A King's Ransom (84 page)

Constance was outraged that she should be the object of such scurrilous speculation and she was appalled that this mean-spirited gossip could cast a shadow upon the legitimacy of her son. If people did not believe he was her child, he would not be considered the rightful heir to the Sicilian throne. His enemies would use these foul rumors against him, a pretext for rebellion. In time, he might even come to wonder himself if they were true. Alone in the dark, she wept quietly. But come morning, she rose dry-eyed from the bed, hers the steely resolve that had enabled past de Hautevilles to carve a kingdom out of the Sicilian heartland. Summoning the head of her household knights, she ordered him to set up a pavilion in the town marketplace.

“And then you are to spread the word that I shall have my lying-in there, in that tent, and all the matrons and maidens of the town are welcome to attend the birth of my child.”

They tried to talk her out of it, scandalized by the very idea of a highborn woman making such a public spectacle of herself, sharing so intimate a moment with the wives of cobblers and tanners and innkeepers. But Constance was adamant. Only once did her icy control crack, when Dame Martina asked if she was sure she wanted to do this.

“Of course I do not want to do this! But it is the only way that I can disprove these vile rumors. The women of Jesi will watch as my son is born, they will bear witness that he is indeed flesh of my flesh, and nothing matters more than that.”

O
N
C
HRISTMAS
D
AY IN
Palermo, Heinrich was crowned King of Sicily. He celebrated by having the bodies of Tancred and his son Roger dragged from their royal tombs. Tancred’s widow, Sybilla, had yielded to Heinrich after he’d promised that he’d not harm her or her children; showing surprising magnanimity, he even agreed to let her four-year-old son inherit the lands Tancred had held when he was Count of Lecce.

On December 26, Constance gave birth to a son, witnessed by the women of Jesi; the baby was named Friedrich after Heinrich’s father. Several days later, Constance offered further proof that Friedrich was a child of her body by nursing him in public.

A
NNA WAS ACCUSTOMED TO
milder climes than her future home and she wondered if she’d ever be warm again. It had been a wretched journey so far, the women exhausted by the punishing pace, Baldwin bleakly anticipating his continued confinement, and all of them made miserable by the frigid winter weather. Aenor suffered the most, and by the time they were approaching Salzburg, the little girl had developed a hacking cough and she looked so sickly, pale, and hollow-eyed that Anna thought she’d be a disappointment to her husband-to-be. Anna would be very glad to reach Salzburg, for Baldwin had assured them that they’d be staying at Archbishop Adalbert’s palace, which would be a vast improvement over some of their past lodgings, usually monastery guest halls and even a few inns. Anna had never been in an inn, so she’d enjoyed the novelty—until she’d awakened one night bitten by mites and fleas.

Sleet had begun to fall and Anna swore when a gust of wind blew back the hood of her mantle. “God’s legs!” she cried, borrowing one of Richard’s favorite oaths. “It is colder than a witch’s teat.” Thekla did not say anything, but her mouth pinched in such obvious disapproval that Anna rolled her eyes. The Cypriot widow had served her for several years, but in the past it had been easy enough to ignore her. Now she was subjected to Thekla’s earnest platitudes and tedious lectures on a daily basis. Anna had not yet forgiven her friend Alicia for balking at accompanying her to Austria, for the company on this unhappy journey left much to be desired. Thekla would have made a fine nun. Her other Cypriot maid, Eudokia, had been even unhappier than young Aenor at having to start life anew in Austria, for she fancied herself in love with one of Joanna’s knights back in Poitiers. Aenor’s childhood nurse, Rohesia, was as protective of her charge as a mother bear, and all three of Aenor’s attendants were downright elderly, at least in Anna’s eyes. Aenor herself was only ten, too young to be much fun even if she had not been crying herself to sleep every night.

Anna had tried to muster up some sympathy for the girl, without much success. Yes, she was going off to wed a stranger in an alien land, but that was only to be expected. Anna had not been happy, either, about her Austrian marriage, for she’d liked the life she led since her father’s overthrow and she’d become very attached to Joanna. But Anna was accustomed to upheaval. Her mother had died when she was just six and she and her brother had been held as hostages for two years, finally freed out of pity when the Prince of Antioch had realized their father was not going to pay the remainder of his ransom. After they joined Isaac in Cyprus, her brother soon died, and Anna had to adjust to living with a man she’d not really known, a man so feared and hated by the Cypriots that they’d cooperated with the English king to depose him. So Anna had learned very early to accept the world as it was, not as she wanted it to be, and she thought Aenor’s marriage would be much happier if she learned that lesson, too.

When Salzburg came into view, Anna sighed with relief—until she saw the huge fortress rising against the sky, hundreds of feet above the city, looking as if it were halfway to Heaven. “Lord Baldwin, please tell me we do not have to ride all the way up to that mountain citadel!”

“You need not fear, Lady Anna. Whilst Hohensalzburg Castle belongs to the Archbishop of Salzburg, he also has a residence in the town, close by the cathedral, and that is where we’ll be staying.”

