Scarlet

Lundein

Cardinal Ranulf de Bayeux stepped from the small, flat-bottomed boat onto the landing stone set into the soft shore of the River Thames. The rank brown water was awash in dung and garbage, awaiting the estuary tide to rise and bear it away. Pressing the cloth of his wide sleeve against his nose, he motioned impatiently to his companions as they clambered from the boat.

Two men-at-arms had travelled down to Lundein with the cardinal and they followed his lead, remaining a few paces behind, the red pennants atop their spears fluttering in the breeze. Clutching the skirts of his scarlet satin robe to avoid the mud, Ranulf tiptoed up the embankment to the wooden walkway that led to the city street and passed the walls of the White Tower. The new stone of that magnificent fortress glowed in the full light of a warm sun, a blazing milky brilliance against the yellow leaves and dazzling blue autumn sky.

King William had returned from Normandie two days previous and had summoned his chief advisor straightaway-no doubt to review the accounts which Ranulf carried in a velvet pouch beneath his arm. It had been a good year, all things considered. The treasury was showing a small surplus, for a change, so Ranulf was to be congratulated. Thanks to his tirelessly inventive mind, the king would have money to pay his bribes and his troops, with a little more besides.

Oh, but it was becoming ever more difficult. The people were taxed to the teeth, the nobles likewise, and the chorus of grumbling was becoming a deafening din from some quarters, which is why Ranulf-a man of the cloth, after all-could no longer travel about the land alone, but went with an armed escort to protect him from any who felt themselves particularly aggrieved by his efforts on the king's behalf.

William, of course, was ultimately to blame for the resentment festering throughout his realm. It was not that the king was a spendthrift. Common opinion to the contrary, William the Red was no more wastrel than his father-a man who lived well, to be sure, although far less so than many of his barons-but war was a costly business: much expenditure for piddling little gain. Even when William won the conflict, which he usually did, he almost always came away the poorer for it. And the warring was incessant. If it wasn't the Scots, it was the Bretons; and if not foreign troublemakers it was his own brothers, Prince Henry and Duke Robert, fomenting rebellion.

Yet today, if only for today, the news from the treasury would please the king, and Ranulf was eager to share this good news and advance another step towards reaping a substantial reward for himself-the lucrative bishopric of Duresme, perhaps, which was empty now owing to the death of the previous incumbent.

Cardinal de Bayeux and his escort passed through the wide and handsome gate with but a nod to the porter. They quickly crossed the yard where the king's baggage train still waited to be unloaded. Ranulf dismissed his soldiers and commanded them to remain ready outside, then entered the tower and climbed the stairs to the antechamber above, where he was admitted by the steward and informed that the king was at table and awaiting his arrival.

Entering silently, Ranulf took one look at his royal patron and read the king's disposition instantly. 'His Majesty is displeased,' declared Cardinal Ranulf from the doorway. He made a small bow and smoothed the front of his satin robe.

'Displeased?' wondered William, beckoning him in with a wave of his hand. 'Why would you say displeased? Hmm?' Rising from his chair, the king began to pace along the length of the table where he had lately enjoyed a repast with his vavasours. The king's companions had gone, or been sent away, and William was alone.

'Why, indeed?' said the king, without waiting for Ranulf 's reply. 'My dear brother, Robert, threatens war if I do not capitulate to his ridiculous whims… my barons find ever more brazen excuses to reduce their tributes and taxes… my subjects are increasingly rebellious to my rule and rude to my person!'

The king turned on his chief counsellor and waved a parchment like a flag. 'And now this!'

'Ill tidings, mon roi?'

'By the holy face of Lucca!'William shouted. 'Is there no end to this man's demands?'

'Which man, Sire, if you please?' Ranulf moved a few paces into the room.

'This jackanapes of a pope!' roared the king. 'This Urban-he says Canterbury has been vacant too long and insists we invest an archbishop at once.'

'Ignore him, Sire,' suggested Ranulf.

'Oh, but that is not the end of his impudence,' continued the king without pausing to draw breath. 'Far from it! He demands not only my seal on a letter of endorsement, but a public demonstration of my support as well.'

'Which, as we have often discussed, you are understandably loath to give,' sympathised the cardinal, stifling a yawn.

'Blast his eyes! I am loath to give him so much as the contents of my bowels.'William, his ruddy cheeks blushing hot with anger, threw a finger in his counsellor's face. 'God help me if I ever suffer one of his lick-spit legates to set foot in my kingdom. I'll boil the beggar in his own blood, and if Urban persists in these demands, I will throw my support to Clement-I swear I will.'

'Tell him so,' suggested Ranulf simply. 'That is what the Conqueror would have done-and did, often enough.'

'There! There you say it, by Judas!' crowed William. 'My father had no illusions about who should rule the church in his kingdom. He would not suffer any priest to stick his nose into royal affairs.'

It was true. William's father, the Conqueror, had ruled the church like he ruled everything else on his adopted island. Not content to allow such a wealthy and powerful institution to look to its own affairs, he continually meddled in everything from appointing clerics to the collection of tithes-ever and always to his own advantage. Ranulf knew that the son, William the Red, was peeved because, try as he might, he could not command the same respect and obedience from the church that his father had taken as his due.

'Mark me, Bayeux, I'll not swear out my throne to Urban no matter how many legates and emissaries he sends to bedevil me.'

'Tell His Eminence that his continued attempts to leech authority from the throne make this most sacred display of loyalty a mockery.' Cardinal Ranulf of Bayeux moved to a place across the table from his pacing king. 'Tell him to stuff the Fisherman's Ring up his sanctimonious-'

'Ha!' cried William. 'If I told him that, he would excommunicate me without a second thought.'

'Do you care?' countered Ranulf smoothly. 'Your Majesty holds Rome in contempt in any of a hundred ways already.'

'You go too far! My faith, or lack of it, is my own affair. I'll not be chastised by the likes of you, Bayeux.'

Ranulf bowed his head as if to accept the reprimand and said, 'Methinks you misunderstand me, Sire. I meant that the king of England need spare no thought for Pope Urban's tender feelings. As you suggest, it is a simple enough matter to offer support to his rival, Clement.'

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