“I apologize for my lateness. Something came up at the last moment that could not be deferred,” I said, not wanting to get into the ongoing drama surrounding Lee, Mike, and Noah.
“Such is the way of kingship, or so I understand,” Acquasparta said. “I am grateful that you came at all.”
“Your health has improved, I see,” I said.
Acquasparta wobbled a hand to say comme çi, comme ça as the French do, though he was Italian. “Today is better, but fever strikes me when I least expect it.”
“There were many times I feared he would not live through the night, to tell you the truth,” Peckham said, “and yet, here he is.”
“I thank you for the assistance of your household physician,” Acquasparta said to me. “Between him, my dear Archbishop, and God, I am in good hands.”
I tipped my head regally, suppressing my suspicion that I was being played, though Aaron had reported on how ill the legate was when we’d arrived three days ago. Our meeting had been postponed twice, in fact, because of it. Aaron wouldn’t lie to me, so I had to accept that this meeting was taking place only now because of how ill the legate had been earlier. I was comforted, too, that the cardinal had taken the opportunity to mention Aaron, implying that my policy of providing a refuge for the Jewish population of Europe wasn’t one of Pope Boniface’s concerns today.
“You are most welcome,” I said. “Aaron has cured many difficult cases since he came to us.” Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the man himself, standing in the shadows of a far doorway. I lifted a finger to him without looking directly at him. He saw the gesture, however, as I hoped he might, and acknowledged it with a nod before disappearing back into the darkness of the corridor behind him. He would know now to seek me out before I left the palace.
Aaron was a physician first, but his loyalty to me was unquestioned, making him an intelligent and capable spy as well. Given what was at stake, I’d felt I needed as much information as I could acquire about the goings on between Peckham and the papal legate, and Acquasparta’s illness had provided me with an excellent means to insert someone I trusted into Peckham’s household.
“May I offer you wine, my lord king?” Peckham said.
“Thank you.” I went with Acquasparta to two chairs placed across from one another in front of the fireplace. All the other advisers who’d occupied the room before I’d arrived took Peckham’s offer of wine as their cue to leave. Only Archbishop Romeyn, Carew, and Callum remained. Callum stood with his hands behind his back, close to the door. His job, like Carew’s, was to listen and advise if I needed him. Romeyn poured himself a goblet of wine from the carafe after Peckham poured mine. The two men were all but equals, and they exchanged a nod so minute I wasn’t sure I’d seen it, indicating they were comfortably in accord. I hoped that was a good thing.
Acquasparta, for his part, needed no assistant. In a moment, the six of us were alone, and the legate and I seated ourselves on red silk pillows that cushioned the chairs. I was hardly able to believe the contrast in my surroundings between now and an hour before. It was as if the murder of Mike and Noah hadn’t happened.
Romeyn and Peckham found seats a little farther away, but still within easy speaking distance. I was sure my medieval advisers would have wanted my rear to hit the chair a second before Acquasparta’s, because as with everything else in this dance I was currently doing with the cardinal, appearances were everything.
Or so they would have said.
I wasn’t convinced. Pope Boniface—and Acquasparta as well—had too much at stake here to worry about who sat first. It was my submission they wanted. English kings had bent to the wishes of the pope in the past, and if they were dealing with only an English king, they might have gotten what they wanted. But I wasn’t like any English king they’d ever dealt with.
That wasn’t arrogance talking either (or only a little). It wasn’t that I was smarter than everyone else in the room. Callum had a degree from Cambridge; I didn’t even have a high school diploma. But what I had that they didn’t were radically different tools to think with.
I accepted the goblet of wine Peckham handed me and took a sip. Carew moved to stand behind my chair.
Acquasparta wasted no time getting to the point. “I have come to you from his Holiness Pope Boniface VIII with many concerns, my lord king.”
