The flamboyant Roman has brought the astounding news of Anastasius’ death only yesterday. Another Pope has been elected in his place who has taken the name Adrian, the fourth Pope to do so.
According to Oddone, this Pope has long insisted serfs be allowed to marry lawfully without the consent of their lords.
This alone would seem to augur well for us.
Another surprising thing is he’s an Englishman, Nicolas Breakspear, born in Abbots Langley.
What’s more, Oddone knows this Pope. Adrian has asked him to assist in negotiations with Barbarossa in the conflict over the powers of the Holy Roman Emperor.
He has arranged an audience for us, insisting Adrian will be happy to receive fellow Englishmen who will convey our new Sovereign’s congratulations.
These developments have lifted our spirits.
We must hope it doesn’t come up in the conversation that Henry has yet to be crowned less than three sennights from now.
Rodrick
Grace and Swan rode in the midst of the men-at-arms. Rodrick and Bronson had reminded them over and over to keep their mounts close together and to stay within the protection of Oddone’s guards. Their English entourage had remained in La Storta. Only Lucia, William and Stephen rode with them.
Grace suspected everyone thought Swan would disobey their command, but as the narrow streets of Rome became more and more clogged with excited people, Swan seemed determined to obey the directive not to look at the frenzied crowd.
The men-at-arms had been instructed to force their way through if necessary, but not with belligerence. Slow and steady was how Oddone had put it.
“I hope we have managed to look important enough,” she murmured to Swan. “And not the ragamuffins we’ve turned into on this journey.”
Swan nodded, but she looked uncharacteristically nervous as their cavalcade came to a halt. Even the normally placid Cob was being difficult.
Bronson made his way to them from the front of the column. “There’s been an assassination on the Via Sacra. A cardinal apparently. People are in uproar.”
Grace took several deep breaths, hope slipping away. “We’ll never get an audience now.”
Bronson reached over and put a hand on hers. “Don’t give up. We will see this Pope. I believe him being an Englishman is a good omen.”
They made their slow way to the Palazzo Laterano, the main papal residence. Oddone was allowed inside the gates, but they had to remain outside.
After an interminable wait, during which they were warned more than once not to dismount, admittance was granted. “We must look the part,” she remarked to Swan.
Swan smiled for the first time, nodding towards a statue of a man on horseback. “Marcus Aurelius,” she said. “Exactly as Père Rigord described it.”
They left their horses with the guards and were led inside along endless corridors before entering a magnificent hall. “Aula Concilii,” Oddone explained. “In English, Hall of the Council.”
They craned their necks as he pointed upwards. “Eleven apses. Here are held the councils of the Lateran. His Holiness awaits you in his private apartments. Follow me please.”
As soon as Rodrick laid eyes on Adrian he recognised they were dealing with an intelligent and determined man. He swallowed his nervousness. They had come a long way and endured much in seeking this audience. He didn’t intend to squander the opportunity. “Your Holiness,” he said after Oddone had introduced them, bowing low, as did the other three, “you honor us.”
Adrian waved a dismissive hand. “You honor me by bringing greetings from Henry Plantagenet. However, I am curious. You must have set off from England sennights ago. How did Henry know I would be elected Pope? I myself was unaware of it until a few days ago.”
Bronson stepped forward. “You have seen through us, Your Holiness. We have been presumptuous in claiming to represent our new King, though you can be assured of his good wishes.”
“But he isn’t king yet. However, I understand Westminster is preparing for the ceremony on the nineteenth day of this month.”
Rodrick decided to get straight to the point. “Your Holiness, I am Rodrick de Montbryce, the eldest son of an English Earl. I wish to marry Suannoch FitzRam, but she and I share a great grandfather—”
“Rambaud de Montbryce,” Adrian said softly.
Rodrick wasn’t sure if this development was a good thing or not.
“You see, I am well acquainted with your family,” the Pope said, “and Oddone has told me something of your purpose here.” He gestured towards Grace. “This young lady is your twin sister, if I’m not mistaken, and she wishes to marry the other young man, who is also a distant cousin.”
