The Falcon of Palermo Page 2

  Berard stood on the heaving deck of the ship, one hand raised to shade his eyes from the glare, and watched the approaching landfall. For years now the Sicilian problem had been a major preoccupation of the papacy. The whole of southern Italy had been drawn into the conflict; Sicilian lords loyal to pope and king had been pitted against those who had sided with the German usurpers.

  As he stood in the blowing wind, Berard reflected on the ill fortune that had dogged Sicily since the emperor’s sudden death. Queen Constance assumed the regency, ruling with surprising ability for a woman. One of the first acts of her reign had been to sever all connections with the Empire and expel her husband’s German lords. But three years later she, too, died. On her deathbed, in a desperate attempt to protect her infant son, she made Sicily a papal fief and appointed the pope regent during Frederick’s minority.

  Despite this, after her death Sicily was invaded by German barons. One of them, once Henry’s close adviser, claimed that he, not the pope, was the rightful regent according to the emperor’s testament. The four-year-old king became their prisoner. They ruled with the aid of mercenaries and the complicity of many of the Norman-Sicilian nobility. The child survived because the usurpers needed him to justify their rule.

  Pope Innocent had employed the time-honored weapons of the Church in his fight against the invaders: excommunication and negotiation. Finally, the last usurper was captured by the bishop of Catania, Walter of Palear. This powerful prelate, chancellor of Sicily already in the days of the Emperor Henry, had changed sides several times; now he held the reins of power again, ruling Sicily in the boy king’s name.

  Berard sighed. Walter of Palear was the only man capable of recovering the lands still held by rebels. He was certain to resent a papal legate looking over his shoulder. The ten-year-old Frederick himself might be a problem. According to Cardinal Savelli, the boy was headstrong and uncouth. He had been neglected, his education provided in a haphazard fashion by an elderly tutor. After first being imprisoned, Frederick was eventually allowed to do as he pleased. There were rumors that he had been allowed to run wild in the streets of Palermo, befriended by the common people. Berard could well imagine how he would take to being told that he must behave with the decorum required of a young king.

  He would find out soon enough what his charge was like. The harbor of Palermo had come into view. The town was built around a crescent-shaped bay, its waters shimmering blue in the afternoon sun. Stately palm trees, church towers, and minarets stood outlined against the purplish background of the mountain chain embracing the town. The buildings of Palermo, like its inhabitants, were a medley of Byzantine, Arab, and Norman influences, blended together gracefully with brick and mortar and painted in every conceivable hue of yellow and red, from pale lemon to deep ocher and shell-pink to Roman terra cotta. On the outskirts, at the foothills of the mountains, Palermo was fringed by lush orange and palm groves, emerald fields of young wheat, and orchards of peach and almond trees.

  The only thing Berard found disturbing were the minarets. He didn’t approve of converting Jews and Muslims at swordpoint, but it was a king’s duty to promote Christianity. That the Normans were negligent in this respect was well known; the whole of Europe knew of the oriental tenor of life at the court of Palermo. King Roger, Frederick’s maternal grandfather, had kept a harem of Saracen girls. He had also gathered about him great scholars, turning Palermo into a center of culture and learning. Perhaps the palace library is still intact, Berard thought with a stab of excitement, if the invaders haven’t plundered it, too …

  He felt more cheerful now that he had seen the town, even at a distance. The galley had slowed down. They’d soon be docking. With a last look at the bay, Berard went below. Inside their cabin, Berard’s elderly chaplain was still lying fully dressed on the narrow berth. “Will we be landing soon?” he asked in a hopeful whisper.

  “Shortly, Gregory. The men are already taking the luggage up. Come, let’s get you up.”

  The chaplain, infused with new life at the prospect of dry land, straightened his gown. Tightening his belt around his sparse frame, he cast a pointed glance at Berard’s windblown hair.

  Berard passed a comb through his curly black hair and smoothed his beard. He picked up his cloak, a mantle of wine-colored camlet, and fastened it with a jeweled clasp. He fingered the uncut ruby set in its center. “This should impress them. Apparently the treasury is permanently short of money. The crown jewels are pawned to a Jewish moneylender, from whom they are redeemed for important ceremonies.”

