William allowed himself to be calmed by the gentle and shrewd assertions of his justiciar. "It is that," sneered William. The king of England surveyed the remains of his midday meal as if the table were a battlefield and he was searching for survivors. "I much prefer Clement anyway."
"You see?" Ranulf smiled, pleased with the way he had steered the king to his point of view. "God continues to grace your reign, Sire. In his wisdom, he has provided a timely alternative. Let it be known and voiced abroad that you support Clement, and we'll soon see how the worm writhes."
"If Urban suspected I was inclined to pledge loyalty to Clement, he might cease badgering me." William spied a nearby goblet on the table; there was still some wine in it, so he gulped it down. "He might even try to woo me back into his camp instead. Is that what you mean?"
"He might," confirmed Ranulf in a way that suggested this was the very least William might expect.
"He might do more," William ventured. "How much more?"
"The king's goodwill has a certain value to the church just now. It is the pope who needs the king, not the other way around. Perhaps this goodwill might be bartered for something of more substantial and lasting value."
William stopped pacing and drew his hand through his thinning red hair. "The pope has nothing I want," he decided at last. He turned and stumped back to his chair. "He is a prisoner in his own palace. Why, he cannot even show his face in Rome." William looked into another cup, but it was empty so he resumed his search. "The man can do little enough for himself; he can do nothing for me."
"Nothing?" asked the cardinal pointedly. "Nothing at all?"
"Nothing I can think of," maintained William stubbornly. "If you know something, Bayeux, tell me now or leave me alone. I grow weary of your insinuations."
"Given Urban's precarious position-a position made all the more uncertain by the king's brother…"
"Robert?" said William. "My brother may be an ass, but he has no love for Rome."
"I was thinking of Henry, Sire," said the cardinal. "Seeing that Henry is courting Clement, it seems to me that Urban, with the proper inducement, might be willing to recognize the English crown's right to appoint clergy in exchange for your support," suggested the cardinal. "What is that worth, do you think?"
William stared at his chief justiciar. "The wheels of government grind slowly, as you well and truly know," he said, his pale blue eyes narrowing as he considered the implications of his counsellor's suggestion. "You are paid to see that they do."
"Yes, and every day a pulpit stands empty, the crown collects the tithe, as you well and truly know."
"A tithe which would otherwise go to the church," said William. "Ultimately to Rome."
"Indirectly, perhaps," agreed Ranulf. He buffed his fingernails against the sleek satin of his robe. "Urban contests this right, of course. But if the pope were to formally relinquish all such claims in favour of the crown…"
"I would become head of the church in England," said William, following the argument to its conclusion.
"I would not go so far, Sire," allowed Ranulf. "Rome would never allow secular authority to stand above the church. Urban's power ebbs by the day, to be sure, but you will never pry that from his miser's grasp."
"Well," grumped the king, "it would amount to the same thing. England would be a realm unto itself, and its church an island in the papal sea."
"Even so," granted Ranulf gallantly. "Your Majesty would effectively free the throne of England from the interference of Rome for good and forever. That would be worth something."
"How much?" said William. He leaned across the table on his fists. "How much would it be worth?"
"Who can say? Tithes, lands-the sale of benefices alone could run to-"
William might not understand the finer points of the papal dispute that had inadvertently thrown up two rival claimants to Saint Peter's golden chair, but he knew men and money. And clerics were the same as most men in wanting to ease the way for their offspring in the world. A payment to the church to secure a position for an heir was money well spent. "Thousands of marks a year," mused William.
"Pounds, Sire. Thousands, yes-thousands of pounds straight into your treasury. It would only take a letter."
William looked at the empty goblet in his hand, and then threw it the length of the room. It struck the far wall and tumbled down the tapestry. "By the Blessed Virgin, Flambard, you are a rascal! I like it!"
Returning to his chair, William resumed his place at the table. "Wine!" he shouted to an unseen servant lurking behind the door. "Sit," he said to Ranulf. "Tell me more about this letter."
The cardinal tossed the black velvet bag onto the bench and sat down; he cleared a place among the crumbs and bones with the side of his hand. Choosing a goblet from those on the table before him, he emptied it and waited for the servant to appear with a jar. When the cups were filled once more, the king and his chief advisor drank and discussed how to make best use of the pope and his predicament.
CHAPTER 4
Brother Odo is dozing over his quill again. Much as I like to see him jump, I won't wake him just yet. It gives me time. The longer I stretch this tale, the more time I have before the tale stretches me, so to speak. Besides, I need a little space to think.
What I think on now is the day I first set eyes on King Raven. A pleasant day it was, too, in all its parts. Crisp, bright autumn was descending over the March. I had been months a-wandering, poking here and there as fancy took me, moving ever and always in the direction of the setting sun. I had no plan other than to learn more of this King Raven, and find him if I could. A fellow of the forest, such as myself, might make himself useful to a man like that. If I did, I reckoned, he might be persuaded to take me under his wing.
I kept my ears sharp for any word of King Raven, and asked after him whenever I happened on a settlement or holding. I worked for food and a bed of straw in barn or byre, and talked to those who were bold enough to speak about the abuses of the crown and events in the land. Many of those I spoke to had heard the name-as well they might, for Baron de Braose, Lord of Bramber, had set aside a right handsome reward for his capture. Some of the folk had a tale or two of how this Raven fella had outwitted the baron or abbot, or some such; but none knew more than I did of this elusive blackbird or his whereabouts.
The further west I wended, however, the pickings got better in one respect, but worse in another. More had heard of King Raven, to be sure, and some were happy enough to talk. But those who knew of him held that this Raven was not a real man at all. Rather, they had it that he was a phantom sent up from the lowest infernal realm to bedevil the Normans. They said the creature took the form of a giant, high-crested bird, with wings to span a ten-foot pike, and a wicked long beak. Deadly as plague to the Normans, they said, and black as Satan's pit whence he sprung, he was a creature bred and born of deviltry-although one alewife told me that he had given some kinfolk of hers aid in food and good money when they were that desperate for it, so he couldn't be all that bad.
As green spring gave way to summer, I settled for a spell with a swineherd and his gap-toothed wife on their small farm hard by Hereford, where Baron Neufmarche keeps his great stone heap of a castle. Although Wales is only a few days' saunter up the road, I was in no hurry just then. I wanted to learn more, if more was to be learned, and so I lay low, biding my time and listening to the locals when they had cause to speak of matters that interested me.
When the day's work was finished, I'd hie up to town to spend a fair summer evening at the Cross Keys, an inn of questionable repute. The innkeeper was a rascal, no mistake-it's him they should be hanging, not Will-but he served a worthy jar and thick chops so tender and juicy your teeth could have a rest. I came to know many of the local folk who called at the Keys, and they came to trust me with their more private thoughts.