The Falcon of Palermo

by Maria R. Bordihn

  Constance shook her head with resignation. “It’s no use, Juana. No matter how seductively rounded I should become again, he’ll still turn from me. It’s God’s will.” She began to cry again.

  “Hen’s folly!” When Juana got agitated, she tended to relapse into the language of the paternal farmyard. She laid a hand on her mistress’s shoulder. “Just because your belly won’t quicken any more isn’t a reason to lose courage, my queen. He’ll get used to it in time. You’ve proven twice that you aren’t a barren vine. No one can point an accusing finger at you. Just don’t say a word to anyone, and all will be well. His Grace dotes on you, everyone knows that. So much so that he’s even married off that she-devil!”

  Constance looked up at her, flabbergasted. “But how … how did you know?”

  Juana’s brown eyes looked at her kindly. She shrugged. “A woman notices these things. I take your washing down to the privy laundry. You needn’t worry, my lady, no one else will ever know. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  For an instant, Constance allowed herself to feel a surge of hope. Perhaps it was really as simple as this shrewd peasant was making it out to be. Perhaps she could keep it a secret and just continue living as before. She frowned, struck by something Juana had said. “What about the laun-dresses? Surely they’ll notice. Perhaps they’re talking about it already?”

  Color shot into Juana’s rounded face. She stared at the floor rushes. “I hope my lady won’t mind, but I’ve been taking care of that. What with His Grace’s other ladies, paying the servants to discover things about you, I thought it prudent to do so.”

  Constance looked at her with new respect. “I never realized what a resourceful girl you are.”

  Strange, how the reference to Frederick’s dalliances didn’t hurt any more. In Sicily, she would have slapped Juana for daring to mention such a thing. But since arriving in Germany she had discovered so much about her husband’s amorous exploits—mostly from Juana, who was a font of gossip, but also from her new German ladies-in-waiting, some of whom she suspected of having themselves on occasion shared Frederick’s bed—that nothing seemed to touch her any longer. The soul, she thought, is like the body. When pain becomes too great to be borne, it loses its sharpness. And despite it all, she loved him still, perhaps more than ever before.

  The young king whose smile had first melted her heart, who had survived disaster after disaster by his nimble wits alone, who had sought solace in her arms, was gone forever. But the emperor who had taken his place, although less appealing, was far more compelling. During the last few months, Constance had watched Frederick negotiate the ocean of rocks and whirlpools that was the Holy Roman Empire, and her admiration for him had gradually grown into something resembling awe.

  She took a deep breath and straightened herself against the hard wooden back of the chair. The small flutter of hope died within her. It was useless. For too long already had she kept a despicable silence.

  “I can’t deceive him any longer. It’s a sin to do so. Tomorrow I will tell him.”

  Juana shook her head in incomprehension at such folly.

  THE ROAN STALLION raced across the turf. Frederick, his cloak flying, the breeze cooling his face, was letting the horse have its way. Just before horse and rider reached the lake, he drew rein, bringing the horse to a sudden halt.

  He leaned down and patted the sweaty neck. Nestor, who had a will of his own, pawed the ground, snorting. “Easy now, you brute, or we’ll lose the lady.”

  He turned and waved to Constance. She was carefully guiding her white palfrey down the grassy slope of a knoll. Drawing rein beside him, she smiled. “This is a lovely spot.”

  The small lake lay in a shallow bowl of land ringed by trees. Spring flowers dotted the young grass. The oaks and beeches were unfurling their new leaves. Birds flitted about the branches, ferrying twigs and greenery to their new nests.

  Frederick laid his reins across the horse’s neck and jumped to the ground. He swung Constance out of her saddle. “Ah, what joy, to be a poor woodsman who can do as he pleases!”

  He undid his cloak and spread it on the grass. Flinging himself on it, he patted the place beside him. “Come and lie by your woodsman in the Elysian fields.” He plucked a few yellow primroses and scattered them on the cloak. “See, I’ve strewn your bed with blossoms!” He grinned up at her, hands folded behind his head. Constance remembered dimly that the fields Frederick was referring to were somehow connected with death. Not a good omen … She sat down beside him, tucking her legs beneath her.

