Dangerous Women (49 page)

“I doubt that my lord husband would agree to such a test,” Constance had said wryly, imagining Heinrich’s incredulous, outraged reaction should she even hint that the fault might be his. But she took the test herself, and when her urine was found to be worm-free on the ninth day, her spirits had soared. Even if no one else knew it, she knew now that she did not have a defective womb; she was not doomed to be that saddest of all creatures, a barren queen.

Martina offered hope, too, explaining that sometimes neither husband nor wife was at fault and yet his seed would not take root in her womb. But this could be remedied, she assured Constance. She must dry the male parts of a boar and then make a powder of them, which she was then to drink with a good wine. And to assure the birth of a male child, Constance and Heinrich must dry and powder the womb of a hare, then drink it in wine. Constance grimaced at that, glad she’d be spared such an unappetizing concoction until she and Heinrich were reunited. How would she get him to cooperate, though? She’d have to find a way to mix the powder into his wine undetected on one of his nocturnal visits to her bedchamber. She was so grateful to Martina that she offered the older woman a vast sum to become her personal physician, and Martina gladly accepted, tempted as much by the prestige of serving an empress as by the material benefits.

But then reports began to reach Salerno from the siege of Naples. For the first time, Heinrich was encountering fierce resistance, led by Tancred’s brother-in-law, the Count of Acerra, and Salerno’s own archbishop. Heinrich had hired ships from Pisa, but they were not numerous enough to blockade the harbor, and so he would be unable to starve the Neapolitans into surrender. Tancred had chosen to make his stand on the island of Sicily knowing that his most dangerous weapon was the hot, humid, Italian summer. Heinrich’s German troops were unaccustomed to such stifling heat and they soon began to sicken. Army camps were particularly vulnerable to deadly contagions like the bloody flux; Constance had been told that more crusaders died from disease than from Saracen swords in the Holy Land.

She’d hoped that the Salernitans would remain in ignorance of the setbacks Heinrich was experiencing, but that was an unrealistic hope, for Naples was less than thirty miles to the north of Salerno. She could tell as soon as word began to trickle into the city, for the people she encountered in the piazza were subdued or sullen, and the palace servants could not hide their dismay. Even Martina had anxiously asked her if she was sure Heinrich would prevail and did not seem completely convinced by Constance’s assurances. Salerno had assumed that Tancred would be no match for the large German army and self-preservation had won out over loyalty to the Sicilian king. Now they began to fear that they’d wagered on the wrong horse.

When almost a fortnight passed without any word from Heinrich, Constance dispatched Sir Baldwin, the head of her household knights, to Naples to find out how bad things really were. Standing now on the palace balcony, she shaded her eyes against the glare of the noonday sun and wondered if this would be the day Baldwin would return. She would never admit it aloud, but she wanted him to stay away as long as possible, so sure was she that he would be bringing bad news.

“Madame?” Hildegund was standing by the door. Most of Constance’s attendants were Sicilians, including Dame Adela, who’d been with her since childhood, and Michael, the Saracen eunuch who attracted so much attention at Heinrich’s court; the Germans were shocked that Saracens were allowed to live freely in a Christian country and horrified that William had relied upon the men called “the palace eunuchs” in the governance of his kingdom. Constance had taken care not to reveal that William had spoken Arabic or that it was one of the official languages of Sicily, and she’d insisted that Michael had embraced the True Faith, even though she knew that many eunuchs’ conversion to Christianity was often pretense. How could she ever make Heinrich or his subjects understand the complex mosaic that was Sicilian society? Hildegund was one of her few German ladies-in-waiting, a self-possessed, sedate widow who’d been a great asset in Constance’s struggles to learn German, and Constance gave her a fond smile, nodding when the other woman reminded her it was time for the day’s main meal.

Dinners were very different now than they’d been at the outset of her stay in Salerno. Then the local lords and their ladies had competed eagerly for an invitation from the empress, and the great hall had usually been crowded with finely garbed guests showing off their silks and jewels as they sought to curry favor with Constance. For over a week, though, her invitations to dine had been declined with transparent excuses, and on this Sunday noon, the only ones sharing her table were the members of her own household.

