The Falcon of Palermo

by Maria R. Bordihn

  Berard, coming along the gallery, thought it a harsh, mirthless laughter. “May I ask what the source of this solitary amusement is?”

  Frederick looked up and shook his head. “Nothing, my friend, nothing at all. I laugh so that I don’t weep. It’s more becoming.”

  Berard nodded. He knew these moods of Frederick’s. They came and went. Sometimes months went by without them. Then he would suddenly lapse into melancholy again. Although two years had passed since Constance’s death, he continued to cling to her memory as to a living thing.

  Frederick said, “I was thinking that Constance probably approves of the Jerusalem marriage.”

  “I’m sure she’d be pleased. It is a title of immense prestige, second only to that of the Empire.”

  Frederick shot him a surprised glance. Had Berard, who had been against this match all along, changed his mind? Or was he beginning to humor him, too, like everyone else? He stared at him, “Do you believe the dead can hear us? If they can, why don’t they ever answer?”

  Berard spread his hands. “I don’t know. I wish I knew, but I don’t. All I know is that you must let the dead rest.”

  AFTER THAT, FREDERICK often walked in the gardens. Sometimes he would stop to watch the gardeners. At first, they had been struck with terror whenever he appeared, prostrating themselves, their ragged turbans touching the dust, too awed to rise. After a while, they became used to him, going about their work and answering his questions.

  One day he observed an old gardener taking a cutting from a gnarled lemon tree. The tree bore only a few small stunted lemons.

  “Why are you taking a slip from this old thing?”

  “My lord, in its youth this tree gave lemons that were juicier than the best oranges. Their rind, boiled with sugar and fennel, made sweetmeats for your grandfather’s table. In this way, the best trees never die.”

  The old man sealed the wound with pitch, tenderly depositing the slip in an earthenware pot filled with wet sand. He salaamed and moved down the path, to the next old tree.

  Frederick remained on his bench under an ancient palm. He contemplated the little green lizards darting across the path. Rebirth … It wasn’t only lemon trees that could be rejuvenated. Countries and empires, too, could be restored.

  Tomorrow, if the wind held, he’d take ship for Naples. There, scholars summoned from all over the Empire were awaiting him to present their proposals for the school he was founding in Naples on Saint John’s day. A lay university. Administered solely by royal officials and funded by the crown. Soon he’d be the only Christian sovereign who didn’t have to rely on the Church for the men he needed to govern his realm. When he’d explained this to Berard, the archbishop had taken his pectoral cross in his hand, weighing it, for a moment. Then he said, “You’ve been planning this for a long time, haven’t you?” That had been his only comment.

  The Sicilian bishops were in a ferment over this lay university. A papal protest wouldn’t be long in arriving. The Church, with the obstinate bigotry and cunning of an illiterate village priest, clung to her power, terrified that knowledge untrammelled by dogma might set alight the bonfires of heresy.

  A shadow fell across the path. Manfred’s little sister stood before him, a half-finished posy of daisies in her hand. She couldn’t have come up the path or he would have seen her. She must have crept through the flower beds. Was she spying on him? He felt amused rather than annoyed.

  “Good day, my Lord.” She curtsied with the grace of a great lady. Yet there was a hint of mockery, an exaggeration that rendered the reverence comical, as if with those intense blue eyes of hers she had seen through the often self-serving humility of those who bent their knees before him.

  “You surprised me, Bianca. You walk like a cat, on padded paws.”

  She blushed. Instinctively, she looked down. Frederick, following her eyes, burst out laughing. That was the reason for her soundless walk! From under a long, high-necked tunic of rose-colored wool peered muddy bare toes.

  “What would your lady mother say if she saw you wandering alone, and barefoot to boot?”

  She tilted her head and smiled. “I’m not alone. I’ve left Peppa, my nurse, dozing under a tree over there. As for my lady mother, she’s far too busy with my sister Violante’s wedding. Seven days of banquets, jousts, and I don’t know what. All this fuss and expense for a marriage to an old man twice her age! Manfred’s even mortgaged the lands in Apulia you gave him. All to impress you, so you don’t think we’re paupers! As if Your Grace didn’t know!”

