Dangerous Women Part 37

She rea.s.sured 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 a.s.sault. 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 pa.s.sing 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 "b.i.t.c.h!" and "Sorceress!" and then "German s.l.u.t!"

"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."

She thought she had them, could see some heads nodding, see men lowering clubs and bows as she spoke. But her mention of Tancred was a tactical error, reminding them that his supporters were just thirty miles away at Naples, while Heinrich's army was decimated by the b.l.o.o.d.y flux, fleeing with their tales tucked between their legs. The spell broken, the crowd began to mutter among themselves, and then one well-dressed youth with a sword at his hip shouted out, "She lies! That German swine breathed his last the day after he fled the siege camp! Send her to join him in h.e.l.l!"

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than one of his allies brought up his bow, aimed, and sent an arrow winging through the dark toward the balcony. His aim was true, but Baldwin had been watching those with weapons, and as soon as the bowman moved, he dove from the shadows, shoving Constance to the ground. There was a shocked silence and then a woman cried, "Holy Mother Mary, you killed her!" Someone else retorted that they had nothing left to lose then and more arrows were loosed. Crawling on their hands and knees, Constance and Baldwin scrambled back into the solar and she sat on the floor, gasping for breath as he fumbled with the door. Several thuds told them that arrows had found their mark.

Once she could draw enough air into her lungs again, Constance held out her hand, let him help her to her feet. "Thank you," she said, and tears stung her eyes when he swore that he'd defend her as long as he had breath in his body, for that was no empty boast. He would die here in the palace at Salerno. They all would die unless the Almighty worked a miracle expressly on their behalf. She insisted that he escort her back to the hall, for at least she could do that much for her household. She would stand with them to the last.

She expected hysteria, but her women seemed stunned. Constance ordered wine to be brought out, for what else was there to do? They could hear the sounds of the a.s.sault, knew it was only a matter of time until the mob would break down the doors. As the noise intensified, Martina drew Constance aside, surrept.i.tiously showing her a handful of herbs clutched in the palm of her hand. "They work quickly," she murmured, and would have dropped them into Constance's wine cup had she not recoiled.

"Jesu, Martina! Self-slaughter is a mortal sin!"

"It is a better fate than what awaits us, my lady. They are sore crazed and there are none in command. What do you think they will do to you once they get inside? On the morrow, they'll be horrified by what they did this night. But their remorse and guilt will change nothing."

Constance could not repress a shudder, but she continued to shake her head. "I cannot," she whispered, "nor can you, Martina. We'd burn for aye in h.e.l.l if we did."

Martina said nothing, merely slipped the herbs back into a pouch swinging from her belt. She stayed by Constance's side, occasionally giving the younger woman a significant look, as if reminding her there was still time to change her mind. Constance mounted the steps of the dais, holding up her hand for silence. "We must pray to Almighty G.o.d that His will be done," she said, surprised that her voice sounded so steady. There were a few stifled sobs from her women, but when she knelt, they knelt, too. So did the men, after carefully placing their weapons within reach. Those who'd not been shriven of their sins sought out Constance's chaplain, following him behind the decorated wooden screen that he was using as a makeshift confessional.

Michael had not joined the others to confess, confirming Constance's suspicions that his Christian faith was camouflage. He was a good man, though, and she hoped the Almighty would be merciful with him. The eunuch had stayed in a window recess, monitoring the progress of the a.s.sault by the sounds filtering into the hall. "My lady!" he called out suddenly. "Something is happening!" Before anyone could stop him, he unlatched the shutters, peering out into the dark. And then he flung the shutters wide.

By now they all could hear the screams. Baldwin hastened to the window. "The mob is being dispersed by men on horseback, madame! G.o.d has heard our prayers!"

