The Falcon of Palermo

Prologue

PALERMO, AUGUST 1194

The executioner raised his ax. The blade descended, severing the head with a flawless stroke. Blood spurted from the trunk, then ebbed to a trickle; the executioner wiped the blade with a rag before reaching for the head and holding it up to the crowd gathered in the square outside the royal palace. They didn’t break into cheers today. In silence they stood in the fierce August sun, staring at the body slumped against the block.

The Emperor Henry turned away from the window. He’s got a way with an ax, that headsman.

There was a faint distaste on Walter of Palear’s sallow features. Perhaps, he thought, I’ve seen too much of Henry’s methods. The man had not been a criminal, but a member of the Sicilian nobility, who had rebelled against the emperor’s harsh rule.

Henry looked down at the square again. The crowd was dispersing slowly. He pursed his lips. What do you make of that rabble, Walter?

The chancellor cast a thoughtful look at his new master. Your Grace, Walter said, I must tell you frankly that you cannot rule Sicily through fear alone. The Sicilians see you still as a stranger. They resent the increased taxes, the shipbuilding levies, the lands you’ve given your German barons. If the common people were to unite with the nobility …

Damnation, Walter, as part of the Empire Sicily will be greater than ever, greater than under the Normans. It will be my granary, feeding my army as I conquer Byzantium. Think of it. One realm, from the Bosporus to the Baltic.

And he’s capable of it, too, Walter thought with reluctant admiration. Since becoming emperor, Henry’s name had become a byword for ruthlessness. The rebellious German princes, the king of France, even Richard the Lionheart, had all been bested by him. He was a strange man, this German emperor who had wedded their queen. He looked much older than his twenty-nine years. Bearded, of medium height, with a muscled body, and an already deeply lined forehead, he was a man of Spartan tastes, indifferent to wine, women or the trappings of wealth. Ambition was his only passion.

Henry sat down, his brow furrowed. He wiped the sweat off his forehead. After a moment, he asked: Where’s the letter to the empress? Constance must come to Sicily at once. Add a postscript, telling her to come south without delay. Once they’ve got their queen back, your people might become more docile, and I can get on with building my fleet instead of wasting time with traitorous whoresons such as that one. He jerked his head toward the square. Particularly if the babe is a boy. Not that I can understand why the Sicilians are so loyal to the Hautevilles. After all, they, too, were foreigners not so long ago.

Walter stared at him. But my Lord, the empress, in her condition, at her age … By the time your letter reaches her, it will be September or even October. To travel from Germany over the Alps in winter is dangerous. Would you risk …

Henry waved his objections away. Constance is as strong as an ox. She’s a Norman, after all. Write the addition yourself. I want her arrival to take everyone by surprise.

Walter nodded. The price of remaining in power was compliance with the emperor’s will. He dipped the quill into ink, ready to render Henry’s blunt summons into elegant Latin. It never ceased to amaze him that this harsh man, who ruled half of Europe, was the son of the affable and cultured Barbarossa. It was Sicily’s misfortune that the last of the Hautevilles was a woman. True, they had begun as adventurers, like all great dynasties, but what a cosmopolitan culture had they created, what tolerance had they shown their subjects. Henry would do well to take their example to heart if he wished to rule Sicily without the sullen resistance they had both just witnessed.

When he had finished, Walter read the postscript to Henry.

Very well, the emperor said curtly. Dispatch it at once. I need her here before Christmas.

JESI, ADRIATIC MARCH, DECEMBER 1194

A dusting of snow lay on the red-tiled roofs and ramparts of Jesi. On this second day of Christmas, townspeople, their cloaks of coarse homespun wool wrapped around them, thronged the narrow streets, pushing and shoving their way to the marketplace. There, an enthralled audience surrounded Berengaria, Jesi’s most respected midwife. She shook her head. I tell you, it was horrible. How the poor thing struggled, shivering despite all her fur rugs, for a day and a night. That child wouldn’t come. The women shuddered, remembering their own searing pains, the screams and blood and deaths of so many childbeds.

