King Hereafter (85 page)

Angels holding a ledger of glass, regarding the appointment of kings.

Thorfinn said, ‘We attend a thanksgiving Mass for pilgrims in two days’ time, here at St Peter’s. After the ceremony, we make our official entry to Rome and I have an audience with Pope Leo. Or so says the Count Palatine of the Lateran Court.’

‘The man with the two gowns with gold braid on them?’ said Kineth of Angus.

‘The man we gave the first vase to?’ said Hlodver cheekily. ‘I don’t like it. The money’ll never last out. We’ll have to travel on foot like King Ratchis. And they say there’s never enough food in the city at Easter. As for Lent, no wonder the Pontiff likes travelling. One mule-load of fish from the church of St Basil; one boatload of wood from the bishopric of Ostia … You’ll enjoy
your audience in a freezing cold room over a fish-head, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘After Dingwall, an outrage,’ said Leofwine. ‘My lord, there are matters to attend to.’

‘Yes. The unpacking, first,’ said Thorfinn. ‘Then the steward will offer us food. If it consists solely of fish-heads, you may apportion your share to the poor. If you wish to examine the Borgo, remember that there will be beggars and pickpockets and men of many races not above picking a quarrel. Also that, because of the pilgrims here for Easter, prices are bound to be high. I don’t expect to walk home, but I don’t expect to carry you, either. Tuathal; Isleifr, and Eochaid, we should have a talk later.’

The three priests looked at one another, but only two of them turned to walk out of the room with the others. Eochaid, keeping his place by his lord at the window, said, ‘My lord King. I have to go to St Cecilia’s?’

‘Don’t you want to?’ said Thorfinn, without turning round. Over the river to the south-east, one could glimpse the Baptistry of St John with its cupola, and behind it, the atrium and bell-towers of the Constantine basilica, the mother and summit of all churches. The glittering roofs beside and behind that were those of the papal palace and monastery.

His attention drawn to something else, Eochaid said, ‘Shades of the pillar saints. But there seems to be a tower over there with a man on it.’

Thorfinn moved his eyes. ‘I suppose,’ said Thorfinn, ‘he might be mortifying the flesh; but he’s more likely to be a minion of the princes Crescentius or Frangipani. The triumphal arches and obelisks make good forts and watch-towers.… Tuathal is in a condition of efficient ecstasy: that is why he is here.’

Tuathal, prior of a humble group of Culdees on an island in Fife, was master of every shade of statecraft in Fife and, for that matter, the rest of Alba as well. Tuathal’s faith was a tool, like his pen-knife, and it, too, he kept shining and clean. Eochaid understood Tuathal and respected him. He did not understand Thorfinn, for all their ten years together as King and master of the writing-chamber. The King was Sulien’s business. From time to time, Eochaid or another had the name of his chaplain, but if he had a soul-friend, it was Sulien, present or absent, and no one else.

All that Eochaid recognised. The turn of this conversation he did not recognise at all. He said, with composure, ‘It is plain that it is your element as well. I am here because I understand music’

‘But you knew what to expect?’ Thorfinn said. When he turned, the glossy brown eyes travelled all over Eochaid’s face.

Eochaid smiled. ‘Let me reassure you,’ he said. ‘Even Rome cannot disturb my beliefs. I shall not be a hindrance to you; neither will Tuathal or Isleifr. And in lay matters you can count on the others.’

‘Can I?’ said Thorfinn.

‘You think I flatter you?’ Eochaid said. ‘Certainly you have worked with them in Alba. But until this journey they were as strangers in a market-place, eyeing one another. That is why they, too, are here, I take it.’

‘You leave out the question of why I am here,’ Thorfinn said.

Eochaid kept his voice level. ‘I should not presume to ask,’ the Prior said.

‘When in private audience with the Pontiff, one is expected from time to time to diverge from the subject of money,’ Thorfinn remarked. ‘It will be assumed that, like other men, I have been guilty of sin; and, like other kings, I require, for the good of my land, to be shriven.’

It was better to be straightforward. ‘You did not discuss this with Sulien?’ Eochaid said.