The crowd scattered as knights rode into their midst. The courtyard was soon cleared of all but the riders and the crumpled bodies of those who'd been too slow or too stubborn. Having come so close to death, Constance was hesitant to believe deliverance was at hand, not until she saw for herself. Kneeling on the window seat, she watched as the last of the rioters fled. But she had no time to savor her reprieve, for it was then that she recognized the man in command of the knights. As if feeling her eyes upon him, he glanced her way, and at once acknowledged her with a gallant gesture only slightly spoiled by the bloodied sword in his hand.

"Dear G.o.d," Constance whispered, sitting back in the window seat. Martina was beside her now and when she asked who he was, Constance managed a faint, mirthless smile. "His name is Elias of Gesualdo, and he is both my salvation and my downfall. He arrived just in time to spare our lives, but on the morrow, he will deliver me into the hands of his uncle-Tancred of Lecce."

The following four months were difficult ones for Constance. She knew Tancred well enough to be sure she'd be treated kindly, and she was. Tancred and his queen, Sybilla, acted as if she were an honored guest rather than a prisoner, albeit one under constant discreet surveillance. But she found it humiliating to be utterly dependent upon the mercy of the man who'd usurped her throne, and she could not help contrasting her barrenness with Sybilla's fecundity, mother to two sons and three daughters. She was even more mortified when Heinrich adamantly refused to make any concessions in order to gain her freedom. It was not to be her husband who eventually pried open the door of her gilded prison. Pope Celestine agreed to give Tancred what he most wanted-papal recognition of his kingship-but in return he wanted Constance transferred to his custody. Tancred reluctantly agreed, and on a January day in 1192, Constance found herself riding toward Rome in the company of three cardinals and an armed escort.

She'd not find freedom in Rome, for the Pope saw her as a valuable hostage in his dealings with Heinrich, but at least she'd not be living in the same palace with Tancred and his queen. And a prolonged stay in Rome was not entirely unwelcome, for she was not eager to be reunited with the man who'd put her in such peril and then done nothing to rescue her from a predicament of his own making.

The cardinals seemed uncomfortable with their role as gaolers and set a pace that would be easy for Constance and her ladies. There were only three now, Adela, Hildegund, and Dame Martina, for her Sicilian attendants had chosen to remain in their homeland, and after the horror of Salerno, Constance could not blame them. They'd been on the road for several hours when Constance saw their scout galloping back toward their party, his expression grim. Nudging her mare forward, she joined the cardinals as they conferred with him. As she reined in beside them, they forced smiles, explaining that there was a band of suspicious-looking men up ahead who might well be bandits. They thought it best to turn aside and avoid a confrontation.

Constance agreed blandly that it was indeed best, her face giving away nothing. They had forgotten that Latin was one of the official languages of Sicily, and while she was not as fluent as Heinrich, she'd caught two words in the conversation that had ended abruptly as she came within earshot-praesidium imperatoris. It was not bandits they feared. The men up ahead were members of Heinrich's elite imperial guard.

Constance did not know how they happened to be here, but it did not matter. Dropping back beside her women, she told them softly to be ready to act when she did. She could see the riders for herself now in the distance. When the cardinals and their men veered off the main road onto a dirt lane that led away from the Liri River, Constance followed. Waiting until the guard riding at her side moved ahead of her mare, she suddenly brought her whip down upon the horse's haunches. The startled animal shot forward as if launched by a crossbow, and she was already yards away before the cardinals and their escort realized what had happened. She heard shouting and glanced back to see that several of the cardinals' men were in pursuit, their stallions swift enough to outrun her mare. But by then the imperial guards were riding toward her. Pulling back the hood of her mantle so there'd be no doubt, she cried out, "I am your empress. I put myself under your protection."

The cardinals did their best, angrily warning the Germans that they'd bring the wrath of the Holy Father down upon their heads if they interfered, insisting that the empress was in the custody of the Pope. The imperial guards merely laughed at them. Constance and her ladies were soon riding away with their new protectors, the knights thrilled to have recovered such a prize, knowing that their fortunes were made. Constance's women were elated, too. But while Constance felt a grim sense of satisfaction, she did not share their jubilation. She was still a hostage. Even an imperial crown did not change that.

