The child flinched. Frederick pressed his shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, “they’re just showing how much they like us.”
It was true. The princes had once again demonstrated their solidarity with the Hohenstaufen. But did their loyalty run deep enough to elect Henry king? It would take time, and time was what he didn’t have. Sicily needed him.
* * *
THE JEW SELECTED another bolt of silk. He flipped the heavy roll forward with a flick of his wrists. The material cascaded to the ground in shimmering folds and eddies of cobalt blue.
Frederick held his chin, admiring the fabrics, colored with the costliest dyes of the East. Gorgeous Byzantine silks and brocades in saffron, magenta, vermilion, and azure, some worked with gold or silver threads, others plain, covered the floor like a rainbow. He turned as the door opened behind him. “Ah, Manfred, come and help me select New Year’s gifts. I’m having difficulty making up my mind between all the marvels that Yehuda has spread out to tempt me.” He winked at Manfred: “No doubt he’d like me to buy them all.”
The merchant, whose name was Yehuda ben Solomon, bowed. “You should, my lord. Never again will you be able to acquire silks and baubles of this quality at these prices. With the cost of skilled slaves rising to the stars in Byzantium, next time I go to Constantinople, I’ll have to pay double what I paid for this shipment. And silk, as you know, keeps forever. So do jewels.”
Frederick burst out laughing. “You’re an old rascal, Yehuda. That’s exactly what you told me last year.”
The Jew, a tall, dignified-looking man with a short graying beard, raised his beringed hand to his heart. “So I did, my lord, and I was right. Those bolts of vermilion samite you purchased last year have nearly doubled in value.”
“That may be so, Yehuda, but I bet you a hundred gold bezants that once my Sicilian silk works resume production, the price of first-grade samite will fall by half. I’m having five hundred mulberry trees planted in Palermo this year, and another five hundred next year.”
The merchant’s eyes widened. Truly, the wonders of the Lord were many when emperors began talking like silk traders! This young emperor bargained like a bazaar merchant and worked an abacus as swiftly as Yehuda himself. In stark contradiction to this was his love of beautiful things. He fingered the facets of a gem or stroked a length of silk as if he were caressing a woman.
Frederick pointed to the cobalt-blue silk. “I’ll take that for the empress, it’s a color that suits her.”
Yehuda’s two assistants removed the bolt, expertly rolling it up between them. They placed it on a pile near the window, where the merchant’s scribe was noting each purchase on a wax tablet with a stylus.
“That should appeal to the chancellor,” Frederick said, indicating a length of russet Estanfort. “Conrad likes rich fabrics in dull colors. His taste in clothing is like his mind, very subtle.” To Yehuda he said, “Add the necessary marten skins to fashion it into a furred gown.”
One by one he went through the list a secretary handed him, of friends and courtiers who’d be honored with a New Year gift. For Berard he selected a curved Byzantine eating dagger in a gold sheath studded with flame-colored carnelians. He grinned at Manfred: “It’ll be useful. He’s always eating, and hereabouts everyone carries his own eating-knife.”
He picked up a gold fibula set with pearls and a single deep red garnet. He held it to Manfred’s throat and leaned back. “Hm, what do you think, would it suit you?”
Manfred blinked. “Frederick, it’s magnificent. But it’s far too costly. I can’t—”
“Of course you can! You can wear it on your wedding day and dazzle that lovely girl completely! As for your betrothed, I think I’ll take that green silk over there. It’s exactly the shade of her eyes.” He motioned to Yehuda to add the cloth to the other purchases.
Manfred shook his head. Frederick, despite being perennially short of funds, was incredibly generous. And observant, he thought with a little sting. Frederick had seen Manfred’s German bride-to-be only once, and yet he had remembered the color of her eyes.
“Now, Yehuda, that pearl circlet for the empress. Did you get the matched pearls you promised me?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Yehuda handed him a small leather pouch.
Just then children’s laughter rose from the gardens outside. Frederick, holding a pearl, went over to the window. In the garden on the ramparts below, Enzio and Henry were running on the leaf-strewn gravel paths between the flower beds, followed by their nurses. The smaller child was trying to catch the older boy in the maze of pear trees.
