The Falcon of Palermo

by Maria R. Bordihn

  Francis raised his hand and made the sign of the cross above Frederick’s bowed head.

  NORBERT, HIS SET square wedged under one arm, lead the way, kicking chunks of rubble out of their path. He pointed out the new windows to Frederick.

  “Well done. I see much progress.” Frederick, shading his eyes with his hand, admired the well-made walkways of plaited osier that covered the facade of Bari’s castle. Secured into putlogs, they were far easier to work on than wooden scaffolding. Men with basketfuls of fresh mortar on their shoulders climbed ladders made of the same material.

  Norbert rubbed his callused hands together. “It’s marvelous to be able to build all year round, Your Grace. No snow and ice to freeze fingers and mortar. At this rate we’ll soon be able to start on the one in Trani.”

  Frederick smiled at the Rhinelander’s enthusiasm. Norbert had followed him, abandoning his homeland, without hesitation. Taking to Sicily as if he had been born here, he’d even found a local wife. “There’s a great deal to be done, Norbert. Even you may yet get weary. For thirty years nothing’s been built or repaired in Sicily. We need fortresses to defend the coast and—”

  “Your Grace!” Norbert grabbed his arm, swinging him violently to one side. Together they fell into a pile of sand. A tremendous crash was followed by a cloud of dust. On the spot where they had been standing lay a huge block of dressed sandstone, still held in the giant steel pincers in which it was being raised. Above, halfway to the top of the central tower, dangled the broken end of the rope to which it had been attached. The three men who had been turning the windlass stared down in mute horror.

  Workmen rushed forward. Frederick scrambled to his feet. His mouth was full of grit. He extended a hand to Norbert, sprawled on the ground, coughing.

  “Was that an accident, do you think, or is one of my vassals trying to rid himself of me?” Frederick asked.

  Norbert’s hands trembled. “I don’t know. As I glanced up, I saw the rope splitting.” He glanced at the block of stone and shuddered. “It would have killed us, no doubt about it.”

  “God didn’t raise me this far only to crush me like a grain of corn under a grindstone.” Frederick smiled at the mason: “You’ve saved my life, Norbert. A lesser man would have leaped aside, thinking only of himself. Ask anything you wish as a reward.”

  Norbert shook his head. “You’ve been overgenerous already, my lord. I lack for nothing. It’s enough that one day, men will marvel at your castles and say that Norbert of Cologne built them. The great just build cathedrals, nothing but cathedrals, while they live elsewhere in wooden barns like royal sheep!”

  Frederick laughed. “That’s noble but foolish, Norbert. I’ll see that you’re rewarded anyway.” He glanced up to see riders crossing the drawbridge, escorting a long hide-covered traveling wagon. Beside it, on a chestnut with white socks, he recognized Manfred, a jaunty yellow feather in his cap.

  Manfred slid off his mount. They embraced. Frederick pointed his chin at the wagon. “And that? What is it, your traveling harem?”

  “Almost. Since you’ve given me permission, I’ve brought my family. I must introduce them to you. My sisters have talked of nothing but you for days.”

  He crossed to the wagon and called into the interior. Wooden steps were lowered. One by one, four ladies, their veils thrown back, clambered out. One of them was visibly pregnant.

  “Your Grace.” Manfred’s mother sank into a curtsy, smiling at him. The passing years had been kind to her. While the dark hair that showed under her starched white wimple was touched with gray, the lines on her skin were few and fine. Frederick kissed her hand.

  Manfred’s German wife Beatrice, blond and rosy-cheeked, was far gone with child. Frederick greeted her in German and raised her quickly from her uncomfortable position. Manfred’s two sisters made their obeisance together. The elder was fair-haired, buxom, and uncommonly pretty. The younger one, little more than a child, resembled her mother and brother. Thin and dark-haired, with delicate black eyebrows, she had the awkwardness of a young colt. She stared at Frederick, forgetting to rise.

  “Bianca!” The girl, as if in a trance, slowly turned her head toward her mother.

  “You may rise, my girl,” Frederick inclined his head.