Rodrick had rehearsed over and over what he would say to the Pope, but now his mind refused to work. “I am overwhelmed you are aware of our family.”
“Do you know where I was born?” Adrian asked.
What that had to do with anything, Rodrick didn’t understand, but—“Abbots Langley.”
“Which is near a sacred shrine.”
A bubble of hope prompted by a memory from the past gurgled up in Rodrick’s throat. “To Saint Alban.”
“Exactly. I received my early education in the Abbey school there, and anyone who has benefitted thus knows the name Montbryce.”
He glanced away from Rodrick to look at the other three. Only Grace looked as though she understood. “You are puzzled,” he said to Swan and Bronson. “Perhaps the young lady can enlighten you.”
Grace flushed, obviously not having expected to be called upon to speak. Rodrick smiled his encouragement.
Her eyes darted to the Pope. “Adam de Montbryce was our cousin, twice removed I think.”
Adrian’s nod confirmed it.
Grace swallowed hard. “He was a patron of the Abbey dedicated to Saint Alban.”
“The first English martyr,” Adrian added, his voice edged with pride. “But calling your late cousin a patron doesn’t do him justice. Adam de Montbryce was exceedingly generous and his sons continue to support the Abbey to this day, despite that they live in Normandie.”
A long silence ensued, during which Rodrick thanked God over and over for the circumstances which had led Adam to donate to the Abbey at Saint Albans. He wondered if Adrian was aware Adam believed Alban had worked a miracle in curing him of a malady every virile male dreads.
Adrian seemed to be pondering, tapping his fingertips together. Rodrick hoped it was their dispensations he was considering. They hadn’t been invited to sit, though there were several upholstered chairs in the opulent apartment.
Suddenly, the Pontiff’s demeanour became stern. “I must endeavor to bring down Arnold of Brescia, the leader of the anti-papal faction here in Rome. The king of Sicily is openly hostile. Disorder has led to the murder of a cardinal. If things do not improve quickly, I will have to consider the previously unheard-of step of putting Rome under interdict.”
The Pope seemed suddenly to have forgotten their request, but Rodrick strove to keep his anxiety in check. He clasped his nervous hands together behind his back. “Such a move would seriously affect the number of pilgrims,” he offered nervously.
Adrian grinned. “And thereby the local economy. Without the Easter services the pilgrims will not come. The City Council of Rome will then exile Arnold.” He rubbed his hands together. “Barbarossa thirsts to be crowned Emperor by my hand. He will help Rome rid itself of Brescia. Oddone will be instrumental in this.”
Rodrick glanced at Swan who had suddenly grasped hold of Bronson’s arm. He feared the excitement of the day and this sudden turn of the discussion away from their plight may have been too much. He hoped she would keep her mouth closed.
Too late!
“What of our request, Your Holiness?” she asked hoarsely.
Adrian chuckled. “I plan to withdraw to Viterbo where I will ponder the matter. Oddone will take you to his home.”
Frangipane bowed to the Pope then indicated the door.
“And thank Henry Plantagenet for the good wishes,” the Pope said as they exited. “He will be a great king.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Grace had grown up in the comfort of a well provisioned and comfortable castle, but the chamber she and Swan shared at Frangipane’s villa was breathtakingly opulent. “I’ve never seen so much marble,” she exclaimed, sprawled fully clothed on the enormous bed.
Swan winced as Lucia pulled a bone comb through her tangled hair. “Decadent. But welcome after sennights on horseback and in tents.”
Grace sat up. “It has been wonderful, seven days of being treated like long lost friends by Odonne and his brother Cencio—feasting, dancing, Advent observances, and preparations for Yuletide.”
Swan turned away from the mirror, her face somber. “Remember last Yuletide?”
Grace shivered. “Indeed. A lot has happened since then, and thanks be to God we survived Godefroy’s madness.”