  “I thought the wealth of the Normans was legendary.”

  “The Emperor Henry took most of it. The German freebooters stole the rest. And since there’s no strong government, scarcely anyone pays taxes these days.”

  “Come, let’s go on deck.” He took Gregory by the arm. “Some fresh air will do you good. Once we meet the king, you can talk arithmetic to him. I’m told he’s very keen on it.” Berard found that he was looking forward to meeting young Frederick of Sicily.

  * * *

  FREDERICK SQUATTED BESIDE the old silversmith in the bazaar. He watched as the gnarled brown hands of his friend deftly hammered tiny squares of silver into leaf-shaped pendants for an anklet. The old man was sitting cross-legged on a dusty rug in front of a workbench.

  “How long will it take you to finish it, Massoud?” Frederick asked in Arabic.

  The silversmith smiled. “Soon, little king, soon. Then maybe a beautiful dancing girl will come and buy it, and I can go home, and my wives will give thanks to Allah.” The old man sighed. “And maybe not. Times are hard, not like the old days. When your grandfather King Roger was alive, there were more than a hundred dancing girls in the palace alone. And they all bought expensive anklets and armlets and earrings and all sorts of baubles.”

  Frederick’s eyes widened. He loved to hear the old man speak of the past.

  Massoud said, “In those days even Christian churchmen had their own troupes of dancing girls. And they did more than just dance for their lords, I promise you!”

  Frederick lost interest. He knew all about whores and dancing girls, everyone did. He also knew about venal priests. His attention drifted to the bustle around them. He loved the bazaar, its sounds, sights, and smells.

  Massoud’s shop was in the lane of the gold- and silversmiths. The vaulted roof was intersected at regular intervals by skylights through which the sunlight filtered into the lanes and alleys below. In summer it was pleasantly cool under the high vaults, and in winter the bazaar was sheltered from rain and wind. The open-fronted booths served both as shops and as workrooms. Frederick listened to the hum of the jostling, bargaining crowd. Itinerant water carriers, melon vendors, and sweetmeat sellers praised their wares to the passersby. Heavily burdened donkeys plodded behind their owners. From the lane of the spice vendors wafted the scents of cloves, cinnamon, and sandalwood, mingled with the pungency of pepper, cumin, cardamom, and saffron.

  Suddenly, the crowd parted, making way for a group of people. With a start, Frederick recognized his tutor William and several palace guards. For an instant, he considered flight. Too late. “Massoud,” he tugged at the old man’s sleeve, “They’re here again!”

  The silversmith looked up. The group had halted near his booth. In their midst stood a stranger in a magenta cloak with a jeweled clasp. Massoud nudged Frederick. “Look at that ruby!” he whispered.

  Frederick sighed. This was worse than he’d thought. This was definitely not the escort the palace normally sent to look for him.

  William scurried forward. “Frederick, we’ve been looking all over for you.” The old man’s wispy white hair was even more disheveled than usual, his voice high-pitched with reproach. “His lordship, the new archbishop, has just arrived from Rome. When you were nowhere to be found, he insisted we search for you!”

  Frederick got up with deliberate slowness. He stuck his chin out. “I’m old enough to go where I want. I’m the king and I’m not returnin
g to the palace yet. Tell him,” he nodded toward the bearded prelate, aware that he was close enough to hear every word, “I’ll receive him later.”

  William was turning to the archbishop with an apology when the latter stepped forward with two large strides. With surprising grace for such a large man, he sketched an elegant bow before Frederick. “Your Grace, I am Berard of Castacca, the new archbishop of Palermo. Since you are not inclined to return to the palace, let us remain here. If you would care to show me around this bazaar, I would be delighted.” He smiled broadly, “I’ve never been inside a bazaar before.”

  Frederick felt a flicker of remorse. This new archbishop did not seem as stuffy as the other churchmen who made his life a misery. At least, remaining here, he would be spared William’s recriminations for a while. He tightened his belt. “If your lordship would follow me.”

  “Splendid,” the archbishop said. “Perhaps we need not tire Master William with our little excursion. I’m sure he would prefer to return to the palace.”

