Antichrist Page 7

  Suddenly a cheer went up; Scot pretended to be knocked off the rail by the force of it. He looked down. “It’s a courier in the livery of the Empress.” He spun around. “Sire—”

  Frederick lunged up and leaned over the railing. The courtyard was filling up with people—servants, pages—milling and waving their arms. The courier rode his horse through the mob to just below Frederick. His face was coated with dust, but he was beaming. In the town a bell began to ring.

  “Sire,” the messenger called. “Your Majesty, the Empress has been delivered of a fine boy.”

  Frederick threw his head back and whooped. “A boy!” He grabbed Scot and whirled him around into the crowd of courtiers, all bursting with congratulations. The other bells of Barletta began to toll, and in the courtyard the cheering had doubled. Pages appeared on the gallery with ewers of wine. Ezzo plunged up, flung both arms around Frederick, and kissed him on both cheeks.

  “Conrad,” Frederick said, “I’ll call him Conrad.” He took a deep breath—his chest strained to hold in his deep pleasure. Another son. Abruptly he flung his arms wide and started laughing, and all the faces watching him began to laugh too. Fulk of Ancerra thrust a wine cup at him.

  “To Conrad.”

  “To the King of Jerusalem,” Frederick said. “Long may he reign.” He gulped wine. Adelaide and Bianca appeared at exactly the same moment, but on opposite sides, and he straightened. Which to go to first? The wine pitcher came by again and he reached for it. Everybody was screaming Conrad’s name and drinking toasts.

  Piero suddenly showed up, weaving his way through the mob, his face set and tight. Frederick paused, his cup halfway to his mouth. Something—Piero came up, took him by the sleeve, and turned him slightly away from the others.

  “Sire, the child is healthy, but the Empress is not. The courier says she may be dying.”

  Frederick stared at him. Dying. The bells and the cheers rang out like tin. His eyes left Piero for the joyous faces of the courtiers around him; he shivered and looked back to Piero. That noncommital brown face—He turned and pushed his way through the mob toward the door, shoving blindly at the people in his path. They moved, and he stepped into the cool dark of an empty room.

  “Are you going to Andria?” Piero said, behind him.

  Frederick nodded. “Get me a riding coat and order out the Saracens and my horse. Dragon.”

  “I’ve done so, Sire. They’re at the South Gate.”

  “Oh.” The walls muffled the noise outside, that barbaric cheering. She was only seventeen, she couldn’t be dying. Pages appeared, and numbly he let them change his clothes. I don’t like people to die. That’s stupid. Everybody dies. Half into his coat, he turned and plunged across the room toward the door.

  Ayub was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs, dressed for riding; he fell in behind him without a word. Immediately Yusuf appeared and walked along in front of Frederick. The hall was empty, and even the sentries were gone from the door. Out reveling. The Saracens went up to hold the door for him, and he walked out into an empty courtyard. Dimly he heard the continuing jubilee—of course, a new heir, a son, a King, everything. . . Hasan led up the horses and he vaulted into his saddle.

  “Lord,” Hasan said, “we of Lucera—” He studied Frederick’s face and shrugged. “Later.” Turning his mare, he headed for the gate, and Dragon followed without Frederick’s urging.

  She never asked to be . . . He shut his eyes. Ridiculous to be this upset about the dying of one small girl who had never been anything at all to him—no comfort, no pleasure, only a girl always too thin and too pale who complained all the time. They rode swiftly through the edge of the town, past squares full of rejoicing people, and out onto the high road to Andria. None of the people seemed to notice them. Why am I—How can something like this even reach me? But his chest constricted and his heart beat painfully, out of rhythm with the strides of the horse.

  Piero knew I would be going to see her. It must be predictable somehow. Even by Piero. Amazing; I never thought he had any imagination at all. He’d thought that he knew Piero well enough to anticipate everything he did, but this . . . I don’t know him at all. He knew I didn’t like her. She is so young.

  The Saracens ranged themselves around him. At a steady canter they headed west, across the macchia already burning to brown under the April sun. Merchants’ carts and riders appeared ahead of them and pulled hastily out of their way. Sometimes the horses’ hoofs all beat together, separating gradually out into disorder again. I killed her; I made her pregnant. The triple beat of the horses’ hoofs lulled him.

