******
My nephew and I were cooling of in the shade and well into our third bowl of wine and happily munching on some fresh bread and olives when we had a surprising visitor—Cardinal Bertoli wearing the cassock of a simple priest and escorted by a couple of sword-carrying men. The Church must have had spies along the river, for he showed up little more than an hour after our mooring and came straight to tavern.
Well, of course, the Church has spies about. These are dangerous times in Rome what with yet another effort by its citizens to seize control of the city from the Church and its priests. Last year when I was here to pay the Pope, there had been riots and fighting in the streets. I wonder what is happening this year. Some say it’s the summer heat.
For a second, I didn’t recognise the man in the priest’s cassock who stood in front of us with a big smile on his face.
“Antonio. Antonio. Eminence, is that you?” I said in Latin as I leapt to my feet and embraced him.
“Welcome, Thomas. Welcome to Rome. Yes, it is me.”
The Cardinal was a fine fellow and we had shared many experiences including being captured by the Venetians. He and I greeted each other as long lost brothers with hugs and cheek kisses. I introduced George as “Father George, my nephew and assistant.”
We waved at one of the tavern’s servants to bring us more drinks and moved to sit on the ground so we could talk privately in Latin under a tree on the side of the riverbank. George came with us and so did the Cardinal’s guards. Antonio was full of information and spoke freely as soon as his guards moved out of earshot.
Antonio said he had come as soon as he had heard we’d arrived because he wanted to warn us that the Pope was not happy about Phillip of France losing his armada. He became quite serious when he leaned forward and quietly told us we might be in danger despite bringing the Pope his share of this year’s prayer coins from the refugees and other passengers our galleys and transports had carried.
It was all about the Church, Antonio explained, and the fact that two German princes were claiming to be the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. One of them backed by King John claimed that Italy was part of the empire and should be ruled by the Emperor; the other backed by King Phillip said Italy was not part of the empire and agreed it should be ruled by the Pope.
“Of course, the Pope backed Phillip and the barons against John,” Antonio sniffed. “What else could he do if he wants the Church to rule both Rome and Italy as Jesus intended?”
Another reason, my friend said primly, was that Phillip and the dissident barons were agreeable to the Pope appointing England’s bishops; whereas John wanted to continue the practise of appointing them himself.
Ah, that explained it. The appointment of bishops was always a lucrative source of revenues for he who appoints them. I certainly knew that.
“It was because of John’s refusal to let the Pope appoint the bishops that caused the Pope to excommunicate John a few years earlier and support his overthrow by the barons and Phillip. But now that is not likely to happen, at least not this year, due to Phillip’s defeat at Harfleur by your brother.”
Then the rotund little cleric took a sip of wine and added, “And, of course, John made it worse by meddling in the Church’s affairs by supporting the election of the wrong German prince for emperor—one who claimed he was the King of Italy even though it rightly belongs to the Church.”
******
I was concerned, deeply concerned, by what my friend had told me and tried to make the best of it.
“Antonio, my friend, I am coming to the Pope with much more than just his share of the prayer coins from the refugees and pilgrims; I’m carrying a parchment for the Pope from King John. I think King John is offering concessions in order to be reconciled with the Pope and restored to the Church. But, of course, I don’t know if that is true or what might be in the King’s parchment.”
“Bringing an offer from King John would help your cause considerably; yes, it would, most certainly it would,” exclaimed my portly friend as he looked at me intently.
“But the Holy Father is more interested in the relics that disappeared from Constantinople when the crusaders took it, particularly Saint John’s hand and the head of Saint Paul because they mean so much to the Orthodox. He’s heard rumours that the English archers might know where they are. There are those who would have you tortured to find out if the rumours are true.” Tortured? Oh my God!
“Well, torture is not necessary for me to tell the Pope everything I know. Surely, you know that. I wasn’t there, of course, but it is true that our galleys were paid to carry the Emperor in Constantinople and some of his courtiers and priests to safety. And it’s also true that the Emperor and his men may have taken the most valuable relics with them when they fled.
“But, as I’m sure you know by now, our men were not allowed to go ashore when the cargos were unloaded at isolated spots along the Greek coast. They don’t know where the crates might have been taken after that.”
I was telling a lie, of course. I knew exactly where the relics were located and who has them—we have them in Cornwall.
After a pause, I added.
“We are loyal to the Pope so, of course, we’d be willing to help find the missing relics for him. What else could I say? But why is the Pope so interested in having the relics from Constantinople? I thought Rome already had enough bits and pieces of Saint John and Saint Paul to attract the faithful and their coins.”
Antonio’s explanation was most interesting and not at all what I expected. I said as much and, after taking a break to piss against a tree and think things over, I suggested a plan that might benefit us all. Antonio liked it immensely, and agreed to speak to the Holy Father and do his part.
Chapter Twelve
We meet with the Pope.