  Frederick sighed. “If only I could come here more often. It’s a curse. They never leave me alone. Since that pea-brained Otto tried to have me assassinated, I can’t even sleep alone any more.”

  Constance smiled down at him. “But Frederick, nobody sleeps alone.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand this need of yours to be alone. Surely a few loyal attendants sleeping at the foot of your bed cannot give you reason to complain? I, for one, am glad of it. That way I needn’t worry about your safety.”

  Frederick sat up. “God’s teeth! If I bothered so much about my safety I’d long be dead from worry! This, for instance,” his arm swept the clearing, “is a perfect place to murder me.” He grinned at her. “Not only do I come here regularly, but I come alone or with just one or two friends, such as Berard or Walter von der Vogelweide. Neither could put up much resistance.” To tease her, he added, “My men, waiting in the glade, wouldn’t even hear our screams.”

  Constance looked at him, eyes wide.

  He leant across and kissed her on the tip of the nose. “I love that look of a wise frightened doe you have when you think I’m being foolhardy again.” His eyes twinkled: “Like when I got it into my head to become emperor! That was a very angry queen I left behind in Sicily.”

  Constance steeled herself. Now was the moment, quickly, before her courage deserted her. “Frederick,” she said, leaning forward, “while your success has been astounding, all is not won yet.”

  “Yes, I know.” Constance had always had a tendency to lecture him, even if she did so in a tactful manner.

  “You need more sons.”

  As if he didn’t know it! Sons he had aplenty, but all born on the wrong side of the coverlet. And Adelaide was sure to produce another any day now. But what was she saying? Was she finally … ?

  Constance, with a sinking heart, saw his eyes light up. Before he could say anything else, she quickly added, “I have something to tell you, but it isn’t good news.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  She stared into her lap, smoothing her tunic. “Frederick, I can’t have children any more.”

  “It can’t be! Why, what’s wrong? Tell me!” He grabbed her arm, shaking it.

  “My monthly courses have stopped. Once that happens, a woman can’t conceive any longer.”

  “You mean they just halt and then …” He stared at her.

  She nodded, blinking back tears. “It happens to all women when their childbearing years come to an end, somewhere after the age of thirty.”

  “And it has now happened to you?”

  Again, she nodded.

  “Can’t anything be done?”

  She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. “No, Frederick, there is nothing that can remedy this. Divorce me. I’ll not stand in your way. I’ll take the veil. Honorius will annul our marriage and you can marry again.” She gave a dry laugh. “This time you can choose your bride, so you won’t have to marry an old woman like me.”

  For a long time Frederick stared ahead, saying nothing. The little lake lying in the sun dissolved into nebulous gray before his eyes. It couldn’t be! God, who had bestowed so many favors on him, could not deny him now. His eyes stung. What was a man without enough sons to carry on his life’s work?

  As Constance had said, he could divorce her. It might be possible. He had never considered it. He glanced at her profile. She was sitting very straight and still, her dove gray riding tunic sprea
d about her like a fan. He noticed that her long, slender neck had become even thinner, resembling a graceful swan’s. She, too, was staring at the lake, avoiding his eyes. Her hands, lying in her lap, clutched the fabric of her tunic.

  Constance was his queen, the mother of his heir. Could he discard her now for a failing that wasn’t of her making? On the other hand, what would become of Sicily and the Empire? He cursed the Christian habit of allowing a man only one wife. No sultan had ever been faced with such a problem. While his loyalty to Constance was genuine, another consideration weighed equally on his mind: as emperor, he couldn’t be seen to divorce his wife. The princes of Europe, always attempting to rid themselves of inconvenient wives with the aid of complacent popes, would exploit this. The common people, too, would lose respect. The sacrament of marriage was indissoluble. This was a cornerstone of the Church’s teaching. Ordained by God, only God, through death, could sever its holy bonds.

