The legate lifted one hand and dropped it. “Have you considered what we discussed during our last visit?”
“I have.”
“It is my hope that you will consent to all three items I put to you.”
What a shocker. “Even after the invasion attempt, Pope Boniface would continue to support Philip’s claim to the Duchy of Aquitaine?” I said.
Acquasparta waved a hand dismissively. “The two issues are unrelated.”
I kept my voice mild. “So your position on the matter of prosecuting heretics in England has not changed either?”
Acquasparta’s eyes turned steely. “These are matters over which the Church has complete jurisdiction. It must be allowed to oversee the spiritual needs of the people as it sees fit.”
As I considered him, I was glad to realize—just as when I’d encountered Lee on Dover’s wall-walk—that it wasn’t anger I felt, even though I had every right to be angry. I didn’t desire revenge or retribution. I didn’t feel the need to one-up the pope. Those emotions were for my enemies and opponents. I was reminded of the time when I was fourteen, back at Castell y Bere before I knew I was my father’s son. He explained to me then that a leader had to control himself—to be cold, not hot—to mete out true justice. As this understanding renewed itself in me, resolve crystalized in my belly.
I wanted to do what was right. Threatening the pope might get me what I wanted in the short term, but it wouldn’t address the real issue—and it wasn’t me. While the heretic had turned out to be a fraud planted by Acquasparta to challenge me and allow him to meet with one of King Philip’s spies, that fact didn’t change the truth of what I’d declared to my own men in this very palace.
“Cardinal Acquasparta,” I said, “you should know that I have made Geoffrey de Geneville my ambassador to the French court. His commission is to inquire of King Philip as to the timing of the withdrawal of his claim to Aquitaine in favor of my own.”
I didn’t mention the possibility of going to war if Philip didn’t comply. Again, I wasn’t interested in threatening anyone. I was done playing games.
Puzzlement entered Acquasparta’s expression, and he gave me an oily smile. “Sire, I’m not sure—”
“I am,” I said. “As regards to the return of the funds from the taxatio, I would appreciate it if you could explain to Pope Boniface about my new and urgent need to expend those funds for the defense of England. I’m sure he will understand how the unprovoked attack on our shores by France only served to emphasize the impossibility of complying with His Holiness’s request.”
Peckham was staring at me now, his mouth open. I had Acquasparta’s attention, too. My serenity and surety felt like an extra layer of armor, and I took a sip from my goblet.
I had one last issue to address. “As to the matter of heresy, England will continue to welcome people of every faith, religion, and creed to our shores.” I gave him a slight bow. “It is the foundation of my rule, and it is thanks to you, in fact, that I am now able to articulate it.”
“How is that?” Acquasparta said, perhaps despite himself. He was looking much less contented than when I’d arrived.
“‘Give me the liberty to know, to utter, and to argue freely according to conscience, above all liberties,’” I quoted again, and as Acquasparta blinked at me, I added, “As I told my men in the aftermath of the heretic’s arrest, that right has always been inherent in their souls and in the souls of every human being on this planet, whether they knew it or not. I will not take it from them, and I will not allow anyone else to do so either. Not in any England that I rule.”
Acquasparta’s brow furrowed. “His Holiness is the head of the Church. He is the steward of Christ on earth. You cannot change that with a snap of your fingers.”
“I don’t intend to,” I said, “but in my England, every man may worship God according to his conscience.”
Peckham was staring at me, aghast.
I didn’t look at him but kept my eyes fixed on Acquasparta, whose face had paled. Then he gave a little laugh. “This is absurd—”
I inclined my head, to the exact degree Acquasparta had done when he greeted me. “I must attend to my other duties. I pray your health continues to improve, and you have my best wishes for your upcoming travels home to Italy.” I spun on my heel and headed for the door. Before I reached it, however, I turned back. “I almost forgot. If you happen to see him, please convey my regards to Martin the heretic.” I snapped my fingers. “Oh, I forgot. His friends informed me recently that his real name is Guillaume.”