Two years after Constance's fortuitous encounter with Heinrich's imperial guards, Tancred was dying in his palace at Palermo. His was a bitter end, for his nineteen-year-old son had died suddenly in December, leaving a four-year-old boy as his heir, and he knew fear of the Holy Roman emperor would prevail over loyalty to a child. Upon learning of Tancred's death, Heinrich led an army across the Alps into Italy once again.

Upon their May arrival in Milan, Constance had gone to bed, saying she must rest before the evening's feast given in their honor by the Bishop of Milan. Adela had been concerned about her mistress for some weeks, but this open acknowledgment of fatigue, so unlike Constance, sent her searching for Dame Martina. Once they'd found a private corner safe from eavesdroppers, she confessed that she feared the empress was ailing. Martina was not surprised, for she, too, had noticed Constance's flagging appet.i.te, exhaustion, and pallor.

"I've spoken to her," she admitted, "but she insists she is well. I fear that her downcast spirits are affecting her health ..." She let her words trail off, sure that Adela would understand. They both knew Constance was troubled by what the future held for Sicily and its people. She'd not said as much, but there was no need to put her unspoken fears into words, for they knew the man she'd married. "I will speak with her again after the revelries tonight," she promised, and Adela had to be content with that.

When Adela returned to Constance's chamber, she was relieved to find the empress up and dressing, for that made it easier to believe she was not ill, merely tired. Once she was ready to descend to the great hall where Heinrich and the Bishop of Milan awaited her, her ladies exclaimed over the beauty of her gown, brocaded silk the color of a Sicilian sunrise, and the jewelry that was worth a king's ransom, but Constance felt like a richly wrapped gift that was empty inside.

Heinrich was waiting impatiently. "You're late," he murmured as she slipped her arm through his. They'd had one of the worst quarrels of their marriage a fortnight ago and the strain still showed. They'd patched up a peace, were civil both in public and private, but nothing had changed. They were still at odds over Salerno. Constance agreed that the Salernitans deserved punishment. She'd have been satisfied with razing the town walls and imposing a heavy fine upon its inhabitants, for they'd acted out of terror, not treachery. Heinrich saw it differently, saying they owed him a blood debt and he meant to collect it. Constance thought that his implacable hatred toward the men and women of Salerno was a fire fed by his awareness that he'd made a great mistake, a mistake he would never acknowledge. But despite her anger, she'd not reached for that weapon, knowing it would rebound back upon her. Glancing at him now from the corner of her eye, she felt a flicker of weary resentment, and then summoned up a smile for the man approaching them.

She'd met Bishop Milo two years ago at Lodi and it was easy enough to draw upon those memories for polite conversation. She was accustomed to making such social small talk. This time it would be different, though. She'd barely had a chance to acknowledge his flowery greeting when the ground seemed to shift under her feet, as if she were suddenly on the deck of a ship. She started to say she needed to sit, but it was too late. She was already spiraling down into the dark.

Constance settled back against the pillows, watching as Martina inspected a gla.s.s vial of her urine. She'd asked no questions during the doctor's examination, not sure she wanted the answers, for she'd suspected for some time that she might be seriously ill. She was about to ask for wine when the door opened and her husband entered, followed by a second man whose appearance, uninvited, in the empress's quarters shocked her ladies.

"I want my physician to examine you," Heinrich announced without preamble. "You are obviously ill and need care that this woman cannot provide."

Constance sat up in bed. "'This woman' is a licensed physician, Heinrich. I want her to attend me." Unable to resist a small jab, she added, "She studied in Salerno and was with me during the a.s.sault upon the palace, where she showed both courage and loyalty. I trust her judgment."