I never thought she’d live, in that icy tent, and her first babe, too, at nearly forty. Oh, we forced hot wine mixed with henbane down her throat, tried all we could to help her push the child out. From time to time her screams would turn to deadly silence. She’d just lie there with closed eyes. Then she’d start to moan again and we’d give thanks that she was still alive. During the night they sent for a Saracen physician.

The old midwife spat and drew her dark cloak closer around her. But it was through the mercy of the Virgin, whose Son, too, was born at Christmas, that the empress and the little prince were saved. I tell you …

Fanfares sounded. An expectant murmur ran through the crowd in the marketplace.

Gesù, it really is a miracle, look, there she is, look at her. Berengaria pointed at the bishop’s palace on the far side, rising above the great red and green tent still standing in the piazza. A wintry sun pierced the clouds, gilding the facade of the palace. Above the portal, the open loggia, its balustrade hung with tapestries, was thronged with courtiers and churchmen parting to make way for the empress. Constance advanced until she stood at the parapet. She was wrapped in a fur-lined mantle of blue brocade. Her fair braids were entwined with ropes of pearls, coiled on her head to support her crown.

The townspeople broke into jubilant cheers. Constance raised her hand and smiled. Only her pallor betrayed the effort she was making. She turned to her friend Matilde of Spoleto. Give me the child, she said. She took the swaddled infant and held it up. Then, with an age-old gesture of infinite grace, she parted her mantle and held the child to her exposed breast. The little prince began to suckle hungrily. A roar of approval went up from the crowd. "Viva! Viva! Viva Costanza! Viva la figlia di Ruggiero!" they chanted, throwing their caps into the air and stamping their feet.

I was right, she thought. Just as every instinct of statecraft had told her that she must subject herself to giving birth in a tent, before the nobility of Jesi, to quell the rumors that her pregnancy was fictitious, so she had known that she needed the common people’s approval of her son’s legitimacy. And here, on the Adriatic March that separated Sicily from the Empire, they acclaimed her as her father’s daughter, not as Henry’s wife.

Pride welled up within her, and a fierce love for this child she had so longed for. To bear her first child at nearly forty was almost a miracle. She looked down at him, at the thin fuzz of auburn hair. She could feel the warmth of his little face pressed against her breast. Frederick of Sicily … She whispered his name, dizzy with happiness. Suddenly weakness engulfed her. She felt her knees buckle; everything around her began to spin in a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors. She swayed, trying to hold her balance. Her ladies rushed to support her, lifting the heavy ceremonial mantle. Hands reached out and took the child from her. Someone shouted for a litter.

Constance steadied herself on the balustrade. Leave me, she said in a shaky voice. Summoning the last of her strength, she squared her shoulders, shifting the weight of her cloak. Her head held high, one hand at her throat, she left the loggia, followed by her retinue, with the little prince in the arms of Matilde. Behind her, the bells of Jesi pealed in celebration.

THE CHAMBER IN the bishop’s palace was dimly lit by oil lamps, the thick crimson curtains drawn.

Drink this, it’ll warm you and make you sleep. Matilde held out a cup of steaming wine.

Constance sat up and drank while Matilde plumped up the pillows behind her back. The hot, spicy wine warmed her cold and exhausted body. Thank you. She smiled at her friend.

I wish I could have spared you this dreadful journey, Matilde said. She brushed a strand of hair from Constance’s forehead. Henry’s selfishness could have killed you, and the child, too.

Constance had to smile. It wasn’t often that Matilde gave vent to her dislike of Henry. The fact that Matilde’s husband held the duchy of Spoleto from Henry tended to curb her tongue. Don’t fret, it doesn’t matter any more. The child is strong and I am alive, and we’re going home to Palermo.

Matilde, folding garments and putting things away, didn’t reply.