She gave him a smile so charming that Baldwin found himself thinking that young Leo of Austria was a lucky lad. He was not worried about Anna, sure that she’d always land on her feet. But as he glanced over at Aenor, shivering so violently that her teeth were chattering, Baldwin felt as if he were watching a tame fawn being turned out to fend for herself in a forest rife with wolves.

T
HE WOMEN WERE PLEASED
with their chamber, for it had its own hearth and so many beds that they would not have to bundle up four to a bed as they’d often had to do at other lodgings. Baldwin was on his way up Mönchsberg Mountain to Hohensalzburg Castle, having been told that Archbishop Adalbert was spending the night in that alpine stronghold. He’d promised the women that he would ask the archbishop to send a messenger on to Vienna, letting Leopold know that they’d reached Salzburg but they’d be resting in the city until Lady Aenor’s cough improved. Since one hundred fifty miles still lay ahead of them, this was very welcome news to them all.

They’d been served the best meal they’d had since leaving Chinon, and servants had brought up a wooden tub and lugged pails of hot water so they could bathe afterward. Anna found herself thinking that if this was how she and Aenor would be treated once they wed Leopold’s sons, life in Austria might be more pleasant than she’d anticipated. She was enough of a realist to appreciate the value of luxury and comfort, understanding that it was much easier to be unhappy in a palace than in a crofter’s hut.

Aenor was already in bed, as were several of their attendants. Anna had prodded Eudoxia into staying up to play chess with her, since she was not sleepy yet. When a knock sounded, Dame Rohesia assumed it was a servant bringing honeyed wine for Aenor’s cough. But as soon as she slid the latch back and opened the door, she sought to close it again, saying in shock, “My lord, you cannot come in here! We have retired for the night.”

As soon as she heard Baldwin’s voice, Anna rose quickly and hastened to the door. “Do not be ridiculous, Dame Rohesia. Lord Baldwin would not come to our chamber at such an hour if he did not have urgent news.” She got an indignant glare from the older woman, but she paid Aenor’s nurse no mind. She was sensitive to atmosphere, a necessary skill for anyone who’d lived with a hot-tempered lunatic like her father, and she’d begun to sense that something was amiss. The palace servants were strangely subdued, some even red-eyed, as if they’d been weeping, but since she spoke no German, her curiosity had been thwarted. Opening the door wide, she said, “Come in, my lord. What happened at the castle?”

Baldwin had impeccable manners and he apologized politely to the irate nurse, saying that Lady Anna was right and his news was urgent. By now all of the women were awake, several clutching their bedcovers close, looking scandalized to find a man in their chamber. Aenor blinked sleepily, and when she began to cough, Dame Rohesia hurried to the bed, glowering at Baldwin over her shoulder.

He never even noticed. “My news could not wait till the morrow. The Duke of Austria is dead.”

Midst the gasps and outcries, Anna was the only one to smile. “Tell me he suffered ere he died!”

Baldwin grinned. “Indeed he did, my lady. The day after Christmas, his ankle was crushed when his horse fell. The injury soon festered and when the flesh turned black, his doctors told him that his only chance of recovery was to amputate the foot. But all feared to do it—the doctors, Leopold’s knights, even his own sons. So Leopold held the axe against his ankle himself, and ordered a servant to strike the axe with a mallet. It took three tries to chop off the foot. It did not save him, though, for he died on the last day of December.”

Baldwin was belatedly realizing that he’d probably been too gruesomely graphic, for several of the women were looking greensick. Not Anna, though. She’d listened raptly and as soon as he was done, she began to laugh. “He dared to capture a king and now God has punished him as he deserved. Can you imagine Heinrich’s horror when he hears of this? He’s next!”

Baldwin was amused by her unapologetic vengefulness, and he laughed, too. “I hope so, Lady Anna; indeed, I hope so!”

Anna was fiercely loyal to the man she called Malik Ric, and she made a remorseless enemy, as she proved now, saying with great satisfaction, “Best of all, he died an excommunicate, so he cannot be buried in consecrated ground and will burn in Hell for all eternity.”

“Unfortunately not, my lady. Leopold’s son Friedrich sent at once for Archbishop Adalbert, realizing the gravity of his injury. But if Leopold thought the archbishop would show mercy because they were cousins, he was mistaken. Ere he would absolve Leopold of his sins and restore him to God’s grace, Adalbert made the duke swear that the ransom would be repaid and the hostages released, and he compelled Friedrich to agree, too, since he’d be the one fulfilling these demands. He told me that he made Friedrich swear another holy vow at graveside ere he’d let the funeral proceed. He said Leopold was buried in the habit of a Cistercian monk, but I do not think that will save him from spending a very long time in Purgatory.”

“God willing,” Anna said flippantly and as their eyes met, they both laughed again.

Aenor had been half asleep when Baldwin entered, but she was wide-awake now. She started to speak, had to wait until another coughing spasm passed. Almost afraid to hope, she said in a quavering voice, “Does this mean that I need not marry Leopold’s son?”

Baldwin nodded. “Yes, Lady Aenor,” he said gently, “it means exactly that. We will stay in Salzburg whilst you recover, and then we’ll go home.”