Frederick kissed him on both cheeks. He gripped his shoulders. “I leave my kingdom and my heart in your hands. Take good care of both, and send me frequent tidings.” He felt a sharp pain as he looked into Manfred’s dark blue eyes, those same eyes. Would he ever see her again?
“MY LORD, a word with you, please.” Michael Scot, who was as tall and thin as a reed, stooped in the doorway of Frederick’s cabin. He entered, avoiding the lantern that swung to and fro from the low ceiling.
Frederick raised his aching head from the bolster. He felt giddy. “Yes, what is it?” He, too, had been running a fever again since last night.
The physician shook his head. “It’s the landgrave. I’ve just examined him. His chest is full of the red spots that indicate the disease has progressed to its most dangerous stage. It is my opinion,” he said, “that your cousin is near death. I have called for his chaplain.”
“It can’t be. He was better yesterday. He’s as strong as a bear. I’ll go and see him.” Frederick swung his legs over the edge of his berth. His chest glistened with sweat. “Mahmoud, my tunic.” He stood up unsteadily to allow the Saracen to slip the garment over his head. Suddenly he clutched his belly with one hand and the cabin wall with the other. “Quick, the privy chair,” he gasped. The page ran to fetch it while Mahmoud and Michael supported him. Before the boy could drag the pierced chair across the floor, a flood of brown liquid ran down Frederick’s legs. A foul smell filled the airless cabin.
“I think, Master Scot,” Frederick said when the spasm had passed, “the landgrave may have company on his way to purgatory.” Shaking, he sank onto the berth.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, the twelve galleys of the imperial squadron were instructed to sail back to Sicily, just two days after leaving Brindisi. Aided by good winds, with every man straining at the oars, they put into the harbour of Otranto as dusk was falling. Within hours, every church in the city was ringing its bells, calling the citizens to pray for the lives of the emperor and his cousin.
“Ave Maria, gratia plena … benedicta tu in mulieribus et benedictus fructus ventris tui … Ora pro nobis pecatoribus nunc et in hora mortis nostrae …” Oh Holy Mother of God, grant me his life. I vow to forgive all his sins against me. Never again will I think of him in anger, if you, oh queen of Heaven, will save his life. I beseech you, for the sake of the child within me and my beleaguered kingdom, do not let him die …
Yolanda’s head was bent. Over and over again she recited the prayer to the Virgin, twisting her rosary. Kneeling in the cool semidarkness of the chapel, she had lost all sense of time. Outside, the bells continued to ring, but something was different. Her lips stopped moving. She raised her head and listened. The pealing had changed from the urgency of a summons to a deep, somber tolling.
With a hasty genuflection toward the altar, she gathered her skirts and ran out into the castle’s courtyard. Outside all was confusion. Men ran to and fro. Flying up the stairs toward the imperial apartments, she caught sight of Gerold of Lausanne, the patriarch of Jerusalem. He was wearing ecclesiastical vestments. Behind him two acolytes carried a gilt casket such as were used for administering the last rites.
“My lord Gerold!” she cried. The elderly patriarch halted. He came toward her.
Yolanda’s eyes widened. In a whisper, she asked: “Is it … is it the emperor?”
Gerold shook his head. “No, Your Grace,” he replied. “But his cousin, the landgrave of Thuringia, is no more.”
Yolanda felt tears of relief sting her eyes. He was still alive! Since she was with child, he had sent her gifts, and inquired after her health. Once she gave him the son he so wanted, he might change, there’d be other children … She must go to him, even if he still doted on that whore and her upstart brother.
She touched the patriarch’s gold-embroidered cope. “I want to see my husband. Please attend me.”
THE CANDLELIT CHAMBER was filled with people. Despite the heat, the shutters were closed, to safeguard the patient from the sea air. Berard, Hermann, and the Duke of Limburg clustered around the bed. As Yolanda entered, followed by the patriarch, they bowed and made way for her slight figure.
Frederick’s eyes were closed. His face was bathed in perspiration. “Storks, the storks are all leaving …” He began thrashing about with his arms. “Mustn’t fly away, halt them, halt them … bad luck, the end …”
Berard cast a worried look at Michael Scot, who threw up his hands. Frederick had been delirious since yesterday. Nothing had been able to bring him back to consciousness. Like the landgrave, he was deteriorating rapidly.
