Henry stood before the fireplace, staring into the flames. He stroked the fur on his cuff. Just past his thirtieth birthday, he was still a handsome man, even if his confinement had led him to put on weight. Fond of food and drink, his well-cut features had thickened, and his once broad shoulders slouched forward, bent by years of hopelessness. Despite this, he still retained a vestige of the regal presence that had once rallied dissident princes to his cause.
Could freedom beckon at last, Henry asked himself, the freedom he had long ago given up hope of ever regaining? His hands began to shake.
He started as the count said, “We will leave in the morning, at first light.” Hugh of Nicastro, a wide-shouldered Sicilian whose family had come out from Normandy with Robert Guiscard, sketched a perfunctory bow. With a glance at Henry’s hands, he shouldered his way out of the narrow doorway.
After the door had closed, Henry sat down heavily on a chest. His heart was pounding.
AS THE SUN ROSE, Henry, Count Hugh, and a company of mounted menat-arms rode out under the raised portcullis.
They followed the road north to Salerno through hilly country. Below, to their left, lay the Tyrrhenian Sea under a sky of gentian blue. In the distance, Stromboli’s smoke was visible. Vineyards covered in pale new foliage alternated with silvery olive groves, hedged in by low stone walls. Shepherds grazed their sheep, the new lambs bleating at the drum of the riders’ hooves. They passed hamlets of ramshackle houses with ancient slate roofs. At the wells, women drawing water in leather buckets curtsied as they recognized the count’s banner. Outside one village, a corpse had been left to rot on a gallows as a warning to would-be miscreants. Its flesh had been picked off by birds of carrion. Its blackened eye sockets crawled with maggots. Henry shuddered as they passed. The count laughed. “One brigand less.”
The road climbed. Steep gaunt cliffs fell down toward the sea. Yellow gorse blazed between the rocks, filling the warm spring air with its scent. Was it possible, Henry asked himself, as he had asked himself through a night spent tossing, that his father would restore him to freedom, for no other reason than the goodness of his heart? Goodness was not a motivation that had ever animated his father. Surely a man who had recently poisoned his third wife, as Henry’s chaplain had whispered to him during confession, a man who imprisoned and even hanged clerics like common criminals, wouldn’t suddenly pardon his son in an access of goodness?
As he felt the wind in his face and took in the beauty of wide open spaces, of sea and mountains and sky, the soaring sensation of freedom, tears shot into his eyes. To forsake all this again for the gloom of barred chambers and the gray walls of another prison was unbearable. And such, to be sure, must be his fate. He suddenly felt certain that his father was moving him elsewhere only for reasons of greater security. Perhaps he was even planning to have him murdered. Why not kill him, too, just as he had done away with that poor English princess, to eliminate the threat of rebellious barons rallying around him again one day?
Never, Henry told himself, would he consent to be immured in another fortress. The count, riding beside him, was watching the road. Henry swallowed hard. He squared his shoulders. With a sudden savage thrust he dug his spurs into his dappled gray stallion. The startled animal flew forward, off the road into the heather. Henry raced through the air like a demon, a blur of flying golden hair and purple cloak, the horse’s hooves barely touching the ground.
“After him!” the count shouted, spurring his horse forward. An instant later, horrified, he and his men reined in their rearing mounts. Too stunned to speak, they watched as the great gray horse and its rider raced ahead, making straight for the cliffs. Thirty, twenty, ten paces separated Henry from the abyss below. With a terrible scream—whether of defiance or terror no one knew—Henry and his horse plunged over the edge of the precipice.
THEY BURIED HENRY in the cathedral of Cosenza, in a shroud of cloth-of-gold interwoven with eagles’ feathers.
Frederick arrived a month later to pray at the tomb of his son. He and Constance had been present at the consecration of that same cathedral twenty years earlier. They had given the cathedral chapter a jeweled reliquary in the form of a cross. It was one of the last times that he and Constance appeared together in public. A few weeks later, Constance had died in Catania.
