“But the gifts will bind him, Your Grace,” Paulinus says with some desperation. “If he accepts the gifts, he’s in the pope’s debt.”
“How far is Frankland from here?” I inquire, not bothering to look up from my stitching. “How many days’ journey? Might it be a week—or even two by sea?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“How many days from Frankland to Rome? Crossing mountains and avoiding robbers? Might it be a month?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And, on such an arduous journey, wouldn’t men need to stop and rest?”
“Perhaps, Your Grace,” Paulinus says with a trace of impatience.
“And is it true the pope has no warriors worth mentioning? No way to force anyone to do his bidding?”
“He has the power of the Keys of St. Peter, Your Grace. He can send sinners to hell,” Paulinus says with all the authority of his office.
“Even if that be true, why should my husband, the king, have any fear of the pope?
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