The Falcon of Palermo

by Maria R. Bordihn

  He stepped out of the pavilion. The rain had stopped. A smell of moist earth and crushed grass hung in the air. A breeze fanned the torches. His lords stood in a semicircle, waiting. The chaplains had finished. The heralds and banner bearers were already mounted, their steeds protected by padding. The Saracen archers swung themselves into their saddles, their banner, the green flag of the Prophet, flying beside the imperial eagle. They were on their way. All lanterns were extinguished as they followed the road north in the first light of dawn.

  In the early afternoon their scouts sighted the Milanese less than a league from Cortenuova. No time was to be lost if they were to be prevented from sheltering in the town. They came upon the Milanese suddenly, beyond an incline in the road. Frederick’s mouth went dry as he stared down at the multitude before him. His heart pounded with savage elation. Finally, after months of waiting, he had them in the open, on a flat expanse of land that offered no cover and no escape.

  The Milanese were fanned out in a wide swath. They hadn’t even bothered to post scouts. Archers and knights were mounted but thousands of soldiers marched along on foot, singing gaily, their round shields slung over their backs. In their midst rumbled their most precious possession, the Carroccio, or battle chariot, of Milan. In the distance rose the fishtailed battlements of Cortenuova.

  An imperial herald in scarlet and gold spurred his horse forward. Galloping past the startled Milanese, he drew rein halfway along their lines, shouting at them to be ready.

  At a signal from Frederick, the Saracen archers loosed volleys of arrows with deadly precision before surging forward amid an answering hail of arrows from the Milanese, who had managed to regroup.

  On the hill, Frederick sat on his mount and watched. The Saracens abandoned their bows and struck out with their scimitars. Inferior in number to their adversaries, ell by bloody ell they pushed the Milanese lines back. Frederick dropped his raised hand. “Now!” he roared. Brandishing his sword, he gave spurs to his horse. “God and the Empire!” the knights yelled, following him down the slope. They thundered past in an avalanche of steel and hooves, scattering turf and stones as they raced forward with flying banners, their lances level.

  The battle raged for several hours. Slowly, the sun dipped in the west. Swords clashed on swords, axes on helmets. The groans of dying men and the terrified screams of horses filled the air. The Milanese fought with grim determination in their entrenched positions, while the imperial knights who had their horses killed under them battled on foot. Frederick, with Enzio holding his banner riding beside him, galloped across the field, lashing out with his sword, shouting to some to regroup, ordering others to attack on another flank, warning yet others to protect their rear.

  Ezzelino rode on his black charger, swinging his ax with murderous precision, slicing off heads and arms while yelling with glee as he wreaked havoc amongst the Milanese.

  The sun set. It seemed to Frederick, as he finally took off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his eyes, as if the crimson sky were a reflection of the blood-soaked battlefield littered with corpses. In the dusk, vultures circled, black shadows against the fiery sky. They always picked out the eyes first. … Among the overturned wagons around the final Milanese entrenchment stood the hallowed Carroccio, the standard-bearing battle chariot, abandoned by the routed Milanese.

  The next day, more than two thousand Milanese were counted dead. Frederick ordered his heralds to identify the noblemen by their armorial bearings. They were to be buried in consecrated ground in Cortenuova. The town’s garrison had fled with the remnants of the Lombard army. Among the many illustrious prisoners taken for ransom was the governor of Milan, Pietro Tiepolo, son of the doge of Venice. Venice, fearful of Frederick’s rising power in northern Italy, had joined the Lombard League.

  FOGGIA, JANUARY 1238

  The rain slanted down in gray sheets. It had rained the previous day and night. Still the rain kept falling. It swirled in the castle’s courtyard, and shrouded the walkways and watchtowers in a veil of mist.

  The weather matched Bianca’s mood, gray and listless and bleak. Her anger had long ago been spent. All that remained was emptiness. She hadn’t seen Frederick for nearly three years. The terrible longing she had felt for so long had left her. It hadn’t been difficult to refuse his summons, when it finally came, to go to Verona. Yet try as she might, she couldn’t escape the gossip about him and Isabella. In less than three years, and despite the fact that she spent much time away from him, Isabella had already given him two children, the second child the long-awaited son. Between that and his victory over the Lombards, Frederick must be a happy man indeed.

