The Falcon of Palermo Page 8

  Frederick bounded down the spiral staircase. Constance followed. She didn’t like the Genoese. His irreverent manner, his drinking, and his conspicuous womanizing annoyed her. And Frederick was so young …

  AT THE END of summer the court returned to Palermo. Desolation pervaded the city. Many houses were boarded up. The usually vociferous Palermitans crept about their business in silence. The very air was still, as if in mourning. Not a leaf stirred in the heat. A merciless sun beat down on dust-covered trees and shrubs.

  Frederick, who hated black-draped halls, funerary masses, and the absence of entertainments, ordered the court’s mourning to end on the last day of September. Constance, who considered this an affront, showed her displeasure by continuing to wear black after everyone else donned bright clothes again.

  The success with which he had recovered large tracts of land from the magnates compensated Frederick in some small measure for the loss of the Aragonese. For the time being, he accepted that his authority extended only over the island of Sicily. He now devoted himself to improving it. While the Council of Familiars was left to run routine affairs, Frederick spent hours closeted with experts and advisers, finding new ways of increasing the treasury’s income. The tiny Sicilian fleet had begun to grow under Alaman’s supervision. The Pisans had been ousted from their trading monopolies, and Frederick was drafting new customs rules that would give the crown a share in every bale of silk or cask of pepper that entered or left a Sicilian port.

  In the midst of all this welcome activity a new problem had appeared. For days he turned the matter over in his head, before reaching a decision. Then, for several days, he postponed implementing it, delaying the moment when he knew he had to do so. Finally, he summoned her.

  * * *

  “I’LL MAKE PROVISIONS for the child. If it’s a boy, I’ll take him into my household when he’s old enough.”

  Seeing Leila’s eyes, he said, “I’ll give you a generous dowry. You can go home to your people and marry a rich merchant who’ll count himself fortunate to have such a beautiful wife.”

  “Go home? But I don’t want to go home. I’ll be no trouble, I promise. The queen will never know. She never knew, in the year gone past, did she?”

  They were standing in his privy chamber, close to the large table at which he often worked. Dreary gray light filtered through the opaque window glass, reflecting the rainy December day outside.

  She must go. He’d summoned her to tell her that. When she had first told him that she was going to have his child, he had been elated, but then the idea of Constance’s reaction if she ever found out filled him with dread.

  With her face uplifted in supplication, her dark eyes brimming with tears, she was achingly beautiful. The memory of her caresses flooded him. He suddenly wanted her, wanted to crush her mouth with his, sink his body into hers. He took a step forward. “Come here, Leila, for the last time,” he said, stretching out his hand. She threw herself into his arms with a cry. She covered his face, his chest, his hands with kisses. Her hands traveled over his body, driving him to madness. He picked her up and threw her down on the bed. Too late he remembered that he should have been gentle with her, that she carried a new life.

  There was a commotion outside the door and an exchange of angry voices.

  Frederick sat up. The sentry’s voice, insistent, “I cannot disturb the king.” Another voice, high-pitched, said something unintelligible.

  The door was flung open. Frederick reached for the bedcurtains. Too late.

  Constance burst into the room. With one glance she took in the crumpled clothes on the floor, his naked body, shielded by a piece of the bed curtains he was holding before him in a futile gesture and the girl, one naked shoulder showing from under the sheet, her disheveled hair streaming down her back, her eyes wide with fear.

  Constance’s face, white as chalk, registered a number of emotions all at once: shock, disgust, and anguish. Without uttering a word, she turned on her heels and ran out of the room. Frederick had difficulty breathing. He pulled the bed curtains together with a jerk, hoping that the sentry outside would have the sense to close the door to the anteroom.

  He slammed his fist into the bolster. “That son of a whore!” He was going to have the fool’s head who let Constance push him aside. The guard knew that Leila was inside. Queen or no queen, he had orders that no one was allowed past the antechamber.

  “Merciful Lord,” he groaned, “what will I say to her?”

  WHEN FREDERICK ENTERED her apartments, Constance was sitting by the hearth working on an embroidery, her face a marble mask. Her ladies had been dismissed. She didn’t look up at the sound of his footsteps, nor did she acknowledge his presence.