Epilogue
Winchester Palace
David
—Two months later
I sat on my throne in my receiving room, waiting for the Archbishop of Canterbury to come to me. He’d appeared at the gate three minutes ago, having crossed the Thames River from Lambeth Palace, his residence in London. Carew, who’d arrived only that morning from his estates in Somerset, was even now escorting the Archbishop here. He’d sent a runner at top speed to give me fair warning first, probably more miffed than I that Peckham had shown up unannounced. I didn’t begrudge the Archbishop his little ploys. It was only fair after what I’d sprung on him at our last meeting.
I’d been receiving guests anyway, so I already wore my crown and was dressed in an ornate robe as befitted the King of England. Lili insisted that silver and dark green suited my coloring as much as blue and gold did, and she wore a gown that was the feminine twin of mine.
Her blue eyes glinted with a tinge of defiance, an emotion that I myself had been feeling ever since the victory at Hythe. King Philip had crossed the Channel to test my strength and been defeated by a motley crew of villagers. Cardinal Acquasparta had thought to test my strength by inciting the people of Canterbury to riot and been defeated by my resolve. Pope Boniface should know by now not to test me again.
But I was ready to stand my ground if he did. In fact, I couldn’t wait. The defeat of King Philip’s fleet because of the determination and will of my subjects cast a rosy glow on every act I shepherded through Parliament and every decision I made. It was the common folk who’d sent the French fleeing for their own harbors—common folk who hadn’t even done it for me. They’d done it for England—for the idea of England, which I represented, but which would exist long after I was gone.
I was prepared, in fact, to declare the Protestant Reformation right here and now. Even not knowing what Archbishop Peckham had to say to me that might inspire an impromptu trip across the Thames, I’d chosen not to clear the room. Maybe it was unwarranted bravado, but as I’d told Acquasparta back in Canterbury, I didn’t fear the pope or what he might do to me.
Callum, who’d taken up a place to my right for the audience, took a half-step closer to me. “Are you ready?” He’d just returned from his lands too.
Tomorrow would be my twenty-fourth birthday, and Thanksgiving was a week after that. My whole family was coming, in fact, and would be gathered for the first time since last year’s disastrous holiday when we lost Anna, Mom, and Marty to Avalon. I gave an inward laugh. On second thought, maybe we ought to have gathered for Christmas instead.
Smiling, I reached out to take Lili’s hand and squeezed it in reassurance before letting go again. She rarely sat beside me during these receptions, but I was glad she’d chosen to do so today. Nearly six months pregnant, she had piled her throne with cushions. Now she shifted in her seat to adjust them more comfortably.
“He’s here, Dafydd,” she said.
Sure enough, a moment later the Archbishop of Canterbury came through the archway. He hesitated on the threshold, perhaps surprised to see how many people were in the room. Archbishop Romeyn held his elbow, and I met Romeyn’s eyes for a moment. He gave me an infinitesimal nod, and a bit of the tension in my shoulders eased. After my conversation with Acquasparta, I’d sent Romeyn to Italy anyway, just to make sure Boniface knew I was serious about what I’d said.
Peckham advanced towards me. He wore white and gold
robes and his chain of office around his neck. He was dressed as formally for this occasion as I’d ever seen him, down to the funny peaked hat on his head. I was glad I’d worn my crown today. We would face each other in our official capacities, which was the only proper way to discuss a momentous missive from the pope, especially if it put my throne in jeopardy.
But then, to my surprise, Peckham’s face split into a smile, wider than the one I’d directed at Lili. I hastily rearranged my own face to one of interest, rather than the benign amusement that I’d been affecting, the better to absorb whatever was in the letter Peckham held that had made him happy. I was almost more worried now, because I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Peckham smile.