He mustered up a smile that never reached his eyes. "I am sure she is competent for womanly ailments. Nonetheless, I want Master Conrad to take over your treatment. I must insist, my dear, for your health is very important to me."

That, Constance did not doubt; it would be awkward for him if she were to die before he could be crowned King of Sicily, for then he'd have no claim to the throne other than right of conquest. "No," she said flatly, and saw a muscle twitch in his cheek as his eyes narrowed. But Martina chose that moment to intervene.

"Whilst I am gratified by the empress's faith in my abilities," she said smoothly, "I am sure Master Conrad is a physician of renown. But there is no need for another opinion. I already know what caused the empress to faint."

Heinrich did not bother to mask his skepticism. "Do you, indeed?"

Martina regarded him calmly. "I do. The empress is with child."

Constance gasped, her eyes widening. Heinrich was no less stunned. Reaching out, he grasped Martina's arm. "Are you sure? G.o.d save you if you lie!"

"Heinrich!" Constance's protest went unheeded. Martina met Heinrich's eyes without flinching, and after a moment he released his hold.

"I am very sure," Martina said confidently, and this time she directed her words at Constance. "By my reckoning, you will be a mother ere the year is out."

Constance lay back, closing her eyes. When she opened them again, Heinrich was leaning over the bed. "You must rest now," he said. "You can do nothing that might put the baby at risk."

"You will have to continue on without me, Heinrich, for I must travel very slowly." He agreed so readily that she realized that she had leverage now, for the first time in their marriage. He leaned over still farther, his lips brushing her cheek, and when he straightened, he told Martina that his wife was to have whatever she wanted and her commands were to be obeyed straightaway, as if they came from his own mouth. Beckoning to Master Conrad, who'd been shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, he started toward the door. There he paused and, looking back at Constance, he laughed, a sound so rare that the women all started, as if hearing thunder in a clear, cloudless sky.

"G.o.d has indeed blessed me," he said exultantly. "Who can doubt now that my victory in Sicily is ordained?"

As soon as the door closed behind him, Constance reached out her hand to Martina, their fingers entwining. "Are you sure?" She was echoing Heinrich's words, but his had been a threat; hers were both a plea and a prayer.

"I am indeed sure, my lady. You told me your last flux was in March. Did you never think ...?"

"No ... my fluxes have been irregular the last year or two. I thought ... I feared I might be reaching that age when a woman could no longer conceive." It was more than that, though. She'd not thought she might be pregnant because she no longer had hope.

Adela was weeping, calling her "my lamb" as if she were back in the nursery. Hildegund had dropped to her knees, giving thanks to the Almighty, and Katerina, the youngest of her ladies, was dancing around the chamber, as light on her feet as a windblown leaf. Constance wanted to weep and pray and dance, too. Instead, she laughed, the laughter of the carefree girl she'd once been, back in the days of her youth when her world had been filled with tropical sunlight and she'd never imagined the fate that was to be hers-exile in a frigid foreign land and a marriage that was as barren as her womb.

Dismissing the others to return to the festivities, for she wanted only Adela and Martina with her now, she placed her hand upon her belly, trying to envision the tiny ent.i.ty that now shared her body. So great was her joy that she could at last speak the truth. "I'd not celebrated Tancred's death," she confided. "I could not, for I knew what it meant for Sicily. It would become merely another appendage of the Holy Roman Empire, its riches plundered, its independence gone, and its very ident.i.ty lost. But now ... now it will pa.s.s to my son. He will rule Sicily as my father and nephew did. He will be more than its king. He will be its savior."

At that, Adela began to weep in earnest and Martina found herself smiling through tears. "You ought to at least consider, madame, that you may have a daughter."

Constance laughed again. "And I would have welcomed one, Martina. But this child will be a boy. The Almighty has blessed us with a miracle. How else could I become pregnant in my forty-first year after a marriage of eight barren years? It is G.o.d's Will that I give birth to a son."