Yolanda looked down at the figure flailing about in the large bed. He didn’t look at all like the emperor, or the husband who had treated her so cruelly. He just looked sweaty and terribly sick. Was it possible that his life was to end now, like this? Compassion filled her. She bent down, whispering his name. Perhaps she could rouse him from whatever was tormenting him. His eyes remained shut. He groaned. His fists opened and closed in unconscious rage. Again, a little louder, she repeated, “Frederick, Frederick, it is I.”
Frederick’s eyelids twitched. He opened bloodshot eyes and looked at her, blinking, slowly focusing. Then he smiled, that marvelous smile that could melt the heart of a stone. He’s recognized me, Yolanda thought, filled with sudden joy.
“Bianca,” he whispered hoarsely, “Bianchina, you’re here.” He closed his eyes. There was a beatific look on his face now.
Yolanda drew back as if she had been stung. The blood drained from her face. With eyes lowered in burning shame, she walked out of the chamber.
IN THE EARLY hours of the morning, Berard awoke with a start in the chair in which he had passed the night. He reached out to touch Frederick. His forehead felt cool. He was sleeping peacefully. The fever had broken. Berard closed his eyes. He buried his face in his hands. “Thank you, thank you, oh Lord,” he whispered.
The chamber was in silence, except for the wheezing breath of Master Scot who dozed on a truckle bed, and the occasional stirring of Mahmoud who slept on the floor. In a corner, a dim oil light burned on a chest. Through the chinks in the shutters appeared the first glimmers of light, the dawn of a new day.
NAPLES, NOVEMBER 1227
The gulf of Naples lay calm and blue in the sun of a winter morning. During the night it had rained, and now the air seemed clearer, the outline of islands and mountains sharper. The large fortified villa, put at Frederick’s disposal by the Frangipani family, stood above a rocky promontory overlooking the sea at Pozzuoli.
Frederick pulled his fur rug around his neck. Against his physician’s advice he insisted on being brought to this little terrace below the villa every day if the weather was clement. In the silence of the terraced gardens, bare now of flowers, he would lie on a truckle bed in the dappled shade of a gnarled pomegranate and look at the sea.
Twice a day his Saracen attendants carried him in a litter down to the thermal springs that had made Pozzuoli famous since Roman times. A special area had been cleared for him, away from the throngs of the sick and crippled that flocked to the baths even in winter. Sitting in a bathing chair, he was immersed in the hot bubbling water that rose from the earth amid clouds of sulfurous steam.
Back at the villa, under the stern eye of Michael Scot, he was made to drink beakers of the foul-tasting water several times a day. Its effects were miraculous. Within days of disembarking from Otranto the red spots that covered his chest and abdomen disappeared. His bowels stopped bleeding. Gulping down the sulfurous liquid one day, he remarked to the archbishop of Reggio that it must be like supping with the devil. The archbishop hadn’t been amused. Although he was still so weak that he couldn’t stand unaided, he was now able to eat some tasteless barley gruel, the only nourishment his body didn’t reject.
Frederick took his eyes off the sea and resumed writing. A board across his knees served as a writing table. A bundle of sharpened quills and an inkhorn were balanced on the fox skins. The muse of poetry seemed to favor
him here; perhaps because Virgil had once lived in Naples. He wrote for a while, making frequent erasures, then stopped and read the lines aloud to get a feel for their sound:
Secondo mia credenza
non e donna che sia
alta, si bella, pare.
ne c’agia insegnamento
‘nver voi, donna sovrana.
La vostra ciera umana
mi da conforto e facemi alegrare;
s’eo pregiare—vi posso, donna mia,
piu conto me ne tengo tuttavia.
He ran his hand over the feathery edge of the quill. “… unmatched in beauty, courtesy or worth … Your lovely face gives me comfort and cheer … Unworthy as I am, with each passing day, I value you more, O lady mine …”
It was passable, for a man whose main occupation was ruling. He imagined Bianca reading it in the light of a window or loggia in Bari, perhaps biting her lip, as she often did when concentrating. She would give him comfort and cheer, if only she were here. Then why didn’t he send for her? Because he wanted to shield Bianca, or poor Yolanda, or both?
