The Falcon of Palermo Read online

  “I see you have ridden hard. I wish I could offer you some rest, but I believe we must leave immediately?”

  The other nodded. “There’s no time to be lost. The Milanese know where you are heading, Your Grace, and are on their way to Cremona with a large force of archers. They’re also patrolling along the Po, searching every barge.”

  Frederick smiled. “That’s one place they won’t find me. What route are we taking?”

  Alaman, Anselm, and Berard crowded around.

  “The Cremonese will meet you at the river Lambro, about half a day’s ride from here. If we ride east through the night we should meet with them before mid-morning.”

  Berard said, “The count tells me that the Lancias have long been associated with your family. His grandfather was knighted by Barbarossa.”

  “I’ve never known much about my German side,” Frederick said, picking up his sword belt. “The further north I travel, the more I realize how much loyalty to the Hohenstaufen there still is.”

  Manfred Lancia stared at his feet. Mahmoud came in, loaded with traveling gear.

  Frederick said, “Mahmoud, you remain here with half the Saracens and the money chests till I reach Cremona safely. If I don’t, return to Sicily immediately.”

  Mahmoud opened his mouth to protest and closed it again. He salaamed. “As you command, my lord. May Allah go with you.”

  “And with you, too.”

  Frederick saw Manfred Lancia’s eyes widen in shock.

  “You find it strange that the Emperor should wish on his servant the protection of Allah?”

  Lancia crimsoned. “My lord, I … Well, it is surprising … I didn’t mean …”

  “You see, Manfred, in Sicily, Christians, Jews, and Muslims live in harmony, respecting one another’s God.”

  “They do?” The young man looked interested.

  “Well, most of the time. They are, after all, men. But think, if I could spread this idea …” Frederick stopped himself. He let Mahmoud drape his cloak over his shoulders, then snapped the clasp shut.

  Manfred said, “My lord, shouldn’t you—”

  “Shouldn’t I what?”

  “I was thinking, for your safety, would it not be wiser to wear armor? There could be fighting.”

  Frederick gave him a broad smile. “The truth, my dear Manfred, is that I don’t have any. What about yourself? I don’t see much steel on you either.”

  “Chain mail is heavy, my lord, not suited to swift riding.” Manfred grinned, “It is also very expensive.”

  “Well, there you are. Let’s be on our way!”

  It was already dark outside. In the flare of the torches the restless new horses threw dancing shadows on the walls of the sienna-colored buildings that lined the piazza. As he swung himself into the saddle Frederick noticed that Berard was wearing a large sword with an old-fashioned hilt. It was the first time he had ever seen him wear one.

  A group of heavily armed Pavian knights, in hauberks of chain mail, were waiting beside the portal. As they cantered through the town gates, opened for them at this late hour, Frederick sensed gloom descending on the men around him. They rode in silence, each alone with his thoughts. Behind them, they could hear the grating of the winches as the drawbridge was raised again.

  Hour after weary hour they rode on. For fear of detection, the men had doused their lanterns. Manfred, slumped in the saddle with fatigue, led the way. Around midnight, the cloud cover lifted. The moon was almost full. The fertile plain of Lombardy was hauntingly beautiful in the eerie silver light. Windbreaks of stately poplars stood in rows, casting dark shadows over the moonlit paddies filled with young rice. They encountered no one. Their numbers, now well over a hundred, ensured that any brigands lurking in the woods remained out of sight.

  As the fading moon gave way to the first rays of the sun, they came within sight of the river. The Lambro, a fast-flowing tributary of the Po, separated the territory of Milan from that of Cremona. Their guide halted on a ridge overlooking the valley. Below, a dense wood hugged the river bank. Beyond, the Lambro made a wide curve to the east.

  Frederick drew rein beside the young count. Manfred pointed a gloved finger. “The ford is over there, to the right, just behind that glade. I suggest we cross the river as soon as possible and wait for the Cremonese on the other side.”

  Frederick nodded. He wheeled his horse around. The sooner they forded the river the better. He called to Berard and Alaman, who transmitted the order to the back. They set themselves in motion again, cantering downhill toward the trees. The scent of fallen pine needles and damp soil filled the wood. The leaves filtered the sunlight into dappled green.