  They topped a little rise. Ahead of them the broad plain stretched monotonously, a haze of cloud on the far horizon. Behind them he could still hear the bells of Barletta. Conrad, Conrad. He licked his lips and tasted the acrid dust of the plain.

  She’d always preferred Andria; she said she liked the people there. Never asked her which people. I wonder if . . . But she never liked me either.

  The sun went down before them. He thought that the unrelenting beat of the hoofs and the glaring light in his eyes would drive him out of his mind, but each time the pressure built up through his body he took a deep breath and bit his lips and it subsided. They raced a party of peasant boys and girls to a narrow stone bridge, and the clatter of the stones mingled with the screams and excited chatter of the peasants. Their voices faded away into the dust. Moving this fast nothing is real, everything goes by too quickly, it’s all somewhere else, not here—I don’t know what that means. He tightened his grip on the reins and let Dragon carry him on into the dark.

  I don’t want to die. Maybe that’s all it is, this feeling.

  A little while later Hasan made him stop and change horses, walk around, drink some watered wine and eat. He felt encased in himself, in layers of insensitive flesh; they couldn’t touch him or he them, and everything sounded distant. Uninteresting. But I have another son, isn’t that enough? He looked up at the sky, more stars than darkness, clear and bright. The new horse appeared before him, and he dropped the cup and stepped into his saddle.

  They found that rhythm again. Poor little girl. Poor little girl. Hasan was carrying a torch, bright yellow light in front of him. There’s something wrong with me if I can’t . . . The pressure surged up in him again, something he had to outride, but could not because it was trapped in his body. My soul. Bianca is young too; if I get her pregnant, will she die? They cantered through a tiny village, all shut down for the night. Anais will be there too. The moon rose, aged to a sliver. He smelled the dust and the odor of sweating horses.

  They all die—my mother, Franciscus, everybody. My dog Kadar. Diepold poisoned him because he barked. Constanza died. And go to Heaven and there sit. Yes, well, it’s not so bad. But it is. He shut his eyes, and the world spun around him, swooping in great sickening loops around him.

  Still later Hasan stopped again, and they all stretched their legs. Frederick put up his hood and bundled his cloak around him. Let no one see me. Fugitive or something. Am I really or just . . . I must be guilty, that’s all, it’s not anything more than that. But he thought of Yolande and bit his lip. Turning, he reached for his reins and climbed onto the horse’s back and started off again, so that the Saracens had to jump to catch up.

  Ahead of them, on the level plain, a light showed: the lantern in the bell tower of San Andria. He straightened up and discovered that his back hurt. He’d been crouched over in his saddle, bent in on himself. The palace stood just this side of the little town—looking hard, he could see the square outlines of its towers. No lights there; they’d all be in bed or praying in the chapel for her recovery or happy death. Happy death. Or they could be watching over her. No bells ringing, no sounds of celebration. I am too late, naturally. No time for deathbed forgiveness or long speeches, that’s only in the songs. He slowed his horse to a trot to cross the little wooden bridge before the gate.

  Hasan shouted; sentries on the wall shouted back. In the midst of the
noise Frederick drew his cloak tighter around him. Let no one see me. Why not, why not? His horse started forward, and he followed Hasan into the courtyard. Feet clattered along the ramparts over their heads. In the central building lights burned dimly behind shutters. She always closed the windows at night, she said the night air . . . Easy to remember everything she ever said, we were never together that long. Always with somebody else there. Your Majesty, Your Majesty, yes, Sire, my Lady. Grooms came to take the horses, and he dismounted. Old Tancred, the chatelain, walked across the paving stones toward him. Frederick threw his hood off, and Hasan moved closer with the torch.

  “Your Majesty.” Tancred knelt and rose again. “You have my congratulations on the birth of your son and my condolences on the death of the Empress.”

  His stomach contracted hard against his spine. She was dead, she had died. Always a chance that maybe—He took a blind step forward. Tancred’s face, expressionless, moved before him. “She lies in the chapel, Sire.”

