Westminster 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 cast the first 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 back 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 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.”
I nodded, my heart beating a little faster. “Go on.”
“It has to do with the letter Peckham just brought you from Pope Boniface.” Bevyn had unclasped his hands from his back, but now they clenched and unclenched at his sides.
“Just tell me what this is about, Bevyn. It can’t be worse than my imagination.”
“I can’t speak to that, my lord.”
I waited, my elbows on the arms of my chair and my hands folded in front of my chin.
Bevyn drew in a breath, glanced up at the ceiling briefly to find his courage, and then looked me straight in the eye. “Sire, six months ago, when it appeared that Pope Boniface was the frontrunner to be ordained pope, the Order of the Pendragon secretly arranged to buy up all his loans from his Italian creditors.”
I pressed my folded hands to my lips and looked at Bevyn over the top of them. I’d managed not to gasp or exclaim, though my eyebrows had to be in my hairline.
“As you know, our paramount concern has always been your wellbeing, sire. What we knew about Boniface indicated that he might not view the world as you do. It was a precaution only. At first.”
“And now? You threatened to call in his loans if he didn’t back off, is that it?” I said. Though he hadn’t owned the loans himself, King Edward had done the same to both Peckham’s and Boniface’s predecessors—to get them to excommunicate my father.
“No, sire, we didn’t.”
Now I was confused. “So … you’re confessing this to me—why?”
“To alleviate your concerns that the Order has lost its ability to protect you, or—if you feared it—that the pope’s actions were in any way influenced by your allies. I assure you that we had nothing to do with the letter he sent. It was your righteous action alone that forced his hand.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“We felt you needed to know,” he said.
“The others threw you before me as the sacrificial lamb, did they?”
“I volunteered.”
I studied him. Bevyn’s demeanor had prepared me for bad news, but this was almost worse. I had refused to use the leverage I had against Boniface, and so had they. “So what you’re saying is that you had the chance to influence him, to ensure that this letter contained what I wanted, and yet you didn’t act? Why? Don’t try to tell me it was what I would have wanted, because you don’t think that way.”
Bevyn had the grace to look briefly abashed, but then he said, “We had word that Boniface hasn’t given up, sire. He believes he still has moves to make.”
I felt a growl forming deep in my chest. “What moves?”
The grim lines on Bevyn’s face deepened. “He is planning a new Crusade to take back the Holy Land, and he wants your support for it.”
I gave a gasping laugh. “A new Crusade? Does he want me to go on it?”
“He wants you to lead it. You and King Philip of France are the same age, sire. Young enough to endure the hardships, and powerful enough in your own countries, both of you, to lead an army to take back Jerusalem.”
I sat back in my chair. I hadn’t seen that coming. “So what exactly is his play now?”
“Pope Boniface is still drafting the missive. He hopes to release it in the new year,” Bevyn said, “but if he calls upon you publicly to Crusade and you refuse, you will look very bad indeed. Any complaints you have against Acquasparta will appear to be a false accusation to distract from your refusal.”
I gave a laughing scoff. “So, if I crusade, he leaves me alone to do as I wish in my own country. And if I don’t …”
“That is still many months away, sire. Best not to borrow trouble.”
“How did you hear of this?” Then my eyes narrowed. “I thought you didn’t have a spy in Boniface’s court?”
“We didn’t—”
I overrode him. “Don’t deny that you know about this because of the Order. It’s written all over your face, and I can tell you’re quite proud that you had the foresight not to call in Boniface’s debts now, to give you influence and leverage over him later. Who is it?”
“Sire—”
I leaned forward. “Tell me who it is.”
Bevyn swallowed hard, knowing better than to deny me this one thing I asked. “Acquasparta’s secretary.”
“Why would he report to you?”
“He has an English mother. Acquasparta doesn’t know.”
“Who found that out? Whose idea was it to recruit him?”
The door opened behind Bevyn, and Lili entered the room. “It was mine.” She hesitated on the threshold. Her chin was up and her gaze steady, but she had her hands clasped in front of her in such a way that told me she was a little nervous too.
I studied her. “Did you fear I’d be angry?”
“It was a possibility,” she said.
I shook my head, caught between disbelief, gratitude, and awe. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such loyalty, but I can’t be angry when you were looking out for my interests in a way that I could not.”
“We love you,” Lili said.
“I know.” Then I bit my lip. “I’m not exactly looking forward to crusading with Philip of France, however.”
“You can’t predict the future, my love,” Lili said, advancing towards me. “Not even you know what it holds anymore.”
“No, I don’t. I suspect that’s a good thing.” Smiling, I rose to take her hand.
The End