‘Sulien is not here. You will be there at the Lateran with me. So will Tuathal. You know the concessions I want. If I get them, I can work towards a uniform rule from Orkney to Cumbria. Until I have uniform rule and uniform Christian observance, the whole weight of the kingdom will continue to rest on my shoulders. A wet autumn, an outbreak of St Anthony’s fire, and men will whisper that even the Coarb of St Peter could find for me no fitting penance. What is it they say?
For it is the prince’s falsehood that brings perverse weather, and dries up the fruit of the earth.… Against his sons, his crimes will be retained, men’s faces will be turned, men’s hearts will be closed. Not welcome, all will say, are the sons of that prince: evil was your father’s lordship before.’

Prior Eochaid walked to a stool and sat down. He said, ‘You are saying, I think, that the mystery of kingship is something you lack that this Pope can give you. That is true. You are saying that you are a man of sin, as are we all; and that, for your soul’s good and that of your country, you must ask to be shriven. That is natural. What else you are saying is unclear. Are you not aware of your sins? Are you asking me what to confess to? Have you never taken the life of a man?’

Thorfinn remained standing. ‘The Pope himself has fought wars,’ he said. ‘Most bishops have killed.’

Eochaid said gently, ‘But the Holy Father has not caused the death of his brother’s son, or his two brothers, or the husband of the woman he married.’

‘No,’ said Thorfinn. ‘I will not defend myself, to you or to anyone else. But if I confess to these deaths, I shall be charged with them.’ He paused, and then added in a reflective voice, ‘I shall be charged with them anyway.’

Eochaid looked at him. ‘Then do not be specific, except in your afflictions. For what do you need the Pope’s blessing? For many years, your marriage has been barren of children.’

He was a courageous man. He bore the long silence that followed, knowing that he had stepped a second time on forbidden ground.

He did not expect Thorfinn to say eventually, as he did, ‘You know my stepson Lulach?’

A loving and sweet-tempered youth. Eochaid had heard the rumours and did not believe them. He said, ‘You are lucky to have him, and your other sons. But life is fragile, and the royal line and your Queen’s health are worth praying for, surely?’

Somehow, he could tell, he had misunderstood. But Thorfinn only said, ‘Yes. Well, whatever fate must befall the heirs of my line, I suppose it will do no harm to let the Pope take the blame for it. Very well. I shall claim
intercession for fruitfulness, and ask forgiveness for any misdeeds of mine in the opposite sphere.… How are the linguists coming along?’

The subject of conscience, it seemed, had been closed. Eochaid said, Those of us trained in the priesthood have no trouble, and Leofwine has a natural gift for language. The rest have some phrases, that’s all. You and Cormac and Leofwine are still our only exponents of Norman-French. Pm told even the Pope has to use Halinard of Lyons when he goes to Apulia.’

‘It’s the way,’ said Thorfinn, ‘you can identify our commercial souls. Which reminds me: the contingent from Dol has not yet arrived. But if you hear of the envoys from Tours, I should like to know where they are staying. A matter, of course, of the wine-trade.’

‘Of course,’ said Eochaid. He felt unhappy. He said, ‘You asked about St Cecilia. Of course, I shall be glad to do what I can. In every way. In every way possible.’

‘If I didn’t know that,’ said Thorfinn, ‘we shouldn’t have had this conversation.… Come. I have a feeling I should oversee the unpacking. Otkel will have sold all the oblations, Kineth will have smelt out the most exquisite market, and Hlodver will be driving Morgund to complain to Odalric, who will pretend not to understand Gaelic. You are right. A miracle has happened. We are brothers. We are pilgrims. We are Athletes of Christ, learning to fight on our knees.

‘Whoever we are, we are in Rome, and therefore next door to Paradise.’

WILL TELL YOU
another truth,’ said Gillocher of Lumphanan, ‘and that is how glad I am that the chief of us is the one with the strongest belly. It comes from being a seaman.’

‘He told you not to drink the water,’ Otkel said.

‘I haven’t. Christ knows what would be happening if I’d drunk the water,’ Gillocher said. ‘I would never leave the building at all. How the lions and the gladiators ever got out to face one another is past my understanding.’

