Valkyries Calling

Chapter 167: The Price of a King

The bells of St. John Lateran tolled as the curia assembled.Sunlight slanted through high windows, catching the smoke of incense in pale shafts.

Cardinals filed into their seats, crimson hoods whispering against stone, their murmurs already a storm.

At the center of it all, upon the papal throne, sat John XIX, his face taut with age and indignation.

Before him lay the letter, sealed in wax bearing the wolf’s head sigil, the mark of the pagan warlord who now held a Christian king in chains.

The papal chamber was never quiet, but this day the voices carried an edge like drawn steel.

"Unthinkable," hissed Cardinal Benedict. "A king anointed with holy oil, chained like a beast by heathens. And Rome commanded to pay his ransom as if we were debtors to wolves."

"They mock us," said Cardinal Crescentius, voice rising.

"Every coin we give them spits upon the Cross. It is not silver they demand, it is our dignity. And if we yield, every pagan in the north will know that Rome bows before their idols."

Another cardinal slammed a palm against the table. "Then let us refuse! Better he rot in their chains than the Church be shamed before Christendom."

But not all were so bold. Cardinal Peter leaned forward, his face pale beneath the vaulted light.

"And what message does that send to the kings of Christendom? That Rome abandons its anointed? That when a Christian king falls, the shepherd leaves the lamb to the wolves? Rumor already surges of the peasants embracing pagan traditions once more. Do you want the Kings we have spent centuries baptizing to turn to their false gods once more?"

Murmurs surged again, voices clashing, some demanding defiance, others whispering necessity.

John XIX let it swell until the chamber trembled with it, then raised his hand. Silence fell like a curtain.

"Enough," the Pope said, his voice thin but cold.

"The matter before us is not pride, nor outrage. It is survival. If we abandon Cnut, if we let him die beneath their knives, the kings of Europe will turn their eyes from Rome. They will see us not as their shepherd but as a reed in the wind. Our authority will wither."

He gestured to the letter, the wax seal catching the light.

"These wolves mock us, yes. They defile Christ by demanding gold for his anointed. But Rome has weathered humiliation before. We endured when Goths sacked this city. We endured when Lombards defiled our gates. We endure still."

His gaze swept across the cardinals, sharp as a blade.

"We will pay the ransom. Not for their sake, not for this pagan warlord’s triumph. But because Rome cannot be seen to abandon a Christian king. The silver we give is ash in our mouths, but the shame of refusing would be death in our bones."

There was silence, bitter and heavy. None dared contradict him now.

The Pope sank back into his throne, his voice dropping to a rasp.

"Send word to the treasuries. Count the silver. Melt the chalices if you must. The wolf shall have his price. But mark me well, this debt will not be forgotten. There will come a day when Rome’s hand is stronger, and then we will see how wolves fare before the Lion of Christ."

The curia dispersed with bowed heads and clenched jaws.

But beyond the Lateran walls, the news had already slipped into the streets.

In taverns and marketplaces, pilgrims spoke of it in low voices, as though afraid the air itself might carry the words to heaven.

"A Christian king in chains," muttered a Saxon pilgrim, knuckles white on his staff. "The pagans feast on him like carrion."

"And Rome pays them for the privilege," spat a Roman baker, shaking his flour-dusted fists.

"What next, shall we buy back our own souls with coin?"

In the colonnades of the Forum, scholars and priests argued.

Some said the ransom was an act of mercy, proof of Christ’s charity.

Others whispered it was cowardice, that the gods of the north still had teeth sharp enough to bite Rome itself.

At the shrines, widows wept and prayed louder than ever, clutching their rosaries as if to drown out the rumor.

In the hostels where pilgrims slept, the tale spread faster than the smoke of cooking fires. Every tongue repeated it:

The Pope will pay the wolves.

And so it was settled. Chalices melted, reliquaries stripped of ornament, coins counted under the weary gaze of papal treasurers.

Gold and silver meant for the poor, for the saints, for the altars of Christendom, now bound for the long road north, to vanish into pagan coffers.

Rome endured.

But in the whispers of taverns and the sermons of angry priests, in the bitter silence of the Pope himself, a truth lingered: humiliation was a wound deeper than debt.

And wounds have a way of festering.he letter from Rome crumpling in his fist.

"No, sheep. I am no beast. I am the son of Ullr. And you, Cnut, will be the first king in centuries to remember what it means when the gods demand sacrifice."

The hall fell silent but for the crackle of the fire and the rattling of chains.