CHAPTER 153: AN ENVOY FROM THE HALLS OF SAINT PETER

The Lateran Palace stood heavy in the spring sun, its courtyards thrumming with the slow bustle of servants and guards.

While within its cool marble halls the College of Cardinals gathered in solemn array.

Tapestries of Christ’s passion hung above them, their woven faces watching as Pope John XIX sat enthroned at the head of the chamber.

The letter of King Cnut of England, Denmark, and Norway laid open upon a gilded stand before him.

The Pope’s fingers traced the parchment’s edges, his brows drawn in thought.

"Brothers," John began, his voice measured,

"we have received from the northern king a missive both urgent and troubling. King Cnut appeals to us as Vicar of Christ to condemn Duncan of Alba for treachery, and to sanction his claim of retribution. Yet the tale is knotted with contradictions. The Scots claim they were set upon without provocation. And now..."

He gestured toward the paper. "Now there are whispers of heathen allies riding beneath Duncan’s banner, men from the outer seas, men of the White Wolf."

A low murmur passed through the gathered clergy. Cardinal Crescentius, a Roman noble of advanced years, leaned upon his staff and scowled.

"If the Scot courts the heathen against his fellow Christian, he commits a grave scandal. No king, however wronged, should make a pact with Odin’s sons. The precedent would tear Christendom apart."

But Cardinal Odilo of Cluny, his thin monk’s face serene, folded his hands within his sleeves.

"And yet, Your Holiness, truth remains truth. If it was Cnut’s men who first broke the peace, laying waste to villages along Duncan’s frontier, then the Scot is not wholly blameworthy for seeking aid wherever it might be found. Would we have him submit meekly to plunder for the sake of keeping holy appearances?"

The Pope’s gaze shifted between them.

"We must weigh not only the sin, but the cure. If I condemn Duncan outright, I drive him deeper into pagan arms. If I excuse him, I teach all Christian kings that alliances with heathens may be tolerated if expedient." He sighed a long breath. "This is the needle we must thread."

Another voice ros, Cardinal Benedict of Porto, sharp-eyed and quick of tongue.

"Then perhaps we must act as Solomon, Holiness. We must cut through the deceit on both sides. Summon Duncan and Cnut alike to our judgment. Let them lay their cases before the See. By demanding their presence, we remind all Christendom that wars are not settled by raids and counter-raids, but by the Church’s arbitration."

Crescentius snorted.

"And you think either king will come trotting to Rome like an obedient squire? Duncan barely clings to his throne. Cnut sits upon three. Shall they abandon their crowns to argue in our halls while their enemies wait at their gates? No, they will ignore us, and our summons will appear a weakness."

A silence fell, heavy with the weight of truth in his words. The Pope drummed his fingers lightly on the arm of his chair.

Then Cardinal Theobald, a learned man from Lorraine, spoke with cautious tone.

"If not summons, then envoys. A legate, armed with our authority, to cross the Alps and bring God’s peace to the isles. He may remind Cnut that his empire, mighty as it is, rests upon fragile strands. He may remind Duncan that an alliance with pagans endangers his soul. Neither king will wish to be cast as the foe of Rome."

The Pope inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the wisdom.

"Yet who could we send? The journey is perilous; the politics treacherous. An envoy must be strong enough to command respect, but not so proud as to invite insult."

At this, Odilo lifted his eyes.

"Send one of us not bound to worldly faction. A man of prayer, whose name is known for piety rather than ambition. Perhaps... Hildebrand of Savelli? Or Gerard of Florence?"

Crescentius waved his hand.

"Too young, too mild. Cnut is a conqueror; Duncan a warrior. They will not heed lambs. Better to send a wolf in shepherd’s clothing, one who knows the arts of kingship. Perhaps your brother, Holiness?"

At this barb, the Pope stiffened. For John XIX’s papacy had often been criticized as worldly, steeped in the interests of his Tusculan family.

To dispatch one of his kin would indeed appear partial.

"No," John said firmly. "This mission must be above reproach. Let it be known as an act for the unity of Christendom, not for the profit of a clan."

The chamber settled, and again the Pope stared down at the parchment. He began to read aloud, his Latin voice ringing:

"’The Scots, faithless and perfidious, have given harbor to the wolves of the north, who burn churches and mock the cross. I, Cnut, defender of Christendom, demand your judgment upon their king, lest all Christian kings be betrayed by heathen allies.’"