  Frederick could see the river ahead. What relief it would be to stretch his numb legs! At that moment, something hissed overhead. His horse whinnied and reared. It would have thrown him had he not clung to its mane.

  “Ambush! We’re ambushed!” The cry went up behind him. Arrows rained down on them. Frederick bent as low as he could, cursing. He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and raced across the glade toward the ford. The Pavian knights in their chain mail were riding neck to neck with him, trying to protect him. In front he saw Manfred Lancia’s red cloak billow out behind him as he, too, galloped toward the river, his head level with that of his mount. Just as he reached the end of the clearing his horse stumbled and Manfred flew through the air.

  In the split second before he, too, was thrown from his horse, Frederick saw the rope. Several of the Pavians and Saracens managed to clear it, while those behind crashed into each other trying to avoid it. Frederick leaped up, drawing his sword. Men were swarming out from behind the trees. A Milanese ran at him with a lance. With a sideways blow of his sword, he sent him sprawling. Frederick ducked as an arrow whined past him. He looked about. They were surrounded and heavily outnumbered. With a glance he measured the distance to the nearest riderless horse.

  In the bobbing sea of helmets and men he could make out the bright turbans of his Saracens raining down blows on the Milanese pouring out of the forest. Swords clashed on swords. Bending so low he was almost crawling, he had nearly reached the horse when a Milanese pikeman rose before him, swinging his murderous weapon. As the bearded giant gave a shout of triumph and raised his arm to crash the pike down on him, Frederick ducked and lunged forward, plunging his sword deep into the man’s belly.

  The man crumbled and would have fallen on top of him if Frederick had not leaped to one side. As he came crashing down, blood gushing out of him, the pike struck Frederick’s left arm. He felt a piercing pain as it cut through his flesh. Wrenching himself free, he ran on, doubled over, holding his left arm with his right to stanch the slippery wetness. He had caught sight of another riderless destrier, a huge warhorse, a few yards away.

  As he reached the destrier he saw Manfred, who had managed to remount, his tunic stained with blood, wielding his sword savagely left, right and center, cutting men down as they came at him. He was protecting Berard, who, standing against a tree, was clumsily lashing out at his assailants with his sword.

  Frederick grabbed the trailing bridle and leapt into the saddle. He wheeled the horse towards Berard. “Berard, quick, jump up!” Manfred covered their flank while Berard tried to heave himself onto the rearing horse.

  “For Jesus’ sake, hurry!” Frederick cried.

  The horse shuddered under Berard’s weight as the archbishop finally managed to pull himself up. The leader of the Pavians, a burly knight on a roan stallion, yelled, “Ride, my lord, we’ll cover you!” before bending to strike a blow at a Milanese who was trying to unhorse him.

  “Follow me! To the river!” Frederick shouted, waving his injured arm. He dug his spurs into the horse’s flanks. Men were fighting everywhere. Dead and writhing bodies littered the ground. Frederick’s horse trod on something soft. Lurching, they nearly fell. The beast regained its balance and raced forward, maddened by the reek of blood and the shrill clangor of steel on steel. Behind them, the Milanese were
shouting: “The king, capture the king!”

  They headed straight for the water. On the plain beyond the other bank, a cloud of dust appeared. Shields and helmets glinted in the sun. The Cremonese!

  Jumping down, Frederick unclasped his heavy cloak and threw it off. He grabbed the bridle. As he was about to leap in, he caught sight of Berard staring panic-stricken at the water.

  “I can’t … I can’t swim. Save yourself, Frederick!” he cried. “I’ll stay here and distract them for as long as I can.”

  Frederick cursed. He glanced over his shoulder. Men were running after them, whether friend or foe he could not tell. They had no time to lose. He shoved Berard forward. “Hold onto the horse’s tail!” Pushing the animal, with Berard clinging to it, toward the water, he gave it a resounding slap on the rump before leaping into the swirling current to safety.

  IN THE LATE afternoon they reached the Lancias’ country estate on the outskirts of Cremona.

  The horsemen clattered through the gate of the fortified manor house, scattering chickens and farm animals. Servants and laborers dropped whatever they were doing and gaped openmouthed as the vast yard filled with armed men.