Callum gestured with one hand that Peckham should come closer. He had walked down the red carpet on Romeyn’s arm, but now he released it and came the last few paces alone—a little more slowly than the last time I’d seen him. At least his color was good. The Archbishop came to halt at the foot of my throne, down three steps from where Lili and I sat.
“Sire.”
“Archbishop,” I said, “how good of you to come today. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Peckham pressed his lips together, restraining his smile, though a hint of it remained around his lips. Then he said, “I have received a letter from Pope Boniface addressed to you. Romeyn carried it all the way from Italy. His Holiness asked that I present it, with his best wishes, and his surety that God will guide your decisions along the straight path.”
The second part was somewhat alarming, but best wishes sounded promising. Beside me, Lili let out the breath she’d been holding.
“Is the letter something that all might care to hear,” I said, “or would it be better to read it in private?”
I wanted it to be his choice. If he thought the contents of the letter might humiliate me, I had the sense that he cared enough about me and my future as the King of England to give me warning before cutting me off at the knees. Everything so far had indicated good news, but I wasn’t going to assume that quite yet.
“That should be for you to decide, sire,” Peckham held out the letter, “but please know that I asked Romeyn not to tell you of his arrival so that I could be the one to bring the letter to you.”
Carew stepped forward, took the letter from Peckham, and turned to hand it to me. This was one of those strange formalities of the English royal court—no courtier gave anything—messages or gifts—directly to me. It was easier to accept the tradition than to argue with it. Better to save argument for the issues that were really important.
I held the scroll in my lap for a second before opening it. The wax seal hadn’t been broken. I looked at Peckham, who was standing with his hands folded across his belly. “You have not read it?”
“It came under the cover of another letter to me,” Peckham said, still serene.
“So you don’t know what it says,” I said, not as a question.
For the first time, Peckham’s expression faltered. “His Holiness conveyed to me his warm regard for you and for the people of England.”
I looked at Romeyn, but his eyes were downcast, focused somewhere in the vicinity of my boots. I wasn’t getting any help from him, not this time.
Lili was back to being tense beside me. Callum leaned in to whisper to me, his face turned away from the audience room. “He can’t be that innocent, can he?”
“I wouldn’t have said so,” I said. “Well, no time like the present.”
Callum stepped back, and everyone in the room watched me intently—even Romeyn, who’d looked up now that it was too late to answer my unspoken query—as I broke the seal on the letter. Unrolling it, I was happy to see it was written in Latin. The pope’s English was nonexistent, but he could easily have written the letter in French. After the various greetings and flourishes, it turned out the letter was one sentence long and could be translated:
His Holiness Pope Boniface VIII lauds your continued protection of the Jews who have sought refuge in your kingdom and urges the end to murder and persecution of the same based on the unfounded accusation of blood libel.
That was it.
I looked at Peckham, hardly able to believe it. The letter said nothing about the conspiracy or about any of the three items Acquasparta had brought to my attention. It had focused on the one thing we hadn’t even discussed.
“What does it say, sire?” Carew said.
My eyes on Peckham, I handed the letter to Carew, who took it. When he’d finished reading, I tipped my head to point with my chin to my herald. Carew gave the letter to him, and he began to read it in a sonorous voice. The educated among us understood Latin, but those who didn’t wouldn’t have to learn the gist of its contents from their neighbors, because the herald transitioned smoothly into English for a second reading.
When the herald finished, I gestured to Carew. “Clear the room, if you will.”
Maybe it was odd of me to want privacy now, but the pope’s letter brought up more questions than it answered, and I needed room to think about it. I looked at Peckham, and then beyond him to Romeyn. “Have you dined?”
Peckham canted his head. “We would be happy to share your table, my king.”
“In his letter to me, His Holiness asked me to convey to you his confidence that your rule of Aquitaine as its Duke will result in peace and prosperity for its people,” Peckham said.
I took a sip of wine. “How kind of him to say so.”