Constance watched her as she moved about the room amid open traveling chests, placing her rings, her crown, and the gold necklet with the enameled reliquary back into an ebony jewel coffer. Dear Matilde, so thoughtful, so loyal. She, too, was no longer young; she must be nearly fifty. Matilde’s hair was streaked with gray, and her movements had lost the suppleness of youth. When they had first met, years ago in Germany, Matilde’s hair had been the color of ripe corn. How glad she had been to have found a friend. A bitter smile twisted Constance’s lips as she recalled her unhappiness when she arrived in Germany as Henry’s wife. She hated the drafty castles and icy, long winters, so different from the sunny Sicily of her youth. She had longed to be back at her father’s cosmopolitan court in Palermo, with its urbane Christian, Jewish and Muslim courtiers and scholars. The German barons, in contrast, were unlettered ruffians.

The only one who had been different was the old Emperor Frederick, Henry’s father. Redheaded, red-bearded, imposing and jovial at the same time. The common people, who loved him, nicknamed him Barbarossa because of his flaming beard. How he used to make her laugh, telling outrageous stories in elegant Latin, and always treated her with courtesy and kindness. Partly, no doubt, because she would bring the Hohenstaufen the crown of Sicily, but also, she thought, because he genuinely liked her.

What would he have made of the manner in which his grandson had been born? Constance closed her eyes and felt herself again being jolted along in the hide-covered wagon in which she had travelled from Germany. She remembered her panic when she had felt the onset of birth pains, weeks early. Thankfully, they had been close to Jesi, whose bishop had ridden out to welcome her. Constance remembered with amusement the consternation on the good bishop’s face when she had refused the comforts of his palace and instead ordered her great tent to be erected in the marketplace. The heir to the Empire, she had told the bishop rather sharply, between deep breaths, as she anticipated the next wave of pains, must be born in public.

Her little son had reddish hair; would he resemble the old emperor? Or would he take after her husband? Henry was taciturn and brusque, lacking his father’s charm. I have never loved him, Constance thought, I don’t even like him much, but he has given me what I have always wanted: a child and an heir for Sicily. He has served his purpose.

And if her son were to take after her father? A smile curved her lips. That would be the greatest gift of all. Please, oh Lord, she pleaded, let him be a Hauteville king rather than a Hohenstaufen emperor. Keep him safe, far from the dangerous rivalries of German imperial politics. Many obstacles lay in the path of Henry’s ambition to have their son elected as the next emperor. With the Lord’s help, these might still prove insurmountable, even for Henry.

Constance yawned. The poppy juice in the wine was beginning to take effect; she felt tired, so tired.

Matilde, I think I will sleep now.

Matilde came over. I’ll just go and look in on the little one, and then I’ll come back and bed down here. Sleep well, dearest. She brushed Constance’s cheek with her lips and walked to the door, closing it quietly behind her.

ROME, 1204

Berard of Castacca disliked Rome, its crowds, its decay, and the corruption of the papal court. The young, burly bishop of Bari was wet and irritable as he followed a wheezing chamberlain up worn steps to the pontiff’s apartments. Torrential winter rains had been falling on Rome for three days. The streets, crowded and fetid at the best of times, were awash in mud and debris from overflowing sewers. He and his escort had been drenched when they reached the Lateran.

He did not relish the prospect of meeting the pope again. While he respected Innocent’s principles and his much-needed reforms, there was a ruthlessness about him that disturbed Berard. The pope had only recently appointed him to the see of Bari; why had he summoned him now from the Adriatic, and in the worst traveling season?

The old chamberlain stood aside with a bow, letting Berard into the papal study. Although it was only early afternoon, tall wax candles lit the chamber, casting their shadows over the sumptuous wall hangings. In the fireplace at one end of the room, a slow-burning fire gave off a feeble warmth.

The pope, tall and gaunt in his purple robes, rose. Ah, Berard, I see the air of Apulia agrees with you. I hear the people of Bari are pleased with their new shepherd.

