The Black Chalice (49 page)

THIRTY-EIGHT

Heirs of the Kingdom

Christ left to Peter, not only the whole Church
but also the whole world, to govern.

Pope Innocent III

* * *

It was typical of Gottfried von Heyden to be ready first, whether for breakfast or for war. In late August he invaded Thuringia, leaving Konrad with no option except to field what men he had and hurry after to try to save his ally. Gottfried had time to plunder a great swath of the duchy, and to choose his battle ground as well— a high plateau near the town of Saint Germain.

There he camped to wait. And there, on a windy afternoon in September, a week after Karelian’s flight from Stavoren, he received an urgent visit from Cardinal Volken, papal legate to the German empire. The legate had journeyed from the Vatican without interruption, stopping only to eat and to sleep; he looked utterly exhausted.

Gottfried did not especially want to talk to him. His mind was on the coming battle, on the thousand threats and possibilities of the landscape around him, on the readiness of weapons and armor and men. Not on Rome, with its nit-picking, clerical mind, its astonishing inability to see the world as it was, or to notice God for looking at the Church.

“My lord Gottfried….” The papal legate cleared his throat. “Forgive me for addressing you so… so simply. But you must understand, my lord, until you are elected, I cannot in good conscience address you as king.”

“And is your conscience as tender when you meet with the murderer Konrad, my lord cardinal?”

“I have not met with him since the council in Mainz. I’ve had no reason to meet with him. But if I do, I will not call him king.”

“Then in your view, Germany has no king.”

“Precisely so, my lord. A matter which is causing the Holy Father a great deal of distress.”

Distress, my lord legate? Or merely anticipation?
Gottfried leaned back a little in his chair.

“We will not argue the matter with you,” he said. “God will make his will known.” He paused, and went on. “As you know, Konrad’s army is not twenty leagues away, and his captain-general Thuringia has promised him my head on a silver plate. You understand then, that our time for this meeting is short?”

The legate was not pleased. “Surely for a faithful Christian lord, there is always time to speak with Rome?”

“My lord, if you were building a palace, would you fit the stones in place while the mortar was wet, or you would you stop for the afternoon and speak with Rome?”

“Mortar can always be made fresh,” the legate said, aggrieved.

“Mortar can, perhaps. Battles usually cannot. What is your message from Rome?”

The legate looked about. Gottfried’s tent was spartan and cool, but it was well guarded.

“It would be better, my lord, if we were entirely alone.”

“Very well.”

Gottfried dismissed his guards, and looked expectantly at the legate. Cardinal Volken was a thin man, pale from too much time indoors. He looked cold. Though it was only September, he had his cape pulled close about his throat. He was German by birth, but he was entirely Roman in every other way.

“It is a delicate matter, my lord Gottfried,” he said. “I want to make it clear… very clear, right from the beginning, that the Holy Father holds you in the highest regard, as a Christian prince, and as a warrior of the Church. But there is a question of… how shall I put it?… of the proper use of relics. You see,” he hurried on, “it is usual for relics to be placed in a church, so their blessings might pour forth on the entire community—”

“It is usual,” Gottfried interrupted bluntly, “for relics to be everywhere. In churches, yes. Also in private chapels. Also on board ships, and on hearthstones; in sword-hilts, under the pillows of sick children, hung from neck-thongs and belts, and most anywhere else you could think of. Ludwig of Bavaria told me of a peasant in his duchy, a saintly and devoted man, who never goes out into his fields without wrapping a bone of Saint Martin on the harness of his horse. The saint knows he’s honored by it; why should anyone else object?”

“My lord, we are not speaking of the relic of a saint. We are speaking of a relic more precious than anything in the world except the Grail. It should belong to all of Christendom, not to any one man. It should be safe in the finest church we could build for it, and not be carried about in war camps—”

“We carried the Sacred Lance under arms to Jerusalem, my lord legate; have you forgotten?”

“Yes. But not as one man’s personal trophy. And after the city was liberated, those who bore it gave it up, and built a splendid chapel for it, to thank God for the victory.”

“This victory hasn’t yet been won.”

“My lord.” The legate put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “My lord, have you considered the possibilities? Christendom has many enemies, many battles to fight, many decisions to make. In the east, as you know, the Saracens are beginning to regroup. We have the Huns on our borders, and the Wends. We have heretics in our midst. We have the empire of Constantinople to deal with, which calls itself Christian but denies the power of Christ’s vicar on earth.

“Now, through our great efforts in the Holy Land, this relic has come to us, and could give the Church guidance in all its uncertainties. Everywhere, not just in Germany. You understand, my lord, what a blessing this would be for our faith. And you understand, also, those who give to God are rewarded seven-fold.”

He paused, waiting for Gottfried to speak. When the duke remained silent, he went on:

“If the relic were given over to the Church, my lord, you would certainly reassure the Holy Father — and the archbishops of Mainz and Cologne — that you are worthy of the highest crown in Europe. On the other hand, if you keep it here in Germany, I fear all of us may wonder if perhaps you’ve placed your personal ambitions above the good of Christendom.”

He made a small gesture with his hands. “I apologize, my lord, for being so… direct. I repeat again, it is not the Holy Father’s intention to dispute in any way your claim to the German crown. That is obviously an internal matter. We are concerned only with the good of Christendom.”

You are not concerned with Christendom. You are concerned with nothing except the universal mastery of Rome.

The duke waited a thoughtful moment, and then spoke wearily.

“Our trials here have been many, my lord legate. In truth, we’ve had little time to think beyond them. We are always,
always
the Holy Father’s most faithful servant.”