I swallowed my sip of wine, not so much stalling for time but so I could order my thoughts before I spoke. “Such was my understanding and why I am here, Cardinal Acquasparta. Perhaps you could take this moment to elaborate?”
Acquasparta made a small gesture with one hand. I’d been warned that, as an Italian, he spoke with his hands as well as his mouth, but this was a motion I couldn’t interpret. “My lord king, it has come to his Holiness’s attention that you have not only allowed into England those who preach doctrines that run counter to the Church, but have openly welcomed them. This is troubling to him.”
So heresy was to be the first order of business.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Romeyn’s own hand twitch in Acquasparta’s direction, but he stilled it without speaking. Perhaps Romeyn was objecting to how straightforwardly Acquasparta had spoken, though for my part, I welcomed it. Better to lay the cards on the table right off and deal with what was before us, than do some arcane diplomatic dance where nobody spoke the truth. Then Callum, Carew, and I would have to spend the next three days sifting through the lies and evasions.
“I would appreciate an explanation of why this action troubles His Holiness,” I said, which was pure evasion, and I gave Acquasparta a small smile to further validate the idea that the query was innocent.
Acquasparta appeared unfazed. “Many men are weak minded and cannot tell the difference between true teachings and heretical ones. They become confused. It is our responsibility to keep the people on the correct course.”
This, in broad strokes, was the reason for the Inquisition and the root of my disagreement with the authority of the Church. “We—” I hesitated, knowing that what I was about to say was far too straightforward and would probably give members of my inner circle a heart attack, “—don’t agree.”
The faces of Peckham and Romeyn went completely blank. I couldn’t see Carew, since he was behind me, but Callum shot me a small smile from his place by the door.
Acquasparta knew now that I was, in fact, a hothead. He leaned forward. “Heresy is dangerous, my lord. It must be dug out of the soil before it can take root.”
I studied him, many thoughts running through my head, not the least of which had to do with what I saw as the real problem here. It was the pope’s fear that if people believed something different from what the Church taught he would lose his power over them. And money. The whole structure of the Church could crumble.
I believed without a doubt that many men of the church were truly good and genuinely devoted to God and what they believed to be His divinely ordained Church. But I’d been raised in Oregon, where a man’s beliefs were between him and God. Certainly the intricacies of doctrine were lost on me. I didn’t care whether the blessing of communion turned plain bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ, and I certainly saw no reason to go to war over it.
I didn’t say any of that, even though I really wanted to. I could feel Carew behind me, his body tense as a bow string. He was probably sure that at any moment I was going to say something utterly irretrievable. For example, I could have said, by the way, I’m a heretic too. I amused myself with the idea for a second, but I’d never had any intention of destroying in a single day everything I’d worked so hard to build by making a few unwise comments to the papal legate.
Instead, it was Romeyn who said what I couldn’t: “The common folk may be easily led, your Holiness, which, on one hand, means they can wander astray.”
Acquasparta nodded, believing at first that Romeyn had made his point for him.
But then Romeyn proceeded to reveal how arrogant I’d been to think these men
hadn’t the wherewithal to match me. “But on the other hand, Cardinal Acquasparta, it means their mistaken ideas can be refuted with a few well-chosen words. A heretic in his own home is no threat to the Church. It is our duty, rather, to gently guide him to the straight path.”
—not burn him at the stake. Romeyn had sense enough, however, not to add the last bit.
And I had enough sense not to look at Romeyn or allow even a hint of astonishment to cross my face. Romeyn, the Archbishop of York and a true believer in the Church, had just shot the first volley of the Reformation across the Church’s bow.
Acquasparta’s face paled instead of flushing. I couldn’t tell if he was so upset he was going to pass out, or if his health had taken a sudden turn for the worse. I leaned forward. “The Archbishop of York speaks plainly, but I agree that if your beliefs are the true ones, they are built on solid rock. The buffets of the waves far below can not harm you, and you can ignore them.”
“Until, over time, the waves undermine the rock, leaving it perched precariously over the sea,” Acquasparta said.