  She crimsoned and did as she was bid. Manfred and the countess admired the castle’s new facade. Frederick explained what it would look like at its completion. The countess pointed at the heraldic emblem carved above the main gate, an eagle holding a hare in its talons. “What does it signify?”

  “My new emblem. It reminds me of myself and the pope,” Frederick chuckled.

  “Does the pope hold you captive, or you the pope?”

  Frederick whipped around. Manfred’s little sister fixed him with huge dark eyes. “That’s what you meant, isn’t it, my lord?”

  Frederick laughed. “Why, that’s extraordinary. The same thought occurred to me, only the other day.” He scrutinized her. “You’re an outspoken girl, aren’t you? I remember now. Last time I saw you, you told me I was dirty!”

  The color rose again in her cheeks. This time, however, she stuck her chin out. “You were dirty. I was speaking the truth. And I was only a small child!”

  Frederick smiled. “But I’m not blaming you at all. I can see you now as if it were yesterday, with your white cap.” He went on, “It was the day we were ambushed at the Lambro; that’s why I remember it. That day, too,” he said, more to himself than to the girl, “like today, I escaped death by a hair’s breadth.”

  Manfred’s eyes widened. “What?”

  Frederick waved the question aside. “I’ll tell you later. I think your lady wife should rest.” He took Beatrice by the arm and steered her into the half-finished courtyard. “I’m afraid you’ll find living here a little chaotic for a while, my dear, with all this building. But the west wing has been completed. I trust you’ll find your apartments comfortable. I’ve installed water pipes on every floor, so you can take a bath every day.” He whispered something into her ear that made her giggle. She smiled up at him, eyes shining.

  Manfred, following behind, grinned. In a low voice, he said to his mother, “It’s disgusting. He could charm snakes if he tried.”

  The countess bit her lip. The warning she was about to utter died, unspoken. Her two daughters had caught up with them.

  AMALFI, JULY 1222

  The herald overtook them, enveloping the riders in a cloud of red dust. He drew up beside Frederick. “Your Grace,” he gasped, “Archbishop Berard bids you wait. He’s following with urgent news.”

  Frederick reined in, annoyed. He’d already been delayed in Amalfi that morning by a messenger from the governor of Naples. Now they’d have to travel through the midday heat to reach Salerno before dark. However, if Berard was braving the road himself, it must be of the utmost importance. Had Honorius changed his mind about granting him a delay for the crusade?

  Berard’s burly outline appeared on a roan charger from behind a rocky outcrop. His escort was as dust-covered as he. Out of breath, he reined in his lathered horse.

  One look at his face told Frederick that something was terribly wrong.

  “What is it, Berard?”

  “Frederick, I …” Berard’s voice faltered. He swallowed. “Constance is dead.”

  Frederick stared at him. “Dead?” He gripped the reins, his knuckles white.

  “She died a week ago in Catania.”

  “How?”

  “A fever.” Berard laid a hand on his arm. “Her final thoughts were for you. With her last breath she called your name.”

  Frederick sat motionless on his horse. The narrow road ran high above the sea, hugging the coastline that fell in steep cliffs to the water’s edge. He could hear the distant crashing of the waves against the rocks. Slowly, as in a nightmare, he turned his head and looked out across the sea, toward Catania.

  I sent you to Catania to do my bidding, he thought. And now you are gone, gone forever. Never again will I hea
r your voice or see you smile. A terrible pain spread across his chest, choking the breath within him. He tried to recall her face, but the more he stared at the misty line where sea and sky fused on the horizon, the more blurred his vision became.

  Silence descended on those around him. Even the horses were unusually still. The sun, approaching its zenith, burned down. Behind a dusty bush a lone cicada began to chirp.

  At last he turned to Berard, his face expressionless. “We’ll take ship this afternoon from Amalfi. I want her to be buried in Palermo, beside my mother and father.”

  He turned his horse. Berard fell in beside him. Frederick stared at the road, mechanically controlling his mount, his shoulders slumped. Not a word passed between them till they reached Amalfi.

  THE BELLS OF Palermo tolled for Sicily’s dead queen. In the blinding light of a July morning, under a sky of joyous blue that seemed to Frederick like a mockery of heaven, Constance’s funeral cortège moved slowly through the crowded streets.