At least he’s kindhearted, Frederick thought as he watched Henry run away, but at a pace that would allow the little one to reach him. Kindhearted, but spoiled and willful, and wary of his father. After more than a year, the boy still shied away from him, although he had learned to do so surreptitiously. Surely a boy of eight ought not to have a nurse any more and shouldn’t be playing with a three-year-old? Although Constance, to his amazement and relief, had accepted Enzio’s presence, he was too young to be a suitable companion for Henry.
It was high time Henry had his own household of male tutors and companions. Constance pleaded for more time for their son to adjust to his new life. Henry was suffering from nightmares since leaving Sicily. Although he was in good health, he was a picky eater. He refused dishes he was not used to and clamored for unobtainable oranges. He hated the cold and spent most winter days by the fire in the nursery.
How different was Enzio, at three a veritable little terror, falling into the half-frozen pond, throwing snowballs at the guards, constantly scuffing his knees and elbows bloody. Always cheerful, a mischievous grin on his angelic features, Enzio romped through Haguenau Castle endearing himself to everyone from scullery maids to chancery clerks. Whenever he spotted his father, Enzio would throw himself at him with shouts of delight.
Watching them now, their heads close together, Henry’s golden hair against Enzio’s dark curls, plotting some mischief out of the nurses’ ear-shot, Frederick sighed with regret. If only Henry could be like Enzio … But Henry was still young. In time, with the right guidance, he’d change.
Fearful for Henry’s health, Frederick, against his better judgment, had agreed to Constance’s request. But now he resolved to act. Someone of suitable temperament and learning was needed to be his tutor. Henry must be removed from the circle of doting women in the nursery. He’d never grow out of his whining ways otherwise. The time had come to make Henry into a man.
THE YEAR OF Otto’s death ended in a joyful Christmas court at Haguenau, during which Manfred’s marriage to the daughter of a German margrave was celebrated. The following June Frederick received Henry of Brunswick in Barbarossa’s palace at Goslar. The imperial crown and the regalia were handed over. The last Guelf thawed under Frederick’s conciliatory manner. To demonstrate his faith in his new vassal, Frederick named him to a prestigious but mainly ceremonial post. The pacification of Germany was complete.
In the meantime, the crusading movement was in disarray. Just before Innocent’s death, and at his instigation, a number of Frankish princes, led by Jean de Brienne, who ruled the kingdom of Jerusalem, had decided to embark on their own crusade. They were tired, they said, of waiting for the dilatory emperor. Their plan was to start their attack in lower Egypt, and from there sweep north along the Sultan’s territory to liberate Jerusalem. Honorius, upon his accession, gave cautious sanction to their enterprise and urged Frederick to support them with men, ships, and money until such time as he could join them.
Frederick, unable to make up his mind whether he was peeved or relieved, and in no hurry to pour silver into a campaign he had no control over, did nothing. Soon he would turn his attention eastward, but not just yet. He still had unfinished business in Germany, the most important of which was his son’s election.
WIMPFEN CASTLE, VALLEY OF THE NECKAR, MARCH 1220
Winter was reluctant that year to relinquish its dominion
over the land. The countryside was blanketed in snow. Rivers and lakes were frozen. Navigation on the Neckar and the Mosel became perilous because of thick ice floes. Even the oldest peasants in the villages along the rivers could not remember the last time this had occurred. Only the Rhine continued to surge toward the sea.
Roads became impassable. A Diet at Speyer had to be called off. Day after day, black clouds hung in the sky above Wimpfen, unleashing fierce storms that filled the castle’s courtyards with snow.
Frederick was bent over a parchment scroll, writing. The chamber was silent, except for the crackling of the fire. He halted and blew on his numb fingers. Despite the shuttered windows and the burning logs, he could see his own breath. The walls gave off a stinging chill despite the tapestries with which they were hung to ward off the cold.
Constance entered, stepping silently on the bearskins that covered the floor. “What a winter!” she grimaced, removing the hood of her fur-lined mantle. “What are you working on?”
