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."