  He rode behind her bier, keeping step with the beat of the drums. The coffin in its crimson pall seemed to float above a sea of black. Black-garbed mourners, black-muffled drums, horses caparisoned in black. On the coffin lay a life-sized wax effigy of Constance, crowned and dressed in the sky-blue mantle she had worn for their wedding. He stared ahead, numb with pain.

  As the bier passed, carried on the shoulders of twelve black-hooded monks, the crowd fell to their knees. The women, both Christians and Saracens, tore their hair, strewing dust on their heads as they rocked back and forth on their heels, keening.

  The coffin rested in the choir of the cathedral during the funerary mass. The wax effigy had been removed. Only Constance’s crown, his mother’s crown, remained on a cushion of blue damask.

  In the crypt, as the pallbearers were about to close the sarcophagus, Frederick suddenly raised his hand. “Halt! Open the coffin!” His face, which throughout had been impassive, not even his lips moved during the service, was contorted.

  Berard, about to bless the sarcophagus with holy water, touched his arm. “Don’t,” he whispered. “It won’t be a sight you’d wish to remember. She’s been embalmed by the best Saracen embalmers, but in this heat …”

  “Let me be!” He shook off Berard’s hand. “I want to see her for a last time. I don’t care if she’s vile with putrefaction! Raise the lid!” he commanded.

  The mourners backed away. Only Berard and the abbot of Monreale remained in their place.

  Frederick gazed down at Constance. There was no sign of decomposition. In a crimson robe embroidered with pearls, she resembled a statue. Her skin, stretched tight over sunken cheeks, was the color of old parchment. In the candlelight her golden hair, plaited into two long tresses, shone as it had in life.

  Tenderly, he brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. His eyes, which had remained dry since her death, filled with tears. He took two steps back. Unable to speak, with a gesture he signaled to the monks to close the sarcophagus.

  FREDERICK SPENT THE winter in Palermo. He grieved in an intensely private manner, withdrawing from all but the most urgent business. Only after Berard’s repeated urging did he write to tell his eleven-year-old son that his mother was dead. His protracted mourning became the talk of Sicily. How odd, the gossips whispered, that the emperor should mourn his wife with such an excess of grief after he had publicly flaunted his mistresses with such disregard for her feelings during her lifetime.

  At the end of November, Frederick finally roused himself from his apathy. When Manfred sent word that the hideout of Ibn Abbas had been discovered and the Muslim rebel leader taken, Frederick called for his sword and cloak. Riding all day, he arrived at the traitor’s mountain fastness just before sunset.

  “Bring him here,” he growled.

  The rebel, his hands and feet shackled, was led in. A tall, wide-shouldered man with an unkempt black beard and a large ruby on his right hand, Ibn Abbas threw himself at Frederick’s feet.

  He raised his chained hands: “Oh great sultan of Christendom, have mercy on me!”

  “Like the mercy you showed the countless travelers you robbed and killed?” Frederick thundered in Arabic. “Did you show pity to my bailiffs, whom you hanged in village squares? Was compassion your motive for pillaging churches and convents and raping and murdering nuns?”

  “My sultan, we were misled. The emir of Tunis told us that now that you are leader of the Christians’ crusade, you were going to force us to convert to your religion. Pardon me, and my people and I will keep faith with you forever.”

  Frederick’s face contorted. “You’ve promised me that once before, when I was but a youth. I have a good memory, Ibn Abbas. You’re a traitorous son of a dog and you shall die as one!” He lunged forward. With a vicious kick of his spurred boot he ripped open one side of the rebel’s body. Ibn Abbas screamed, curling up. Blood seeped out of the wound in a dark viscous pool.

  “Take him away. Make sure he stays alive. I want him hanged, drawn and quartered. His head and limbs are to be displayed in the main cities of the island!”

  Manfred swallowed. Never had he seen Frederick like this. Even the officers in the tent were visibly shocked. It was almost as if the Saracen had been made responsible for Constance’s death.

