The bells of Rouen tolled in the cold dusk, their echo carrying over the Seine.
Robert, Duke of Normandy, sat in his high chair with his lords gathered close, a letter unfurled in his hand.
His face was drawn in the firelight, lips curled with disdain.
"So," he said at last, crumpling the parchment in his fist. "John of Rome is dead. The old pope… gone, struck down by the hand of God while Christendom bled. And in his place? A boy. Benedict, son of Tusculum, crowned not by God's will, but by coin. The cardinals and bishops, fools! They've sold Peter's throne for Tusculan silver."
His voice rose, sharp with contempt.
"When John lived, he trembled at wolves and kings, but at least he trembled with conviction. Now? Now Christendom is shepherded by a libertine child whose mitre was bought in backroom bargains."
The chamber murmured uneasily.
Robert rose, cloak sweeping across the floor. His eyes glinted as he looked to his captains.
