The English sky is unpredictable. In the blink of an eye, a clear sky can be stained gray-black, and just as abruptly, the rain begins to fall.
The sound of the drizzling rain soon drifted through the castle's wide corridors.
In the center of the spacious hall, upon a high dais, sat the Iron Throne. The hall contained nothing else.
The middle-aged man on the throne seemed to have fallen asleep.
BOOM!
A fierce clap of thunder shattered the desolate silence. The man shot upright, his drowsiness instantly banished.
Though the world knew him as the Conqueror, the years had clearly left their mark. His portly frame greatly diminished his once-imposing aura, and the Crown on his head looked rather ill-fitting, perpetually askew.
William shook his head slightly, then glanced out the window at the lashing rain.
As he turned his gaze back, he saw a figure standing before him. His nerves, still dull with sleep, made him jump in reflex.
But he quickly recognized the face—the one he knew best.
"Roger. What is it?"
The middle-aged man, Roger, was clean-cut. With no beard, he could have passed for a youth.
Roger de Montgomery, the Earl of Shrewsbury, King William's Minister of State Affairs and Chief Consultant.
"By the Blessed Virgin Mary, Your Majesty, news has arrived from the East." Roger bowed respectfully, his courtly manners impeccable.
"Constantinople? What is the Greek Emperor's reply?" William shot to his feet, his tone urgent.
"They have agreed. They will arrange to have the old Duke's body sent to Apulia for us to retrieve. They also hope that, if possible, you might mediate with the Normans in Apulia."
"Mediate? Mediate what?"
William looked puzzled.
'As I recall, the Greeks were completely driven out of Apulia several years ago.'
'What use would mediation be now?'
"News from Italy is that Robert seems to be preparing to attack the Greek territories across the sea. A few months ago, he captured several islands near the region of Epirus."
"So that's it. Giscard grows older by the day, yet remains so vigorous. Interesting."
"Your Majesty, you cannot leave England now. The rebels and the King of France across the sea are still stirring."
"Who said I would go in person? Mediate... Does a mediation have to produce a result? I have agreed to mediate. If the other party doesn't accept the terms, well, that's another matter entirely."
William stood, chuckled softly, and descended the steps from the dais.
"Send men to Apulia and bring the old Duke's body back to Normandy. That is all. If there is nothing else..."
William yawned and made to leave.
Roger, however, held out a letter sealed with wax. The seal was intact; it had not been opened.
William glanced at Roger, took the letter, and slowly broke the seal. He drew out a wrinkled piece of parchment. It had clearly had a difficult journey.
A moment later, his expression grew increasingly grim.
"The Greeks are a worthless lot. The detestable Heretics must be rejoicing."
"What is it?"
William then thrust the parchment at Roger.
Although Roger's Latin was not good, he could still understand simple words and phrases.
His eyes quickly fell upon a few key phrases.
*The entire front in Little Asia has collapsed. The Turkic People are driving deep, having already penetrated the Arm of St. George—the sea near Constantinople. The Holy City of Jerusalem has been destroyed by the Turkic People, and the blood of pilgrims stains the Levant. Their brutality has spread to the very walls of Constantinople, leaving the surrounding lands desolate...*
And of course, there was the usual "call for aid," which made the corner of Roger's mouth twitch.
*O great and venerable Conqueror, King of England, Lord of Normandy, we beseech you, we implore you, in the name of Saint George, to march to the East and relieve your brothers. Aid the Christians who suffer the ravages of the Saracens. They eagerly await your helping hand...*
"Detestable Heretics."
"The weak, despicable Greeks. I don't know why such a people even continues to exist. They're always hoping for others to save them. I've lost count of how many times they've pleaded for aid. Our warriors go to the East, one contingent after another, yet the situation only grows more dire.
At this rate, I wouldn't be surprised if Constantinople fell tomorrow."
Infuriated, William snatched the parchment from Roger's hand, threw it to the ground, and stomped on it several times. Only then did he seem to catch his breath before turning and sitting back down upon the Iron Throne.
Ever since the Battle of Hastings, when William secured his position as King of England, these pleas for aid from the Byzantine Empire had been endless. Every letter was a desperate cry for help.
'It's not that I lack Devotion. I too feel sympathy and anxiety over the heretic threat facing Constantinople. A few years ago, I even opened a recruitment office for those Greeks in London and granted them freedom of passage.'
'Those damn Greeks. It's a one-way street. Surrounded by heretics, they have no desire to improve, spending all their time fighting civil wars. The armies we raise for them are probably thrown right into the thick of it.'
'In the last ten years, the Greeks have gone through three different Emperors.'
'There's no way the Lord of Heaven would bless them.'
"Forget it. If you can, open a recruitment office for them in York as well. We'll discuss everything else after the old Duke's body is brought back to England."
William waved a dismissive hand at Roger, signaling for him to leave.
Roger turned, took a few steps, but then stopped. He turned his head back to look at the man who was his closest friend, yet now seemed like a stranger.
"Your Majesty, regarding His Highness Robert... was your decision not too arbitrary? I believe we should convene a council—"
But he did not get to finish.
"I do not wish to repeat this pointless discussion. I have made my own decision. You need only do your job."
"Even so, I feel it is my duty to remind Your Majesty that changes to the succession have historically led to war."
"You mean Short Socks. I swear on the resurrection of the Lord of Heaven, that boy doesn't have the nerve. I have already told you this does not concern you. You are dismissed!"
William slammed his hand on the arm of the throne, thoroughly displeased with Roger's conduct.
"I do not wish to repeat myself so many times! Do you understand, Roger!"
"Yes."
Roger bowed again, turned, and left the hall.
As the guards gradually closed the great doors to the hall, Roger watched through the shrinking gap. The image of his once-familiar friend now seemed somehow loathsome.
One of his attendants, waiting nearby, immediately approached and offered Roger a handkerchief.
Roger took it and wiped the fingers of his right hand, a habitual motion, though he had touched nothing unclean.
He continued wiping his fingers as he walked slowly toward the palace exit.
The moment he stepped out of the royal court, a priest in magnificent red robes approached, blocking his path.
"Warren?"
Roger's expression remained unchanged by the man's presumptuousness. Instead, he gave the red robes a cool glance.
"Congratulations on becoming the Bishop of Hereford. A great success for an Englishman, truly."
"By the grace of God, and with Lord Roger's favor, of course. I, Warren, swear I shall never forget it."
Warren chuckled softly and bowed, a clear attempt to curry favor with Roger.
"What is it? An invitation for a drink? No matter how much we drink, I have no more bones to toss your way."
"No, there is something more interesting."
Warren glanced at the palace guards, then pulled Roger farther away.
"His Highness Robert was seen in Hereford the day before yesterday. Perhaps he has already persuaded the Earl of Hereford."
"Oh? And?" Roger said dismissively.
"Perhaps... I mean, we could prevent certain... events. If we handle this well, I imagine Your Lordship would be the only one in the King's favor.
So I came not only to invite you for a drink, but also to ask your opinion on the matter..."
"Do you have proof?"
"Of course."
"Then go arrest him."
Roger turned to leave, giving Warren a dismissive wave over his shoulder.
"If you manage to catch him, I wouldn't mind requesting some honor for you... Englishman."
Warren watched Roger's utterly indifferent back as he walked away. He tightened his grip on the Cross on his chest.