Dry-eyed, Frederick rose from the marble slab. Berard, who had been waiting for him, fell in beside him. They were alone in the basilica, their escort waiting outside. In the pillared vestibule, Frederick halted. He turned. “I am weary, Berard,” he said, “weary of grief. My heart is worn out. Every man needs one to share his joys and sorrows.” He laid a hand on Berard’s arm: “You have been my lifelong friend. For that I thank you with all my heart. But I need more.”
Berard’s brown eyes rested on him. There was compassion in them. “Go to her,” he said. “Perhaps, in this hour of your need, she won’t forsake you.”
“You’ll give me a dispensation?”
Berard looked at him. “Yes,” he said after a moment’s silence, “for your sake and that of those you rule. Whether God will agree with me is another matter. It will have to wait till I come face to face with him.”
THE WHITEWASHED VISITORS’ parlor behind the convent’s thick walls was cool despite the blazing sun outside. A wooden crucifix hung on the wall, suspended above a long oak bench. Through the iron grille of the small window set high in the wall, Frederick could see the bell tower of the church.
A key grated in the lock. The door behind him creaked. His heart leaped. He was suddenly, absurdly, afraid to turn around. He hadn’t seen her for three years.
“Frederick.” The voice hadn’t changed. It was as melodious, as entrancing as only the voice of a beloved woman could be. He turned slowly, fearful of how she would receive him.
She was smiling. “You haven’t changed,” she said.
My God, he thought as he looked upon her serene features, she is even lovelier than I remembered. “Isabella is dead, and so is Henry.”
She nodded. “I have heard. I am so sorry. May God have mercy on their souls. I …” she paused, hesitant to add another platitude. She had felt nothing when Manfred brought her the news of Isabella’s death. No elation, no triumph, not even compassion. She had forced herself to pray for the empress’s soul. Wasn’t it odd, she thought, they stood just a few paces apart, and yet they were strangers. Why, she wondered, had he come all this way to tell her about his wife’s and his son’s death?
“Bianca,” he said, his face tense, “I need you more than God does. You can serve him far better by being my wife.” He pulled out a parchment from inside his cloak. “I’ve secured a dispensation releasing you from your vows.”
Her composure suddenly deserted her. “What?” She clutched the bench to steady herself.
“I am asking you to marry me. I cannot make you empress and our children will have no right of succession, but we will be married according to the rites of the Church.” His face relaxed. With a smile, he added, “And this time, I won’t accept a refusal. If you don’t agree, I’ll carry you off, roped and slung over my horse. I’ve got the convent surrounded.”
For an instant, she stared at him, unable to speak. Then anger welled inside her. Did he really think it was that easy, that she would obey him without demur simply because after fifteen years he had finally come to offer her marriage?
She glared at him. “You may be emperor, Frederick, but your writ stops here! Do you think that I, too, can be commanded to do your bidding whenever it suits you? That I’ll retract my word to God just because you have coerced Berard into issuing a dispensation?”
His eyes, those eyes she remembered so well, held her gaze. He opened his arms.
Bianca swallowed. Drawn by a force stronger than reason or pride or even faith, she stepped into his embrace. She laid her head against his chest. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled onto his cloak.
He closed his arms around her. “Don’t cry, beloved,” he whispered into the stif
f linen of her wimple, “nothing except death will ever separate us now.”
She raised her wet face to him. “But what will the world say if after having married a princess of Aragon, the queen of Jerusalem, and the king of England’s sister you take a defrocked nun as your wife?”
“I no longer give the price of a rotten mackerel for what the world says.” He smiled.
She said, suddenly self-concious, “I … I have no hair.”
“Then you’ll have to wear a nightcap till it grows.”
They both burst into laughter.
A WARM BREEZE rippled the waters of the Adriatic as the little cortège walked from the castle of Trani across the palm-lined square to the white limestone cathedral. Built above an intact Byzantine church and the Roman catacombs beneath, this small cathedral by the sea had always symbolized to Bianca the many layers of man’s faith. Years ago, in the first glow of her love for Frederick, when she still used to daydream of becoming his wife, her dream’s fulfilment was always set here.
