Chapter 129: Grain and Pride
The hall of Rouen smelled of ink and damp wool.
Outside, spring wind rolled across the gray Seine, but within the stone walls of the Norman court, fire crackled in long hearths and men muttered beneath tapestries.
Duke Robert sat upon the high seat, one boot propped on the base of a carved lion, a half-drunk goblet of cider in his hand.
His eyes, sharp and wolf-colored, scanned the parchment once more, then slowly rolled upward to stare at nothing in particular.
The papal seal still clung to the scroll like a dying barnacle.
Across from him stood Marshal Gautier de Mortain, dressed in mail and furs, a silent weight behind his sharp eyes.
“So,” Robert drawled, “John of Rome declares grain from Reykjavík to be anathema.”
He chuckled. Not kindly.
Gautier didn’t smile. “It is a public letter. Posted in Paris. Carried to the Breton lords and the Saxons alike.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is,” Robert said, rising from his seat. “A missive of righteousness… sent from a marble chair in a city that hasn’t fed itself since the Visigoths camped in its forums.”
He tossed the scroll to the floor and stepped over it.
“Tell me, Gautier. Have we ever once starved for lack of papal permission?”
Robert made a show of glancing toward the larders, toward the wine-cellars, toward the smokehouse visible from the open windows.
“No. We haven’t. Because we planned for winter. Because we listened to the rumors.”
He turned, finger raised.
“Had the others taken this threat seriously from the start they would not now go crawling to the wolves of the north.”
He poured himself another drink and swirled it in the goblet.
“But no… They dismissed the tales. Laughed at the fire in Connacht. Called the king in Iceland a savage with dreams beyond his boots.”
“And now what? The White Wolf sends ships from Greenland. From the far reaches of the North. Grain-laden hulls with coin that’s becoming more stable than the Franc. And the fools in Aachen and Rome wonder how it happened.”
Gautier shifted, voice quiet. “We did not make such a mistake.”
Robert gestured toward the harbor ledgers stacked by his steward.
“We have our merchants. Quiet ones. Timber from Heimaey. Steel from Reykjavík. Amber from Jomsborg. We’ve taken what was wise. Paid what was fair. And none of our people go hungry.”
“And yet the Pope calls even that heresy,” Gautier noted. “Trading with pagans is…”
“Trading with pagans has been the norm since the time of Christ. Did He not walk among Gentiles? Did Paul not sail to Greece and barter shelter from strangers?”
He paced slowly toward the hearth; the flames casting long shadows on his coat of arms.
“Kiev is still Christian in name only. Baltic ports worship old gods by night. The Pomeranian kings bless their forges with pagan rites. Yet Reykjavík is off limits? A bold move by John.”
He looked back at Gautier.
Silence lingered, except for the hiss of damp logs in the fire.
Robert placed his goblet down on the stone ledge and folded his arms.
“This decree isn’t about faith. It’s about power. John fears that the kings of Christendom might find the White Wolf more reliable than the Bishop of Rome. That perhaps… perhaps order could be built without a mitre looking over every shoulder.”
“You speak dangerously.”
“I speak truthfully,” Robert replied.
He moved to the window and looked toward the misty port where longships from the North sometimes docked in the dark of night. He saw the cranes. The barrels. The wagons full of salted fish and rye bread moving inland while the priests bickered about who kissed the Pope’s ring last.
Robert spoke without turning.
“Keep our docks open. Quietly. No churchmen in the ledger books. If Vetrúlfr’s realm sends grain this year… we will buy. And we will eat. And we will remember that Rome cannot fill a man’s belly with scripture.”
Gautier said nothing.
“And if the Pope objects?” the Marshal asked at last.
Robert turned back to him, smiling faintly.
“Then let him excommunicate the wind and see if it changes direction.”
The docks of Rouen bustled with quiet purpose.
No fanfare. No trumpets. No church bells.
Only the steady creak of timber, the slap of wet rope on stone, and the shouts of men hauling crates beneath a cloak of early spring fog.
Three cogs, modest vessels compared to the great longships of the North, were being loaded in sequence. Their sails were furled, patched in places, but sturdy.
The markings on their hulls bore no crest of Normandy, no cross of Christ. Only faded merchant runes and mud-smeared tar lines.
This was no grand delegation. This was business.
Jacques de Caen, a stout man with more years in sail than on land, leaned over the ledger clutched in his meaty hands.
He checked every barrel twice. Oats. Salt pork. Linen. A few bolts of fine cloth. Iron nails. Amber trinkets smuggled from the Baltic coast.
His scribe, a boy with ink-stained fingers and a too-thin neck, scribbled notes with frantic haste.
“No holy relics,” Jacques muttered.
“Of course not,” said the boy. “No saints. No blessed charms. No crucifixes.”
“Not even a carved fish.”
Jacques nodded. “Good. Don’t want them to think we’re trying to convert them. We come for trade, not trouble.”
Near the second ship, a weathered knight in half-retirement watched the loading with arms crossed.
Sir Alaric of Bayeux, once a crusader, now paid handsomely to keep the Church out of his master’s harbor.
“Do they know where to go?” he asked.
“Heimaey,” Jacques said. “From there, their captains will decide. Maybe Reykjavík. Maybe Langaness. Depends on the winds.”
Alaric sniffed. “And if they’re caught by one of the Pope’s ships?”
Jacques grinned, flashing a gold tooth.
“The Pope doesn’t have ships.”
Alaric chuckled. “No. He just has words.”
The fog thickened, curling around the ship masts like wary ghosts. From a distant chapel, a bell began to toll. None of the dock men looked up.
By noon, the ships were ready. No prayers were spoken. No incense was burned.
Only a single command passed from Jacques to his captains:
“Sail hard. Sail honest. Bring back grain and goodwill.”
And with that, the sails caught wind, and the first Norman ships bound for the Great Northern Empire slipped down the Seine, vanishing into the mist.
The Pope would hear nothing of it for months.
And by then, Normandy would already be fed.