Chapter 68: Blackmailing the Holy See

In the darkness of night, within a plain-colored tent, Peter Damian, dressed in simple attire, was scribbling in his little notebook.

“The Andalusian paper that Bishop Leo developed is truly excellent, Enrique.”

Damian set down his notebook and looked at Enrique.

“Yes, Bishop Leo is a clever man,” Enrique replied smoothly. “If you wish, I can have the Church send someone to the Correzzola Monastery to purchase some—the Bishop would certainly be pleased to supply the Church with these sheets.”

“That’s not so important.”

Damian rose to his feet. He glanced at the gap in the tent’s curtain; the wind swept through, lifting the fabric and revealing the scenery outside.

The plain was still beautiful, though Damian hadn’t seen it for quite some time.

“My purpose here, as the Church’s envoy, is to speak with him. Yet I have not met him so far. Could you perhaps arrange an introduction?”

“No.” Enrique shook his head.

He lifted the curtain just as Stefana entered, carrying a steaming dinner into the tent.

Though Damian was under soft confinement, his treatment was not harsh.

Yet, upon seeing the meal, Damian sighed, “Today is Sunday. I don’t eat meat.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Enrique said. “If you truly won’t eat it, just leave it there. She’ll come later to clear the plates—hopefully the meat is still untouched when she does.”

With that, Enrique stepped out of the tent.

He knew perfectly well why Leo had left this matter to him. As Leo’s longest-serving knight, Enrique’s loyalty was beyond question. Damian had been pleading persistently, but no matter what he said, Enrique was unwavering.

Outside, soldiers raised their cups in celebration, boasting of their recent victory.

“Enrique!” Rossi suddenly appeared at his side, left arm around a woman, right hand clutching a silver goblet, red wine staining his clothes.

“What a glorious victory, right? We’re in for good days ahead.” With a belch, Rossi let out a waft of wine that made Enrique’s stomach turn.

He waved a hand in front of his face, as if to dispel the odor, then looked at Rossi with distaste.

“You’re certainly pleased,” Enrique said, punching Rossi in the chest.

Rossi laughed, stepping back.

“Uh… aren’t you going to drink? Everyone’s celebrating—Bishop Leo’s upstairs with his beauty, enjoying the night. Won’t you join us?”

“Perhaps later. Shall we invite Corrado?”

“Corrado… is already drunk.”

Rossi spread his hands, dropping the goblet to the ground. He seemed less than sober himself.

“He’s a rookie.”

“Then Enrique shouldn’t drink either.”

A familiar voice sounded from beside them. Rossi, though tipsy, straightened immediately as if sobered.

Leo, hair cropped short, looked especially sharp tonight. His white robe made him appear even more crisp and fresh.

“Rossi, go enjoy yourself. I have something to discuss with Enrique.”

Upon hearing Leo, Rossi quickly took his companion and vanished.

Enrique followed Leo.

“I entrusted Cardinal Peter Damian to you. How is he?” Leo asked, walking.

“He’s well enough. Eats and drinks.”

“That’s ‘well enough’?” Leo said. “I hope there won’t be any accidents—such as him complaining of injustice or mistreatment. You haven’t caused any unnecessary trouble, have you?”

At the tent, Enrique smiled and spread his hands.

“You can see for yourself.”

“Very well. Call Riccardo.”

Leo nodded and lifted the curtain. Stefana followed him into the tent.

“Bishop Leo.”

Damian stood up as soon as he saw Leo.

Stefana glanced at them, then silently went to the table to clear the empty plates. The beef was long gone—no one knew where.

“Cardinal Damian.”

Leo’s hands were clasped behind his back, his face bearing a professional smile devoid of warmth.

Feeling his own warmth met with cold indifference, Damian took a step back.

“I hear you have won a great victory, driving away the Count of Capua and his wicked Normans. I must thank you on behalf of the Church.”

“I am honored,” Leo replied blandly. “It is my duty.”

Damian studied Leo.

Suddenly, he felt this man was troublesome. Perhaps even more troublesome than the Normans.

“But what people say outside is false. It was not a great victory—only a temporary repulse of the Normans. The routed were mere rabble; the elite remain with Richard, likely regrouping at Gaeta.”

As Leo spoke, Damian’s expression grew grave.

Richard’s elite still remained.

“But my soldiers are all from the north—mostly Tuscans. They’ve come so far to fight, and it’s natural for them to waver…”

Damian gazed into Leo’s eyes.

He saw a glint flash across them. From that moment, Damian knew Leo was about to bargain.

“So, I hope you can compensate my soldiers—perhaps pay them some wages. It would ease their hardship somewhat.”

Leo rubbed his hands.

He was bound for Gaeta, but that didn’t mean he’d spare the Church.

After all, extortion was extortion. If the Church didn’t treat him with respect, he saw no reason to be merciful.

And his extortion was clearly working.

“The Church will grant you certain benefits,” Damian said in a low voice. “I can write a letter to request your promotion—from bishop to archbishop. Thus, you won’t be subject to Luca’s constraints.”

“That’s hardly enough!”

Leo suddenly raised his voice.

“I’ve shed blood for the Church—I was wounded in battle—and this is all you offer? Damian…”

“Hush!”

Damian grew anxious. He didn’t want their dealings overheard. As a man of the Church, Damian knew the need to maintain purity—even if only outwardly.

“I can persuade Alexander to include Corsica in your diocese,” Damian offered.

“Corsica belongs to Pisa—it’s always been under my jurisdiction!”

Leo lowered his voice as well.

“Don’t think you can fool me so easily. I need real benefits from the Church. Gaeta must be mine, and I want Sardinia as well.”

Riccardo, just entering, paused at Leo’s words.

He pulled some paper from his pocket, saw Damian’s pen and ink on the table, and immediately put them to use.

“Impossible. You ask too much.”

Damian protested, but Leo ignored him and moved to Riccardo’s side.

“Draft a letter to the Roman Church. Tell them I, Leo, require Gaeta and Sardinia to be granted to me—otherwise, I’ll let the Count of Capua in to sack Rome.”

“Yes, yes.” Riccardo nodded frantically, sweat pouring down his face.

How could he possibly phrase such a demand?

“Even if you send the letter to Rome, without my seal, no one will believe it!” Damian said, reaching for the letter Riccardo was writing. But Leo stepped between them, seizing Damian’s wrist and holding him fast.

“Your Eminence, let me tell you a story,” Leo said, his voice icy. “In the north, there once was a king called the Lord of the Ring. He delighted in severing the fingers of enemy kings, keeping their rings as trophies.”

“For shame, calling yourself a Christian,” Damian gritted his teeth, anxiety clear in his gaze.

He could sense from Leo’s eyes a hint of murderous intent—something Damian, born a cleric, had never possessed.

“Let go,” Damian demanded.

“Whether I let go depends on you, Your Eminence. If you’ll seal the letter, I’ll release you.”

With that, Leo tightened his grip.

“If you refuse, I’ll be forced to find other means. Perhaps I’ll borrow your hand for a while. What happens thereafter, I can’t guarantee.”

Damian tried to struggle.

But the pain in his wrist was real, and Leo’s tone was not bluffing.

“I will seal it.”

As soon as Damian uttered the words, Leo released him.

His glacial expression melted into spring, as if nothing had happened.

“Thank you, Your Eminence.”

Leo glanced at Riccardo.

“When you’ve finished, have him seal it, then send it to Rome.”