  He drew a deep breath. This was going to be even more difficult than he had imagined. “Constance, I am truly sorry, believe me. I had no wish to hurt you,” he said into the void above her bent head. The needle continued to fly in and out of the linen with mechanical precision, adding tiny stitches to an arabesque of blue silk threads.

  He touched her shoulder. “I am speaking to you, Constance. Please listen to what I have to say.”

  She lifted her head and gave him a long, cold stare. “I don’t want to hear anything. Go away.” She bent back over her needlework.

  Frederick flushed. He had never apologized to anyone in his life. Here he was, standing like a fool in front of his wife. He had come to make amends, had been prepared for recriminations, for tears, but he had not expected to be dismissed like a servant. His remorse made way for blinding anger. With a sweep of his hand he ripped the embroidery from her hands and sent it flying across the room. The little silver scissors on her lap fell to the floor with a clatter.

  Constance jumped to her feet, the haughty indifference gone, her eyes blazing. “How dare you walk in here and knock things about! How dare you even speak to me! You should be ashamed of yourself, a Christian king fornicating with a Saracen! Go back to your infidel whore where you belong!”

  Frederick stared at her. Then his eyes narrowed. So that was his real sin in her eyes.

  “Constance,” he said, icily calm, “they are my people, too. Whatever your priests in Aragon say about consorting with Muslims does not apply here. This is a different country with different rules. As its queen, you had better learn them fast.”

  “That may be so, but it does not give you the right to fornicate with them. According to the pope, it’s a mortal sin.”

  He glared at her. “To the devil with the pope. I rule here, not he. And don’t lecture me on theology, I’ve enough priests doing that. I came here to tell you that I’m sorry I hurt you, that I was going to send the girl away. Well, I’ve changed my mind, now that I see that you love your precious Church and its hypocrisy far more than me. You’re not jealous, you’re just upset because I didn’t pick a Christian as my mistress!”

  Frederick turned sharply, pausing in the doorway to call over his shoulder, “And as for fornicating, you’d better learn something about that, too. The heathens are far better at it than you.” He stalked out, slamming the door behind him.

  “Oh Mother of God, what have I done?” Constance buried her face in her hands. Frederick had misunderstood her. Of course she was jealous. The sight of that naked young girl in his bed had filled her with more hatred than she’d thought herself capable of.

  He had come to ask her forgiveness, said he was prepared to send the girl away. That was more than she’d expected, more than any other man would have done. And in her stupid pride she had insulted him, driven him right back to that girl. She must tell him that he was wrong, that she loved him. She must beg his forgiveness, explain that she had been crazed with jealousy. She flung the door open, oblivious of the guards’ stares, and rushed down the long arched gallery toward the staircase that led into the courtyard.

  FREDERICK WAS CROSSING the courtyard in the rain when the sound of running footsteps made him look up. Constance, without a cloak, her hair un-coiling as she ran, raced al
ong the gallery. “Frederick! Wait! Please wait!” she shouted.

  Just as she reached the top of the stairs, she lost her footing on the wet marble and stumbled. A scream echoed through the courtyard. In a blur of mauve cloth and tumbling hair she crashed down the stairs.

  He rushed to her. “Please, Oh God, do not let her be dead. Don’t let her die.” He knelt beside her inert form. He lifted her head. Her eyes were closed. A thin trickle of blood ran down from a gash on her forehead, mingling with the raindrops falling on her face.

  IBN TULUN DREW the coverlet back over the still unconscious Constance and straightened his back.

  Frederick grabbed the physician by the arm. “For mercy’s sake, tell me the truth! Will she live?”

  The Saracen nodded. “I don’t think she has any internal injuries. She should regain consciousness soon. When she does, you must not tire her. But she may lose the child.”

  “Thanks be to God.” Frederick drew a deep breath. Then, as the physician’s last sentence struck him, “What did you say?”

  “The queen may lose the child. At this early stage of pregnancy, a fall almost always provokes a miscarriage.”