  Designed like a Roman latifundium, the main building was a long double-story structure of red brick. On either side there were bake and brew houses, the kitchens, stables, and barns. The whole was enclosed by a fortified wall and stout double gates. In times of trouble the residents could seek refuge in the tall circular tower in the center of the main building.

  Frederick grimaced with pain as he brought his horse to a halt before the loggia. His wounded arm, resting in a sling, was throbbing unbearably. He turned around, waiting for Manfred Lancia. The count suggested they halt here to take care of the injured. After the Milanese had beaten a hasty retreat at the sight of the Cremonese, Frederick’s men crossed the river again and collected the wounded. They were now being carried into the yard on makeshift litters. Mercifully, they had lost only a few men. The main body of the Cremonese had left them here and was returning to Cremona. Frederick would follow with the remainder later.

  Retainers ran toward them.

  Manfred jumped off his horse. “Over here, for His Grace,” he waved at two grooms carrying a mounting block. They helped Frederick dismount. As he leaped to the ground sharp pain shot through his arm. He swayed and held onto the groom. Manfred cast him a worried glance. He extended his hand. “Lean on me, my lord. Let me help you up the steps. My mother is skilled with herbs and salves. She’ll clean and bandage it for you properly.”

  As he spoke, a tall woman came running out of the house. Although her raven hair was streaked with gray, her face was still that of a great beauty. Her eyes, lavender blue like her son’s, widened in alarm as she took in the scene.

  “Don’t worry, Mother,” Manfred smiled reassuringly. “We were ambushed by the Milanese, but as you can see, His Grace the emperor is safe.”

  She curtsied before Frederick. “Welcome to our humble manor. We are greatly honored.”

  Before Frederick could reply, she saw the blood-soaked bandage on his arm.

  “You’ve been injured, my lord?”

  “It is nothing, Countess. Just a superficial gash.”

  “All the same, please let me have a look at it.”

  A little girl of four or five shot out from behind Countess Selvaggia’s skirts and wrapped her arms around Manfred’s legs. “Pick me up, pick me up!” she begged, jumping up and down.

  “Bianca, go inside immediately!”

  Ignoring her mother, the child continued to cling to Manfred’s legs.

  “My youngest daughter is very attached to her brother,” the Countess said. “Do forgive her.”

  Frederick smiled. A pretty little thing. Judging by the brother’s age, she must have been a latecomer to the Lancia brood.

  Manfred grinned at the little girl. “Off you go, Bianchina, if you don’t want to get in the way of Maddalena’s stick.” Blue eyes looked up at him pleadingly. “Will you let me ride on your horse later?”

  Manfred nodded. “I promise, but only if you’re a good girl now.”

  She turned her small dark head, covered in a white linen cap fastened under her chin, toward Frederick. “Can I ride on his horse, too?”

  “Run back to Maddalena. Now, Bianca.” Manfred gave the child a gentle push.

  She pointed a stubby finger at Frederick. “Is he really the emperor?”

  Manfred nodded.

  “But he doesn’t look like one, he’s so dirty!”

  Frederick laughed. “She’s quite right. If appearances were all, I wouldn’t stand much of a chance right now, would I?”

  A fat nurse came bustling out of the house. With a last look at the stranger, the child allowed herself to be dragged into the house. The countess led the way into the cool vestibule.

  Frederick decided to spend the night at the Lancias’ estate. Countess Selvaggia cleansed and bandaged his wound, pronouncing herself satisfied. Just as he had been drawn to her handsome son, he conceived a liking for the mother and her four children. Although the Lancias were of an ancient lineage, related to some of the greatest families in Italy, they were impoverished. The old count had died a few years ago. Manfred confided to Frederick that his father, a brave knight and accomplished poet, had been a bad manager of his affairs.

  On an impulse, Frederick asked Manfred to accompany him to Germany. “I’ll need loyal men to serve me. You’ll be well rewarded. What do you think?”

  Manfred agreed immediately. His mother gave her blessing. An old bearded uncle added his. Neither of them, Frederick thought, is voicing their misgivings. What if this last Hohenstaufen fails to become emperor?