  Frederick, about to smile, stopped himself. He looked at the girl with new interest. The young were not supposed to see through the foibles of their elders with such clarity. Manfred’s greatest weakness was indeed his pride.

  He patted the lichen-covered seat next to him. “Sit down. I won’t remind you that this time you’re the one who’s dirty.” He glanced at her bare feet.

  A renewed rush of crimson rose to her face. She lowered herself onto the furthest edge of the bench, her back straight, her feet under her tunic. Her hands clutched the posy of daisies.

  “As for the old man Violante is marrying, he’s only a year or two older than I, so you had better mind that sharp little tongue of yours,” Frederick said. “He’s also very rich, heir to one of Sicily’s oldest Norman names. I chose him myself and I have a mind to find a husband for you, too. We can’t have you wandering around like this.”

  They sat in silence. It was odd, he thought, how contented he was to sit here, listening to the cooing of the pigeons, side by side with this strange girl half his age.

  Was it true, Bianca wondered as she waited for him to speak, that he never prayed? Peppa had told her that no one had ever seen him pray, not even when his wife died. Not a single church had ever been built by him. It must be lonely, she thought, glancing at his profile, not to be able to pray to God. Maybe that was why at times, in unguarded moments, he seemed so sad. She watched him often, in the gardens, at a feast or a tournament.

  “How old are you?” he asked, turning to look at her. In the soft shadows of the afternoon, her fine-boned face with its arched black brows had the serenity of a Byzantine madonna. A few stray tendrils of ebony hair had escaped from her mauve cap, curling against her translucent skin. Her eyes were dark, their pupils large. They held his gaze. “Fifteen, my lord.”

  He rose. “Come,” he said with a smile. “It’s unseemly for you to be sitting with any man, let alone one with my reputation! Let’s go and find your nurse.”

  BRINDISI, NOVEMBER 1225

  In the center of the city, commanding the harbor, stood a soaring column of gray granite that since antiquity had marked the end of the Via Appia.

  From the upper stories of the new castle on the western side of the harbor, the column was clearly visible. Manfred, pacing up and down outside the door to Frederick’s antechamber, glanced apprehensively at the sun. It was already nearing its zenith. Although the sea and sky were still blue, black clouds were gathering in the northwest. Rain would really dampen the wedding. A breeze had sprung up, blowing through the gallery. If the wind turned, rain would follow.

  Manfred inhaled the cold salty air. It dispelled some of the queasiness in his stomach. His head throbbed after the feast last night. It wouldn’t do, today of all days, to look tired. He glanced at the silver casket in his hands. It contained Frederick’s wedding gift to his new empress, a specially wrought crown made by a famed Rhenish goldsmith. While the gesture seemed considerate, he knew better. “No other woman is going to wear Constance’s jewels,” Frederick snapped when it was suggested that they be brought from the vaults in Palermo.

  And that was before he had even set eyes on Yolanda of Jerusalem! As the convoy of galleys from Palestine sailed into port yesterday, excitement ran high among those on the quay. The legendary Frankish East was materializing before their eyes. For the first time, even he had felt a yearning to embark for the Holy Land.

  The Frankish lords who escorted th
e queen of Jerusalem disembarked first. After that came the veiled queen herself, flanked by the archbishop of Tyre, Simon de Maugastel, her chancellor, and her cousin Balian of Sidon, once lord of the great city near Beirut that was now held by the sultan. The bride, upon setting foot on land, threw herself weeping, whether from joy or chagrin Manfred didn’t know, into the arms of her father, who stood beside Frederick on the quay. A queer fellow, this Jean de Brienne. Although king only in right of his dead wife, acting as regent for his daughter, he’d strutted about Brindisi for the past week, annoying those in charge of the festivities with constant changes. He was an uncommonly handsome man in his late forties, golden-haired and copper-bearded.

  As soon as his daughter raised her veil, it became apparent that she had inherited none of her sire’s good looks. A slight, timid girl of fourteen, with lanky brown hair and a blotched complexion, Yolanda’s best feature were her large hazel eyes, which she kept mostly lowered toward the curling points of her embroidered slippers. Frederick assessed his bride with one indifferent glance, kissed her hand and turned to greet her chancellor.