  “She is with child?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. I told her so this morning when she called me to her. She was so overjoyed that she said she was going straight to you to give you the news.”

  Seeing the look of astonishment on Frederick’s face, he asked, “She did not tell you, then, my lord?”

  “No, Ibn Tulun, she did not tell me,” Frederick said, “she had no opportunity.” He turned to the wall, his shoulders hunched, shaking.

  “FREDERICK?”

  At the sound of her voice, he spun around. He knelt beside her. “Constance,” he whispered, “Beloved. I thought you’d never wake up. I was so afraid I would never hear your voice again.” He took her hand and pressed it to his lips.

  A smile spread across her face. “I ran after you. To tell you that I do love you. I was afraid you would never believe me, would never forgive me for treating you the way I did. Will you forgive me?”

  “Of course. Don’t talk about it, you mustn’t weary yourself.”

  Her eyes clouded over. “You’ll send her away?”

  He nodded. “I promise, but you must get some sleep. Ibn Tulun said I was not to exhaust you.”

  “Did he tell you … about the child?”

  Frederick nodded, afraid to tell her what else the physician had said, hoping she’d not think of it.

  “Did he say whether I will lose it now?”

  Frederick smiled. “He said you’d be fine as long as you rest.” Let her not fret, let nature decide its course without causing her any unnecessary worry now.

  With a sigh of relief, she closed her eyes.

  He kissed her on her forehead, where the linen bandage left the skin free.

  IN THE WALLED garden below the queen’s apartments, the afternoon sun was warm. A distant bell tolled vespers. Constance lowered her psalter. She sighed with contentment. God had been generous to her. The earth, like her body, was quickening with life. Bulbs were pushing out of the wintry soil, lured by the warmth. The almond tree in the corner had burst into snowy blossoms. Near her bench, a little green lizard, its throat palpitating, was soaking up the warmth on the lichen-covered path.

  Constance folded her hands protectively over her rounded belly. After marrying Frederick, she’d begun to fear that she’d never conceive again. Frederick had never broached the subject of heirs. Yet, she had known that sooner or later, he or one of his councilors was bound to do so. Perhaps, she’d thought in anguish, I’m too old. And then had come that fateful rainy day. Against everyone’s expectations, she had not lost the child after her fall. She’d remained in bed, strictly following Ibn Tulun’s injunctions not to move, for two weeks. After that, she had never felt better in her life.

  She smiled to herself as she recalled Frederick’s protectiveness when she’d first risen from her bed. He had forbidden her to ride, to dance, even to carry her harp across the room. The sight of him, fussing around her, was so comical that one evening Berard, that most tactful of men, burst out laughing. After that, Frederick stopped regulating every aspect of her life.

  As her body grew heavier, she often came to sit in this peaceful little garden to dream. Sometimes her eyes would fill with tears at the memory of her dead baby son. She chased away those black thoughts. It was the future that counted. Would it be a boy? She prayed with all her heart that it would.

  Frederick talked constantly about his son. His choice of a name had surprised her. He was to be named Henry. Why he wished to name his heir after a father he never mentioned was one of the many mysteries of his character. The possibility that his firstborn might be a girl hadn’t even entered his mind.

  There was a flash of color at the far end of the garden. Someone was coming up the path. A little regretfully, Constance saw Juana appear, a blue cloak over her arm.

  “My lady, you forgot your mantle. You mustn’t catch a chill.”

  Constance was amused by the girl’s clucking concern. When most of her Spanish ladies had returned to Aragon after the epidemic, Juana had risen to a position far above that of a maidservant.

  “The king’s back. He’s asking for you, my lady.”

  “Then we can’t keep him waiting, can we?” Constance smiled, rising from her stone seat.

  FREDERICK EMBRACED HER. He held her at arm’s length. “You look wonderful. Has my son been behaving himself?”

  Constance nodded, smiling. She pulled him to a couch. “Come, tell me about Messina. How’s the fleet?”

  Two servants brought in refreshments. While they arranged wine and sweetmeats on a table, Frederick paced up and down. His face was somber, the cheer gone.

  As soon as they were alone, Constance put her hand on his arm. “Frederick, what’s wrong?”