  William departed with two of the men-at-arms, leaving the others to follow them.

  At first, Frederick answered the archbishop’s questions unenthusiastically. After a while, though, he warmed to his novel task as a guide to a stranger who seemed interested in everything and actually listened. The archbishop halted at a sweetmeat seller’s. He pointed to a pyramid of pink translucent cubes: “Ah, lukum. Made from pomegranate juice. The Saracens in Apulia make it, too. And look! Almond pastries!” He asked the old woman, “Are they fresh, mother?”

  “My son made them this morning. Here, my lord, try one.”

  The archbishop popped the white oval into his mouth. “Hm. Delicious. Give us a dozen each, in two parcels.”

  Frederick stared, mentally counting, as the archbishop fished coins out of his purse. No wonder such delicacies were never seen in the palace.

  He handed him a parcel. “May I offer this to Your Grace?”

  Frederick nodded. He quickly stuffed a sweet crumbly morsel into his mouth. It tasted of honey and rose water. He ate another and another.

  As they ambled through the bazaar, it crossed Frederick’s mind that the archbishop might have some hidden motive for his friendliness. He discarded the thought immediately. Everyone knew that he was unimportant, that the powerful one was Walter, the chancellor.

  “NOW LET’S HAVE the names of each pope since Honorius II, and the high points of their reigns.”

  Frederick grimaced, “Ugh, popes!”

  “A king must know his history,” William said. “This will be the last question for today. Then you may run along.”

  “If I answer well, will you tell me the story of the Normans?”

  “But you’ve heard it a thousand times. You can recite it by heart.”

  “Please, William. I love to hear you tell it.”

  William sighed. “If I have to …”

  Frederick reeled off the facts. “Gregory VII, pope from 1073 to 1085. He humbled the Emperor Henry IV at Canossa, forbade clerical marriages and renewed the prohibition against lay investiture. Clement III, antipope from 1085 to 1100, was made pope by the emperor, in rivalry to Pope Victor III …”

  As he listened, William’s eyes wandered from the shade of the schoolroom to the sunshine outside. How he loved this tranquil spot. Even the dusty weeds and cracked tiles did not diminish its beauty. The small chamber in which they were sitting, tiled in brilliant blues and greens, opened onto a large courtyard. At one end, there was a circular fountain whose stone lions spewed water into a long pond covered with water lilies. Lemon and orange trees hedged with lavender reflected themselves in the water. Under the eaves, fat pigeons cooed to each other.

  William’s gaze returned to the boy, resting fondly upon his pupil. Frederick’s shock of auburn hair was as unruly as always. He was as brown as a peasant, his nose freckled from too much sun. His blue-green eyes were almost too luminous for a boy, and his tunic was grubby. Frederick continued to prefer short tunics to the long ones the new archbishop had suggested.

  Frederick, like most boys, had a lazy streak. The lives of the saints and Church history bored him. Because he hated practice, his penmanship was dreadful. Fortunately, he was interested in logic, astronomy, and mathematics. History, particularly that of the Caesars, brought a glow to his cheeks. Despite William’s exhortations, Frederick never read his psalter, sneering that it was child’s stuff. Worried about the boy’s lack of devotion, William often reminded him that Queen Constance used to read her psalter every day, but even that did not help. Once, when he upbraided him for his truancy from Mass, the boy had snapped, “What’s the point? God has forgotten me anyway.”

  William sighed. If only the queen were still alive. God knows, he’d done his best to teach him, but, unlike most of his fellow students at Bologna, he had not taken religious orders; he was not expert in theology. The new archbishop had appointed a chaplain for Frederick, an erudite young priest named Adalbert. He at least would be able to answer those disconcerting questions about dogma.

  William halted his reverie. Frederick had completed his litany without a single mistake. He was looking at him expectantly, elbows on the table. The table was littered with wax tablets, styluses, books, and an abacus. Sheets of paper, a cheap newfangled invention of little solidity, lay about, covered with Frederick’s scrawl.

  “You promised me a story!” Frederick prodded.

  William leaned back against his bench. “Aah, the Normans. They were the bravest, most unscrupulous daredevils ever to ride across the face of the earth. They had a thirst for power, for gold, and for women. And look what they’ve achieved,” his liver-spotted hand swept the courtyard. He was half-Norman himself.