The table was scattered with scrolls and sheets of parchment. Some were ink drawings. One represented a double-sided tower with an arched gate in the middle. Constance picked it up and studied it. “It’s gorgeous. But where are you going to build it? Your grandfather’s castles are splendid already. You don’t want to make the princes jealous, do you?”
Constance was right. There was already a large difference between the elegant Italianate palaces built by his grandfather, such as Haguenau, Goslar and Wimpfen, and the squat castles of the German magnates. It wouldn’t do to exacerbate them. But that wasn’t his intention.
He adjusted the fur rug on his knees so as to cover the heated bricks his feet were resting on. “Come and sit,” he patted the settle. “I’ll show you some of these.”
Her eyes widened as he passed her parchment after parchment with sketches of marble statues, friezes, architraves, buttresses, and a classical portico. Some were of gargoyles, others of charming, realistic animals such as bears, lions, and squirrels to be hewn in stone. There was one in particular, an eagle in flight holding a hare in its talons, that was astonishingly lifelike. “Are they Norbert’s work?”
“The tower is. The others are mine, like this eagle.”
“You drew this? It seems alive!”
“I’ve learned much from Norbert. The little fellow has a magical way with a piece of charcoal. With a few strokes he can create a work of art. And his proportions are almost always right the first time. I find it relaxing to sit during the long winter nights and draw.”
She smiled. While no doubt not all his nights were spent in such innocent pastimes, the image of Frederick alone in this tower room, drawing in the deep of night, was endearing in its absurdity. The design of buildings and decorative elements was the domain of lowly craftsmen. Frederick had many interests that would have raised eyebrows among his subjects had they but known about them.
Constance, having lost her way one day in the gardens at Haguenau, and recognizing Frederick’s voice, had found him in the stonemason’s dusty workrooms beside the stables, leaning over Norbert’s shoulder. The bald little man was holding a chisel in one hand, while with the other he was showing Frederick a particular angle of setting the chisel to the stone. Both had been covered in white dust, their hair and eyebrows looking as if they had been coated in flour.
Her glance swept the table. The heading of the long scroll he had been working on caught her eye. She began to read in growing surprise.
A new Sicilian edict, the draft dealt with ordinances for the creation and maintenance of a fleet. Some fief holders and towns were to supply timber or money for the building of ships and their maintenance. Others would furnish regular quotas of sailors.
There followed a list of towns and vassals by name, with annotations in Frederick’s hand, indicating whether the dues might be paid peaceably, or how much resistance was to be expected. Beside some could be read the remark: “Requires my presence.”
So this was what he did when he locked himself away with his secretaries of an evening! Since the early days in Germany there had always been what amounted to a separate, unobtrusive chancery that dealt with Sicilian matters, headed by Berard and supervised by Frederick, but she hadn’t known to what meticulous extent he was planning Sicily’s future.
“When are you going to return to Sicily?” The question had been in her mind since the day he had embarked from Messina. Now, after seven years, she asked it.
“Why, after the coronation.”
“That’s not what I meant. I know you’re going there before embarking for Palestine. What I meant is, will you ever again reside in Sicily? It’s impossible to rule Sicily and the Empire from here, even with the best officers of state. The distances are too great.”
Frederick linked his hands behind his back. “Augustus ruled a far larger Empire from Rome.”
“And where will your Rome be?”
He reached for the drawing of the gate tower. Tapping it, he said, “This gateway will one day rise in the heart of the Empire.”
“But where?”
He smiled up at her. “I don’t know yet. When I decide, I promise you shall be the first to know.”
Frederick could be maddeningly secretive. Constance stared into the dancing flames. There were eight months left before the coronation in Rome set for November. Eight months in which to have Henry elected king of Germany.
VITERBO, AUGUST 1220
Pope Honorius’ normally serene features turned crimson. “How dare he!” He rummaged among the parchments on the table for a letter. With a stubby finger he followed the lines till he found the paragraph he was looking for:
“Here’s what the emperor wrote in February: ‘As our son might die without leaving a brother or child, we reserve the right to succeed him in the realm of Sicily, not by imperial claim, but by the title of legitimate succession, whereby a father takes the inheritance of his son, always recognizing that we hold the realm from the Church.’”