“But a dispensation would be a nice Yuletide gift. I cannot bear the prospect of the return journey if I cannot marry Rodrick.”
Grace hesitated, but then decided to share her thoughts. “Rodrick will wed you if the dispensation isn’t granted.”
“But that would mean—”
“William would become Earl of Ellesmere.”
“Rodrick has confided this to you?”
“We are twins. I know my brother as well as he knows himself.”
“But I cannot allow it. The Earldom is his birthright.”
“Not to mention William is not a good candidate. I love my younger brother but he isn’t the man Rodrick is. However, without you as his wife, Rodrick’s life will be miserable.”
“As will mine,” Swam murmured.
There was a long silence, then Swan asked, “What’s it like to be married, Grace?”
Cold dread blossomed in Grace’s belly. Swan was her dear friend, indeed more the sister she’d never had, who must be understandably nervous about what happens between a man and a woman in marriage. And she had only Grace to turn to for advice—the one person who could tell her nothing.
“It requires patience.”
Swan eyed her curiously. “Yes, but I mean—”
Lucia coughed, dropping the comb.
Grace narrowed her eyes as they watched Lucia pick up the comb, hoping Swan would interpret it as meaning they shouldn’t discuss such things in front of servants. She sought to change the subject. “We must continue to pray—”
An insistent rapping at the door intruded on their conversation. Lucia opened it to admit Rodrick and Bronson. Both men looked too serious for Grace’s comfort. She suspected instantly that word had come from Viterbo. Out of the frying pan—
Bronson held out a hand. “Come, my lady, our fate awaits us in Oddone’s salon.”
Oddone brandished an envelope. A priest stood at his side. “Amici,” he shouted, “an emissary from Il Papa.”
Rodrick’s lungs refused to fill with air. This was the moment of no return. Life would never be the same again, no matter what was contained in the envelope the Italian handed to him with a flourish.
He stared at the elaborate insignia. “It’s from the Pope,” was all he could stammer.
“Open it,” Swan murmured.
He pulled out the parchment that had been folded in three, the bottom edge folded up and secured with a lead seal.
“Attached with twine,” Oddone pointed out. “For a document of lesser importance.”
Rodrick was relieved Swan didn’t scream out loud.
He desperately wanted to sit down, afraid his knees might buckle. He unfolded the parchment. “Adrianus, Roman numeral IV, Papa—”
He scanned the ornate script. “It’s in Latin.”
“Of course it’s in Latin,” Grace snorted. “Padre, please.”
Rodrick gave the missive to the smiling priest who coughed into his fist then began.
“Licet enim conjugium Rodrick de Montbryce et Suannoch Ascha FitzRam. Quattuor generationes impedimentum consanguinitatis a nulla.”
The silence was deafening. Rodrick tried desperately to recall anything of his Latin primer. “What does it mean?”
The young priest smiled. “He has granted your dispensation. You can marry Suannoch, the consanguinity of four generations has no bearing.”
Swan looked ready to launch at Rodrick, but she hesitated. “What of Bronson and Grace?”
The priest looked back at the document. “Licet enim conjugium Bronson FitzRam et Grace Mabelle Carys de Montbryce. Quattuor generationes impedimentum consanguinitatis a nulla.”
Bronson let out a whooping sound. “It’s the same. We too can marry.” He scooped Grace up in his arms and twirled her around.
Rodrick was about to embrace Swan when the priest coughed, handing him a smaller envelope. “There is another missive.”
With trembling hands, he ripped it open. It contained an unsealed note, written in English.
He scanned it then read the contents out loud.
“To Rodrick de Montbryce.
In remembrance of your cousin Adam, it would bring me great pleasure in these troubled times to hear my native language during Yuletide. I have taken the liberty of proclaiming banns for your marriages in the church of San Giovanni di Laterano. Christmas Day is an excellent opportunity for a double wedding of four of my countrymen.