Inside, a soft light filtered through windows of parchment-thin alabaster. A smell of the sea and the incense of centuries permeated the church. The high altar stood beneath a gleaming canopy of white marble resting on four columns of red porphyry. As she and Frederick walked down the flower-strewn nave, the choir burst into plainsong.
They followed Berard’s mitered figure. The church was only half full. There were no foreign potentates or princes among those who stood clustered near the altar. As she moved forward, her hand on Frederick’s arm, dragging the train of her hyacinth-blue mantle, Bianca recognized those standing in the front line. Her brother turned and smiled. Beside him were Thomas of Aquinas, Piero della Vigna, and the archbishop of Magdeburg. The four had earlier witnessed the marriage contract. In becoming Frederick’s morganatic wife, she had renounced all royal and imperial privileges. Despite this, Frederick had insisted, against Piero’s advice, in giving her as a wedding gift the duchies of Gravina and Montecarico, traditional dower lands of the queens of Sicily.
For an instant, as she caught the chancellor’s look, she felt a stab of fear. She had always known that Piero disliked her. Yet what she had just seen in his eyes wasn’t the cool disdain of the past, the English marriage he so skillfully persuaded Frederick to enter, or the recent opposition to their wedding. The look cut into her like a dagger. She could still hear his voice, shrill with fury, through a door left ajar by a careless servant as she came along the passage. “… may cost you the support of Germany. Can you imagine what the French and English kings will say? A defrocked nun?”
She tightened her grip on Frederick’s arm. He turned and smiled as if to reassure her. She touched the ivory cross on her chest like a talisman against evil. I won’t, she thought, allow anyone to destroy this moment. She knelt down beside Frederick. The fringes of Berard’s pallium quivered before her eyes as he bent down to hand her a lit taper. She took the candle with a steady hand and bent her head in prayer.
PALERMO, MAY 1243
Frederick rose like Neptune out of the water, his curly wet hair clinging to his head like that of an antique statue. How handsome he still is, Bianca thought. Despite his forty-nine years and a noticeable thickening around the middle, he was still as broad-shouldered and compelling as that first night so long ago, in Bari’s sea-lapped castle.
He smiled up at her, a smile she had so often conjured from memory in her years of solitude. No matter how hard she had tried to devote herself to God, Frederick had frequently interposed himself between her and the Lord. Her prayers had often been clouded by his image.
She lowered herself onto the edge of the bath and untucked her linen towel. It fell to the turquoise tiles in a heap of creamy whiteness. Dangling her legs in the water, Bianca watched as he waded toward her. His wet arms encircled her. His lips sought hers, melded with them in a kiss that stirred all her senses. Against her belly she felt his hardness, prodding to enter the sanctuary within which she had carried his children, within which she had for so long ached with yearning. She yielded to him, encircling his body with her legs. Let him give me another child, a last child, she thought, closing her eyes.
The warm, rose-scented water in the marble basin undulated back and forth with the rhythm of their passion. The afternoon sun fell onto the water in the arabesque pattern of the carved window screens. In the distance, the bay of Palermo lay silvery below the dark outline of Mount Pellegrino.
* * *
A MONTH LATER, at the end of June, Palermo resounded with the pealing of bells. The papal interregnum that had afflicted the Church for three years was over. “Habemus papam—we have a pope!” priests proclaimed from every pulpit in Christendom.
Frederick rose from the chair in his study. “Well, my friends, Godspeed. We’ll meet in Capua.” He embraced Berard and Piero. “May you be successful.” While the embassy’s official purpose was to convey his congratulations to the new pontiff, its real objective was to negotiate the lifting of his excommunication.
Frederick stepped out onto the loggia. From where he stood, he could make out the bulbous orange domes of the Church of San Giovanni, a converted mosque. Despite its bells, it was distinctly un–Christian in appearance. Here and there, the first torchlights appeared on flat rooftops and street corners. In the twilight, the call of a muezzin was drowned out by the pealing bells.