  She picked up her embroidery again. As she pulled the stitches through the fine linen, one after another, each identical to the one before, she saw her future stretched out before her like an endless row of stitches, each a day of life, mechanical and empty.

  She might be allowed to remain as his mistress, kept out of view and visited when the fancy took him. But even that was unlikely. Isabella of England wasn’t poor Yolanda. Frederick seemed to think that all would remain the same. But Frederick was a man. Men didn’t understand that women had pride, and dignity, too.

  Bianca bit off a thread. He would soon be returning to Sicily. He’d sent Manfred a German toy horse and a letter in which he promised to be back before spring. He wrote regular letters to the children, in his own hand. Since Verona, he had ceased writing to her, which was a relief. After each letter, she had been in turmoil for days, her hard-won serenity gone. It was one thing to defy him when he was far away, but what would she say when he stood before her?

  Bianca laid the embroidery beside her on the window seat. “Have my litter readied. I’m going to see the archbishop.” Her ladies glanced up from their loom. The younger, Elvira, rose to ring the handbell.

  For a long time Bianca had been considering this, restrained from action only by the thought of her children. But her children had their own households already, their tutors and companions. They had a loving father, and siblings of all ages. For once, Frederick would not have his will. He had a beautiful new wife, he had a harem, he could have all the noblewomen who fluttered around him like butterflies, but he would never have her again.

  * * *

  BERARD, WHO WAS recovering from a severe cold, sat in his study, wrapped in furs, with hot bricks under his feet. He coughed and asked her forgiveness for receiving her thus. With a smile that betrayed no surprise, he gestured to a settle beside the fire.

  Bianca sat down on the edge of the bench. She lowered the hood of her sable-lined cloak.

  “My lord Berard, I have taken a decision of grave import, a decision over which I have long agonized. I wish to take the veil. I want to enter the house of the Benedictine nuns at Caserta. But I need your help. I must find a way to dispense with the novitiate. There’s no time. Frederick will be back soon. But even he cannot undo final vows. Will you help me?”

  Berard knitted his brows. “Frederick will be beside himself.”

  “My concern is not with Frederick, but with God. Surely he takes precedence over the emperor?”

  Berard smiled. “Very true, but I’m not sure Frederick always remembers that. You do know that this is a grave step, one not to be undertaken lightly?”

  Bianca nodded. “I know. You are thinking that I am guided by revenge alone, but you are wrong. I own that revenge is part of it, but mostly, I need to survive, survive in dignity. There never was a place for me by his side. Frederick has given me the happiest moments of my life. It was foolish of me, but for years I hoped against hope that he would wed me after all. Yet a world I don’t share with him isn’t worth living in. I would rather dedicate myself to God.”

  “And your children?” Bianca was a loving mother. How could she part with them?

  “My brother’s wife will take care of them, and their father. The emperor,” she said with a smile that lit her face, “dotes on his children.”

  Berard looked at her. He
folded his hands over his stomach. While her vocation might be doubtful in God’s eyes, it was more genuine than that of many who entered nunneries. Convents were the only places where women unwed or unwanted, seeking freedom from marital or parental tyranny, could find a safe haven. “Very well,” he said at last, unfolding his hands, “I myself will take your vows.”

  Bianca reached out and kissed his ring. “Thank you.”

  Berard said, “I am to see him in Verona. I’ll tell him.”

  “Then he’s not coming back?”

  Berard shook his head. “He still has unfinished business in Lombardy.”

  Bianca’s eyes widened. “But I thought the Lombards surrendered.”

  “He refused to accept because their surrender wasn’t unconditional. They wouldn’t dismantle their walls. At this moment, he is negotiating with the Milanese.” Berard smiled. “Such matters take time, my lady. As soon as the rains cease I’ll be leaving for Verona. I’ll tell him about your decision.”

  Bianca stared into the fire. Softly, as if to herself, she said, “You see, it’s not that I no longer love him. It’s that I love him too much.”

  “I know.” Berard said. “I salute your courage. There aren’t many who dare defy Frederick.”