Berard inclined his head. The merit isn’t mine, Holy Father, the Baresi are likeable. They fish and grow olives and their sins are small and few. It will be pleasant to grow old in the shadow of Saint Nicholas.

I’m afraid that is not to be. I need you elsewhere. The Pontiff laid a hand on Berard’s shoulder, I have a new honor to confer upon you, my son. I am appointing you archbishop of Palermo. You will become the youngest archbishop in the Church.

Berard groaned inwardly. He had only just established himself in Bari, far from the intrigues of the curia. Becoming the youngest archbishop didn’t tempt him a jot if it meant becoming embroiled in the Sicilian problem. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, Your Holiness, this is entirely unexpected. I … I don’t know what to say.

Don’t say anything. I have restored some order on the island, but the situation there is still far from stable. Young Frederick is my ward. I need someone to watch over the interests of the boy and those of the Church. I need a man I can trust, who understands the Sicilians. Your family has old ties to the Norman nobility. During the king’s minority, you will be part of the regency council. And your erudition …

Your Holiness, I’m not at all qualified. A young king needs a mentor with far more experience, an older, wiser …

The pope waved his protest away. Your exceptional erudition makes you eminently suitable to supervise the young king’s education, which has been neglected.

Resistance was useless. Berard bowed. I shall endeavor to justify the great trust you are placing in me, Holy Father.

The pontiff smiled. Good. Cardinal Savelli, who has just returned from Palermo, where he has been legate, is expecting you in the chancery. You will leave for Palermo as soon as your successor arrives in Bari. Report directly to me, in monthly dispatches. Innocent extended his hand.

Berard kissed the fisherman’s ring and turned to leave.

And Berard …

Yes, Your Holiness?

See to it that Frederick’s religious education is taken in hand, too. He fixed Berard with a hard look. Too much toleration exists on that island. Saracens everywhere, even at the court itself. It will be your duty to protect the young king from their influence.

I shall do so to the best of my ability, Your Holiness.

It was dark when Berard finally left the Lateran with his escort. In the torchlight, their horses threw ghostly shadows onto the deserted streets. Although the rain had stopped, a sulfurous mist engulfed the mansions on either side, pitted and pockmarked by age and neglect. Berard felt profoundly dejected. After his long meeting with Cardinal Savelli he relished the prickly honor Innocent had bestowed on him even less.

He would certainly take his cook; after what he had heard about conditions in Palermo, there was no telling to what depths the culinary standards there might have sunk.

THE SLEEK PAPAL galley forged through the waves, propelled by a strong northeasterly wind.

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 returning 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.

The members of the regency council began to talk all at once. The rebels’ recent assassination of a royal bailiff after a period of relative calm had started a new round of aggression in this long war of attrition.

Although Berard had disliked Walter on sight, he could not help but admire his competence. He was arrogant, but his decisions were sound. Of the seven council members, three were abbots of large monasteries, one of them the octogenarian abbot of the great abbey of Monreale. The only member of Berard’s age was Alaman da Costa, a Genoese condottiere in charge of the soldiery. With exception of the Genoese, appointed by the pope, they were all Walter’s men, although the abbot of Monreale, when he roused himself, could speak his mind with great firmness. Now, as if in confirmation of Berard’s thoughts, after a brief debate they all agreed with the chancellor.

"Well, what do you say, my lord of Castacca?" Walter’s tone was acerbic. He had made it clear from the beginning that he viewed Berard as an irritation. He didn’t hide his annoyance if he came across Berard in the chancery. Whenever Berard approached him on matters concerning Frederick, he was dismissive, almost curt. Walter was clearly not impressed by Frederick. His hands were full enough as it was, he had said, without having to play nursemaid too. The boy was always making trouble. Once he was of age, he would be taught to rule. In the meantime, William looked after him, and so could Berard, if he wished to.