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Frederick was welcomed by the fiercely Ghibelline citizens of Cremona. The story of his escape across the Lambro was on everyone’s lips. The streets were black with cheering people. “Viva Federico! Viva Federico!” they chanted, stamping their feet and throwing their caps into the air.

  Frederick waved to the crowds as he rode bareheaded in the sunshine through the banner-hung streets. He remained in Cremona for more than a week. Despite their professions of loyalty, the city rulers, like the Genoese, were quick to secure promises of imperial favor for the future. Loyalty to the Empire, he began to realize, always had a price. It was not a divinely ordained duty, but a bargaining point for freedom from taxation, trading rights, permission to extend city walls, mint coins, and a multitude of other privileges.

  When they left Cremona, Manfred Lancia rode behind Berard in Frederick’s growing train. From a window of their city mansion, the countess waved at them. Frederick raised his hand in salute. His last image of Cremona was that of Manfred’s handsome mother and a little dark-haired girl beside her.

  FOR SEVERAL WEEKS they traveled north via Mantua and Verona up the valley of the Adige in southern Tyrol toward Trent. Although Otto had retreated to central Germany, the Brenner Pass was still held by the dukes of Meran and Bavaria, loyal to Otto. With the help of local guides Frederick and his men crossed the Alps on a little-known mule track of vertiginous steepness. Even in summer the path was under threat from avalanches. Once safely through the worst of it, even Frederick crossed himself. By the second week in August they had reached southern Germany and were approaching Chur, a strategic Hohenstaufen fief that controlled access to several Alpine passes.

  They were riding above the tree line, making their way down toward the walled town lying in a broad, stony valley at the foot of the mountains. The air was crisp, with a hint of chill. Around them rose majestic snow-covered peaks. The Alpine pastures over which they rode were carpeted with wild-flowers. Game abounded. Once, when they came across a magnificent bear, Frederick had to use all his powers of persuasion to stop his excited men from launching into a hunt.

  Tension gripped Frederick as they drew closer to Chur. He had sent Anselm, the only one who spoke German, ahead to announce their arrival. While the ecclesiastical princes would be fluent in Latin,
many secular German lords could not speak it with ease, and most were unlettered. In his mind, Frederick went over the German words and sentences Anselm continued to teach him around the campfire every evening. The likable young knight had become an invaluable source of information on all things German. Trying to get his tongue around the guttural words, Frederick cursed himself for never having learned what to him had always been the language of his oppressors.

  Yet this was his country too, home of his forefathers. How would he be received by the people, he, a stranger who couldn’t speak their tongue and was ignorant of their customs? Would his name alone suffice to elicit the loyalty he needed to succeed? They waited in a rocky clearing within sight of the walls. Below the town, a narrow river glittered in the midday sun—the young Rhine, flowing north toward Lake Konstanz.

  A company of horsemen cantered toward them. At the head of the cavalcade rode a broad-shouldered man. That must be Arnold von Matsch, the bishop of Chur. A princely figure, Frederick thought. An impeccably cut cloak of brown velvet fell in rich folds to his knees. Across his chest he wore a heavy gold chain with a jeweled pendant.

  Arnold von Matsch bowed from the waist, without dismounting from his destrier. “Your Grace, welcome to Chur. Praise be to God for having brought you here safely.” Small brown eyes scrutinized him from under bristling black brows.

  “My lord bishop, I thank you. I too, am grateful to have reached here safely.” Frederick said. “So far, quite a few obstacles have been put in my way. What word of the Guelfs?”

  “A messenger from the abbot of Saint Gall arrived yesterday with news that he is in Nuremberg, trying to buy support. You needn’t fear, Your Grace, Otto von Brunswick would never dare lurk in these lands.” He made a deprecating gesture, as if flicking away a fly. “I would make short shrift of him and his Saxons. Pray let us proceed into the town. You and your lords will lodge in my palace.”

  While the manner was irreproachably respectful, the tone was that of a man used to being obeyed. No Sicilian bishop would have dared address his overlord as his equal. But not only was Arnold von Matsch one of the most powerful German bishops, Frederick’s had been one of the votes that had elected him. He inclined his head and smiled.