CHAPTER 176: THE ENEMY OF CHRISTENDOM

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.

"Do you not see the pattern? Last year, Robert of France, our king, laid in his grave while England burned beneath the banner of that pagan wolf. His son Henry wears the crown now, but will he steer France into glory? Or let her crumble into ash? None can say. And across the sea, Duncan, Svein, Conrad, all squabbling like drunkards while the wolf laughs in his den."

One of his knights shifted, muttering, "You sound as though you believe these pagans more than raiders, my lord. Mere ghosts from the north."

Robert’s gaze turned on him, cold and cutting.

"Ghosts? Aye. Ghosts that strike from land, from river, from sea, vanishing before dawn. Not raiders, but an army. A kingdom."

He stepped forward, his voice dropping to a low growl that silenced the hall.

"Tell me, how many women did they carry home to their frozen shores? How much gold and silver did Rome itself pay for Cnut’s worthless life, only to see it spilt on a scaffold? How many thralls now till their fields, sow their grain, build their ships?"

His hand swept through the air, dismissive and damning at once.

"They already boast eight thousand swords, each man trained, armed, hardened like the Varangian Guard of Constantinople. And many of those same Varangians act as their commanders, their tutors, their lords!"

The wine practically spilled from Robert’s Chalice as he raised to his feet, fury in his eyes.

"In a generation, how many will they number? Twenty thousand? Thirty? Not since the principate of ancient Rome have we seen such an army... well-armed, well-led, and without fear of Christ or his Church."

The hall was silent but for the crackle of the hearth.

His lords exchanged wary glances, the weight of his words pressing like a storm on the horizon.

Robert leaned back into his chair, wine dark in his cup. His smile was grim.

"Christendom laughs, squabbles, drowns itself in bribes and wine. They call me paranoid."

He raised his goblet, the firelight glinting off its rim.

"But I tell you this: when the wolf comes again, their laughter will choke in their throats. And Normandy, Normandy will not be blind."

The fire snapped in the hearth of Rouen’s great hall, shadows of antlers and banners dancing across the stone.

Robert sat brooding in his chair, the stem of his goblet pinched between two fingers, wine dark as blood within.

At his side stood Gautier, his marshal, broad of shoulder, scarred from years in the saddle.

He had been recounting his successes, his voice steady but troubled.

"We’ve raised a score of new knights these past two years," Gautier said,

"and the motte-and-bailey keeps rise swiftly across our marches. Peasants toil, and coin flows steady enough from toll and tithe. Normandy is stronger than she has been in years."

He hesitated, his gaze flicking toward his duke.

"And yet... the north grows faster still. Their wealth multiplies like rabbits in spring. Traders whisper of vaults filled with Roman silver, of thralls tilling fields in Iceland, Greenland, even lands beyond we scarcely believe exist. If they are not checked, their coffers will outshine ours tenfold within a generation."

Robert sipped his wine, his face unreadable. At last he spoke, voice low.

"Do you know what the wolf has done, Gautier? By pulling out of England after butchering Cnut, he has staged not a raid, but a masterstroke of strategy."

The marshal blinked, then chuckled, shaking his head. "Surely you don’t mean... that he intended to pit the Christian kings against each other over England’s empty crown? That would require foresight... cunning far beyond a pagan raider’s wit."

Robert did not laugh. He did not even stir.

He only drank, the silence between them growing heavier with every heartbeat.

His eyes, pale and cold, fixed on Gautier until the marshal’s smile faltered.

"My lord?" Gautier said carefully.

Robert leaned forward, resting the goblet on the arm of his chair. His words came slow, deliberate, each one striking like a hammer.

"It has been seven years since Bobbio. Seven years since the wolf first bared his fangs. Do you remember? He led Christendom on a wild chase, mocking Rome itself. The Pope thought that Cnut was harboring them. Suspecting his conversion a lie. Desperate to prove his piety, the fool butchered the Manx in cold blood. The wolf forced his hand, and in doing so made Denmark Rome’s butcher, not his own."

Gautier’s jaw tightened, but Robert pressed on.

"Since then, he has united Iceland, Greenland, the Faroes, and lands further still, which merchants swear are real though we have no names for them. He raised an army, built a fleet, and burned Connacht to ash. Its kings lie in a field, picked clean by carrions and dogs alike. Ireland still fights over the bones he left behind."

Robert rose from his chair, pacing now, his cloak trailing across the rushes. His voice grew harder, sharper.

"And when we thought he would return to Ireland, he struck England instead. Northumbria bled, then Scotland, baiting Duncan’s wrath when Cnut’s men burned his border villages. Thus wolf and lion together tore the Dane apart. Cnut fell, not to pagans, not to Scots, but to both, while Rome’s gold filled the wolf’s coffers. And at the last, when Duncan turned on him, he was gone... gone with his silver, gone with his thralls, gone with his women, leaving only ruin behind."

He stopped before the hearth, the fire painting his face in harsh relief.

"And now? Christendom tears itself apart. Svein curses Duncan, Conrad circles Denmark, Rome burns incense over a boy-pope bought with Tusculan coin. And through it all, the wolf laughs from his frozen den."

Silence stretched. Gautier swallowed hard, his earlier mirth gone.

"My lord," he said at last, voice low, "you make him sound less a man than a shadow of fate itself."

Robert turned, eyes glittering in the firelight. He said nothing as he stood up and walked to the table. Grabbing a letter and handing it to Gautier.

When the Marshal’s eyes glanced over the words written his face turned to inexpressible horror.

Before he could speak, Robert confirmed it with a silent nod. Then a gaze into the fire.

"John tried to hide it. But in the chaos of his death, I was able to get my hands on the truth. We are not dealing with some fishermen turned raider. No... we are facing off against a Varangian Warlord. The White Wolf is Captain Vetrúlfr Úllarson, head of Emperor Basil the Bulgar Slayer’s personal bodyguard. And he has built an Empire in the North for a single purpose."

Gautier paused, his voice catching in his throat as his thoughts desperately tried to escape his lips.

"To what purpose?"

Robert sipped his wine in silent contemplation, until finally he spoke.

"To destroy Christendom."