  “Thank you.” He could barely hear his own voice. He turned left, and Hasan nudged him lightly. Oh, yes, it was straight ahead. He signed to the Saracens to stay behind and walked alone across the courtyard to the chapel door.

  Through the cracks he saw light flickering, and he heard voices, the dry old voices of women. They brought you into the world and they saw you out of it, the women. He heaved open the door and went inside.

  Down there, before the high gilt altar, shapes rustled and stirred and faced him, all gathered around the block of marble. He made his legs move, carrying him down there. Lying there, Yolande looked much younger, much thinner, her arms like wax candles, her hair dull.

  “We wondered if you would come,” Anais said in French, and the women murmured and shifted. He glanced at her, amazed she would even speak, and went on toward the slab.

  “Did you come to see the child or her?”

  He jerked his head around. Leaning forward, her lips drawn back from her teeth, she stared at him: “Did you come—”

  “Leave me.”

  For a moment she met his eyes. His low voice echoed in his ears. Suddenly she turned and walked out, holding up her skirts in both hands, and the other women murmured in something like applause and made faces at her back. He swung his gaze across them and back to the woman on the—the child on the slab. Excommunicate, will it make a difference if I pray or not? His joints ached with weariness and his hands shook, and exhausted, he sank down on his knees and laid his cheek against the stone at her feet.

  The baby’s face worked; a line of milk lay at the corner of his mouth. He moved his arms and legs strongly inside the monogrammed silk. Frederick looked around for a nurse to take him, and the girl from the village came forward, her arms out.

  “He’s a pretty baby,” she said.

  “They all are,” the Duchess of Chiara said. “Especially the redheads.”

  Frederick looked doubtfully at the baby. It looked too big to have come so recently from the body he’d just seen carried into the mausoleum under the chapel. All the women around made him nervous. He turned to the Duchess, who was waiting eagerly for instructions.

  “He’ll have to be christened while I’m gone. Piero della Vigne will arrange for that, he’ll be in touch with you. The city of Cremona will be his godmother. Don’t worry about having him crowned—that won’t be necessary for a while. He’ll need a court and a personal staff—” For an infant? For a King of Jerusalem. “I’ll send the Archbishop of Capua here to discuss that with you.”

  He looked around at the baby. The serving women were cooing over it, their heads bent. Sunshine poured through the wide windows of the nursery—he’d made them open the shutters.

  “Is he to remain here, Your Majesty?”

  “For the love of Christ. You don’t cart a new-born baby all over the countryside. Yes. Andria belonged to the Empress anyhow.” Impatience rose up in him. He wanted to go back to Barletta, now, without any more of this—He started toward the door, and Ayub moved to open it.

  “Your Majesty.”

  The door opposite this one had opened and a flock of women entered. He stopped and stared. Clinging to the skirts of the tall woman in the middle of the herd was a small girl in a yellow dress, her long hair tortured into a French style, her eyes swollen and red.

  “Your Majesty,” the tall woman said and bowed. The little girl hid her face in the woman’s skirts. Frederick licked his lips.

  “Yolande,” the tall nurse said, “go greet His Majesty your father.”

  Frederick tensed all over. The little girl peeked out, saw him, and hid her face. He said, “That’s unnecessary, I’m—”

  “Yolande?” the nurse said, ignoring him completely. “Come greet His Majesty.”

  The child turned, white as ash, and started stiff-legged toward him. Frederick drew a deep breath. The little girl didn’t look at him, her eyes were aimed somewhere around his knees, and she moved like a puppet, ungainly. Halfway between him and the women she stopped, jerked out a curtsey, and said, “Good morning, Your Majesty,” in stilted Italian. Naturally; her mother had spoken only French.

  “Good morning, Yolande,” he said in French.

  The child looked up, startled, and he made himself grin and nod. She curtseyed again and whirled and raced for the shelter of the nurse’s skirts. Over in the corner her little brother let out a howl.

  “Unh—keep her here too,” Frederick said to the Duchess and spun on his heel and strode out of the room.

  Hasan was waiting for him in the porch, and the horses were ready. Frederick paused, looking out at the dusty courtyard, the parade of mourners still entering the chapel to pray. “Is there anything else?”

