The hall of Rouen smelled of ink and damp wool.
Outside, spring wind rolled across the gray Seine, but within the stone walls of the Norman court, fire crackled in long hearths and men muttered beneath tapestries.
Duke Robert sat upon the high seat, one boot propped on the base of a carved lion, a half-drunk goblet of cider in his hand.
His eyes, sharp and wolf-colored, scanned the parchment once more, then slowly rolled upward to stare at nothing in particular.
The papal seal still clung to the scroll like a dying barnacle.
Across from him stood Marshal Gautier de Mortain, dressed in mail and furs, a silent weight behind his sharp eyes.
"So," Robert drawled, "John of Rome declares grain from Reykjavík to be anathema."
He chuckled. Not kindly.
Gautier didn't smile. "It is a public letter. Posted in Paris. Carried to the Breton lords and the Saxons alike."