  True, for those wealthy and well-connected enough, there existed an escape, based on another fundamental teaching of the Church: the doctrine that forbade marriage within certain degrees of kinship. Since most great families were distantly related to each other, it was often possible, if one searched diligently enough, to find real or spurious proof of a forbidden degree of consanguinity. However, Constance had overlooked the fact that if their marriage were annulled, Henry’s legitimacy might become questionable. Sometimes, this problem had been overcome with the pope’s aid.

  A heron flew across the lake, skimming the water. The two horses, one white, one brown, were grazing a few feet away, nibbling at the young grass. What a tranquil scene, so unlike the churning thoughts and emotions within him.

  His silence seemed interminable. She felt like one condemned to death. Thus, she told herself, must those wretches feel whom she had seen awaiting execution in many a market square. They cowered in chains, eyes wild with fear, taunted and jeered at by the populace come to watch the executioner’s ax fall.

  “Constance,” he said finally, “look at me.”

  She turned her head. The ax was about to descend. She could almost feel its cold blade. “Yes?”

  “You’re my wife, and you’ll be my wife forever. I’ll never part with you.”

  For a moment she stared at him, incredulous. Tears shot into her eyes. “But you can’t … you have to safeguard the succession. The Empire and Sicily are two separate realms, needing two rulers. Will you then give up your dream of a Hohenstaufen dynasty on the imperial throne?”

  He took both her hands. “Have no fear, Constance, I’m giving up nothing.” The light of a vision, nurtured over many years, shone in his eyes. “With God’s will, Henry will one day rule over a new Rome. The whole of central Europe, from the Baltic to Malta, will be a Hohenstaufen dominion.”

  “And the pope?”

  “The pope will once again become what Christ meant him to be: a respected servant of the state, ministering to the faithful.”

  They rode back a little later in silence. Fortunately, Frederick thought as he guided Nestor around a boulder, Henry had passed the most dangerous stage of childhood, those first few years of infancy when one child in every three succumbed to disease. Soon he could be betrothed to a foreign princess. By the time he was fifteen he’d marry and father children. In the meantime, the Lord would have to safeguard Henry.

  SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE THE ramparts, a cock crowed. In the ancient castle above the Neckar the torches still burned in guard towers and passages, their light now dimmed by the breaking dawn.

  Manfred handed his reins to a groom whose hair still bore bits of the straw he had been sleeping on. To the guard he said, “Take me to the emperor!”

  “At this hour?” The man, a huge Swabian in steel helmet and cuirass, frowned at Manfred and his small escort.

  “Now! I’ve come from Haguenau with urgent news!”

  “I’ll fetch the captain.” He ran off to wake his superior.

  Manfred followed the captain, who was lighting their way with a lantern. The hall lay in darkness, except for a glow of dying embers in the fireplace. Snoring filled the hall. They stepped around sleeping forms that lay in rows on foldable pallets. Not only the servants, but knights too—everyone, in fact, except the most exalted personages—slept communally in the hall. The two guards at the foot of the stairs let them pass.

  FREDERICK STARED AT Manfred. He sat up in the canopied bed, naked except for the sheet that covered his lower body.

  “Otto’s dead?”

  Manfred nodded. “Dead, and buried by now.”

  Frederick grinned. “Didn’t I say the Lord was on my side?”

  “They say he had himself scourged to death by monks as he felt the end approaching, to atone for his sins.”

  “Ugh!” Frederick shook himself, as if to ward off the horrible image. “What an undignified way for a prince to die.”

  “A dreadful death, but no doubt what he deserved. After all, he was an outcast.”

  Manfred yawned.

  “Sit down, Manfred. You look terrible. I’ll have some wine brought.”

  Manfred sat down on the bedstead. His bones ached. He leaned his head against the bedpost. Wearily, he let his eyes wander across the room. Eastern rugs covered the rush-free floor, there were bright cushions and a lectern with an open book. In a corner stood Frederick’s bath, a huge tub of oak staves especially made for him, which took four servants to fill and traveled everywhere with him. Frederick bathed in it every day, sometimes twice. Manfred’s eyes closed.

