“I’ve heard from my friend, the Archbishop of Cologne,” he said abruptly. “You’ll not like what I’m about to tell you, Hubert. No man of honor would. Heinrich has been spilling enough Sicilian blood to flood the entire kingdom. He had Tancred’s brother-in-law, the Count of Acerra, dragged through the city behind a horse, then hung upside down. It took him two days to die. He had others flung into the sea or flayed alive. And then he exacted vengeance upon the men he’d imprisoned at Trifels Castle after his coronation. He had Admiral Margaritis and the brother of the Archbishop of Salerno blinded and the counts of Marsico and Carinola put to death.”
Hubert frowned. “That is very unjust, for they could have played no role in the rebellion; they’ve been his prisoners for nigh on three years.”
“You’ve not heard the worst of it yet. He ordered Tancred’s young son blinded and castrated, and the boy—who was about seven—died as a result of it.”
Hubert shook his head slowly and then made the sign of the cross. “The Devil truly walks amongst us.”
Richard was gazing broodingly into the depths of his wine cup. “There were times during my German captivity when I wondered if Heinrich was mad. But instead of terrifying the Sicilians into submission, Heinrich’s brutal measures incited them against him and a new conspiracy was formed this spring. Heinrich was to be ambushed whilst out hunting and slain. But he was warned in time and fled to Messina. The rebels were defeated in the field and Catania was taken by assault. Heinrich then took a bloody revenge upon the conspirators, having many of them executed in extremely painful ways. The most gruesome fate he saved for Jordan Lapin, the Count of Bouvino, who was killed by having a crown nailed to his head.”
Hubert had met some of these men during their stay in Sicily, and even if he did not consider them friends, he did not think they deserved this. “A man who could devise such a barbaric punishment is one who enjoys inflicting pain. You were lucky, Richard, all things considered.”
“The story is not done yet, Hubert. Adolf says that Constance was involved with the conspirators.”
The archbishop’s jaw dropped. “Blessed Mother of God! Can that be true?”
Richard shrugged. “According to Adolf, she and Heinrich quarreled bitterly after he executed the Count of Acerra and so many others, then mutilated Tancred’s son. Few women would not have been horrified by that. And at least one of the men killed was kin to her. Adolf even claims that the Pope knew of the conspiracy and approved, or at least gave tacit approval by his silence. As for Constance, whether her involvement is true or not, Heinrich apparently believed it. He forced her to attend the execution of Jordan Lapin, who was also her kinsman, and to watch as the crown was nailed to his head.”
“Jesu!” Hubert was a worldly churchman, a politician, a seasoned soldier, and he was not easily shaken by evidence of mankind’s capacity for cruelty. But he was appalled by what he’d just learned of life in the once-peaceful kingdom of Sicily. “Does Lady Joanna know of this? I remember how fond she was of the empress.”
“I have not told her yet. Her baby is due this month and I thought it best to wait, for she’d be bound to fear for Constance’s future. Heinrich has his heir now, so he no longer needs Constance to legitimize his claim to the Sicilian throne. He could rule through Friedrich, who is not yet three.”
Richard lapsed into another brooding silence, thinking of his sister’s distress when she learned of Constance’s peril, thinking of Tancred and his doomed little lad, remembering Heinrich’s smug smile when he’d had to kneel in the great hall at Mainz and do homage to the German emperor. “What I do not understand,” he said, with some bitterness, “is why the Church does not do more to rein this man in. He was implicated in the murder of the Bishop of Liege. He has held the Archbishop of Salerno prisoner at Trifels for nigh on three years. The Bishop of Catania was one of those he ordered blinded. Why does the Church not defend its own?”
Hubert had no answer for him, not one that did not compromise his rank as the head of the English Church. Celestine was too fearful to challenge the German emperor openly, remembering when Heinrich’s father had sent troops into Rome, forcing a Pope into French exile. But Hubert did not think it seemly for a prelate to speak disrespectfully of the Holy Father, however lacking he might be. Reminding himself that his first loyalty must now be to the Church, not the English king, he offered a perfunctory defense of the elderly Pope. “He has protested those outrages in the strongest language possible. But he is an old man, past ninety. . . .”
“A pity popes do not retire,” Richard said caustically. “Whilst I was in Germany, the Archbishop of Cologne did just that, believing himself too old and enfeebled to fulfill his duties, thus opening the door for his nephew Adolf to take his place. But popes cling to power the way barnacles cling to a ship’s hull, so I suppose we can only hope that the Almighty calls that spineless old man home soon.” It had occurred to him that the indecisive Celestine might take the easy way and find against André and Denise rather than overrule one of his own archbishops.
“The Pope did find in your favor, though, in your case against the Archbishop of Rouen,” Hubert said mildly. This talk of the papacy had reminded him of an unpleasant duty that lay ahead of him, and he reluctantly asked if he could see the king in private.