Yolanda’s child would be born in April or May. Michael assured him it would be a son. He remembered the day he had explained to Bianca that he must consummate his marriage; that the act of love could be reduced to a mechanical coupling, that men and women, too, did so for practical reasons. Her eyes had remained steady. She didn’t cry. At the end, she had said in a quiet voice: “I see. You, too, have done so before, I suppose?”
He yearned for her, her smile, the feel of her cheek against his. Yet he drowned his longing in ink. Bianca liked his vernacular poems—she’d once told him that they represented his real voice, the voice of the man, not the emperor. How right she was. Bianca, despite her youth, had an uncanny understanding of his different selves, those hidden layers of his soul he bared to no one.
What, he wondered, would Virgil have made of his writing in Italian? He would probably have approved. After all, Latin had been the vernacular of Virgil’s day, as Italian was today’s. The rigidity of Latin meters didn’t lend itself to the light poetry he enjoyed writing. He laid the quill down, suddenly tired, and looked down at Pozzuoli.
It was now an insignificant little town, but in Roman times Pozzuoli and the neighboring village of Baia had been one of the most coveted strips of land in the Empire. Men who ruled entire provinces vied with each other for a single acre here. Marius, Sulla, Pompey, Julius Caesar, Nero, Cicero, and Lucullus all owned summer villas here. Frederick smiled to himself, imagining poached flamingo tongues being served to the greatest men in Rome, reclining on gilt couches at a dinner party in Lucullus’ villa.
Riders came up the narrow road to the villa. He recognized the Duke of Spoleto’s standard. The sentries let them pass. He sank back into the pillows. Had this embassy fared better than the first?
In Otranto, Hermann had pleaded with him to let him go to Rome and explain the circumstances to the pope. Frederick decided that he couldn’t spare Hermann. The facts, after all, spoke for themselves. He appointed the Duke of Limburg temporary leader of the crusade, with Hermann as his deputy, and ordered them to sail immediately and begin preparing the defenses in Palestine. He’d follow with the remainder of the army in the spring.
A delegation headed by Piero della Vigna was dispatched to Rome. Gregory refused to receive them, thundering that this was merely the emperor’s latest ruse to avoid fulfilling his crusading vow. By then, the whole of Rome knew about Frederick’s grave illness. It was said that the pope’s intransigence astounded even his cardinals. Frederick had sent a second embassy made up of the Duke of Spoleto, the archbishop of Reggio Calabria, and Berard.
Boots crunched on the gravel path that led down from the villa.
“My lord,” Rainald of Spoleto bowed, “I trust you are much improved.”
The white-bearded archbishop of Reggio looked tired as he made his reverence. Berard stood behind the others. Frederick sought his eyes. What he read in them didn’t bode well.
“Well, my lords,” Frederick said into the silence, “you’re like tongue-tied maidens! What did Gregory say?”
“Your Grace, he refused to see us, too,” the duke of Spoleto looked at his feet. “We were received by Cardinal Orsini. He told us that as we represented a traitor to the cause of Christ, the Holy Father couldn’t receive us.”
The Archbishop of Reggio, twirling the cross on his chest, added, “The following day, the pope elevated three Lombard bishops to the rank of cardinal.”
Frederick looked at Berard. “Come, old friend. Out with the truth. It won’t kill me, I promise.”
“Frederick, my son …”
It really was bad news. Whenever Berard sought refuge in the language of the pulpit, he bore unwelcome tidings. Frederick asked, “Well, what is it? Does he want another five thousand ounces of gold?”
“Frederick,” Berard looked at him, “the day after the consistory, Gregory excommunicated you.”
The Duke of Spoleto studied his dusty boots while the archbishop of Reggio continued to twist his gold chain. Only Berard looked at Frederick.
“I see.” He rubbed his chin. This didn’t worry him unduly. The excommunication of tardy crusaders was fairly common. He was more concerned with what Gregory hoped to gain by his severity. “He’s entitled to do so.” He paused, “even if it’s rather vindictive under the circumstances. But then Gregory is a vindictive old trout. Well, what humiliating penance does he demand? Bread and water, a hair shirt, or a pilgrimage?”
