At the beginning of May, Yolanda gave birth to a son in the half-completed winter palace at Foggia. The future king of Sicily and Jerusalem was named Conrad. Frederick was so overjoyed that he danced up and down Yolanda’s lying-in chamber with his new son cradled in his arms. The sight brought a weak smile to the bloodless lips of his wife, whose confinement had been long and arduous. Frederick ordered a week of festivities, dancing, and jousting, with free wine and meat distributed in the city. On the fifth day, Yolanda died of puerperal fever. She was barely sixteen.
After assisting at her funeral in the cathedral of Andria, Frederick retired to his apartments. He refused to see anyone.
FREDERICK WAS SITTING at a parchment-littered desk, working, when there was a soft knock at the door. He ignored it. The knock was repeated, this time with more insistence.
“Go away!” he growled. He had given orders to let no one in. Who in the devil’s name …
The door opened. Bianca entered. She was dressed in black, a black veil on her dark hair. The harsh color made her skin look even paler than it was. She looked drawn. In her arms she carried a swaddled baby.
Frederick stared at her. “What are you doing here, and what—”
“I’ve brought you your son. He needs you, Frederick, he has no one else but you.” She held the child out to him.
Frederick remained seated. He looked at the sleeping infant but didn’t take him from her. Like his mother, Conrad had brown hair.
Bianca sat down on the bench opposite him, careful not to disturb the child in her arms. She glanced from the flagon of wine to the half-empty cup and the week-old stubble on Frederick’s chin. She took a deep breath. Someone had to jolt him out of his gloom. No one else seemed to have the courage.
“Frederick,” she said, “to wed at a tender age for reasons of state is the lot of most women of royal birth. And death from childbirth is common among women of all ages. Stop tormenting yourself. No one is to blame for her death. It is God’s will. And if you are responsible for Yolanda’s unhappiness while she lived, then so am I.”
Frederick stared at her. The words had been spoken gently, but with unmistakable firmness. He had noticed before that she possessed a quiet authority obeyed by dogs, children and servants.
After a moment he sighed. “You are right. I’ve always thought that you are wise beyond your years, wiser by far than I am.”
The child awoke with a gurgle. Bianca ran her finger over its cheek, her face softening into a smile.
If only, he thought, it were her child. He stretched out his arms: “Give me my son, beloved.”
BRINDISI, JUNE 1228
On a windy morning in June, almost exactly thirteen years after the fateful day in Aachen when he had vowed to take the cross, Frederick departed from Brindisi for the second time.
Staring at the choppy waters of the Adriatic, Frederick thought how different this second departure was from the first. Then, he had been the blessed son of the Church. Now, he was the pope’s archenemy, the first excommunicated crusader in history. For the second time in his life he was staking all on the outcome of a perilous enterprise. Like his ride to Germany to conquer the Empire, this crusade, too, was a desperate gamble. Unlike other royal crusaders before him, he could not afford the magnificent failure of a glorious dream. He had to conquer Jerusalem or risk the Empire and perhaps even his kingdom.
His spies had reported that Gregory was recruiting unusual numbers of mercenaries. While it seemed unimaginable that Gregory would actually attack Sicily during his absence, Frederick had taken all possible precautions, including that of appointing an outstanding general, the Duke of Spoleto, as regent of the realm. Yet, despite the enormous odds, he felt lighthearted, almost exhilarated, as he felt the wind in his face on this clear, sunny morning.
All had expected him to bow to the pope’s demands under the terrible blow of the excommunication. No one had thought it possible that he would depart without having obtained absolution. The very idea was inconceivable.
His counselors, with the exception of Berard, all implored him to make his peace with the pope first, by whatever means. Berard alone had understood that the only way for Frederick to free himself forever from the threat of papal overlordship was to strike a final, crippling blow at the papacy’s prestige. And the means to that end was the conquest of Jerusalem.
He turned to Berard. There was a glint in his eyes. “Can you imagine Gregory’s face when he hears that I, as an excommunicate, have recovered Jerusalem? He’ll be the laughingstock of Christendom!”
“I can,” Berard said. “Only too well.”