I sat back, canting my head in acknowledgement of Acquasparta’s rejoinder. “Perhaps my metaphor leaves something to be desired. I suspect it would be better if I left the discussion of theology to more able men.” I tapped my fingers on the arm of my chair. “What other concerns does Pope Boniface care to bring to my attention?”
Acquasparta blinked, surprised at the change of subject. Carew, on the other hand, gave an audible sigh of relief and his hand dropped away from where he’d been gripping the top rail of my chair.
“His Holiness would like to discuss the taxatio conducted under his predecessor,” Acquasparta said. “It gave ten percent of the monies acquired to you. His Holiness feels that money should have stayed with the Church.”
Peckham cleared his throat. “If I may—”
Acquasparta turned his gaze on him, and Peckham’s mouth snapped shut as his face reddened. The cardinal’s face held a look of such disdain that it was a wonder Peckham didn’t collapse into a puddle on the floor in his mortification, for the crime of interrupting our conversation. Acquasparta had succeeded Peckham in his position as a teacher at the papal curia when Peckham had been promoted to Archbishop of Canterbury, and Peckham was also a papal legate, of equal standing to Acquasparta, so it was a little rich of Acquasparta to treat him so poorly.
“Please speak, Archbishop,” I said, cutting through Acquasparta’s glower and delighted to displease the cardinal a little more, “I would be happy to hear you.”
“The charter between Pope Nicholas and King David for the taxatio was signed, witnessed, and sealed,” Peckham said.
Acquasparta inclined his head, not disagreeing, though he eyed the two English churchmen with extreme disfavor. Perhaps before the meeting he’d thought them on his side, whereas before five minutes ago, I hadn’t realized the extent of their support for my side.
“Does the Holy Father deny the validity of that agreement?” I said, trying to distract Acquasparta from Peckham and return his attention to me.
“No.” The word came out in a short, very Italian staccato. “He simply requests your consideration in this matter.”
I rubbed my chin. Pope Boniface thought giving church money to the crown set a bad precedent, which it did, so I couldn’t blame him for not liking the agreement. It was incredibly bold of him to ask for the money back, though. Acquasparta gave a small smile.
“I will think about it.” I paused, listening to the rain patter on the large window to my left. The earlier torrent had abated and was no longer the hard drumming it had been. Perhaps our ride home wouldn’t be as wet. I could hardly wait to get out of here. “And the third matter?”
Acquasparta looked directly into my eyes. “His Holiness asks that I speak to you on the matter of Aquitaine.”
I raised my eyebrows. This time he had surprised me. “What is the supreme pontiff’s concern with Aquitaine?”
“He asks that you withdraw your claim to it,” Acquasparta said.
The rule of the Duchy of Aquitaine had been in dispute since the death of King Edward and his younger brother, Edmund, in 1285. The duchy had no clear male heir, but there were many claims, the most valid coming from Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, Edmund’s eldest son. For seven years, various barons had put in their claim, including King Philip IV of France, who sought to bring all of what the modern world called ‘France’ under his control.
At the moment, Philip controlled roughly half the country, most of it in the north and east. He and I were the same age, both born in 1268. Thanks to my mother’s Ph.D. in medieval history, I knew a lot more about him than he did about me.
This was the man who expelled all the Jews from his country in 1306. This was the man who on Friday the 13th, 1307, moved against the Knights Templar in France, arresting many and torturing confessions of heresy out of them, and then burned them at the stake, in large part to free himself from his indebtedness to them. Back in Avalon’s history, in ten years’ time, Philip also arranged for the arrest and eventual death of Pope Boniface himself. I really wished I could mention it to Acquasparta, but of course I couldn’t.