He, more than anyone else, should have been elated. The cardinals had finally, after nearly three years of wrangling, elected a pope who was acceptable to them and to himself. Sinibaldo Fieschi came from a noble Genoese family. The Fieschis were shrewd pragmatists. They also had a long history of Ghibelline sympathies. Was his unease due to the fact that Sinibaldo had taken the ominous-sounding name of Innocent IV?
Frederick sighed. I am beginning to see black clouds where there aren’t any. Innocent III was universally recognized as the most outstanding pope since Gregory the Great. What was more natural than that an ambitious worldly cardinal like Sinibaldo should choose a prestigious name for his pontificate? It didn’t follow that his policies would be the same as those of his predecessor.
The negotiations, naturally, would be lengthy. Frederick was prepared to make generous concessions, such as restoring the confiscated properties of the Sicilian Church and releasing the remaining clerical hostages. In order to be closer to the negotiations, he would return to Capua. From there, too, he could continue his secret negotiations with the Frangipani family for possession of the Colosseum, which they had converted into an impregnable fortress.
He smiled. He would go and tell Bianca that the embassy had left. Although she never said so, he knew that she prayed daily for the ban to be lifted. While he himself didn’t give it a second thought, its political effects were dangerous. The excommunication must be raised.
THE STARS HUNG like lanterns in the moonless sky. Frederick put his arm around Bianca’s shoulders. They stood together, in the courtyard open on one side, gazing out over the terraced palace gardens to the city and the sea below. Here and there, a lonely light glowed in the distance. Palermo lay sleeping while the nightwatchmen went on their rounds, crying the passing of the hours.
The torches reflected themselves, flickering, in the long pool. A fountain murmured softly. In the gardens, the shrill calls of the peacocks had been silenced by sleep. The last guests had gone to their quarters. The musicians had been dismissed. In the port, the galley bearing Berard and Manfred toward Rome had long slipped her moorings. The night smelled of orange blossoms.
Frederick placed a kiss on Bianca’s head. “How did I manage to be without you for so long?”
She nestled closer to his shoulder, without replying. There was no need for words. The years they had spent apart, with their solitude and calamities, had welded them together in a bond far stronger than ever before. He turned her to him. In the light of the oil lamps on the tables, her eyes, great pools of lustrous darkness, looked up at him. In these eyes, he thought, is mirrored my whole life.
Over a long bliaud of lemon-colored silk she wore a necklace of coral beads and large uneven gray pearls. Strange how the sight of that necklace, after so many years, caused him no pain, only a gentle tug of remembrance. Neither Yolanda nor Isabella had ever worn Constance’s jewels. His only regret was that Bianca would never be able to wear his mother’s crown. Yet her daughter would soon be empress of Byzantium.
“Do you know, Bianchina, that I thank God every day for having given you back to me?” He tightened his hands on her shoulders. “I couldn’t bear to lose you.”
A shadow clouded her eyes. She laid a hand on his chest. “Remember, beloved, that what God gives he may take, too. You mustn’t cling to anything, not to Sicily, nor the Empire, not even to me, with such fervor.”
TERNI, JUNE 1244
Frederick leaned against the battlements and peered into the Umbrian night. In the distance he could see the watch fires on the towers of Narni. There, tomorrow, he would meet with Innocent IV.
Nearly a year had passed since Berard and Piero began negotiations with the new pope. Innocent had proved a tenacious negotiator, extracting as many concessions as possible. Frederick had proposed that they meet in the Roman Campagna, held by his troops. Innocent suggested Narni instead, on the boundary of the papal lands. Why was the pontiff so nervous? Surely he couldn’t think that Frederick would seize him at this stage. If he hadn’t used force even against Gregory, why should he do so now? Innocent was known to be cautious. Probably the memory of the imprisoned cardinals loomed in his mind. Manfred was escorting the pontiff tomorrow from Civita Castellana to Narni.
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