ACRE, SEPTEMBER 1228
The imperial flotilla of sixty galleys and transport vessels slipped into the bay of Acre in the gray light of early dawn. Berard and Balian of Sidon stood beside Frederick on the forecastle as the dim outline of the shore took shape under the fading stars. Before them the crusader city of Acre rose out of the waters, protected by her massive sea walls.
Since Jerusalem’s fall, Acre had been the capital of the kingdom of Jerusalem and its principal port. Situated on an ancient caravan route that linked Egypt, Palestine, and Syria, the city was also a great trading center. Long before the time of Christ, camel caravans had plodded along her sandy highways. The rich produce of Palestine—olive oil, sugar, honey, dried figs, grapes, and dates—was exported from here to Europe. Silks, spices, and dyestuffs from Syria and Mesopotamia were shipped to the West by the great Italian trading entrepôts. Genoa, Venice, and Pisa each had its own quarter in the city, with houses, warehouses, and wharves.
“There, to the right, is Mount Carmel,” Balian pointed at a mountain looming above the sea. “Straight ahead are the foothills of Galilee. Beyond lie the Sea of Galilee and the Jordan valley. Further south rise the hills of Judaea. Beyond Jerusalem they tumble down in a series of barren, bandit-infested ridges toward the wasteland of the Dead Sea.”
Frederick, feet planted apart to balance himself on the heaving deck, nodded. He stared ahead, at the beaches on either side of the city, where a multitude of tents were becoming visible under the black silhouettes of palm trees. Some eleven thousand men were already encamped there.
Somewhere in the distance, on a plateau in the arid mountains of Judaea, lay Jerusalem. And the key to Jerusalem was Al-Kamil.
His first move would be to send an embassy to the sultan in Cairo, advising him of his arrival. Al-Kamil’s situation had changed greatly since his first embassy to Frederick several years ago when, engaged in battle with his two brothers, he had sought Frederick’s aid. Then, Al-Kamil had possessed much of the lands Frederick wished to recover. His brother AlMu’azzam had since wrested most of them from him, including Jerusalem.
For several years now, he had exchanged embassies, gifts, and personal letters with the learned sultan of Egypt. Together, they would rout the sultan of Damascus and recover the Christians’ land. In return, Frederick would protect Al-Kamil’s flank from the third brother, the sultan of Babylon, while Al-Kamil marched on to conquer Damascus.
ALERTED BY THE soldiers on the sentry walks, the city of Acre awoke in a tumult of joy. As the sun began to gild the dark rooftops and shadowy domes, people streamed out to the waterfront, carrying palm branches. The clergy, both Latin and Greek, appeared in procession, bearing jeweled reliquaries and golden crosses. Even the Jews, led by the chief rabbi, came to pay their respects to the new king of Jerusalem. The princes of Outremer, the leaders of the Templars, the Hospitallers, and the Teutonic Knights waited in serried ranks before the imperial galley.
Belowdecks, Mahmoud adjusted the crown on Frederick’s head. He smoothed the emerald cloak edged in miniver on Frederick’s shoulders.
“You have chosen the color of Islam for your cloak today,” the Saracen said.
“I know, Mahmoud, may it bring me luck!”
A SMELL OF seaweed, frankincense, and rotten fish assailed him as he stepped on deck. Before him towered Acre’s famed sea walls, built by the Lionheart
after he captured the city from Saladin. The ramparts were black with townspeople.
His eyes fell on the clergy assembled on the quay. He recognized the patriarch of Jerusalem in a magenta cope. Beside him stood a stout, balding prelate in white and gold brocade. That must be the archbishop of Caesarea, after the patriarch the second most powerful churchman in Palestine. He breathed a sigh of relief. Hermann had been right. He’d assured him in his letters that the Christians in Palestine would welcome him despite the pope’s ban.
Seagulls wheeled above the waterfront, undeterred by the crowds and the noise. The sky was clear and intensely blue. The color of the Virgin’s mantle … He glanced at Berard, and smiled. I, too, Frederick thought, am getting caught up in this stirring medley of faith, humbug, and glory that is the Holy Land.
The crowd caught sight of him. “Long live the Emperor Frederick! Long live the king of Jerusalem!” they chanted, waving a forest of palm branches. For more than forty years, ever since Barbarossa had died on his way to Palestine, the Frankish East had awaited the coming of an emperor. Waving to the crowd, Frederick stepped onto the soil of Palestine.