Despite her euphoria, Constance was well aware that the odds were not in her favor; at her age, having a first child posed considerable risks, with miscarriage and stillbirth very real dangers. She chose to pa.s.s the most perilous months of her pregnancy at a Benedictine nunnery in Meda, north of Milan, and when she did resume her travels, it was done in easy stages. She had selected the Italian town of Jesi for her lying-in. Located on the crest of a hill overlooking the Esino River, it had fortified walls and was friendly to the Holy Roman Empire; Heinrich had provided her with his imperial guards, but Constance was taking no chances of another Salerno.

Although she'd been spared much of the early morning nausea that so many women endured, her pregnancy was not an easy one. Her ankles and feet were badly swollen, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s very sore and tender, and she was exhausted all the time, suffering backaches, heartburn, breathlessness, and sudden mood swings. But some of her anxiety eased upon her arrival in Jesi, for Martina a.s.sured her she was less likely to miscarry in the last months. She was heartened, too, by the friendliness of Jesi's citizens, who seemed genuinely pleased that she'd chosen to have her baby in their town, and as November slid into December, she was calmer than at any time in her pregnancy.

Heinrich's army had encountered little resistance, and the surrender of Naples in August caused a widespread defection from Tancred's embattled queen and young son. Constance was troubled to learn of the b.l.o.o.d.y vengeance Heinrich had wreaked upon Salerno in September, but she heeded Martina's admonition that too much distress might harm her baby and tried to put from her mind images of burning houses, bodies, grieving widows, and terrified children. In November, she was delighted by the arrival of Baldwin, Michael, and several of her household knights. When Heinrich took Salerno, they'd been freed from captivity and he sent them on to Jesi. Constance joked to Martina that her marriage would have been much happier had she only been pregnant the entire time; by now they were far more than physician and patient, sharing the rigors of her pregnancy as they'd shared the dangers in Salerno.

In December, Constance learned that Heinrich had been admitted into Palermo and Sybilla had yielded upon his promise that her family would be safe and her son allowed to inherit Tancred's lands in Lecce. Constance could not help feeling some sympathy for Sybilla and she was gladdened by the surprising leniency of Heinrich's terms. She was staying in the Bishop of Jesi's palace, and they celebrated Heinrich's upcoming coronation with as lavish a feast as Advent allowed. Later that day, she was tempted by the mild weather to venture out into the gardens.

Accompanied by Hildegund and Katerina, she was seated in a trellised arbor when there was a commotion at the end of the garden and several young men trooped in, tossing a pig's-bladder ball back and forth. Constance recognized them-one of the bishop's clerks and two of Heinrich's household knights, who'd been entrusted to bring her word of his triumph. Setting down her embroidery, she smiled at their tomfoolery, thinking that one day it would be her son playing camp ball with his friends.

"The emperor has been truly blessed by G.o.d this year." Constance could no longer see them, but she knew their voices. This speaker was Pietro, the clerk, who went on to ask rhetorically how many men gained a crown and an heir in one year. "G.o.d grant," he added piously, "that the empress will birth a son." There was a burst of laughter from Heinrich's knights, and when Pietro spoke again, he sounded puzzled. "Why do you laugh? It is in the Almighty's Hands, after all."

"You truly are an innocent." This voice was Johann's, the older of the knights. "Do you really think that the emperor would go to so much trouble to secure an heir and then present the world with a girl? When pigs fly!"

Constance's head came up sharply, and she raised a hand for silence when Katerina would have spoken. "I do not understand your meaning," Pietro said, and now there was a note of wariness in his voice.

"Yes, you do. You are just loath to say it aloud. After eight years, Lord Heinrich well knew he was accursed with a barren wife. Then, lo and behold, this miraculous pregnancy. Why do you think the empress chose this G.o.dforsaken town, truly at the back of beyond, for her lying-in? It would have been much harder in Naples or Palermo, too many suspicious eyes. Here it will be easy. Word will spread that her labor pangs have begun, and under cover of night the babe will be smuggled in-mayhap one of Heinrich's by-blows-and then the church bells will peal out joyfully the news that the emperor has a robust, healthy son."

