The bells of St. Peter's tolled as the curia gathered, their iron song heavy as storm clouds.
The air in the Lateran Palace was thick with incense and argument, voices rising and falling in Latin like clashing swords.
Pope John XIX sat beneath the canopy of his throne, the weight of the Fisherman's Ring heavy upon his trembling hand.
Messengers had come in waves, each bearing tidings darker than the last, until the old pontiff felt himself drowning in a sea of calamity.
"Gold and silver, gone!" cried Cardinal Benedict, his face flushed red. "A king's ransom poured into the hands of pagans, and still they mock us! Still they slaughter Christ's anointed!"
Another cardinal, pale with rage, held aloft the letter from Nidaros.
"Cnut blood-eagled in the square of London, his entrails offered to devils while our emissaries were bound and made to watch! Svein calls it sacrilege, and swears Denmark and Norway to our cause if we condemn Duncan."
"Condemn?" spat Cardinal Leo.