  “No, Lord.”

  “Then let’s get out of here.”

  * * *

  From the dais beside the throne he could see how the court moved in currents and whorls, in clumps surrounding the people known to be his favorites. He paused a moment, juggling the new augustales lightly in his fingers, and watched the people hovering around Adelaide, up close to the dais, packed in by her maids. Used to it, she sent them on errands, to fetch her cups of wine and trays of sweetmeats, but she didn’t smile; her haggard eyes kept looking for him. He smiled at her and lifted his hand and pretended to look at the plans spread over the table.

  “To add a wing here, Your Majesty, we would have to knock out this wall. There is plenty of stone available, of course. . . .”

  Yes, yes. He glanced down the far end of the hall, toward the giant columns supporting that end of the balcony, around which all the young courtiers swarmed. The music of a lute and guitarras played among them. Bianca, less than expert, kept them all in no order, and the bright colors of their clothes churned in a constant jostling. She will learn. She’d been shaken to find herself suddenly the center of attention.

  “Manfredo, knock out that wall so we can add on a wing there.”

  Her brother looked up and nodded, all somber in mourning black for the Empress. That was how they knew, when he gave small honors to her brother, her sisters, two of whom were now attending the King of Jerusalem. He glanced toward Bianca again. He hadn’t slept with her since the first time—the memory of Yolande dead dragged at him and made him nervous. Stepping back, he looked all around, at the mob around Adelaide, the people encircling Ezzo and Fulk. Corso was coming toward him, all solemn.

  “Sire—” The page trotted up the steps of the dais and cut in neatly between Frederick and the architects. “The Grand Admiral has arrived, Sire, if you please.”

  “Where?” Frederick put down the coins.

  “In the Peacock Room.”

  Frederick nodded and turned to Manfredo. “Deal with this for me.” He gestured toward the plans and the architects and went down the steps, Corso just behind him. When they were out of listening range of the court, he said, “Send Bianca Lancia to the Peacock Room.”

  “Sire.” Corso went off, swerving around courtiers, who looked keenly after him. At the doo
r into the Peacock Room Ayub straightened and reached for the handle.

  Enrico da Malta was standing at the far end, near the windows, sniffing a white lily. He spun around. “Your Majesty.”

  “Good afternoon, Rico.” Frederick turned to make sure the door was shut. Ayub had come inside with him and was leaning up against the wall beside the door, against the painted peacocks with their gilt-trimmed tails.

  “We can sail at any time, Sire,” Enrico said. “All I need is a few days’ notice.”

  “I’m moving down to Brindisi tomorrow. We’ll sail in eight days.” Enrico was wearing a black band around his arm, mourning like everybody else as inconspicuously as possible, because Frederick would not wear black. The gnawing guilt and worry pulled at the edge of his mind. “Can we put my suite all on one ship?”

  Enrico shook his head. “I’d advise you to take only your pages and chamber servants and ship out the rest on other galleys. Otherwise it would be too crowded for any comfort at all.”

  The private door behind the throne opened and shut, and Bianca with her page Astorre came around the edge of the throne platform and stopped. Her eyes went from Frederick to Enrico and back again, and she blushed.

  “Ayub,” Frederick said, “tell Hasan to come meet me here to get his instructions for this sailing. Rico, we’ll be in Brindisi by tomorrow night and we can settle everything then. Thank you.”

  “Sire.” Enrico bowed and went around him toward the door. “I’ll send Hasan, Ayub—you needn’t leave your post.”

  Frederick went over to Bianca, who stood beside the throne. Astorre stepped back into the obscurity of a corner.

  “I’ve been negligent.” He touched her hand. “Are you angry?”

  She shook her head. “No. No. It’s better, I need to get used to this.” She began to blush again, but her huge eyes looked directly into his, and her fingers moved in his grip. He picked up her hand and kissed it.

  “Don’t promise anybody anything, that’s all.” Her hand smelled of rose water. Suddenly he put his arms around her and hugged her. “Bianca, Biancetta—” He kissed her; her arms tightened around his neck, and she pressed her body against his, their thighs brushing through the layers of cloth and embroidered jewels. He shut his eyes.