I think, Berard said into the sudden silence, that we should stay our hand. Our first priority is to hold our parts of the island. We are short of men to protect Palermo and Syracuse. If we weaken our defenses to attack the rebels, we could jeopardize the lands we have already recovered.

Walter smiled thinly. True, my lord, but you forget that it’s not a major attack I’m planning. A swift raid to destroy the crops and burn a few villages. Homeless and hungry, the villeins will abandon their lords and join us. Gradually, the rebels’ base will shrink.

Innocent people will suffer.

Such, my lord of Castacca, is the way of the world. I must re-establish the crown’s authority. Yours is the only dissenting voice. My lord da Costa, I’ll await you after vespers in the chancery.

The council chamber emptied. Berard found himself walking behind Walter’s tall spindly figure. He walks fast for a man of his age, Berard thought, slowing down to avoid him.

Ah, my dear Berard. Alaman clapped a hand on Berard’s shoulder from behind. He grinned, jerking his head toward the vanishing russet cloak. The uncrowned king …

The swarthy Genoese fell in beside him. Large and affable, with appetites to match, he was, despite his braggadocio, a fine soldier. Berard invited him from time to time to sup with him. Alaman was good company and loved to gossip, although he stuffed himself with the delicacies produced by Berard’s cook with a barbarian lack of appreciation for their excellence.

I’m going to see Frederick, Berard said. Would you like to join me?

Alaman shrugged. Why not? After all those old buzzards in there, the little scamp will be refreshing.

Berard sighed. I think the boy’s lonely. I try to see him whenever I can.

"You may be right, although with all his grubby Saracen friends, he can’t be that lonely. Perhaps you should stir him toward more suitable playmates. Engage some noble young pages … He spread his large hands. I’ve no children, not even a wife, so I don’t know much about such matters. … Old William seems to think he’s quite clever."

Berard stepped into the courtyard, and squinted up at the sun. It’s too late for the schoolroom. He might be in the tiltyard at this time. As they turned a corner, they heard the boy’s voice.

FREDERICK RUMMAGED IN the quiver until he found an arrow less squashed than the others. He smoothed the feathers and fitted the arrow. His brow was furrowed in concentration. He readjusted his feet several times, making sure they were in line with the target, before drawing the bowstring. The arrow hit the straw man in the middle of his chest. The target already bristled with arrows. A few lay on the ground.

Berard and Alaman stood on the parapet above the tiltyard, watching. Alaman nodded as another arrow found its mark. Not bad, not bad at all. He laid a hand on Berard’s arm, I think I’ll leave you. I must prepare our little excursion to the rebels. Walter will want to know every detail … Greet the scamp for me.

WELL DONE, FREDERICK, Berard called, coming down the steps, You’re becoming a great marksman!

Frederick looked up. He shook his head. You don’t understand, Your Grace. In real life they move. I’ll never be able to kill them fast enough when they’re running and ducking all over. The other day, I tried it on a hare, and I lost four arrows and the hare!

Berard suppressed a smile. I assure you, I fully understand. He stretched out his hand. Give me the bow.

Berard took aim, bending to adjust to the target. His arrow lodged within a hair’s breadth of Frederick’s last shot.

Frederick’s eyes widened. By the beard of the Prophet! I thought priests were all useless. He crimsoned. I … I am sorry, Your Grace, I didn’t mean to … He stared at his sandals.

It’s all right. Berard ruffled his hair, But you’ll have to improve your manners, Frederick. Not for my sake, but for your own. If you want your people to obey and respect you, you must cultivate the manners of a king. And as for a Christian king swearing by a Muslim prophet, I am sure you yourself can see the unsuitability of that.

Frederick bit his lower lip. Yes, Your Grace. But I’m also their king, and they are my people, too, you do understand that, don’t you?

Yes, Frederick, I do. Berard sighed. It was true. After three months in Palermo, Berard was beginning to find it impossible to reconcile reality with Innocent’s order to keep the boy from infidel influences. They were everywhere, they were part of the island, they were part of Frederick’s heritage.

