Valkyries Calling

Rouen's winter air was damp with river mist, the kind that clung to stone walls and turned torchlight into a dull haze.

In the great hall of the ducal keep, a brazier crackled with oak logs, casting a steady glow over the carved chairs and the banners of House de Mortain.

Robert sat at the high seat, the letter still in his hand, thick vellum, sealed with the Fisherman's Ring.

He broke it open without ceremony and read in silence, his brow lowering with each line.

When he finished, he did not speak at once. He simply let the parchment fall into the brazier. Flames licked the edges, curling the words into black ash.

Gautier, his marshal, stood nearby, arms folded over his mail. "Bad news?"

"A request," Robert said at last, his voice calm but edged. "From Rome. The Holy Father wishes me, and every Christian prince who can bear arms, to sail to England and join Cnut's cause."

Gautier's lips twisted. "England bleeds enough without Norman steel."

"Indeed."

Robert leaned back, watching the fire consume the last scraps of the papal script.

"Norman men need not bleed for England's quarrels. Our army exists to guard Normandy, not to be squandered on foreign shores."

"The Pope will not be pleased."

"The Pope," Robert said evenly, "does not march his own men to war. He sends others to die for his causes, then blesses their graves."

He set down his goblet, fixing Gautier with a steady look. "Tell me, how fare our own preparations?"

Gautier straightened.

"The levy musters are near complete, my lord. From Cotentin to Evreux, every able man is accounted for. The smiths work day and night, spearheads, arrowheads, and fresh mail for your household guard."

"And the castles?"

"The new motte-and-baileys at Fécamp and Eu will be finished by spring. Timber palisades for now, but with earthworks deep enough to break any sudden assault. The masons in Caen have begun laying the stone for a proper keep."

Robert nodded slowly. "Good. And our stores?"

"Grain from last harvest is sealed in the abbey granaries, enough for two winters. Salted fish from the coast, casks of wine from Anjou, barrels of dried beans from the Seine valley. If the wolves come, my lord, Normandy will not starve."

A thin smile touched Robert's lips. "Then let them come. When the Northmen tire of England, they will look across the Channel. I mean for them to see our shores bristling with spears, not lying open like a plundered field."

He rose, his cloak sweeping the rushes. "Send word to the ports, no ships are to be readied for England. Any man who sails without my order will not be welcomed back."

Gautier inclined his head. "It will be done."

Robert turned back to the fire. "Let Cnut fight his own wolves. Normandy will keep its blood for Normandy."

Gautier lingered by the brazier as Robert's gaze drifted back to the flames.

"And if the King of France answers the Pope's summons?" the marshal asked at last. "If his majesty rallies the royal banners and sails for England?"

Robert's eyes shifted from the fire to Gautier, his expression unreadable.

"Then someone must protect the shores of the realm, mustn't they? England is not France. If the king and his lords march across the sea, it will be Normandy that stands between the crown and the wolves."

Gautier frowned. "You mean to refuse the king himself?"

Robert's mouth curved in the faintest smirk.

"I mean to remind his majesty of why our forefathers were granted this duchy. The Normans were set here to guard the realm's northern gate, to be the shield against the raiders who once burned Paris and took our lands. That charge remains. It is not fulfilled by chasing Northmen across another man's kingdom."

He stepped closer to the brazier; the light casting his profile in stark relief.

"If the king is wise, he will see the sense in it. If he is not, he will still need someone watching the shore while he is away. And that," he said, letting the fire crackle in the pause, "is why we exist."

Gautier inclined his head slowly. "Then I will ensure our men understand it as well. Loyalty to Normandy first, the crown second."

Robert picked up his goblet once more.

"Just so. Let others bleed for the Pope's cause. We will be ready for the day the wolves come to our coast, and when that day comes, Normandy will still be standing."

---

Winter's pale light spilled across the great hall, pooling on the marble floor where King Robert II sat beneath the carved canopy of the Capetian throne.

The air smelled faintly of incense, and the distant toll of Notre-Dame's bells carried through the frosted windows.

A royal clerk stepped forward and bowed low, holding out a sealed parchment stamped with the Fisherman's Ring. "From His Holiness in Rome, sire."

The king broke the seal, his eyes scanning the words with growing heaviness.

The Pope's message was as clear as it was insistent, a plea to rally the banners of France in defense of Christian England against the pagan threat from the north.

The Archbishop of Sens, standing at the king's right, spoke softly.

"England is Christian soil, Your Majesty. If the Northmen burn it, they will strike fear into every faithful heart in Christendom. Rome will expect France to answer."

Robert II's gaze lingered on the letter. "And leave our own coasts naked to the sea? If the wolves sail further south while we fight in another man's war, who will stop them?"

The Constable of France shifted uncomfortably. "Normandy, sire. It was why their forebears were given the duchy, to guard the northern shore."

The king's brow furrowed. "Yes. But Robert of Normandy is as willful as his Viking grandsire. If I order him to sail for England, he will claim his duty lies here. And he will not be wrong."

The Archbishop pressed, "The Pope will not take refusal lightly."

The king's voice was steady but edged with steel.

"Then I must give him an answer that pleases his ear… without emptying my coasts of their garrisons. We will send some ships, some men, enough to be seen as faithful sons of the Church. But France will not bleed itself dry for England's sake."

He rolled the parchment in his hand, gaze distant.

"The Pope thinks only of England. I must think of France."