Peckham either didn’t hear the ironic cast to my voice or chose to ignore it. “I endeavored to impress upon His Holiness the manner in which you have taken the admonition of our Lord and Savior to heart in your dealings with those who have strayed from the Church’s teachings: that no man is without sin, and thus no man should judge what is in another man’s heart.”
“He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone, you mean?” I said, quoting John.
Peckham nodded. “He wrote to me that he understands now that your wish to shelter those whose beliefs diverge from the right path is out of a desire to extend Christian charity to all. In this case, he believes that desire to be misplaced, but he would prefer you be guided gently to the straight path over time. That is my task.” Peckham paused a moment, before adding, “Perhaps my last one.”
I leaned forward, suddenly more concerned about him than what the pope had said. “Archbishop, you are not well?”
“My time is nearing an end,” he said. “Perhaps you could humor an old man by speaking with him on matters of the spirit every once in a while between now and then.”
He was talking to me like a son, or a grandson. It shamed me a little to realize he had such regard for me, when I had given little thought to him beyond his role as the pope’s errand boy. “It would be an honor, your grace.”
Peckham rose to his feet. Carew escorted him from the room, leaving me momentarily alone with Romeyn, since Callum had gone off to see to other duties.
“The letter Boniface sent was a masterly display of obfuscation and deflection, and a far cry from his earlier demands.” I felt that I could talk to Romeyn in a way I couldn’t speak to Archbishop Peckham.
“I read it similarly, sire.” Romeyn took a sip of wine, watching me over the rim.
“It implies that Acquasparta’s entire mission has been abandoned,” I said. “Has the pope, in fact, given way on the issues of heretics, the taxatio, and Aquitaine?”
Romeyn put down his goblet. “My lord, I believe you are meant to take the letter as it is written.”
“So Boniface is sidestepping the issues—for now, or forever?” I pushed my half-eaten food away.
Romeyn spread his hands. “It is not for me to say, sire.”
“Was Acquasparta acting for the pope, or did he overstep his mandate?”
“Again, sire, His Holiness didn’t see fit to convey his opinion on these matters to me.”
I supposed I shouldn’t have expected more. “Thank you for trying.”
“It was my honor, sire,” he said, “though you laid all the groundwork yourself. I did little.”
“I am not displeased with the results,” I said. “Perhaps you made a better impression than you think.”
“Perhaps, sire.”
I nodded and indicated that Romeyn was dismissed. I planned to talk to him again later—probably tomorrow or the next day, to get a better sense of what had gone on in Italy. I would have to speak to Peckham after that, but I was looking forward to it. I didn’t plan to argue with him. Just because Peckham and I disagreed about some things didn’t mean we disagreed about everything, and I was pretty sure we could find common ground that would ease some of his concerns about my spiritual health.
After Romeyn left, I sat a while at the table, trying not to feel melancholy and to enjoy the brief moment alone. I shouldn’t have felt downcast. The pope’s answer was the best outcome I could have hoped for, but it was as if I’d charged myself up for a battle only to find my opponent had left the field.
Then someone knocked on the door. “Come,” I said, channeling my inner Star Trek because I could.
It was Bevyn. He shut the door behind him, though not before having a quick look up and down the corridor to make sure it was empty. Then he turned to me and bowed. “Sire.” He stood stiffly by the door, his hands clasped behind his back.
I looked at him warily. He was nervous about something. “Is everything all right?”
He came forward. The room was narrow, warmed by a broad fireplace on my left. A dozen candles shone from the mantelpiece above it, and the long, polished table at which I was sitting took up the whole of the middle of it. Upright chairs lined both sides. The wooden table was large enough to seat twenty, though only five of us had eaten at it this afternoon. Bevyn’s stocky body filled all the space between the wall and the row of chairs to my right, and he halted two paces away from me.
“I have a confession to make,” he said. “I’d like you to hear me out before you respond.”
Warden of Time (The After Cilmeri Series Book 8) Page 23