Berard sat down on the end of the wicker couch, which sagged alarmingly. He laid a hand on Frederick’s arm. “I don’t think I’ve made myself clear, Frederick,” he said. “Gregory refuses to accept any penance whatsoever.”
“That’s absurd.” Frederick sat bolt upright. “That would mean that I won’t be able to resume the crusade in the spring. He can’t be serious!”
Berard took a deep breath. “That’s precisely what Gregory intends. He wants to thwart your crusade and discredit you. He’s already issued an encyclical in which he lays the blame on you for every setback suffered by the crusaders. He even blames you for your cousin’s death. He accuses you of having brought on the epidemic by not providing sufficient food.”
“What! I never undertook to feed anyone.” Frederick exploded. “In fact, I bought extra grain and distributed it free of charge to those inept fools who hadn’t organized their supplies properly.”
Berard nodded. “We know that, but others don’t. His real aim is to destroy you, unless you accept the papacy’s full overlordship over Sicily. Among other trumped-up charges, Gregory charges you with despoiling the Sicilian Church of her tithes. But read it for yourself. Here’s a copy of the encyclical.” Berard pulled a piece of parchment out of his cloak pocket.
As he read, Frederick’s frown grew deeper and deeper. When he had finished, he threw the scroll across the terrace. He narrowed his eyes. “We’ll see who destroys whom in this dangerous game that this upstart priest is playing with me! The first thing I’ll do is warn the rulers of Europe that this wolf in sheep’s clothing on the throne of Saint Peter is threatening the institution of kingship. And in the spring, I’ll conquer Jerusalem, pope or no pope!”
“But as an excommunicate you can’t lead a crusade!” the duke exclaimed. “No one will dare follow you. You must find a way to accommodate the pope.”
Frederick glared at him. “We’ll see about that. Naturally I prefer the matter to be settled. But if Gregory continues in his scheming, I’ll depart on crusade regardless. God set me on my throne, not the pope. I don’t need his permission!”
He flung his rug aside. “Help me up. I am going to dictate letters. The first is going to Henry of England. He, more than any other, has cause to be weary of the pope!”
Leaning on Berard and the duke, Frederick dragged himself up the path to the villa.
FOGGIA, APULIA, MAY 1228
All throughout the winter and spring of the following year, the battle bet
ween the Pope and Frederick raged on. With a public forbearance that even Berard hadn’t thought him capable of, Frederick reiterated his acceptance of the Pope’s right to excommunicate him, urging Gregory to state the penalty he would accept in order to lift his ban. He repeated his willingness to depart on crusade at the end of spring, knowing full well that that was just what Gregory wished to avoid at all costs.
Copies of Frederick’s conciliatory letters to the pope were sent to the German and Italian princes and prelates, to the senate of Rome, and to the kings of Europe. In his private letters to Louis of France and Henry of England, however, Frederick dropped all pretense, unmasking the pope’s true aim, which was to obtain total suzerainty over Sicily. If the papacy’s rampant ambitions were not curbed, he warned, they would be the next victims of its territorial aims. The popes, he said, had abandoned Christ’s teachings and reveled in the power, wealth, and usury they outwardly condemned.
Meanwhile, Frederick proceeded with preparations for his departure. When Gregory began to suspect that Frederick might actually go on crusade without his permission, he forbade the Sicilian Church to pay its crusading tithes. Despite his outrage, Frederick couldn’t help being amused by the irony of this ludicrous action: here was the pope, trying to prevent the emperor from leading a crusade to recover the holy places for Christendom! The imperial chancery made sure that the news of this latest act of papal spite was swiftly spread across Europe.
Public sentiment was on Frederick’s side. When Gregory attempted to preach a sermon against the emperor on Easter day in Saint Peter’s, he was chased out of the Basilica by the citizens of Rome. Fearing for his life, the pope fled to Viterbo. Germany, too, remained loyal to the emperor. Frederick’s generosity to the German ecclesiastical princes during his years in Germany had not been misplaced: to a man, they stood by him.
The Falcon of Palermo Page 32