  At the banquet that evening, Frederick, leaning across to Simon de Maugastel, launched into a long discussion about the defenses of Jerusalem, ignoring both the girl and her father. Frederick’s eyes often wandered to one of the lower tables, lingering on a girl with auburn hair and milk-white skin, a cousin of Yolanda’s, who tossed her head back with vivacious laughter. How could they have been so foolish as to include her in the queen’s retinue? Her mere presence emphasized all of Yolanda’s shortcomings. The future empress had eaten little and said less, crumbling the bread between her slender fingers.

  What most puzzled Manfred was the absence of disappointment Frederick had shown. Even if one married a woman for her crown, it was surely not unreasonable to hope that she might be comely, particularly for a man of Frederick’s tastes? The doors of the privy chamber opened. Manfred adjusted his cloak and went into the antechamber.

  Frederick, flanked by two Saracens in gleaming breastplates, stood in the doorway. He glanced at the casket. “You’ve remembered my gift!”

  Manfred positioned himself at the head of the Sicilian notables. As vicar general of Apulia, it was his duty to escort Frederick to the cathedral, where the archbishop of Brindisi was to celebrate the marriage jointly with the bishop of Tyre. An uncharacteristically quiet Berard fell in beside Manfred. Berard seemed glad he wasn’t officiating. Berard had been against the Jerusalem marriage from the start. The objections he had raised in the council chamber had so far proved only too true. The girl, he had said, was too young to make an empress, even if fourteen was an acceptable age to be wedded. And her father, widely known to be both incompetent and ambitious, was likely to cause trouble.

  Frederick, girded with Charlemagne’s sword, the imperial crown on his head, was walking briskly ahead of them, his crimson cloak swirling over the flagstones. His mind was certainly not on his bride, more likely on his new kingdom. The ease with which he had slipped into the role of crusader king had surprised even Manfred.

  * * *

  FREDERICK REACHED FOR his cup and drained its contents. Greek wine of Samos, sweetened with honey. He had lost count of how many cups he had emptied. I’m getting drunk, he thought matter-of-factly, very drunk. He slumped back into his seat. The throne beside him was empty. A little crumpled white handkerchief was tucked into one corner.

  Yolanda, trailing her train of cloth-of-gold, had long ago been escorted upstairs by her swaying father and giggling ladies. The nuptial bed, strewn with herbs and petals, would have been blessed by two archbishops with holy water. His new wife, her head bare of her diadem, clad only in a shift of virginal white, would be waiting for him. Starting at every sound, she’d be straining for the ribald laughter of the noblemen escorting her husband.

  Husband? Wife? Thinking of those wide brown eyes staring at him like a cornered deer, he felt distaste rise in his throat like bile. Why couldn’t it wait? He held his empty goblet out to be refilled. Then he beckoned to Manfred.

  “Yes, Frederick?”

  He pulled him down. “Go and tell Yolanda I don’t wish to impose on her weariness tonight.”

  Manfred stared at him.

  “Tell her anything you want. Tell her I’m too drunk, which is almost true.” Frederick raised his cup.

  Manfred opened his mouth, and closed it again. Frederick never got drunk. He always watered his wine and despised those who couldn’t control their drinking. What was wrong with him tonight? How, oh Merciful Mother of God, did one tell a bride that she was being spurned on her wedding night?

  Frederick scanned the hall. His mind was pleasantly numbed but still clear. The hierarchy of the feast had disintegrated. Many guests were strolling about; others had changed places. The tables were littered with overturned goblets, the white cloths stained with blood-red spills of wine, like the aftermath of a pagan sacrifice.

  Berard was absorbed in conversation with Piero della Vigna, the new chancellor who had replaced Walter. Frederick had finally rid himself of the old man. In a histrionic speech, he’d publicly blamed him for failing to persuade the crusaders to wait for the Sicilian navy, thus precipitating the loss of Damietta. The new chancellor, although young, possessed as formidable a mind as Walter, but a far more adaptable temperament.

  Henry of Brabant was sharing a joke with the patriarch of Jerusalem. The preceptor of the Templars and the grand master of the Hospitallers were seated at a safe distance from each other. Hermann was still in Germany, from where he would accompany Henry at Easter to the Diet in Lombardy. After six long years, Frederick thought, at last I’ll see my son again.