  BERARD ARRIVED IN Verona six weeks later, after an arduous journey over mud-clogged roads. Frederick was out hunting with Enzio and Conrad, the ten-year-old King of Germany. The victorious army’s tents surrounded the city. Verona’s castle had become an imperial headquarters, crowded with German and Sicilian officials.

  Berard was glad to have time for his servants to unpack a set of clean clothes, and spread his carpets and hangings. When Frederick finally arrived, Berard was seated beside a brazier, his stockinged feet on a stool. After they greeted each other, Berard said:

  “Frederick, I bear news you won’t like.”

  Frederick laughed. “Nothing can upset me after Cortenuova.”

  “I think this will.” Berard held his gaze. “Bianca has taken the veil.”

  Frederick’s face remained expressionless. “She’s done what?”

  Berard nodded.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true. She has entered the convent of Benedictine nuns at Caserta, whose patron she is.”

  “She’s gone mad! She’s mine! She’s the mother of my children!”

  “Frederick, no one belongs to another. We all belong to God, and so does Bianca.”

  Frederick paced, a scowl on his face. “I’ll send Manfred. If she doesn’t agree to leave of her own accord, he’ll bring her by force.”

  “You cannot violate the sanctuary of a convent.”

  “You mean I must let a mere woman get away with defying me?”

  “Frederick, I have watched this mere woman struggle for a long time with the burden of living in sin. But what she saw as your betrayal was too much for her. She has sought refuge in God’s love, which, unlike your affections, will never forsake her. Let her be.”

  Frederick glared at him. “Rubbish. She’s just jealous, trying to revenge herself on me. Trying to make me the laughingstock of Europe. If I had married the Duke of Brunswick’s fat plain daughter, she’d have pouted for a while and then accepted it. Let her stay in her convent. She’ll come to her senses soon enough, after a few months of boredom and rising for matins in the middle of the night. I know Bianca. She may have faith, but she’s not made to be a nun.” He laughed harshly. “Gesùmmaria! Bianca a nun!”

  Berard watched him, searching for a feeling other than injured pride. If it was there, it was well concealed. He reached for a parcel on the table. “She bade me give you this.”

  Frederick untied the ribbon. He stared at the contents. On the blue cloth lay a thick coil of gleaming chestnut hair. He flung it onto the floor. “Let her rot in her nunnery! I’ve got more serious cares than the antics of a jealous woman!” He stalked to the window.

  Berard adjusted the cushion behind his aching back. He glanced from Bianca’s lovely hair, scattered on the stone flags, to Frederick’s broad shoulders. He stood like a statue, unmoved, unflinching. His power had never been greater. The Milanese had sued for peace, prostrating themselves before him. They even offered him the iron crown of Lombardy. To the watching world’s consternation, Frederick refused. He demanded unconditional surrender and the destruction of their walls.

  Meanwhile, in a warning to Gregory, Frederick dispatched the Milanese Carroccio as a gift to the people of Rome, who set it up in the Capitol. The significance was clear. Frederick’s next goal was Rome. With the birth of Isabella’s son, a few weeks after Cortenuova, his triumph had been complete.

  Frederick turned around. He sat on a stool. His face was drained of all vitality. “She’ll leave a terrible void in my life.”

  Berard was surprised. He hadn’t thought him capable of such an admission. “Perhaps if you went to her yourself …”

  Frederick shook his head. “No.” His eyes clouded, “We won’t speak of her anymore.”

  Berard felt tired. He didn’t travel well these days. His joints troubled him more and more. Out of pride, he refused to travel by horse litter, subjecting himself to the discomforts of riding.

  Frederick leaned forward. “I’ll launch this year’s campaign as soon as the weather improves. My first objective is Brescia. And after that, we’ll besiege Milan herself. The Brescians are feverishly provisioning and fortifying their city.”

  “After what you did to the Milanese at Cortenuova, you’ll have a hard time luring them into the open.”

  “I have a formidable new weapon, Calamandrinus, a Spaniard. The most talented builder of siege engines I’ve ever known. He has already built two superb wheeled towers, and is busy on a new kind of mangonel. It can fling Greek fire at five times the speed and distance an ordinary mangonel casts stones.”

