Dangerous Women (51 page)

Constance gasped, her eyes widening. Heinrich was no less stunned. Reaching out, he grasped Martina’s arm. “Are you sure? God 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.

“God 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 entity 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 identity lost. But now … now it will pass 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 God’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 pass 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 breasts 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 assured 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 bloody 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 God 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. “God 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 godforsaken 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, “Damn that misbegotten, callow lackwit to eternal damnation 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 sex 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.