  Frederick’s voice jolted him back to wakefulness. “You’d better bed down somewhere before you fall over.” He smiled. “Thank you for coming. But there was no need to kill yourself. You could’ve sent a courier!”

  Manfred laughed. “I wanted to see your face. Oh, I forgot. His brother will hand over the regalia after twenty weeks.”

  “Twenty weeks?”

  “According to Otto’s testament, if the German princes don’t elect another emperor in that time, the crown jewels are to be handed to you.”

  Frederick laughed. “Why, even in death he still hoped to defeat me!”

  A page entered bearing a tray with wine, bread, and cheese. He set it down on the bedboard, bowed, and withdrew.

  “At least I can halt work on the replicas. That’ll save me a tidy sum,” Frederick said. He poured some wine, handing a goblet to Manfred. He stared into his own cup for a moment. “I’ll be crowned by the pope. Always the pope. This tradition that the emperor has to be crowned by the pope is absurd. Who does he think he is?”

  “Why, Frederick, he’s the Vicar of Christ, invested with his powers by God himself!”

  “So he says. A convenient doctrine, don’t you think?”

  Manfred looked at him with consternation.

  Frederick, snapping out of his black mood, raised his cup. “To Otto. May he have a pleasant sojourn in Satan’s abode!”

  THE HALL OF Nuremberg castle echoed with animated voices. All the great dignitaries of the Empire were present. From the upper Rhine to the Adriatic Marches and the lower Rhône they had come to attend Henry’s investiture as Duke of Swabia.

  Frederick, to general applause, had dispatched a boar single-handedly with his javelin at a great hunt that morning. He much preferred hawking, but his lords considered boar hunting the ultimate feat of venery. An unequal contest in favor of a fiercely dangerous animal, it was an opportunity to show off one’s bravery. It was also brutal and inelegant. The hounds, rewarded with bones and entrails, were still gnawing at the remains in their kennels. Their snarls as they defended a well-chewed bone could be heard through the open windows. Unlike the dogs, Frederick thought with a wry smile, the princes were at peace with each other today. For the first time in a quarter century …

  The heralds blew their trumpets. Frederick, in a purple mantle, the crown of Germany on his head, raised his hand. “Welcome, my lords and princes! We are here to pay homage to the new Duke of Swabia.” He gave his son a gentle push
forward.

  Henry, in a small cloak identical to Frederick’s, a golden coronet on his head, stood very straight and still, his father’s hand on his shoulder.

  One by one, the princes filed past the dais and knelt before the boy. Each laid down his sword and murmured the oath of allegiance before placing his hands between the child’s palms. Frederick studied their faces. There could be no doubt in their minds that he was preparing the way for Henry to succeed him. Making him Duke of Swabia was innocuous in itself. As his heir, he’d naturally succeed to the family duchy upon his father’s death. However, investing him with the duchy during Frederick’s lifetime was a step of obvious significance. Every Duke of Swabia, for more than a hundred years now, had become emperor.

  On the other hand, paying homage to his son as Duke of Swabia wasn’t the same as electing him king of the Romans, which would give him the right to succeed to the Empire. He had raised the matter discreetly with some of the princes and found their reactions encouraging. He’d also discussed a new charter with the ecclesiastical princes, which would grant them the right to coin money and the testamentary freedom to dispose of their personal property.

  The price he’d have to pay for the loyalty of the German Church was high. But then Germany could never be like Sicily: the autonomy of her princely territories was too great. By granting the ecclesiastical princes, who posed no threat to the throne, privileges and powers on a par with the lay lords, he’d be righting the balance in his favor, but he’d also be relinquishing even more authority. Still …

  Looking down at his son, feeling his small shoulder under his hand, Frederick felt a tug of pride. His eyes sought Constance, seated on the dais. She, too, was watching Henry, a proud smile on her lips. Erect and golden-haired, in a miniature royal mantle edged in miniver, Henry was a perfect prince.

  The princes completed their homage. They raised their swords and chorused: “Hail to Duke Henry, hail to Henry of Hohenstaufen! Long live Duke Henry!”