Now I understand it for what it is.
Being a witness is not passive, it never is.
The council chamber smells faintly of incense today, a courtesy extended to our guests. Three bishops sit near thehead of the table, their robes pristine, their hands folded with practiced devotion. One of them is the bishop who married Charles and me. Behind them stand lesser clergy. I recognize the priests and abbots by their attire.
I take my seat off to the side, parchment on my lap, quill poised. I note who stands close together. Who avoids one another’s gaze. Who looks to whom before speaking.
The court is not chaos. It is a pattern.
The Bishop of Tours speaks first. His voice is steady, but there is strain beneath it. “We thank Her Majesty for receiving us in his absence,” he says, inclining his head toward the court master. “But our concerns grow more urgent.”
Lord Westfall responds, calm and practiced, “The King is fully aware of the Saxon unrest. He has committed men, supplies, and his personal attention to securing the northern territories.”
The bishop’s fingers tighten.
“Priests have been murdered,” he says quietly. “Churches burned. Sacred ground defiled. These are not rumors.”
A murmur moves through the room like a held breath released.
Another cleric speaks—young, pale, earnest. “The Holy Father has begun to ask questions. About influence. About whether His Majesty’s authority reaches far enough to protect the faithful.”
My quill hesitates for a fraction of a second, then continues. I do not look up, but I feel the room change. This is not merely concern. This is doubt, and doubt is dangerous.
“The King’s authority has never been in question,” Lord Westfall says sharply.
“No,” the bishop replies, gentle but unyielding. “But authoritymust be seen toact.”
The court master shifts.
Aynhard would have stopped him with a glance. But he has gone with Charles, and the result is immediate: Tempers are less contained in his absence, and in this instance, the bishop’s words sound almost insolent.
The court master rises slowly. His hands press flat against the table before he lifts his head. When he speaks, his voice is controlled, but only just.
“You speak of doubt,” he says. “I speak of destiny. His Majesty was chosen by God Himself. To unite these lands. To spread the true faith.”
I look up.
“If priests have fallen,” he continues, turning slightly toward the clergy, “it is because the enemy is desperate. The devil whispers lies into heathen ears when his grip begins to fail.”
Several priests cross themselves.
“The King will prevail,” the court master says. “He always has. To question that is to question the will of God.”
Silence settles over the chamber.
The bishop of Tours inclines his head at last. “We pray that you are right,” he says. “For all our sakes.”
I write that down too.
When the audience ends, and the clergy departs, I remain seated longer than necessary. I read my notes again—not only the words, but the pauses. The fear. The anger. Who looked relieved. Who looked unconvinced.
For the first time, I have information Charles can use.
I rise and move to the window.
Late spring has softened the world beyond the glass. Courtyard flowers bloom in careless abundance. Windows standopen. Somewhere above the rooftops, birds cry out.
I rest my hand against the cool stone.