The first to greet him was Hermann von Salza. Frederick embraced the grand master. He held him at arm’s length. “It is good to see you, Hermann.” He smiled. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever set eyes on you again.”
“My lord, you are come! I thank God for having spared your life and brought you here safely.”
One by one, the princes of Outremer, the prelates and leaders of the military orders knelt on the thick Eastern rugs spread on the cobbles. Last came Frederick’s Sicilian and German lords, who had been there for nearly a year now.
Like the barons in Cyprus, everyone in Acre was aware of the excommunication but seemed unconcerned by it. This was an excellent omen, although he sensed a slight coolness in the manner in which the patriarch Gerold greeted him.
Berard, riding behind Frederick in the cavalcade, looked in wonder at this crowded city that was a blend of East and West. Tortuous streets, dark and scabrous with age, gave way here and there to sun-drenched squares fronted by graceful mansions with elegant Saracenic fretwork screens. Through vaulted lanes, Berard caught glimpses of huge warehouses, bales of goods piled in their courtyards. A city of dark eyes and deep, dank cellars, of veiled women, rich merchants, and innumerable churches. Pilgrims, friars, knights, slaves, Jews, Muslims, and Christians from every nation thronged the streets, staring at the emperor who had come to deliver Jerusalem. And over it all loomed the great stone citadel of the crusaders, reminder of the ever-present threat of attack.
Observing the joy on the crowd’s faces, Berard thought what a welcome change this was from the unpleasantness in Cyprus. There, Frederick had behaved with uncharacteristic heavy-handedness toward the Ibelins. The kingdom of Cyprus was an imperial fief. But its links with the Empire had grown tenuous over the years. Upon his arrival, Frederick demanded recognition of himself as suzerain, and payment of the requisite taxes. John of Ibelin, lord of Beirut, was the wealthiest and most powerful prince of Outremer. He possessed lands both in Cyprus and on the mainland. He was an uncle of the dead Yolanda and regent of Cyprus during its king’s minority.
Frederick decided to make an example of the Ibelins to establish his authority over the equally independent-minded princes of Outremer. In order to force John to relinquish Beirut and recognize Frederick as overlord of Cyprus, he ordered his men to threaten John and his sons with drawn swords at a banquet to which he had invited them in the castle of Limmasol.
Berard had been aghast. However, the other lords of Outremer, including Balian of Sidon, himself a cousin of Yolanda, Bohemund of Antioch, and Guy Embriaco backed him against the Ibelin faction. This, Berard thought, was a sign of the rivalries that bedeviled the Christian principalities in the Holy Land. The boy king of Cyprus had been taken along by Frederick as hostage for his uncle’s good behavior. A grim-faced John of Ibelin now followed in the emperor’s retinue as proof of his submission. While the prospect of recovering his lands from the Saracens probably outweighed John’s hatred, Frederick was playing a dangerous game.
Berard prayed that Frederick would be able to curb his temper here. To lead to success an army as disparate and rent by dissension as this one would require all the diplomatic skills that had stood the young Frederick in such good stead in Germany.
WITHIN HOURS of his arrival Frederick met with Hermann and Thomas of Acerra, his regent in Palestine. The only other man present was Berard. The news couldn’t have been worse: the sultan of Damascus had recently died, leaving an infant son. Al-Kamil had already reconquered Jerusalem and most of the Christian lands in his brother’s possession, and was now encamped in Nablus, poised to attack Damascus itself. Even worse, AlKamil had concluded a treaty with his other brother, the sultan of Babylon. Together, they planned to divide the empire of Saladin between them. He had no further need of Frederick.
Frederick stared at the sea. The forces he had brought with him were far smaller than expected. Many had recanted for fear of serving under an excommunicate. Even with the men already in Acre, he could hardly take on the combined forces of Al-Kamil and the sultan of Babylon.
At length, he turned. “We must keep quiet about this. Since the other crusaders don’t know of my arrangements with Al-Kamil, I’ll suggest we negotiate before attacking. They won’t like it, of course.”
“But what will it avail you to negotiate with Al-Kamil now?” Hermann asked.