  “Greek fire?” Berard’s eyes widened. This mysterious flammable substance, said to contain sulfur and pitch, was a closely-guarded secret of the Byzantine army. No one in the West had ever succeeded in copying it. “How,” he asked, “have you come by it?”

  Frederick grinned. “I am negotiating to wed little Constance to the heir of Byzantium. Amongst other gifts, the emperor sent me canisters of the stuff. It’s a hundred times more effective than burning arrows.”

  Berard would have liked to ask whether Bianca knew that her daughter might become empress of Byzantium. “What,” he asked instead, “is Gregory going to make of a marriage between your family and the Greek emperor?” The schismatic Greeks, who had split from the Roman Church in a dogmatic dispute, were considered by the pope little better than heretics.

  Frederick twisted his lips, “He’ll rant that I’m behaving true to my godless nature!”

  PADUA, FEBRUARY 1239

  Piero della Vigna affixed his signature with a flourish to the creamy vellum. He knew that his letters and dispatches were held up in the chanceries of Europe as models of style. Not even the papal curia, those masters of mellifluous Latin propaganda, could compete with him.

  His two secretaries withdrew with an obeisance. Piero picked up another parchment from his worktable. He studied it, frowning. It was a letter to the College of Cardinals, in which Frederick stated that he would hold them responsible for any ill-considered action the pope, in his dotage, might take against him. It was ostensibly addressed to the pro-imperial party within the college, but in reality it threatened those who still stood by the ancient pontiff. Frederick would sign it himself, sealing it with his golden seal. Only the Holy Roman Emperor, the doge of Venice, and the emperor of Byzantium sealed in gold. The pope, as a sign of humility, sealed in lead, and all other sovereigns in silver. Piero, rereading the letter in its final version, sighed. Frederick’s relations with the pope had reached their breaking point.

  Despite his furred gown and beaver cap with earflaps, he felt cold. Silence filled the long rush-strewn chamber occupied by the chancery in the abbey. The tall writing desks at which the secretaries stood
were deserted, inkhorns stoppered and bundles of quills sharpened, ready for the morning. In the hearth a neglected fire smoldered, giving off a glow but little warmth. Through the small windows, glazed with costly roundels of glass, fell an opaque gray light. The day was nearing its end. The leaden skies and fierce cold portended snow again, unusual in Padua. But then this was one of the worst winters Italy had experienced in living memory, further aggravating Frederick’s woes.

  After the victory of Cortenuova Frederick’s fortunes had been at their zenith. Now, a little more than a year later, his failure to capture Brescia had given new hope to the Lombard rebels. For three months the imperial army had ringed Brescia in a siege dogged by misfortune. First, the Spanish engineer Calamandrinus was captured by the Brescians and forced to work for them. Then a mysterious equine sickness broke out, caused by infected mares smuggled in by the enemy. Finally, even the weather turned against Frederick. With his men bogged down in unseasonable torrents of sleet and mud, he raised the siege at the end of October.

  In Piero’s view the siege should have been continued at any cost. But Frederick, infuriated by his vassals’ insistence that their period of annual service was over, retired for the winter to the abbey of Santa Giustina near Padua. Although the abbey was wealthy, the monks were sorely tried by this prolonged imperial sojourn. Not only did they have to put up with Frederick’s retinue, but they also were forced to deal with an elephant, stables full of camels, hunting cheetahs, and falcons. Frederick hunted in the surrounding forests with Isabella and his sons. Despite the cheerfulness he professed, he was often irritable and short-tempered in private. He still hoped that a negotiated settlement with the Lombards might be possible.

  Hermann had been riding to and from Rome, trying to arbitrate between Frederick and Gregory. However, during the second half of the year it became obvious that Gregory was wholly on the side of the Lombards. Strange rumors began to circulate about Frederick. To the scandalous tales of his private life, which included every imaginable depravity, were added new, and more serious accusations. It was said that his mistress had to seek refuge in a nunnery from his impiety. He was accused of having said that Christ was an impostor, and of denying the miracle of transubstantiation.