The palace cooks had prepared a variety of tasty dishes, but Constance merely picked at the roast capon on her trencher. Glancing around, she saw that few of the others had much appetite, either. Reminding herself that she should be setting an example for her household, she began an animated conversation with Martina and her chaplain just as shouting drifted through the open windows. Riders were coming in. Constance set her wine cup down and got slowly to her feet as Baldwin was admitted to the hall. One look at his face told her all she needed or wanted to know, but she made herself reach out and take the proffered letter as he knelt before her.

Gesturing for him to rise, she broke her husband’s seal and quickly scanned the contents. It was not written in Heinrich’s hand, of course; he always dictated his letters to a scribe, for he never sent her a message that was not meant for other eyes. A low murmur swept the hall as those watching saw her color fade, leaving her skin so pale it seemed almost translucent. When she glanced up, though, her voice was even, revealing none of her inner distress. “I will not mislead you,” she said. “The news is not good. Many have died of the bloody flux and the emperor himself has been stricken with this vile malady. He has decided that it would be best to end the siege and yesterday his army began a retreat from Naples.”

There were gasps, smothered cries, a few muttered obscenities from some of her knights. “What of us, my lady?” a young girl blurted out. “What will become of us?”

“The emperor wants us to remain in Salerno. He says that my presence here will be proof that he intends to return and the war is not over.”

There was an appalled silence. Taking advantage of it, she beckoned to Baldwin and led the way out into the courtyard. The sun was blinding, and when she sank down on the edge of the marble fountain, she could feel the heat through the silk of her gown. “How ill is he, Baldwin?” she asked, so softly that she felt the need to repeat herself, swallowing until she had enough saliva for speech.

He knelt beside her, gazing up intently into her face. “Very ill, my lady. His doctors said he was sure to die if he stayed. I fear that his wits have been addled by his fever, for he did not seem to realize the danger you are in now that he is gone.”

Constance did not think it was the fever, but rather Heinrich’s supreme self-confidence. He did not understand that the Salernitans’ fear of him was dependent upon his presence. When word got out that his army was retreating, the people would see it as a defeat, and they’d begin to fear Tancred more than Heinrich, for they’d betrayed him by inviting her into their city. She could feel a headache coming on, and rubbed her temples in a vain attempt to head it off. The wrath of a king was indeed to be feared. Heinrich’s father had razed Milan to the ground as punishment for past treachery, and her brother, William’s father, had destroyed the town of Bari as a brutal warning to would-be rebels. Was Tancred capable of such ruthless vengeance? She did not think so, but how were the frightened citizens of Salerno to know that?

“My lady … I think we ought to leave this place today. A healthy army travels less than ten miles a day and this army is battered and bleeding. If we make haste, we can overtake them.”

Constance bit her lip. She agreed with Baldwin; she was not safe here, not now. But her pride rebelled at the thought of fleeing like a thief in the night. How would the Sicilians consider her worthy to rule over them if she gave in to her fears like a foolish, timid woman? Her father would not have run away. And Heinrich would never forgive her if she disobeyed him and fled Salerno, for his letter had clearly stated that her presence was important as a pledge to his supporters, a warning to his enemies—proof that he would be back. She’d not wanted Heinrich as her husband; still less did she want him as her enemy. How could she live with a man who hated her … and he would, for her flight would make it impossible for him to pretend he’d not suffered a humiliating defeat.

“I cannot, Baldwin,” she said. “It is my husband’s wish that I await him here in Salerno. Even if the worst happens and Tancred comes to lay siege to the city, Heinrich will send troops to defend it … and us.”

“Of course, madame,” Baldwin said, mustering up all the certainty he could. “All will be well.” But he did not believe it and he doubted that Constance did, either.

It took only two days for word to reach Salerno of the German army’s retreat. The streets were soon crowded with frantic men and women trying to convince themselves that they’d not made a fatal mistake. Constance sent out public criers to assure them that Heinrich would soon return. But as dusk descended, a new and terrifying rumor swept the city—that the German emperor had died of the bloody flux. And that was the spark thrown into a hayrick, setting off a conflagration.