Nicolas Breakspear, Adrian IV”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Roma
Palaccio Frangipane
Twenty-Fifth Day of December, One Thousand One Hundred and Fifty-Four Anno Domini
Bronson and I concur that these journals should contain an account of our weddings. Our brides are of the same mind, but correctly assume neither of us is likely to render a description of events that will satisfy them. Grace is therefore assisting me and Swan is helping her brother. We won’t be missed in the Grand Sala for a while as servants prepare for the second banquet of the day. Most people seem to have disappeared, I suspect for a nap.
In telling of my nuptials, I would simply say my dearest wish came true when Pope Adrian explained that in the eyes of the Roman church, Swan and I had been married since the day we were betrothed. If I’d known—
Grace has elbowed me in the ribs, and therefore I cannot continue with my train of thought.
Only the Pope’s blessing was required, which he gave with due ceremony. Not many in England can claim to have been married by a Pope—an English one at that! After the blessing in Latin, he repeated the words in our language and seemed genuinely happy for us.
Oddone’s tailors and seamstresses fashioned wonderful garments for the occasion. Swan’s gown of burgundy velvet took my breath away. It was laced at the sides and back with golden ribbon. Its narrow shape showed off her lovely figure. If Grace were not censoring what I write I might include my thoughts about those laces.
The same ribbon had been fashioned like a halo into a circlet atop her golden hair. She is my angel.
My sister is smiling and hugging my arm. It is a source of great joy to me that I was able to share my wedding day with my twin and see her happily wed also.
Rodrick de M.
Roma
Palaccio Frangipane
Twenty-Fifth Day of December, One Thousand One Hundred and Fifty-Four Anno Domini
My sister Swan is keeping an eye on me as I write this account of my wedding to Grace de Cullène.
She will be surprised by what I have to say as a preface. Neither she nor Grace are aware that yesterday I went to the church to speak to the priest.
(Imagine! I have managed to keep a secret from the two of them. Swan’s glaring pout is evidence of her annoyance!)
I went because I was still plagued by my dreams of dark angels. I had some difficulty communicating with my limited Italian and the priest’s nonexistent knowledge of my language. I tried in Latin, which was worse. As I was attempting to explain my concerns, an enormous sculpted frieze on the wall behind him caught my eye. I took
him by surprise when I ran over to it. Chiselled into the stone was a life size figure with black wings. I don’t believe the sculptor intended them to be black, but over the years, the stone has turned dark.
This was the angel of my dreams.
I gestured like a madman, feeling the weight lifting from my shoulders. The Lord God Almighty knew Grace and I would come to Rome. The angel wasn’t meant to be a harbinger of death, but a sign of things to come. I have married the woman who was my destiny. My fear has turned to optimism for the future—mine, Grace’s and our children’s.
All that remains is to inadequately record another vision I will never forget: my beautiful bride in a dark green velvet gown that emphasized her tempting curves, a simple circlet of ivy atop her head. In the years ahead I will fondly recall the look of surprise on her face when Adrian informed us we’d been married since the day of our betrothal.
Now Swan is crying and hugging my arm. It has been a joy beyond measure to share this day with my sister and to see her happily wed to Rodrick de Montbryce.
Deo gratias,
Bronson F.
Addendum
Swan and Grace insist we record the details of the wedding banquets. While it seems enough food to feed an army, rather than a score, it should be borne in mind the feasting will go on for two more days, and we haven’t yet eaten everything listed here.
Today we enjoyed pastries with pine nuts and almonds, and something similar to marzipan. Everyone expressed amazement at the sweetness of the asparagus, especially since it’s out of season.
The tiny sausages and meatballs were spicier than we normally would eat in England, but the roasted partridge and sauce was delicious, as were the capons and pigeons, hams and wild boar.
For the morrow’s festivities the Frangipanes have planned a whole roast sheep with a sour cherry sauce, and a great variety of roast birds—turtledoves, partridges, pheasants, quail, and olives—the last a novelty for us.
Sinful Passions Page 17