He took Frederick by the shoulder. Come, he said, I’m sure you’ve had enough practice for today. He glanced at the head falconer, who doubled as tilt master. I’m taking the king for a walk, Fakir.

The old Saracen salaamed. I shall wait here, my lord.

Frederick walked beside him. After a moment, he said, I’m sorry I was rude. But why did you become a priest? Couldn’t you have been a knight?

Berard smiled. It’s a long story, my son. My father was a Lombard nobleman. He had three sons, but only one title. My eldest brother inherited that, my second brother died on crusade, and I was destined for the Church. My father bought me a rich living that would enhance the prestige of our family. When I was eight, I was sent to study with the monks.

And the monks taught you archery? What else did they teach you? Can you joust and hawk and swim?

Berard shook his head, laughing. No, the monks didn’t teach me any of that. My father’s falconers taught me to hawk. My middle brother was a knight. In fact, he was quite famous. He used to win tournaments and much gold, as far afield as France. It was he who taught me archery. I never took to the sword, though. The clang of steel on steel has always sounded barbarous to my ears. And as for swimming, water terrifies me. He patted his stomach, In any case, with my girth, I’d sink like a stone.

What was your mother like? Frederick asked, his voice suddenly tight.

Berard shot him a sympathetic glance. She was a Norman, like your mother, a gentle lady. She was pleased when I entered the Church. She used to say that although the Church isn’t perfect, it is far better than the temporal world. At first I was very unhappy, but I realized later that she had been right. She died when I was eleven. In the end, the Church became my mother.

Frederick nodded. They ambled along the dusty paths of the gardens, past mossy old fountains and empty water channels. Ancient gardeners as withered as the gardens they tended were sweeping the paths. As they passed the rose garden, Berard halted. The bushes were straggly from neglect, the few blooms small and deformed.

Did you know, he said, pointing to the grid of rose beds, that your grandfather had these roses brought from Persia?

Alexander’s Persia?

Yes.

Frederick’s eyes lit up. When I’m grown up, I’ll be a new Alexander. I’ll have the remaining Germans all thrown into the sea, in great sacks with stones and a viper apiece!

Berard’s eyes widened, But you’re half German yourself.

Frederick scowled. No, I’m not. He drew himself up. I’m the son of Queen Constance, and the grandson of Roger the Great. When I’m big, I’ll be like him. There’ll be peace and all my people will have enough to eat. I’ll have dancing girls, and mews full of Ger falcons and wise Saracen friends to help me rule.

Berard nodded. He’d been told by William that Frederick never spoke about his father or his German heritage, of which he knew virtually nothing.

Hm. And what about the Christians at your court?

Frederick broke off a laurel twig and began to chew it. Oh, they’ll be allowed to stay, but not Walter or some of the others. He cocked his head at Berard. "You can stay. You will stay, won’t you?"

For a while, yes, Frederick. But I must go where Pope Innocent tells me to go.

But when I’m of age, and rule, I could order you to remain here, couldn’t I?

If you’d appointed me, yes. But I’ve been appointed by the pope. You see, it’s complicated, and I’ll explain it to you one day, but both the pope and the king can appoint bishops.

Frederick nodded. That’s easy. I’ll just reappoint you, and then you’ll be my archbishop.

All the same, I may have to leave one day, Berard said gently, I may not be able to be your archbishop.

THE SUN BURNED down on the harbor. A smell of caulking tar and fish hung in the air. Seagulls cawed and dived, squabbling over the entrails being thrown into the sea by the fishermen gutting the night’s catch.

The two boys dangled their bare feet over the old Saracen jetty. Frederick picked up a pebble. He grimaced as it hit the water. He searched behind him, found a flatter one. This time he swung his arm as far back as he could. The stone flew through the air, hitting the inky water at the far end of the harbor, beside the sea wall, where it was deepest.

One of the fishermen let out an approving whistle. Frederick grinned. "I could