Let it be known and voiced abroad that you support Clement, and we’ll soon see how the worm writhes.”
“If Urban suspected I was inclined to pledge loyalty to Clement, he might cease badgering me.” William spied a nearby goblet on the table; there was still some wine in it, so he gulped it down. “He might even try to woo me back into his camp instead. Is that what you mean?”
“He might,” confirmed Ranulf in a way that suggested this was the very least William might expect.
“He might do more,” William ventured. “How much more?”
“The king’s goodwill has a certain value to the church just now. It is the pope who needs the king, not the other way around. Perhaps this goodwill might be bartered for something of more substantial and lasting value.”
William stopped pacing and drew his hand through his thinning red hair. “The pope has nothing I want,” he decided at last. He turned and stumped back to his chair. “He is a prisoner in his own palace. Why, he cannot even show his face in Rome.” William looked into another cup, but it was empty so he resumed his search. “The man can do little enough for himself; he can do nothing for me.”
“Nothing?” asked the cardinal pointedly. “Nothing at all?”
“Nothing I can think of,” maintained William stubbornly. “If you know something, Bayeux, tell me now or leave me alone. I grow weary of your insinuations.”
“Given Urban’s precarious position—a position made all the more uncertain by the king’s brother . . .”
“Robert?” said William. “My brother may be an ass, but he has no love for Rome.”
“I was thinking of Henry, Sire,” said the cardinal. “Seeing that Henry is courting Clement, it seems to me that Urban, with the proper inducement, might be willing to recognize the English crown’s right to appoint clergy in exchange for your support,” suggested the cardinal. “What is that worth, do you think?”
William stared at his chief justiciar. “The wheels of government grind slowly, as you well and truly know,” he said, his pale blue eyes narrowing as he considered the implications of his counsellor’s suggestion. “You are paid to see that they do.”
“Yes, and every day a pulpit stands empty, the crown collects the tithe, as you well and truly know.”
“A tithe which would otherwise go to the church,” said William. “Ultimately to Rome.”
“Indirectly, perhaps,” agreed Ranulf. He buffed his fingernails against the sleek satin of his robe. “Urban contests this right, of course. But if the pope were to formally relinquish all such claims in favour of the crown . . .”
“I would become head of the church in England,” said William, following the argument to its conclusion.
“I would not go so far, Sire,” allowed Ranulf. “Rome would never allow secular authority to stand above the church. Urban’s power ebbs by the day, to be sure, but you will never pry that from his miser’s grasp.”
“Well,” grumped the king, “it would amount to the same thing. England would be a realm unto itself, and its church an island in the papal sea.”
“Even so,” granted Ranulf gallantly. “Your Majesty would effectively free the throne of England from the interference of Rome for good and forever. That would be worth something.”
“How much?” said William. He leaned across the table on his fists. “How much would it be worth?”
“Who can say? Tithes, lands—the sale of benefices alone could run to—”
William might not understand the finer points of the papal dispute that had inadvertently thrown up two rival claimants to Saint Peter’s golden chair, but he knew men and money. And clerics were the same as most men in wanting to ease the way for their offspring in the world. A payment to the church to secure a position for an heir was money well spent. “Thousands of marks a year,” mused William.
“Pounds, Sire. Thousands, yes—thousands of pounds straight into your treasury. It would only take a letter.”
William looked at the empty goblet in his hand, and then threw it the length of the room. It struck the far wall and tumbled down the tapestry. “By the Blesséd Virgin, Flambard, you are a rascal! I like it!”
Returning to his chair, William resumed his place at the table. “Wine!” he shouted to an unseen servant lurking behind the door. “Sit,” he said to Ranulf. “Tell me more about this letter.”
The cardinal tossed the black velvet bag onto the bench and sat down; he cleared a place among the crumbs and bones with the side of