  Along the walls, on tiers draped in crimson, the wedding gifts were displayed. The torches reflected themselves in jeweled saltcellars, bowls and vases of Venetian glass and translucent agate, drinking cups rimmed in gemstones, gold and silver platters, basins and chalices. At the end of the display sat Manfred’s mother, wife, and sisters. Next to them were the members of the loyal Aquinas clan. And then there was a cluster of what Manfred called “his sages”: Michael Scot, the Scottish scientist and astrologer; Leonardo Fibonacci, the mathematician; Roffredo of Benevento, the jurist.

  Because of the smoke, several windows had been thrown open. Outside, rain was falling in the darkness. A gust of wind swept the hall, blowing out some of the candles, and bringing with it the pristine smell of wet earth. Fresh air, that’s what I need. Fresh air and a woman, a real woman … Frederick’s eyes fell on Yolanda’s cousin. As if she sensed his look, Alberia turned her auburn head and smiled at him. He got to his feet a little un-steadily and made his way through the press of people. Brushing past Alberia, he whispered to her. For an instant, she stiffened. Then, almost imperceptibly, she lowered her lashes in agreement.

  As he crossed the hall, he saw Bianca Lancia watching him. Was it his imagination, or did he read disapproval in her eyes? Annoyed, Frederick parted the leather curtain and went out.

  WHEN JEAN DE BRIENNE arrived the following morning at the meeting where Frederick and the princes of Outremer had gathered to discuss the coming crusade, he marched straight up to Frederick.

  “How dare you!” de Brienne slammed his fist on the council table. “First you insult my daughter, and now me. The town criers proclaim you king of Jerusalem even as I speak! But I won’t stand by idly. I’ll report this to the Holy Father. We’ll see whether you’ll be allowed to steal my title!”

  Silence descended on the hall. The Frankish princes stared. Yesterday, after the wedding, they had all taken the oath of allegiance to Frederick as their new king, in this same hall.

  Frederick leaned back in his chair, swinging one arm over its back. “I am appalled, my lord, that you consider this a suitable place to discuss the affairs of your daughter’s bedchamber. However, since you have raised the issue before these lords, I will tell you why I did not consummate the marriage.” He fixed de Brienne with a steely look. “I do not violate children. You d
eceived me as to her maturity. She’s not fit to be bedded, and I have no intention of doing so until she is.”

  Jean de Brienne blanched. “Yolanda is fourteen. Everyone here can attest to that,” he cried. “She’s had her monthly courses for almost a year, and is perfectly fit to be a wife and mother. It’s your duty to consummate the marriage!”

  “And who will force me to do so? You, perchance?” Frederick asked. “That child should be in a nursery, not in my bed. I prefer my women mature.”

  “So I have heard! There is a rumor that you spent your wedding night with my daughter’s own cousin. What say you to that?” De Brienne, whose handsome face was turning crimson, glared at Frederick.

  Gasps rose from around the table. Frederick smiled coldly. “My lord de Brienne, you sound like a slighted washerwoman. I find it hard to believe that even you would blacken the reputation of a virtuous young noble-woman out of spite.” He laughed harshly. “And as for assuming the title of king of Jerusalem, why else would I have married a dowerless slip of a girl, queen of an impoverished kingdom half occupied by infidels?”

  A murmur of agreement ran through the chamber. Heads nodded. Except for one or two staunch friends of de Brienne, the rest of the Frankish lords concurred.

  Frederick rose. “Remove yourself from my court and my realm before my forbearance runs out!”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” De Brienne hissed. “I’m the empress’s father!”

  “Try me!” Frederick said.

  Jean de Brienne straightened his broad shoulders. With a last venomous glance at Frederick, he turned on his heels and stalked out of the council chamber, trailing his peacock-blue mantle behind him.

  BY THE END of the week, the court was ready to move north to Bari. On the eve of their departure, there was a commotion outside Frederick’s privy chamber, where he was gathered with some of the Frankish lords who would be sailing back to Palestine in the morning.

  Yolanda, in a hooded mulberry-colored cloak, entered the chamber. The Frankish princes rose and bowed. One by one, they kissed her hand. Taking their cue from the tense look on her face and the surprised scowl on Frederick’s, they quickly took their leave.