  They sat down on the cushioned divan that was arranged, in oriental fashion, along one wall. Frederick stared at the floor tiles. “It’s the emperor. He’s broken his word to the pope. He’s refused to return the promised lands, and is about to invade the papal territories in Tuscany.” Frederick sighed. “There’s worse. He’s been in contact with the barons of Apulia. They’ve invited him to become their overlord, obviously thinking that a distant emperor is better than a nearby king.”

  Constance stared at him. Her stomach knotted with fear. “Does that mean … ?” Her voice faltered.

  Frederick nodded. “Yes,” he said, “it means war. He’ll march into Apulia, then Calabria. With the principal barons behind him, he’ll take those mainland provinces from me with little effort. We’ll have him on our doorstep.” Frederick put his arm around her. He pressed her shoulders.

  After a moment, she asked, “What will you do?”

  Frederick sat down. He picked up a sugared date from the platter. “I’ve been trying to guess what’s going on in Otto’s mind. There’s no doubt that one of his reasons for wanting Apulia is that he sees me, the last Hohenstaufen, as a threat. I’ve sent an embassy to him. I have explained that I have no interest whatsoever in my German inheritance. I’ve offered to renounce my claims to the duchy of Swabia, which is rightfully mine now that my uncle Philip is dead.”

  Constance frowned. “The duchy of Swabia?”

  “The ancestral Hohenstaufen duchy. I have no chance of ever taking possession of it anyway. The emperor would never allow a Hohenstaufen king of Sicily to possess a duchy in the Empire’s heartland.”

  “Do you think he might accept?”

  Frederick shrugged. “I wish I knew. Berard and Walter think I’m wasting my time. He may need gold. I’ve offered him ten thousand gold bezants, in several installments, if he guarantees the treaty with suitable hostages.”

  Constance gasped. “You offered him what?”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” he said. “I can’t raise it alone, but the pope’s coffers are well filled. To get Otto out of southern Italy, Innocent would mortgage Saint Peter’s itsel
f. I might have to pledge a few towns for the loan.”

  He went on with a rueful grin, “The pope’s as scared as we are. It’s quite funny. He supported the Guelf faction to avoid precisely this, and now his worst nightmare is looming on the horizon—the fusion of Sicily with the Empire and the complete encirclement of the Papal States. If Sicily became part of the Empire, the pope would be naught but the emperor’s pawn.” Frederick laughed.

  Constance looked down on her hands in silence. She saw nothing to laugh about.

  FREDERICK’S SON WAS born on the last day of July, in the early hours of the afternoon. The din of the celebrating crowd, which had been gathering outside the gates since sunrise to await the birth, penetrated even behind the thick walls of the lying-in chamber. The people of Palermo danced and sang in the streets. They’re celebrating not only the birth of my heir, Frederick thought, watching from a window, but also a return of the old order, a promise of peace and prosperity. If only they knew …

  To his intense annoyance, he had discovered that birth was the exclusive domain of women. Pacing up and down the anteroom, tormented by Constance’s muffled screams, he sent for Ibn Tulun. The physician had explained that no man, not even a doctor, was allowed to attend a birth. During the long hours of waiting, his thoughts turned to Leila’s child. With a pang of regret he realized that he had never seen the boy. He had shrugged the feeling off. She had been well provided for. As for the boy, he would take him into the royal household when he reached the age of twelve.

  When he insisted on seeing Constance after the child had been born, he was made to wait yet again, till she had been prepared. When finally he was permitted to enter the lying-in chamber, a hush fell on the women crowding the room. The chief midwife came toward him, her wrinkled face beaming. “My lord, you have been blessed with a strong, lusty prince.” She handed him the swaddled infant.

  He gazed down at the tiny red face. His son. His son and heir. The baby had a thin golden fuzz of hair, his mother’s color. He was fast asleep. Frederick picked up one miniature hand and studied it. It was perfectly formed, pink, with tiny fingernails. He kissed the hand, which smelled of the honey with which they rubbed newborns. Handing his son back to the midwife, he turned to the great bed, its crimson hangings drawn back and raised into their covers.