It was the day on which history was to be made. The day when a ruler of Alba and Orkney would enter the city of Rome for the first time in the seventeen hundred years of its existence.

The previous two days had made history, too, in the velocity with which Thorfinn had deployed his complaining courtmen through the Borgo. From what they discovered, he learned that the envoys of Dol and of England had not yet arrived. And he himself, calling to deliver gifts and take refreshment at the house of Archbishop Adalbero of Metz, whose company from Strasbourg he had so lately enjoyed, had one encounter of note. That is, he found himself trapped in the presence of sub-deacon Hildebrand, the Pope’s financial expert, and subjected to a thorough discussion on the tax referred to as Peter’s Pence.

Hearing, Leofwine said, ‘Oh, my God. Cormac and I should have been with you; or Tuathal. What did you say?’

‘There was no difficulty,’ said Thorfinn. ‘I simply took off my boots, and there were my toes.’

‘Well. I’m sorry,’ said Leofwine. ‘But you did put the question of accounting into our hands. I hear he’s a Jew. Hildebrand.’

‘He could be descended from one. His father was Tuscan, of no particular standing, but his mother’s brother was abbot here of St Mary’s, the Cluniac house. He has no time for our friend Adalbert of Hamburg and Bremen.’

‘In that case, I like him,’ said Leofwine. ‘So he proved to be sharp, and you enjoyed scoring points off one another.’

‘He was sharp,’ Thorfinn conceded. ‘He had the Pope’s golden rose in the bag with his parchments. He went to school at the Palatium with the Prefect Cencius. We discussed how poor Alba was.’

‘And he remarked,’ said Leofwine, ‘that England had been paying Peter’s Pence to the Apostle of God for victory and life eternal with all the saints without end for three hundred years without visibly declining into beggary, and should we not enjoy the same favours?’

‘He said something of the sort,’ Thorfinn agreed. ‘Which goes to show that he hadn’t really considered whether life eternal with Offa was an inducement. He was disappointed to hear that the only money we had was in shipping.’

‘Wait a moment,’ said Leofwine. ‘Hildebrand and Pope Gregory … Wasn’t it Pope Gregory who—’

‘Bought his papacy with the proceeds of the papal tribute from England? Yes. That’s what they deposed him for. So Hildebrand, having been Gregory’s private chaplain, is not in the strongest position to demand your money or mine. It occurred to me, indeed, that the Apostle of God might be relieved to be spared a dilemma. Some day, England and Alba might be at war, and both entitled to win.’

Leofwine laughed. ‘Don’t expect too much for your money. Nowadays, the tribute goes to light the churches of Peter and Paul over Easter. It buys the saints’ beneficent protection but no particular promise of victory. If the Mother Church is pitch black at the weekend, you’ll know the English haven’t arrived.’

Leaving Thorfinn, Leofwine felt quite light-hearted. It was, however, the last time he laughed for a while, for the next day was the day of the entry.

Spectacle was the business of Rome. It was six hundred years since the barbarians had overwhelmed this, the capital of the world, and three hundred since the Pope, threatened by a Lombard invasion, had asked Pepin the Frank, for the love of St Peter and the remission of his sins, to protect them. Fifty years after that, with the crowning of Pepin’s son Charlemagne in St Peter’s, the Holy Roman Empire had begun, of which Henry in Goslar was now the Caesar.

In the interests of the city, the church, and the people of Rome, the King of Alba rode the short distance between the state palace and the basilica of St Peter’s on a white palfrey, flanked by the Count Palatine of the Lateran and by Hugo, the Cardinal-deacon. Before him, singing, walked the clergy of the basilica, and behind him, also on foot, followed the file of his courtmen and servants, led by his confessors.

The retinue wore, uniformly, cloaks of velvet the colour of wine-lees over tunics of dark blue wool. Their faces were uniformly grim and uniformly pallid, and one of them bore a tuft of floss on a freshly cut chin. The King, supported no doubt by the dutiful stomach envied by Gillocher, looked composed and controlled his mount discreetly in the narrow path cleared between onlookers.

There were a great many onlookers; and the nearest of them, as the
procession approached the high, galleried portico of St Peter’s, had an air of having been there all night.