George and I left for the Pope’s residence early the next morning before the sun got high enough overhead to absolutely cook us. I was wearing my heavy embroidered bishop’s robe and carrying my crozier and mitre; George was wearing the plain brown robe of a simple priest.
We engaged a horse cart with a roof of woven palm branches to carry us because of the heat. We’d left early but it was already too warm to walk; it would have been unbearable wearing my robe despite the strange coolness provided by the mail shirts George and I both wore under our robes. What we weren’t wearing were our wrist knives—because I knew we’d be carefully searched before we met with the pope. We brought a guard of ten heavily armed archers instead.
Sergeant Captain Tinker had selected steady men who had never been here before to accompany us so they’d have a chance to see some of Rome beyond the riverfront taverns and whorehouses. They clattered along behind us in a horse-drawn wain and gawked and pointed at the magnificent buildings and the plazas with their ornate fountains and larger-than-life statues.
I did some pointing myself and explained to George what we were passing. “It’s a pity that the fountains are no longer working,” I told him. “They weren’t working last year either.”
******
Our arrival at the big, carved, wooden gate leading into the square in front of the Pope’s residence was expected. From here, we’d have to walk and our guards and carts would have to wait.
“Greetings, Eminence,” the officer of the guards said. “We were told to expect you. Father Pietro will take you to the Holy Father.”
Father Pietro turned out to be an unctuous and sallow-faced youth who took himself and his role quite seriously. He kissed my ring, nodded to George, and led us over the cobblestones to the big stone building where the Pope lived.
We did not go directly in to see the Pope, of course. First, we went through a door into a room where several priests and three papal guards were waiting. They searched us rather thoroughly with our hands held high. As usual, they did not reach up to search our wrists and totally ignored the linen pouch of coins I was carrying in my hand and did not put down.
Similarly, as usual, I did
not bring their failure to search our wrists to anyone’s attention. George seemed quite intrigued by the process even though I had several times described it to him. He’d never been searched before.
Immediately afterwards Father Pietro led us to another room with wooden benches along its walls, told us water and fruit would be arriving momentarily and which corner of the room to use if we needed to piss or shite, and took his leave with a graceful bow. He would, he said as he went out the door, make sure our men also received water and fruit whilst they waited for our return.
We waited for quite some time. Then Cardinal Bertoli hurried in without saying a word, gave me a great and approving nod of agreement, and motioned for us to follow him.
I hope I can remember the story I made up.
******
“Yes, that’s it exactly, Holy Father. No one could have said it better. With God’s help and your prayers the English archers may be able to find the missing relics because we carried the Orthodox priests and the crates with their relics to safety in three different galleys when Constantinople fell.
“They may be able to find where the Orthodox priests hid them because we know from the sergeant captains of our galleys where they landed the priests and how long it took them to bury the relics and return to each galley. That’s important because it means the archers know where they need to search.
“The problem, of course, is that those lands are hostile to the true church. There will likely be heavy fighting when the archers come ashore and begin searching. Our archers are always willing to fight for valuable prizes and the relics would be great prizes. But here’s the thing, Holy Father—if the archers fail to find the relics they will be content with their wounds and lost friends just as they are when they fail to take a Moorish prize; but if they find the relics they will expect to share in the prize money as provided in the company articles on which they made their marks.”
The Pope solemnly considered the problem and came up with the solution I had suggested to Bertoli—if we found the relics, we would sell them to the highest bidder to get the money necessary to pay the men—on the condition that he would then offer them as a gift to the Church.
The prince making such a grand gift, of course, would receive a similarly grand gift in exchange—he would avoid a stay in purgatory and be given great recognitions during his time on earth—such as, for example, being the only prince the Holy Father would accept as the Holy Roman Emperor or the King of England.
“Why, that’s a wonderful idea, inspired by God for sure,” I exclaimed as I crossed myself. “There is undoubtedly a good Christian prince somewhere who will pay so much that there will even be excess coins for the church.”
George never said a word, but he was wide-eyed at the exchange; he knew we already had the relics safely at Restormel. He didn’t know the half of it.
******
“Don’t say a word until we can talk privately,” I said as George and I were led back to our waiting carts and escorts.
It was already very warm and groups of pilgrims were forming up everywhere in the square to be led inside to pray. The smell from their unwashed bodies and the piss and shite in the square from the pilgrims and pedlars who had visited the Pope since the last good rain, some days ago, was overwhelming.
As we walked back to the horse carts and our men, I once again wondered if never washing or wiping the shite off your arse and clothes was really necessary to emulate Jesus who, being a God, of course, never had to do such things. I’ve never believed it myself; on the other hand, that’s what the Templars believe and they’ve become rich, haven’t they?