“I have never doubted it, my lord, and nor has he.”

“But we would ask you to consider this. How many times has a saint been lying in some unworthy spot, and spoken from his grave: ‘I am not honored here. Take my bones, and do them reverence in your own place.’ Has that not happened many times, my lord?”

“Yes, but—”

“And as you said, this is the most sacred relic in the world. If an ordinary saint will not allow his blessed remains to be dishonored, do you think the tears of Christ and his dear mother will lie anywhere but where God wishes them to be?”

“Perhaps God is expressing his wishes through the words of his vicar the pope.”

“Perhaps. But we believe God had a purpose in giving this relic to ourselves. We believe if he’d had a different purpose, he’d have given it to someone else. There were men from all of Christendom in Jerusalem with us. There were men from Rome. Yet God gave the stone to us.”

“Perhaps so you might prove yourself his true disciple. By giving it up, as he gave up his life.”

Oh, you are devious, Roman. Would you be less devious, I wonder, if you knew with whom you dealt? Rather more so, I think….

“Then there is but one thing left to do, my lord,” Gottfried said, rising. “We are obedient to God’s will, and if he wants this sacred stone returned to Rome, then that’s where it will go. We will summon our high lords, and we’ll hear Mass together, and place the relic in our midst. Whatever God commands us then, we will do.”

“My lord, I… that is not….”

“There is yet one authority higher than the pope. Surely you agree with me, my lord?”

“Yes, but… but what if there is no command?”

“If God is silent, we may assume he’s already spoken. Through his vicar in Rome.”

The legate smiled.

He did not smile when, an hour or so later, in the presence of Ludwig of Bavaria and the Swabian landgrave, and many of their kinsmen and highborn captains, the stone began to shimmer, and an image formed within it, clear and magnificent: Gottfried seated as if on a throne, with a raised cross in one hand, and the crystal pyramid in the other.

Then, before they could properly catch their breaths at the sight, the image changed to a battlefield, to a great chaos of men and horses, a great and terrible slaughter, a man falling slowly from his horse, his face covered in blood. All around him, his knights were dead or in retreat. He fell to his knees, and dropped his sword. He looked up, and they saw his face.

— Thuringia…?

— Thuringia! Thuringia is defeated! The victory will be ours!

— Praise God, the victory will be ours!

The image faded, and they saw Gottfried again, still holding the truthstone, and crowned as king.

The legate quietly departed for Rome, to consult again with the pope.

* * *

It was very late. A portion of the duke’s tent had been partitioned off into a private chamber, and he sat there alone, his hands cupped around the willstone.

Today was the first time he had used it to prophesy. He had not planned to do so. It was an inspiration, received in one instant, acted upon in the next. He was confident of victory against Konrad and Thuringia, but until he saw his victory in the crystal, he had not been certain.

Now he was more than certain, he was impatient. There was so much to do. There would be many battles before the empire was secure. Many wars after this one, and many perils, and all the time the lords of Rome would be somewhere at his back, watching and wondering and fingering their knives. Already they were uneasy about him, demanding proof of his servility, as if he were just another worldly and dangerous prince.

He had known from the first that Rome would be a problem. The popes were only stewards of Christ’s power in the world, but they had been stewards for eleven hundred years; they were used to it. They did not expect their master back before the end of the world. Still less did they expect to encounter his heir. They were sure he had no heir except themselves.

He did not want a quarrel with the leaders of the Church. Not ever, if it could be avoided, and certainly not now. The surest way to avoid a quarrel was to win— to win decisively and quickly. Enough victories, and he would not have to tell them who he was, and force them to accept it. Enough victories, and he himself would choose the man who was called pope, and choose the cardinals who advised him. Then Rome would come to him. All of Christendom would come to him, and know him without needing to be told. And they would finally understand what only half of them seemed capable of understanding even now, even after Jerusalem— that no true lord of heaven would settle for less than being true lord of earth.

He must finish it quickly. First Konrad here in Thuringia, and then the sorcerer in Lys. Theodoric and Armund would be in Ravensbruck in a matter of days. One day to marry Count Arnulf’s little baggage, one night to bed her, and then they would march. Of course it was an unworthy marriage for his son, but what of it? He could annul it later on, if the good of the kingdom required it.

He’d had to argue about it nonetheless. Radegund did not want Count Arnulf’s daughter in the family, not even temporarily. And Theodoric could not see why they should bother with Ravensbruck at all.

— We don’t need Arnulf. Karelian has no army. All he can do now is dig in at Schildberge castle, and hope Konrad defeats you before he starves to death.

— Theodoric….

Gottfried had stared at the face in the willstone, possessed by a terrible, undignified urge to slap it. It never mattered what he decided should be done, Theodoric always wanted to do something different. Theodoric was a bewildering, enduring disappointment.

He wondered what it might be like to have a perfect son, one who would never falter and never change. He prayed for it year after year, but his son remained flawed and unfinished, and he did not know why. Theodoric was like him in many ways. He was strong of will and body. He had the same absolute certainty of his place and his power in the world. But that other vital certainty Theodoric did not have.

He had listened with rapt attention when Gottfried told him of his discoveries in the Holy Land. He was a proud young man, and the astonishing account of his ancestry filled him with pride. Too much pride, sometimes. He readily forgot that God’s son had a father. He wanted to have his way in everything, here and now, and raged at anyone who opposed his will or bruised his self-esteem.

Yet at other times, it seemed, he didn’t really believe in his sacred ancestry at all. Not deep down. Deep down, something would always nudge him, always lift its cynical head and whisper:
Jesus Christ, my lord? You must be joking….