Enzio for the first time. As the imperial standard appeared in the courtyard of the castle in which she was still a prisoner, Adelaide, watching from a window in the solar, willed her heart to stop pounding.

  She must be calm. This could be the most important moment of her life. Despite the May sunshine outside, a fire blazed in the fireplace, making the chamber warm and welcoming. A large earthenware vase of peach blossoms stood on a chest. She seated herself on the carved Italian chair that had belonged to her aunt Matilde. She had chosen a spot where the light from the window would highlight her face. Her ladies helped her drape the folds of her gown and then scurried away. Only the nurse holding the baby remained.

  Adelaide stared at the door. She clasped her hands in her lap to stop them from trembling. Any moment now, Frederick would step across the threshold. Just like the day I first met him, she thought bitterly.

  Then he entered. She watched, torn between fury and hope as he took the child from his wet nurse. He held him at arm’s length, cooing and smiling. “You’re a beautiful little boy, aren’t you? And you look just like me, don’t you?”

  It was true, Adelaide thought. Her son had the same blue-green eyes and auburn hair. Watching him now, holding the infant, making faces for the child’s benefit, she could almost not believe that this was the same man who had treated her so cruelly.

  The baby stared at him with huge eyes. Frederick tickled him under the chin. “Come, give your father a smile, seeing that your mother won’t give him one,” he coaxed.

  The child, reassured now, smiled. Frederick deposited a kiss on the silky little head and handed the swaddled bundle to the waiting nurse, to be taken back to the nursery.

  He turned to Adelaide. “I see that you’re well, despite all your protests to the contrary. You’re looking more beautiful than ever.” He smiled, “I should have known not to believe a word.”

  Her beauty had indeed mellowed, he thought, marveling once again at its perfection. The chiseled features had filled out, softening the sharp line of chin and cheekbone. Dressed in a gown of mustard yellow, with a thick necklace of amber beads and pearls falling to her waist, she looked like a queen.

  “If you’re going to insult me, you had better go,” she said.

  “Oh, but I thought, from your last performance, that insults were your preferred form of conversation.”

  Adelaide jumped to her feet. “Get out of here! Leave me alone to rot in this boring, godforsaken castle, as you’ve done for the last year! Leave me in peace!” Tears of rage trickled down her rouged cheeks.

  “Come, Adelaide, that’s not the way to speak to me. You must learn not to give orders.”

  Adelaide gave a cry. She swayed, clutching the chair for support. Frederick crossed his arms and observed her, his lips twisted in a sardonic smile.

  Adelaide straightened herself. “I’ve been getting these dizzy spells since Enzio’s birth. I’m fine now,” she smiled at him. Stretching out both hands, she came towards him. “Please, Frederick, for the sake of our son, forgive me my past errors. I was blinded by jealousy, hurt, confused …”

  She slumped against him. “Oh, Frederick, I’ve been so lonely. And so bored.” She looked up at him. “Will you forgive me?”

  Her eyes were luminous and pleading. He had been determined to see the child and leave immediately. But now, so close to her, he felt his resolve weaken. She was only a woman after all; a wily one, to be sure, but need he really hold her insults against her still? And she had given him a beautiful son. He was certain that if he gave her her freedom, she would now do as he said, marry a convenient nobleman …

  “I’ll forgive you, Adelaide, but only once. Next time you’ll lose that lovely head of yours.” He bent down and kissed her on lips already parted.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him. “I’ve longed for you so,” she whispered, her breath caressing his ear, sending shivers through him. “It’s been so long since you’ve held me.” It was true, she thought, amazed. She suddenly wanted him.

  He grabbed her head with both hands, bending her backward. He kissed her roughly. Although the way he was bending her back hurt, all she felt was triumph. Her hands wandered down his chest, slid under his tunic, lower, till they found what they were searching for.

  He stopped devouring her, his eyes dark with hunger. “Where?” he asked.

  Without a word, she led him through a little anteroom into her adjoining bedchamber.

  A single, tall candle burned on a stand in a corner of the darkened room. The bed, with its hangings drawn back, stood against the wall. From the rushes on the floor emanated the summery scents of rosemary and lavender.

  As he sat down on the bedstead to remove his boots, he noticed that the fire had been lit in the hearth. The trap, he thought, has been well baited. Then he looked up. His mouth went dry as he watched her undress.

  Adelaide was opening button after button of her gown with slow, deliberate movements. First one firm, rounded breast appeared, then the other. As the last layer of clothing fell from her shoulders, her slender body, unmarred by childbirth, glowed like the marble statue of a Roman goddess. She stepped out of the circle of stiff brocade and white linen and stood before him, gloriously naked.

  With the solemnity of a pagan sacrificing to a deity, he slid off the bed onto his knees and buried his face in the triangle of soft tawny hair, inhaling the scent of seashells that rose from her hidden parts. As he began to explore her with his tongue, at first with feathery movements, then slowly increasing the pressure, she started to moan, her hands caressing his head.

  As he felt her desire mount, his own became unbearable. He jerked his head away. There was no time now for anything but swift gratification. Later, he would linger. He let himself fall onto the bed and pulled her onto him.

  A wave of pleasure engulfed him, thundering in his ear
s and sweeping him away.

  I STILL CAN’T sign this,” Frederick said with disgust. “It’s a complete renunciation of my rights. By the Host, Conrad, find another way of wording it!” Booted and cloaked, about to go hunting, Frederick tossed the document onto the table.

  Conrad looked at the offending parchment with rising anger. It was the fifth draft of a letter to Pope Innocent that Frederick had rejected in as many days. What he demanded was impossible, in Latin or any other language known to man.

  After a moment’s silence, Conrad raised his head. With pursed lips, he fixed on Frederick. “Your Grace,” he said, “it is beyond my powers to couch this letter in the terms you desire. It is not possible to both renounce a throne and retain it in a written document. It may be possible to do so in reality, although you know my views on the dangers of misleading the pope, but I cannot draft this letter the way you wish. Miracles are wrought by saints, not chancellors. I suggest that you get another to do your bidding in this matter, as I am unable to satisfy your wish.” Conrad inclined his balding head. “May I have your leave to go?”

  Frederick stared at him. A furrow appeared between his brows. About to make an angry retort, he changed his mind. He picked the letter up and began to read it once more.

  “Well,” he said after he’d finished, “it is, after all, only a letter. I’ll sign it if I must.” The corners of his mouth rose a little. “You’re quite right, I was being unreasonable.”

  Conrad, without so much as a flicker of surprise, motioned to the secretary to hand Frederick a quill. The secretary threw some sand on the ink and after a moment rolled the document up, to be folded and sealed in the chancery.