Constance and her household had just finished their evening meal when they heard a strange noise, almost like the roaring of the sea, a distant, dull rumble that grew ever louder. She sent several of her knights to investigate and they soon returned with alarming news. A huge mob was gathering outside the gates of the palace, many of them drunk, all of them scared witless by what they’d brought upon themselves.

Baldwin and her knights assured Constance and the women that the mob would not be able to force an entry into the palace grounds, and departed then to join the men guarding the walls. But soon afterward, they came running back into the great hall. “We’ve been betrayed,” Baldwin gasped. “Those cowardly whoresons opened the gates to them!” Bolting the thick oaken doors, they hastened to latch the shutters as Baldwin dispatched men to make sure all of the other entrances to the palace were secure. Constance’s women gathered around her, in the way she’d seen chicks flock to the mother hen when a hawk’s shadow darkened the sun. The awareness that they were all looking to her for answers stiffened her spine, giving her the courage she needed to face this unexpected crisis. She’d feared that Salerno would soon be under siege by the army Tancred had sent to defend Naples. She’d not realized that the greatest danger would come from within.

She reassured them as best she could, insisting that the townspeople would disperse once they realized that they could not gain entry to the palace itself. Her words rang hollow even to herself, for the fury of the mob showed no signs of abating. Theirs had been a spontaneous act of panic, and they’d been ill prepared for an assault. But now those in the hall could hear cries for axes, for a battering ram. When Constance heard men also shouting for kindling and torches, she knew they dared not wait for cooler heads to prevail or for the craven city officials to intervene.

Calling to Baldwin, she drew him toward the dais. “I must talk to them,” she said softly. “Mayhap I can make them see reason.”

He was horrified. “My lady, they are mad with fear. There is no reasoning with them.”

She suspected that he was right, but what else could she do? “Nevertheless, I have to try,” she said, with a steadfastness she was far from feeling. “Come with me to the solar above the hall. I can speak to them from the balcony.”

He continued to argue halfheartedly, for he did not know what else to do, either, and when she turned toward the stairwell, he trailed at her heels. The solar was dark, for no oil lamps had been lit, and the heat was suffocating. Constance waited while Baldwin unlatched the door leading out onto the small balcony; she could feel perspiration trickling along her ribs and her heart was beating so rapidly that she felt light-headed.

The scene below her was an eerie one. The darkness was stabbed with flaring torches, illuminating faces contorted with anger and fear. She saw women in the surging throng and, incredibly, even a few children darting about on the edges of the crowd as if this were a holy day festival. Some were passing wineskins back and forth, but most drew their courage from their desperation. They were still calling for firewood, urging those closest to the street to find anything that would burn. It took a few moments for them to notice the woman standing motionless above them, gripping the balcony railing as if it were her only lifeline.

“Good people of Salerno!” Constance swallowed with difficulty, worried that they’d not hear her. Before she could continue, they began to point and shout. She heard her name, heard cries of “Bitch!” and “Sorceress!” and then “German slut!”

“I am not German!” There was no worry of being heard now; her voice resonated across the courtyard, infused with anger. “I am Sicilian born and bred, as you all are. I am the daughter of King Roger of blessed memory. This is my homeland as much as it is yours.”

She wasn’t sure if it was the mention of her revered father’s name, but the crowd quieted for the moment. “I know you are confused and fearful. But you’ve heeded false rumors. The Emperor Heinrich is not dead! Indeed, he is already on the mend. I had a letter from him just this morn, saying he expects to return very soon.”

She paused for breath. “You know my lord husband. He remembers those who do him a good service. When he leads his army back to Salerno, he will be grateful to you for keeping his wife safe. You will be rewarded for your loyalty.” Another pause, this one deliberate. “But this you must know, too. The Emperor Heinrich never forgets a wrong done him. If you betray his faith, if you do harm to me or mine, he will not forgive. He will leave a smoldering ruin where your city once stood. Dare any of you deny it? You know in your hearts that I speak true. You have far more to fear from the emperor if you bring his wrath down upon you than ever you do from that usurper in Palermo.”