  “The Normans were Vikings, or Norsemen, hence their name. For a long time, they raided the coasts of Europe and England, terrorizing the West. In their swift longboats they traveled even inland, up the rivers, pillaging, burning, and taking captives. As soundlessly as they had come, dark shadows in the night, they would be gone until the next raid. They were great flaxen-haired men who wore their hair streaming down their backs. Some of them, attracted by the mild climate and rich soil of France, began to covet land as well. A number of them settled on the northwestern coast of France. They took local wives, they renounced their gods and became Christians. Soon, they called themselves Normans. Normandy became a duchy under a Norman duke, the most famous of whom was William, who conquered England. At about the same time, in the little village of Hauteville lived a minor Norman baron named Tancred d’Hauteville. He owned the village and the mill, and commanded ten knights. He had twelve sons and three daughters born to him by two wives, but far too little land to share between them. He …”

  “But how could such a glorious family come from a miserable hamlet?” Frederick chewed his lower lip.

  “Always remember, my son,” the tutor said, “no man is so noble that he doesn’t have a humble ancestor. As I was telling you, Tancred d’Hauteville had this brood of ambitious sons without a patrimony. At that time, most of Apulia was held by Byzantium. The rest of southern Italy was controlled by the Lombards. They looked toward Apulia with covetous eyes.”

  “What about Sicily?”

  “Patience, I’m coming to that,” William said. “The Lombards were not strong enough to wrest Apulia from the Byzantines. They spread the word that they’d welcome foreign knights who were prepared to fight hard. In return, they would be given part of the conquered lands. When Tancred’s sons heard this from some pilgrims returning from Palestine, they could hardly wait to buckle on their armor.

  “Over a period of several years, all except two of Tancred’s sons rode into Italy. They fought bravely, if not always honorably. They reaped their rewards. Some received manors; others owned strings of towns. All were outstanding fighters. Two were exceptional: the eldest, Robert, and the youngest, Roger. Within a short time Robert, with the help of his fellow Normans, had succeeded in ousting the Byzantines from Apulia. He then turned
on the Lombards, proclaiming himself Duke of Apulia. Robert and his brother Roger now cast their eyes on Sicily.

  “The island had long been ruled by Saracen emirs from North Africa who raided all along the Italian coast, even into Rome itself. The pope promised to reward the Hautevilles if they dislodged the infidels. And they did. The two brothers conquered Sicily. Roger became count of Sicily. His son, also called Roger, was crowned by the pope as the first Norman king of Sicily, joining the mainland and the island into one kingdom. And because he was your grandfather,” William shook his head, “you can never sit still. It’s the restless blood of your Viking ancestors!”

  Frederick looked disappointed. “You forgot Sichelgaita.”

  The old tutor smiled. “Sichelgaita was an extraordinary girl. She was the sister of the prince of Salerno. She was beautiful and wild and unlike any other woman I’ve ever heard of. Robert married her, repudiating his Norman wife in favor of a more becoming alliance. But then he fell madly in love with her and she with him. Sichelgaita rode into battle beside him, long hair streaming, her lance poised in her right hand, the bloodcurdling Norman battle cry on her lips. She must have looked a little like you, and been just as stubborn,” William said.

  Wistfully he added, as if speaking to himself, “Once, long ago, when I was tutor to the lord of Ferrara’s twin daughters, I knew a girl who was just like that: but she was destined to marry a prince …”

  For a moment, William’s deeply lined features appeared smoothed, a sparkle in his watery eyes. Then his eyes clouded over again and the glimmer of a long-lost youth vanished. He patted Frederick’s head. “Run along now, my lad. I’m going to take my nap. Can I trust you not to slip out to your heathen friends while I doze under my palm tree?”

  A look William knew only too well flashed into Frederick’s eyes. “They’re not heathen! They believe in God just as you do!”

  William watched him walk away and sighed.

  WALTER OF PALEAR flicked a speck of dust from his russet sleeve. “My lords,” he said, surveying the council table, “this provocation will not go unpunished.”