His voice trailed, and the Pope shook his head.

"And yet it was his own earls who first spilled blood on the Scottish marches. Can he not see that he is no less guilty than his foe?"

"It is pride, Holiness," Theobald replied softly. "A king will confess his sins to his priest, but rarely to his enemies."

John set down the parchment and leaned back in his chair.

For a time, silence reigned save for the shuffle of sandals on stone and the faint echo of distant chanting from the basilica beyond.

At last, the Pope spoke.

"This quarrel cannot be left to fester. If Duncan grows comfortable with heathen allies, we risk the return of old horrors, raids upon monasteries, burnt relics, the terror of the northmen renewed. It is already bad enough we have to deal with this white wolf and his Great Northern Empire. If the Christians give him a foothold in their own realms. We will never be rid of them.

The pope tapped his fingers on his armrest once more. Breaking the otherwise deafening silence that would have snuffed any sound of life out of the room in that moment.

"If Cnut triumphs unchecked, he becomes as mighty as Charlemagne, with no balance to temper him. Christendom must have peace, and peace grounded in the authority of Peter’s chair."

He straightened, his decision crystallizing.

"We shall not condemn either king outright. Instead, we will write to both. To Cnut we say: your claim of holy war is tarnished by your own first blow. To Duncan we say: cast aside your pagan riders, or face the judgment of God. And to both, we will send a legate, to mediate, to warn, and to bind them by oath that they shall not make league with heathens against Christians. If they refuse, then the curse shall fall on them both alike."

The cardinals nodded, some with more enthusiasm than others, but the logic was undeniable. A course had been charted.

John XIX rose from his throne.

"So let it be done. Christendom will not fracture on our watch. Send word to the scribes. Tomorrow, we draft the letters. And God grant our envoy wisdom enough to tame these northern wolves."

As the assembly broke apart, whispers of unease still lingered in the air.

For all their plans, none could know whether Duncan or Cnut would heed Rome’s counsel, or whether this quarrel was already rushing toward a storm that no legate could halt.

---

The vaulted hall of Rouen’s ducal palace was filled with the smell of burning wax and the faint crackle of the hearth.

A shaft of autumn light fell across the table where Robert of Normandy sat, the waxen seal of the French king’s letter broken before him.

His Marshal, Gautier de Mortain, stood at his side, arms folded across his chest, the weight of years of campaigning etched into his weathered features.

Robert’s eyes skimmed the parchment one last time, his lips curving in a cold, humorless smile.

Then, without ceremony, he held it to the flame of a nearby candelabrum.

The fire caught quickly, curling the edges to black. Ash flaked to the table as he let it drop, burning out upon the stone.

"Tell his majesty," Robert said, voice low and iron-clad, "that I shall protect the Channel as his ancestors tasked mine with doing from the start. And that if he wishes to send a retinue to fight on Cnut’s behalf, he will have to look elsewhere. Each knight in my possession exists to guard France and her shores."

Gautier’s brows furrowed. "My lord duke, this borders upon open defiance. Robert II is your liege, and France is his crown. To spurn his summons is no light matter."

Robert leaned back, drumming his fingers once upon the armrest.

"Defiance? Nay. It is fidelity. My oath is to Normandy’s safety, and to France’s defense from the sea. Would you have me bleed my household knights upon Cnut’s quarrel in the north, while leaving the coast unwatched for raiders, or worse?" His gaze hardened. "If the king forgets why our line was given this duchy, I shall remind him."

The Marshal weighed the words carefully. "And yet, Cnut is a king anointed by Rome, and France’s ally by treaty. To abandon him may bring wrath upon us in time."

Robert rose, the light catching upon his hair, his figure tall and unbending.

"Wrath comes more swiftly from leaving Normandy unguarded. Cnut chose to raid Duncan’s lands unprovoked. Let him reap what he sowed. I shall not spill Norman blood for his folly. If France requires defense, I shall answer. If Cnut requires vengeance, let him look to his own thegns."

Gautier hesitated, then inclined his head, though not without a final protest.

"Then I shall carry your words, my lord. But know that the king may see only pride where you claim prudence."

Robert’s mouth curved in a thin, defiant smile. "So be it. Pride, prudence, call it what you will. Normandy’s duty is clear. Tell him so, Marshal. And let the ashes of his summons speak louder than any reply."

The two men stood in silence as the last ember of the letter faded into dust.