Constance caught her breath, her hand clenching around the embroidery; she never even felt the needle jabbing into her palm. Katerina half rose, but subsided when Hildegund put a restraining hand on her arm.

"Clearly you had too much wine at dinner," Pietro said coldly, which set off more laughter from the young knights. By now Constance was on her feet. As she emerged from the arbor, Pietro saw her first and made a deep obeisance. "Madame!"

The blood drained from Johann's face, leaving him whiter than a corpse candle. "Ma-madame," he stuttered, "I-I am so very sorry! It was but a jest. As-as Pietro said, I'd quaffed too much wine." His words were slurring in his haste to get them said, his voice high-pitched and tremulous. "Truly, I had to be in my cups to make such a vile joke ..."

Constance's own voice was like ice, if ice could burn. "I wonder if my lord husband will find your jest as amusing as you do."

Johann made a strangled sound, then fell to his knees. "Madame ... please," he entreated, "please ... I beg of you, do not tell him ..."

Constance stared down at him until he began to sob, and then turned and walked away. Johann crumpled to the ground, Pietro and the other knight still frozen where they stood. Hildegund glared at the weeping knight, then hurried after Constance, with Katerina right behind her. "Will she tell the emperor?" she whispered, feeling a twinge of unwelcome pity for Johann's stark terror.

Hildegund shook her head. "I think not," she said, very low, and then spat, "d.a.m.n that misbegotten, callow lackwit to eternal d.a.m.nation for this! Of all things for our lady to hear as her time grows nigh ..."

"My lamb, what does it matter what a fool like that thinks?"

Constance paid no heed. She'd been pacing back and forth, seething, showing a command of curses that her women did not know she'd possessed. But when she lost color and began to pant, Martina put an arm around her shoulders and steered her toward a chair. Coming back a few moments later with a wine cup, she put it in Constance's hand. "Drink this, my lady. It will calm your nerves. Adela is right: you are upsetting yourself for naught. Surely you knew there would be mean-spirited talk like this, men eager to believe the worst of the emperor?"

Constance set the cup down so abruptly that wine splashed onto her sleeve. "Of course I knew that, Martina! Heinrich has more enemies than Rome has priests. But do you not see? These were his own knights, men sworn to die for him if need be. If even they doubt my pregnancy ..."

Adela knelt by the chair, wincing as her old bones protested. "It does not matter," she repeated stoutly. "The chattering of magpies, no more than that."

Constance's outrage had given way now to despair. "It does matter! My son will come into this world under a shadow, under suspicion. People will not believe he is truly the flesh of my flesh, the rightful heir to the Sicilian crown. He will have to fight his entire life against calumnies and slander. Rebels can claim it as a pretext for rising up against him. A hostile Pope might well declare him illegitimate. He will never be free of the whispers, the doubts ..." She closed her eyes, tears beginning to seep through her lashes. "What if he comes to believe it himself ...?"

Adela began to weep, too. Martina reached for Constance's arm and gently but firmly propelled her to her feet. "As I said, this serves for naught. Even if you are right and your fears are justified, there is nothing you can do to disprove the gossip. Now I want you to lie down and get some rest. You must think of your baby's welfare whilst he is in your womb, not what he might face in years to come."

Constance did not argue; let them put her to bed. But she did not sleep, lying awake as the sky darkened and then slowly began to streak with light again, hearing Johann's voice as he mocked the very idea that Heinrich's aging, barren wife could conceive.

Baldwin was uneasy, for it was not fitting that he be summoned to his lady's private chamber; he was sure Heinrich would not approve. "You sent for me, Madame?" he asked, trying to conceal his dismay at his empress's haggard, ashen appearance.