  PALERMO, SEPTEMBER 1224

  A magical garden of gold mosaics covered the walls of what had once been King Roger’s study. As a child, Frederick had been enthralled by the plumed birds, leaping gazelles, and prowling tigers brought to life when the sun flooded the chamber in the late afternoon. But now, pacing restlessly up and down the splendid room, he had no eyes for their beauty.

  His mind was on the Saracen rebellion. The rebel strongholds had nearly all been destroyed. But would this solve his problem in the long run? Ever since the Norman conquest, there had been pockets of Muslim discontent. The Saracens of the countryside were more prone to rebellion than those in the towns, whose prosperity depended on Christian trade. One solution was to kill them all. While Christendom would applaud such an action, it would rouse the urban Muslims against him. Sicily might be plunged into civil war. It would also be wasteful. They were good farmers and herdsmen, the rural Saracens.

  He came to a halt, staring at a particular mosaic on the wall. Palm groves, heavy with ripe dates. Fields of emerald corn, irrigated by channels of brilliant blue … Of course, that was it! The rich, mostly uncultivated soil of Apulia on the mainland was the perfect place to settle thousands of farmers. Once there, contained in a single walled city far from any Muslim aid, they’d contribute to Apulia’s prosperity by cultivating the land. They might even enjoy it. The summers were cooler. There was abundant water. He’d allow them complete freedom to live in their own way. They could have as many mosques to pray in and as many steamy hammams to bathe in as they wished.

  Children’s laughter rose from the gardens. He turned to see a group of little girls dancing in a circle beyond a pond with water lilies. They had made themselves garlands of blossoms, which they wore in their hair like miniature crowns. An older girl was leading the little ones in play. Nearby, under a large fig tree, sat their nurses.

  If only Henry and Enzio could be here. Little Catherine, the last child Adelaide had given him, was nearly four. Henry, as king of Germany, must of course remain there. But perhaps he could bring Enzio and Catherine here. Their mother had never shown much interest in them.

  He recognized Bianca, Manfred’s younger sister, the one who always looked at him in a strange, puzzled manner. He smiled at the earnestness with which she was shepherding the little ones to their stations for some game she was teaching them. Then the youngest said something. Bianca laughed, a rippling laughter full of innocence. Bending down, she hugged the little girl.

  For a moment he hesitated, about to go down into the gardens, then changed his mind. The unfolding evening scent of jasmine reminded him of how he’d wandered here as a boy in the late afternoons, talking to the gardeners, watching them tend the flowers and sweep
the paths with their great gorse brooms …

  He drew back. The smile faded on his lips. With a last glance at the children he turned back. Although his days were crowded with the business of government and the needs of his nights fulfilled by Saracen girls whose faces he didn’t remember, there were times, like now, when he felt a terrible gnawing emptiness.

  Oh Constance, he thought, why did you leave me? What will I do with the new wife Hermann and Honorius have picked for me? I don’t want another wife, but if I must marry, I suppose the child queen of Jerusalem is as good as any. Yolanda can remain in the women’s quarters, eating sweetmeats and bearing the sons we both need. Honorius hopes we’ll produce the male heirs the kingdom of Jerusalem hasn’t had for so long.

  He’s a good man, Honorius. You always said he was … So taken was he with my consent to marry her that he agreed once more to postpone my crusade. He understands the reasons, particularly now that he’s seen what a shambles the papal legate Pelagius, an incompetent fool of a cardinal who fancies himself a general, and Yolanda’s father, Jean de Brienne, made of their assault on Damietta. Instead of waiting for the forces I sent them, these hotheads surged ahead, only to flounder in a morass of Nile mud, dissension, and Saracen arrows. … Honorius, just in case, made me swear to accept my excommunication if I failed to depart on the agreed date. No matter, I’ve got another three years in which to build ships and raise money …

  He glanced up at the sky. You, my beloved, would have enjoyed being queen of the Holy Land, but how suitable a king of Jerusalem will I make? The Almighty must have a sense of humor after all … The Frankish barons of the East are all enthusiastic about my marrying Yolanda. They imagine the Saracens fleeing into the desert at the mere rumor of my coming to claim my new kingdom. I’m not so sure. They’re brave and determined, the Saracens … And wait till the barons get a closer look at their new king, they might not like what they see! He threw back his head and laughed.