We found our guards lounging up against the wall of a building to catch the shade. They were talking and pointing as they watched the groups of pilgrims in the square and the pedlars and pickpockets they attracted. A young priest was standing with them. He had, as we’d been promised, provided them with several jugs of good water and bowls to drink from. We could also see that he had also brought them some fruit; there were apple cores on the ground and several of the men were still eating apples as we arrived. And, for some reason, I wondered if the apple cores were collected and given to the poor, or just left for Rome’s many rats. I didn’t ask.
George obeyed my orders and didn’t say a word until we reached our men and the waiting carts and began clattering away over the cobblestones on our way back to Sergeant Tinker’s galley.
“Uncle, I don’t understand. Don’t we have some of those relics in the coin room at Restormel?”
“Of course, we do, George, of course we do. We probably have all of them. But we don’t want anyone to know that, do we? If the Pope had known we had them, he might have held us hostage to get them or sent an army to take them.”
I continued to explain after a pause when our cart lurched over a particularly large rock in the street.
“This way, we’ll get coins for the relics and the Pope will end up with the relics. It’s a win-win situation for everyone, isn’t it?” Unless, of course, my plan works.
“But why does the Pope want more pieces of Saint John and Saint Paul if the Church already has some here in Rome?”
“Who knows? Maybe he wants to put their bodies back together for some religious reason even though I can’t think of one. But he’s a cagey one, Pope Innocent is, so he’s sure to have a good reason for wanting them; we’ll have to ask Cardinal Bertoli when we see him later today.”
After a pause I once again reminded George that it was a secret that we have the Orthodox relics from Constantinople.
“You must always remember to never tell anyone that we already have the relics, not even our own men; although, some of them undoubtedly know. It’s a deep family secret and must remain so.”
******
Cardinal Bertoli settled on to the wooden bench that evening with a sigh of relief. A moment later, he waved his hand to signal one of the tavern girls to bring him a bowl of wine and to take a bowl to each of the three papal guards who had escorted him to meet with us. I raised my hand and pointed at George and myself for another round. Then we all leaned forward to talk.
“I told the Pope your archers were so poor that your brother had to borrow money to pay his archers and sailors for the French prizes. That’s why he agreed to give great indulgences to whoever buys the relics from you and gives them to the Church. That is, of course, if you can find them.”
Then he gave me a sly look and added, “Or at least something that looks like them.” Looks like them? Is he suggesting what I think he is suggesting?
George was listening carefully as I took a big gulp of wine from the wooden bowl I’d been given by the tavern girl, and asked Antonio the question that had been perplexing us.
“I will, of course, be sending parchments to my brother and his lieutenants telling them to organise the search for the missing relics from Constantinople and get it underway as soon as possible. But we don’t understand why the Pope is willing to do so much to get them. Can you tell us?”
“Power, of course. The misguided followers of the church in Constantinople set great store in the miracles that have occurred when prayers were offered to the relics. The Pope believes it likely some or all of the Constantinople believers will return to the True Church if they believe we have the relics in Rome.
“And they will believe the relics are in Rome if one or more great princes thinks he has bought the relics from you and donated them to the Church. He’ll proudly announce it and the Pope will confirm it.” Thinks? Did he just say “thinks?” Hmm.
We spent the rest of the evening drinking wine and discussing both who might buy the relics “if the archers are able to find them” and the significantly more important question of how the coins that result from selling the relics would be divided.
“Pope Innocent himself,” Antonio proclaimed, “will send a secret parchment to each of the Princes who might be potential buyers informing them of the great opportunity to help the Church and themselves by buying the
relics from those who are searching for them in the Holy Land.”
“The parchments the Pope sends out will be written so as to encourage the potential buyers to contact you and let you know that they are willing to help pay your men if you are able to find them.”
Antonio said he could be absolutely sure that’s what the parchments would say because he himself had been ordered to scribe them for the Pope despite the great expenses he would have to bear.
As you might imagine, because each of the Pope’s parchments would have to be worded to generate the maximum amount of coins, we spent quite a bit of time discussing what the Pope’ parchments should and should not say to each prince, and even more time talking about how the resulting coins would be divided.
“His Holiness will be satisfied with the relics and my needs are modest,” Antonio told us. “Does only one coin for every ten you receive sound fair for me and three in ten for His Holiness?”
One in ten and three in ten sounded eminently fair. George beamed his approval as Antonio and I spit on our palms and shook on it.
We also discussed which princes should be informed of the Pope’s generous offer of “no purgatory” and “other more worldly benefits” for donating the relics. It was clear that Otto and Frederick, the two German princes who both claim to have been elected by their fellow princes to the throne of the Holy Roman Empire, were at the top of the list of those to receive a parchment from the Pope—they were our best hope for a large amount of coins because the Emperor needed to receive his crown from the hands of Pope in order to be recognised by the other princes as their emperor.
King Phillip of France and King John were also good prospects to buy the relics because they both wanted the throne of England. So was some Swedish prince I’d never heard of who had asked the Pope to proclaim that he owned Finland. I thought of a couple of additional people to contact but I didn’t mention them.
Sea Warriors Page 8