At one time, I’d supported Thomas’s claim, but he was only fourteen, without the political strength to overcome Philip. And since his half-sister was the queen of France—Philip’s wife—things had gotten complicated really fast. I’d put in my own claim because I could, and because not to do so would be viewed abroad as showing weakness. My claim was through my mother, whom everyone believed to be the illegitimate daughter of King Henry III (who’d also been Duke of Aquitaine).
“Why would the pope concern himself with such temporal matters as my claim to the duchy?” I said.
“He wishes to avoid the war that would be inevitable if you pursued your claim,” Acquasparta said.
“Has he said anything to Philip?” I said, and when Acquasparta didn’t answer, I looked at him carefully. “The pontiff supports Philip’s claims over mine?”
“He supports peace.”
“What right does Philip have to Aquitaine?” I said.
Again, Acquasparta didn’t answer, but this time the delay was only because he was searching for the right words. “The duchy sits in fief to the King of France. If the dukedom is vacant, it is his right to take it back.”
Behind me, Carew cleared his throat. “Your eminence, may I ask what King David might expect in return for these sacrifices?”
Acquasparta gave a wolfish smile that reminded me suddenly of Noah, the other problem of the day which I’d completely forgotten about since my conversation with Acquasparta began. “The Holy Father’s gratitude.”
Wow. I sat back in my chair, and this time it was I who didn’t respond, since my head was spinning with the injustice of it all. Fortunately, it wasn’t necessary to answer just yet. This conversation was only the first of many we would have. Acquasparta had laid out his objectives, none of which left any wiggle room for me. If I did everything he wanted, I got nothing in return. The question I wanted answered was what would happen if I didn’t do them.
My own smile turned wintry. “I will need to think about these matters and consult with my advisers.”
“Of course,” Acquasparta said. “I have no plans to travel for at least a fortnight. Your physician does not believe I could possibly be completely well before then.”
That meant I had two weeks to find a diplomatic way to refuse every one of the pope’s requests.
Chapter Six
“Did you believe anything Acquasparta just said?”
“I believe he won’t travel for a fortnight,” Callum said. “As to the rest, as to what he really cares about? I don’t know.”
“So it wasn’t just me.”
“It wasn’t just you.” Callum tapped the fingers of his left hand on the table in front of us. “I fear we can’t trust him at all.”
“I feel like I’m treading water and sharks are circling around my feet,” I said.
Carew, who was sitting beyond Callum, nodded. “We have to be very, very careful from this moment forward.”
“I thought we were being careful, but with Romeyn and Peckham in the room—” I glanced at the Archbishop of York, who was currently speaking quietly to his secretary in the doorway of the dining room. While I watched, Romeyn walked a few paces into the corridor with him.
The audience was over, along with an awkward meal. Peckham had departed with Acquasparta, who’d insisted he had to rest. The cardinal had picked at his food, barely eating or drinking anything, so I guess I had to believe him. That left Callum, Carew, and me as the only ones remaining with Romeyn. I rose to my feet and met Romeyn, who’d dismissed his secretary and returned to the doorway. It was time to speak frankly.
The Archbishop of York was near to my height and met my eyes briefly before lowering his head in a slight bow. “Sire.”
“That I haven’t spoken more than a few words with you before today was an oversight on my part,” I said.
“It was my honor to be present at this meeting, sire.”
“You took a risk on my behalf. I won’t forget it.”
Romeyn looked up, his features smoothing into an expression approximating detached concern. “I did only what I thought was right.”
I scoffed under my breath. “You aren’t that much of an idealist. Your speech was calculated down to the smallest intonation.”
Romeyn blinked but had too much composure to stutter a protest. In my mind, I was recasting him in the guise of Thomas Wolsey, the adviser to Henry VIII, who would one day follow Romeyn as Archbishop of York. Wolsey had been de facto king at times, with extreme intelligence, organizational skills, and drive. He’d gained enormous power before falling out of favor with the king because he couldn’t arrange the annulment of Henry’s marriage.
Warden of Time (The After Cilmeri Series Book 8) Page 4