"I have a task for you, Sir Baldwin." Constance was sitting in a chair, her hands so tightly clasped that her ring was digging into her flesh. "I want you to set up a pavilion in the piazza. And then I want you to send men into the streets, telling the people that I shall have my lying-in there, in that tent, and the matrons and maidens of Jesi are invited to attend the birth of my child."

Baldwin's jaw dropped; for the life of him, he could think of nothing to say. But Constance's women were not speechless and they burst into scandalized protest. She heard them out and then told Baldwin to see that her command was obeyed. He'd seen this expression on her face once before, as she was about to step out onto that Salerno balcony, and he knelt, kissing her hand. "It will be done, madame."

Adela, Hildegund, and Katerina had subsided, staring at her in shocked silence. Martina leaned over the chair, murmuring, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Constance's breath hissed through her teeth. "Christ on the Cross, Martina! Of course I do not want to do this!" Raising her head then, she said, "But I will do it! I will do it for my son."

On the day after Christmas, the piazza was as crowded as if it were a market day. There was a festive atmosphere, for the townsmen knew they were witnessing something extraordinary-at least their wives were. Occasionally one of them would emerge from the tent to report that all was going as it ought and then disappear back inside. The men joked and gossiped and wagered upon the s.e.x of the child struggling to be born. Within the tent, the mood was quite different. At first, the women of Jesi had been excited, whispering among themselves, feeling like spectators at a Christmas play. But almost all of them had their own experiences in the birthing chamber, had endured what Constance was suffering now, and as they watched her writhe on the birthing stool, her skin damp with perspiration, her face contorted with pain, they began to identify with her, to forget that she was an empress, highborn and wealthy and privileged beyond their wildest dreams. They'd been honored to bear witness to such a historic event. Now they found themselves cheering her on as if she were one of them, for they were all daughters of Eve and, when it came to childbirth, sisters under the skin.

Martina was consulting with two of the town's midwives, their voices low, their faces intent. Adela was coaxing Constance to swallow a spoonful of honey, saying it would give her strength, and she forced herself to take it upon her tongue. She knew why they were so concerned. When her waters had broken, they told her it meant the birth was nigh, yet her pains continued, growing more severe, and it did not seem to her that any progress was being made. "I want Martina," she mumbled, and when the physician hastened back to her side, she caught the other woman's wrist. "Remember ... if you cannot save us both, save the child ..." Her words were faint and fading, but her eyes blazed so fiercely that Martina could not look away. "Promise ..." she insisted, "... promise," and the other woman nodded, not trusting her voice.

Time had no meaning anymore for Constance; there was no world beyond the stifling confines of this tent. They gave her wine mixed with bark of ca.s.sia fistula, lifted her stained chemise to ma.s.sage her belly, anointed her female parts with hot thyme oil, and when she continued to struggle, some of the women slipped away to pray for her in the church close by the piazza. But Martina kept insisting that it would be soon now, that her womb was dilating, holding out hope like a candle to banish the dark, and after an eternity Constance heard her cry out that she could see the baby's head. She bore down one more time and her child's shoulders were free. "Again," Martina urged, and then a little body, skin red and puckered, slid out in a gush of blood and mucus, into the midwife's waiting hands.

Constance sagged back, holding her breath until she heard it, the soft mewing sound that proved her baby lived. Martina's smile was as radiant as a sunrise. "A man-child, Madame! You have a son!"

"Let me have him ..." Constance said feebly. There was so much still to be done. The naval cord must be tied and cut. The baby must be cleaned and rubbed with salt before being swaddled. The afterbirth must be expelled and then buried so as not to attract demons. But Martina knew that all could wait. Taking the baby, she placed him in his mother's arms, and as they watched Constance hold her son for the first time, few of the women had dry eyes.

