Chapter II – He Toyed With Death
11th of March, 1088 Anno Domini
Roskilde Cathedral, Hertugdømme of Sjælland
Roskilde was particularly busy this week. March held three important events on Hvide's calendar as a great market and grand celebration opened the path to the planned Easter celebrations at the end of the month. A bird flying above the city might have noted the colourful fabric that filled the sides of streets; or perhaps it might have noted the great swarms of people and mistaken them for ants, so many there were. Said bird could not, however, have understood the economic importance that this particular event held to the region. Merchants from across the Baltic coastline and as far south as Mainz and Frankfurt had come to take part in the spoils.
The event wasn't particularly exceptional because of Scandinavia itself, but rather because of Sjælland's unique geographic position. Strategically placed at the gates of the Baltic Sea, she was growing every year in wealth and influence as the trade of the Baltic flowed through her. The steadily increasing population of Russia had become an important source of trade across Europe; this grand market would see dozens, no, perhaps hundreds of Novgorodian ships race to Denmark and Roskilde. In turn, merchants from across Northern Europe would arrive to create one of the biggest multi-day trade fairs in the history of medieval Europe. Roskilde's population and economy were booming as a result and the city was prospering like never before.
The man responsible for organizing this event - Skjalm Hvide - was long since dead, but his legacy brought wealth into his family even longer after his passing. This might not seem important to most of Denmark, but it was important to one man who now oversaw morning prayers here in the most hallowed St. Lucius' Cathedral. Bishop Vittorio Paterni was externally focused on the prayer and mass at hand, but long years of training his mind had allowed him to concentrate on two things at once. Inside, his mind was plotting and planning, considering every course of action he needed to take.
His Excellency, the Bishop of Roskilde, Vittorio Paterni. Born in Greek Durazzo but raised in Roma, he was a trusted servant of the Papacy and no stranger to the shadier acts of politics and intrigue.
He expected, of course, that the Danes would not fully understand the intricacies of Italian thinking, which if he played his hand correctly would favour him greatly. It was further expected that his machinations would, if discovered, lead to a quick and untimely death at the hands of the more barbaric Northmen. His real and immediate question was what to do with the Hvide, who had frustrated the Church's attempts to retake the forest. There was a strong movement within the Catholic flock to have the Crusader Skjalm beatified, and it was an idea the Pope had seen quite favourable, if premature.
Vittorio, as the local bishop, would certainly have a strong say about whether to send Skjalm in heaven down the road to Sainthood, but he was hesitant to make that move as long as the question of Hvide loyalty to the Church remained. Championing Skjalm might be seen as legitimizing the young Harald Audensen and he was unsure if he was prepared do that just yet. The boy was proud, liberally open-minded and fiercely independent; he had all the makings of a most dangerous sinner and had not yet been tempered by age or limitations. The Bishop would have to make sure that Harald learnt his lessons before the Hvide received any more favours from the Danish Church.
The ageing Bishop was nearly finished with his sermon when a strange sound captured his ear. With a nearly inaudible
thwip, his hat was sent flying from his head; as the cloth garment tumbled to the floor, it became clear that an arrow was entangled in its folds. Vittorio's face paled at the sight of the shaft and a tightness seized his chest as he realized how close the shot had come to ending his life. There were cries of shock and panic as people realized that a killer was in their midst and without thinking, Vittorio threw himself behind the altar in fear. A second arrow struck the stone altar and snapped in twain, and the Italian found himself crying out as he was under attack.
“Help! Guards! Help me!” He shouted in panic, clutching at his chest and the heart that beat too quickly for his own health.
It did not take long for the guards to arrive, and when they did, voices called some back out of the church. A man had been seen climbing out of the church's windows and riding away on a horse, clearly the perpetrator of this plot. It seemed that Vittorio's life had been saved, for now, and the old Bishop shook slightly as a pair of guardsmen helped him to stand. “Are you harmed, Your Excellency?”
Vittorio shook his head and looked out over a shocked and scared group of followers, many of whom thought that the Bishop had been hurt or even killed in the attack. He cleared his throat and raised his hands. “It is okay, my children...God has seen fit to save me this day. I...” He cleared his throat. “Please, everyone, return to your seats, I shall return where I left off.”
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17th of March, 1088 Anno Domini
Skjalmsborg Castle, Amt of Sambia
Far from Denmark, a knock sounded on the door of a very plain wooden bedchamber, the sound echoing throughout the early morning halls. Erik groaned and rolled over in his bed, looking very tired and bedraggled throughout it all. He had been drinking late in the night and remembered little of what took place; or, at least, he remembered little at first. It wasn't until he saw the sleeping girl in his bed that a flood of foggy events rushed back into his head and he realized that he was no longer a virgin. The knock upon the door came again and he held his head, grunting a bit. Climbing out of his bed, he saw his bed partner stir and raised his hand to her.
Although no one was yet aware of it, Erik's night of drunken passion would have important consequences. He would not think much of her in the months to come, but she was nonetheless pregnant with his child.
“Stay there and be quiet.” He ordered her.
She nodded and watched quietly from the bed as her lord moved to the door and opened it. Olav Markusson, one of his many advisers, was waiting for him with a disapproving frown.
“Still in bed, Master Erik? The sun has been up for quite some time.”