“Al-Kamil may have no need of me any longer, but my presence here with a large host is a constant threat to him while he turns north. Time is on my side. I may still be able to induce him to hand over Jerusalem.”
“And if you fail?” Berard raised his black brows.
“Then we’ll have to fight. I can’t return without having recovered Jerusalem. If I fail, I must perish in the attempt.”
THE AIR WAS cool and moldy in the cavernous underground hall of the great crusader fortress. Huge squat pillars of tawny stone, roughly carved with the cross of Jerusalem, upheld the vaulted ceiling. The castle of Acre had been erected with no thought for fine craftsmanship or comfort by Godfrey of Bouillon, first crusader king of Jerusalem, nearly two hundred years ago. The vast hall served both as refectory and council chamber.
Everyone clustered around a long unplaned table of cedarwood, dark with age, on which was spread a crude map of Palestine and Syria, drawn in red ink on a cow’s hide.
All the leaders of the different contingents were present: the French and their squires, two English bishops who led the English forces, Hermann, representing the Germans, as well as the great princes of Outremer and the leaders of the Templars and Hospitallers. The Duke of Limburg, Berard, and other Germans and Sicilians were grouped around Frederick. The church was represented by Gerold, patriarch of Jerusalem, by the patriarch of Antioch, the archbishop of Caesarea, and several bishops.
Frederick, who had summoned them, was looking at the map, resting his chin in his hand. He had been doing this for a while, in absorbed silence.
A tall, distinguished-looking, young knight, unable to stand the suspense any longer, asked in French-accented Latin: “Well, my lord, where do we attack?”
Frederick glanced at his white mantle with its red cross. A Templar. The most belligerent of the military orders, they were always stirring up trouble. “We don’t attack,” he said, “we talk first. I believe that Al-Kamil may be amenable to negotiations. In the meantime, we’ll drill our forces till they march with the precision of a Roman legion.” He looked around the table, waiting for the outburst.
Everyone began to speak at once. The Duke of Limburg’s booming voice overrode the others. “But Your Grace,” the duke cried, “that’s what my men have been doing for nearly a year. They’re restless and bored, lusting for a chance to kill Saracens.”
“Give them something to do. Make them build walls, roads, wells, anything to tire them and make them useful.”
The duke glared at Frederi
ck: “I’ve not taken the cross to supervise a building site.”
Gerold of Lausanne raised his wheezy voice: “We’ve been negotiating with the Saracens for decades without result.”
Frederick smiled. “That’s true, but now we’re negotiating from strength. When the first gambit proves inconclusive, as it will, we’ll march along here,” he moved his finger south along the red line that marked the Mediterranean, “to Jaffa, in a display of strength. The Saracen scouts will report it to the sultan. As you know, he’s in Nablus, hoping to capture Damascus. Why should he risk a long and bloody war for an arid city in the hills of Judaea when the rich prize of Damascus beckons?”
Some nodded, though not many. This was not the way they had envisaged the crusade. After dealing with the distribution of arms and provisions and the storage of the Sicilian grain, soon to arrive to tide the army over the winter, the secular lords filed out of the hall.
After they had left, Gerold and the archbishop of Caesarea approached Frederick. Richard Filangeri, Frederick’s marshal, had meanwhile unrolled another map, this one brought from Sicily. It, too, was a map of Palestine, except that it included Syria and Asia Minor. Drawn on fine vellum, it had been made by a Saracen cartographer in Palermo.
“But this map’s a marvel!” Hermann cried. “It’s far more accurate than ours!”
The archbishop of Caesarea, a small rotund man with darting eyes, on whose balding gray head sat a crimson cap, cleared his throat. “My lord,” he began, “we wish to discuss a delicate matter with you, if you will graciously give us of your time.” He folded his plump white hands over his silk-robed stomach.
Frederick inclined his head. It was vital that he maintain his friendly relations with the local clergy. He sat down on the chair that had been placed under a cloth of estate, and smiled. He’d been expecting this. He’d begun to wonder why it had taken them nearly two days to raise the issue.
“As Your Grace is aware,” the archbishop said, “we are in a difficult position. We should, strictly speaking, show no obedience to you. Among other things, your presence at church services is, to say the least, irregular.”
The Falcon of Palermo Page 33