When word spread six days later that the empress would be displaying her son in public, the piazza was thronged hours before she was to make her appearance. The men had heard their women's stories of the birth and were eager to see the miracle infant for themselves; he was a native of Jesi, after all, they joked, one of their own. The crowd parted as Constance's litter entered the square, and they applauded politely as she was a.s.sisted to the ground, moved slowly toward the waiting chair. Once she was seated, she signaled and Martina handed her a small, bundled form. Constance drew back the blanket, revealing a head of feathery, reddish hair. As the infant waved his tiny fists, she held him up for all to see. "My son, Frederick," she said, loudly and clearly, "who will one day be King of Sicily."

They applauded again and smiled when Frederick let out a sudden, l.u.s.ty cry. Constance smiled, too. "I think he is hungry," she said, and the mothers in the crowd nodded knowingly, looking around for the wet nurse; highborn ladies like Constance did not suckle their own babies. They were taken aback by what happened next. The empress's ladies came forward, temporarily blocking the crowd's view. When they stepped aside, a gasp swept the crowd, for Constance had opened her mantle, adjusted her bodice, and begun to nurse her son. When the townspeople realized what she was doing-offering final, indisputable, public proof that this was a child of her body, her flesh and blood-they began to cheer loudly. Even those who were hostile to Constance's German husband joined in, for courage deserved to be acknowledged, to be honored, and they all knew they were watching an act of defiant bravery, the ultimate expression of a mother's love.

Author's Note: Constance was obviously a courageous woman, but was she also a dangerous one? The events following Frederick's birth give us our answer. Heinrich's generous peace terms had been bait for a trap. He'd shown his hand during his Christmas coronation by having the bodies of Tancred and his son dragged from their royal tombs. Four days later, he claimed to discover a plot against him and ordered that Sybilla, her children, and the leading Sicilian lords be arrested and taken to Germany. Sybilla and her daughters eventually escaped, but her five-year-old son died soon after being sent to a monastery, said to have been blinded and castrated before his death. Heinrich's heavy-handed rule provoked a genuine rebellion in 1197, and there is some evidence that Constance was involved in the conspiracy. Heinrich certainly thought so, for he forced her to watch as he executed the ringleader by having a red-hot crown nailed to his head. But in September 1197, Heinrich died unexpectedly at Messina. Constance at once took control of the government, surrounded herself with Sicilian advisers, and expelled all the Germans. But she would survive Heinrich by barely a year, in which she worked feverishly to protect her son. She had him crowned and then formed an alliance with the new Pope, Innocent III, naming him as Frederick's guardian before her death in November 1198 at age forty-four. Frederick would prove to be one of the most brilliant, controversial, and remarkable rulers of the Middle Ages-King of Sicily, Holy Roman Emperor, even King of Jerusalem. And Constance? Dante placed her in Paradise.

Lev Grossman A novelist and journalist, Lev Grossman is a senior writer and book critic for Time and coauthor of the TIME.com blog TechLand. His quirky 2009 fantasy novel The Magicians was a phenomenal international sensation, and landed on the New York Times Best Seller list as well as being named a New Yorker Best Book of 2009, and its sequel, The Magician King, published in 2011, has enjoyed similar acclaim. Grossman's other books include the novels Warp and Codex. He lives in Brooklyn, New York, and maintains a website at levgrossman.com.

Here he takes us to an ancient, venerable school for wizards, one haunted by a thousand age-old traditions as well as spirits of a different kind, to show us that even the most innocent of pranks can end up having dangerous and even deadly consequences.

THE GIRL IN THE MIRROR.

You could say it all started out as an innocent prank, but that wouldn't strictly be true. It wasn't that innocent. It was just that Wharton was behaving badly, and in the judgment of the League he had to be punished for it. Then maybe he would cut it out, or behave a little less badly, or at the very least the League would have the satisfaction of having caused Wharton to suffer, and that counted for something. A lot really.

You couldn't call it innocent. But you had to admit it was pretty understandable. And anyway, is there really any such thing as an innocent prank?