The pontiff dropped it and picked up another parchment, waving it before von Salza. “And now, three months later, he sends you with this!”
In his raspy old voice, Honorius began to read: “‘… our son was elected German king without our knowledge. The princes’ sole motivation was to ensure a peaceful succession should we perish doing God’s work. … Had we ourselves not been away at the time, we would have restrained them… However, our Mother the Church should have no fear on the subject of a possible union of the realm and the Empire, because we ourselves desire the separation …’” Honorius rolled his eyes to heaven. “I ask you …”
“Holy Father,” Hermann said, “I can vouch for the fact that the emperor wasn’t present when Henry was elected. His father goes on crusade next year. In the event of his death in the Holy Land, Germany would again be menaced with civil war. Surely you wouldn’t wish renewed bloodshed on a country that has only just begun to recover from decades of devastation?”
Honorius felt trapped. The princes of the German Church had all taken part in the election. He could hardly excommunicate every German bishop. And discord was one thing Christendom couldn’t afford right now, with the crusaders in Egypt besieging Damietta while they waited for the emperor. If he refused to crown Frederick in November, he couldn’t afterward give him his blessing to go on crusade.
The Pope scrutinized Hermann. “Can you really tell me that Henry’s election was contrary to his father’s wishes?”
“No, Your Holiness, I cannot.” Hermann held the pontiff’s gaze. “But I’m persuaded that his undeniable joy is founded more on his concern for the Empire than on pride of race. Frederick truly wants to ensure a lasting peace for his people.”
The pontiff sighed. The August heat, although less terrible here than in Rome, was oppressive. How this towering German remained looking so cool in his thick cloak and heavy leather boots was beyond him. If only the emperor’s boundless ambition, which his cardinals were always warning him about, could be proven to exist onl
y in the minds of Guelf loyalists … He had known Frederick as a boy and then as a youth. He’d found him to be a likable young man. Wasn’t it possible for the two heads of Christendom to stop sparring and join forces?
Conscious suddenly of a lapse in his manners, Honorius gestured to the loggia outside. “Please, my lord von Salza, let us take some refreshment outside, where it is a little cooler.” He had been acquainted with von Salza for many years and regretted the harsh words that had passed between them today. The grand master and his order had always been loyal to the papacy.
They stepped out of the dimly lit study into the bright shade outside. Honorius sat down beside Hermann on a long stone bench. Shaded by vines heavy with nearly ripe purple fruit, the loggia of the papal summer residence was a pleasant spot. It overlooked terraced gardens planted with pomegranate, orange, and lemon trees. Through the foliage, he could see Viterbo’s marketplace, paved with blocks of black lava. A monk brought cool well water, wine, and a platter of figs.
The bells of San Lorenzo rang the sixth hour. Honorius, with an apology to his visitor, folded his hands over his ample stomach and recited the office of compline. At the end he added a silent prayer: “May the Emperor keep faith with the Church, for the sake of Christendom and that of his soul, Amen.”
AUGSBURG, AUGUST 1220
On the last day of August, Frederick and Constance led the imperial cavalcade from the Lechfeld, a vast field below Augsburg, from which the emperors traditionally departed for their coronations in Rome.
Behind them came a lumbering procession of riders and oxcarts containing the imperial household. Part of their escort of princes, prelates, and officials would leave them at Innsbruck. The remainder would accompany them to Rome and thence to Sicily. In the center of the convoy, surrounded by a detachment of Teutonic knights, rumbled the wagon containing the crown of Charlemagne.
Constance was grateful for the veil that protected her from the stares of the townsfolk. In an effort to control her tears, she gripped her reins so tightly that the silver embroidery on her gloves cut into her hands. Would she ever see Henry again? She’d never forget the look of mutinous rage on his tear-stained little face as he stood beside the archbishop of Cologne. When the archbishop, who was a kindly man, put his arm around him, he had precipitated another flood of tears. Frederick muttered that at nine a boy should behave with more dignity and rode away without another glance at his son. How could he, himself bereft of parents as a child, be so heartless?
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