Erik grumbled at him. “I've been working hard, Olav. A man deserves some time to rest and relax after so much effort.”
Olav glanced past the Hvide lord, catching sight of a lump moving in the covers of his bed. “Working hard, are we Erik?”
Erik swallowed a little. “I'll be quite ready for anything important, Olav. Did Klaus send you here to check up on me?”
“No, Master Erik.” The old man cleared his throat. “I'm simply here to deliver this letter.”
“Letter?” Erik's eyes widened in curiosity as Olav pulled forth a small tanned white envelope.
“Yes...marked with the crest of Hvide. I believe it is from your brother Harald. I am unsure what he wants, but it was delivered on the fastest ship Sjælland had available so it must be fairly important.”
Erik snatched the letter from his courtier's hand and tore it open without a second thought. His eyes scanned the parchment waiting inside, silently whispering the words to himself as he read, before he finally let his hand drop. “My mother...?” he muttered to himself.
“Is there something I should know, my liege?”
“Yes.” Erik folded the paper and immediately moved back into his room. “I need you to have a ship prepared for me as soon as possible, I want to leave by tonight.”
“Leave where, my lord?” Olav asked.
“What?” Erik looked annoyed for a moment, then realized what Olav wanted. “Oh, of course. I'm going to Riga, and as quickly as possible.”
The lord fumbled around in his belongings until he found fresh dry parchment and a still unused clay pot with a black marking. He made space on his chamber's table to lay it flat and began fumbling for a pen when he realized his woman still lay within the bed.
“Well, what are you still doing here?” He said almost in frustration. “Get dressed and begone home, I have important work to do here.”
The girl looked a little hurt, but Erik had no time to worry about that now. He had important decisions to make and another, more important woman to see...
Erik and Harald's mother, Gro Svendsdatter, was living in exile at a monastery near Riga. She had written to Harald, and Harald now wrote to Erik...but the nature of her letters remained, for the moment, a mystery.
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13th of March, 1088 Anno Domini
Krøldrup Estate, Hertugdømme of Sjælland
“What?!” Karl Hansen nearly sent a pitcher of mead tumbling to the floor in his momentary anger. “What do you mean?!”
“It is exactly as I said, someone attempted to kill Bishop Paterni, but God's hand saved him from the man's arrow. He has been saved from a cold death at the hand of an dishonourable killer who did not even have the stomach to face him and look him in the eye before striking him down.”
The man speaking was Karl Hansen's brother, Sigtryg. They were both traditionalists with more than a healthy amount of pagan influence in their upbringing, but Sigtryg was thus far unaware of Karl's dealings with the treacherous Harald.
“You never did tell me...” Sigtryg frowned. “Why is it you are suddenly so interested in the Bishop, brother?”
“Nevermind that, Sigtryg.” Karl moved to the wall and took a huge axe from its decorative hanging, checking the blade to ensure its sharpness. “We're riding for Roskilde at first light, action needs to be taken against the Roman immediately or everything we've worked for will come to an end...”
Karl and Sigtryg (as depicted in the centre of the column of riders), the sons of Hans of the disgraced and shattered Clan Krøldrup, were an ambitious pair who sought to restore their family's honour and titles. Vittorio Paterni was in their way...
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11th of March, 1088 Anno Domini
Roskilde Cathedral, Hertugdømme of Sjælland
Vittorio closed the door behind him, appearing completely exhausted. Although the sermons themselves would usually tire him, it was far more exhausting to come a few inches from death as he had, only to escape unharmed.. For a moment he thought himself alone in his chambers and sighed in relief, but a voice confirmed that he had no such luxury for the time being.
“How was that performance, Your Grace?”
Vittorio nearly leapt out of his skin, but then let words spit from his mouth in anger. “Hans you careless son of a bitch, you could have killed me with how close that shot was aimed!”
The German grinned. “A lesser man could have killed you, yes. Either way, I didn't. It had to be close or it wouldn't look like a real attempt, you must understand.”
“Still too close for my comfort.” The bishop rubbed at his aching chest a little, fearing for his health if such shocks would become commonplace. “You still haven't made it entirely clear why this part of the plan was necessary.”
“It is simple, my lord would require that his co-conspirators believe him loyal to their cause. The failed assassination should, with any luck, add to their confidence in his intent. They will play into our hands from now on.” Hans smiled obsequiously to his host. “I imagine they will take measures into their own hands here, but I guarantee that it will be their undoing. When they are caught in the act, Harald Audensen will take every action to see justice dispensed as is his duty. Your enemies will be taken care of for good.”
Vittorio stared at the German for a good long while, as if reconsidering the agreement. “If I had known I was going into business with men so reckless as you and your master, I perhaps wouldn't have made this decision.”
“Surely a man of God such as yourself must have faith that his hand would shield you from harm, Bishop?” Hans grinned even wider, yellowing teeth visible beneath faint grey whiskers.
“I have faith that God's plan will be executed, not that you are working in my best interests, German. Furthermore God may not see fit to protect me when I am hardly acting in his most expected manner by consorting with the likes of you. I guarantee that if you are not more careful next time, then I will see to it you are working for me six feet beneath the grass outside. Are we clear on that, Hans?”
Hans laughed – he seemed to enjoy the Italian's ruthless streak rather than fear it. “As clear as crystal, Your Grace.”