Chapter 42: The Diplomat Struck Unawares

On the other side, Anselmo could scarcely eat a thing.

“This is madness. These people actually dare to lay siege to Lucca—they must have a death wish…” Anselmo voiced his opinion in the city hall, hoping the citizens around him would hear his words.

Yet, amid the cacophony of arguments, his voice went unheard.

“How could the Pisans dare such a thing?”

“We have no quarrel with them—why would they do this?”

“If I’d known, I never would have come to Lucca…”

Citizens spoke up one after another—some shocked, some resigned, but many remained silent. Their attention was fixed on the consul, waiting for an official statement.

During the years before the duke came of age, Lucca had always governed itself this way.

But to Anselmo, it was chaos.

This wild, untamed political landscape was beyond his comprehension.

“Citizens, listen to me!” The consul rapped the table. “The reason for Pisa’s attack is that they want the Bishop of Lucca to consecrate the Bishop of Pisa. But when a wolf enters your house, it too insists it only wants a mouthful of food!”

As he spoke, the consul’s gaze unintentionally fell upon Anselmo.

The citizens stared at the consul, uncertain.

“Why don’t we simply let the bishop go and consecrate him?” one citizen suggested.

“Impossible!” Anselmo suddenly stood, raising his arm, his tone righteous and indignant. “The bishopric of Pisa is tainted by gold! The Holy See will never recognize his position!”

“Will the Holy See help us, then?” several merchants suddenly shouted, catching Anselmo’s attention.

He knew these citizens were mostly traders. With war on the horizon, their business would evaporate—they were the staunchest opponents of conflict.

“You should be loyal to God, not desecrate Him like this!” Anselmo, lacking any political acumen, spoke with nothing but fervor.

The consul sighed silently.

The citizens’ dissatisfaction exploded at once; after all, they would not accept unilateral demands.

“Are all you churchmen nothing but beasts?”

“What about the Pope? Go to the Pope!”

“Why not hand the bishop over altogether?”

Watching the surging crowd, Anselmo stepped back, his face still twisted with fury.

He was afraid, but he despised these unruly citizens even more.

Once I become Pope, I’ll have all of them excommunicated, driven from the church, Anselmo thought, unconsciously clenching the cross in his right hand.

“My Lord Bishop,” the consul interrupted, his tone grave, “if the issue truly lies with the Bishop of Pisa’s office, I suggest you send envoys to Rome to consult His Holiness.”

With this guidance, the citizens’ mood eased somewhat, and they shifted the discussion to this matter.

The consul approached Anselmo and, seizing the moment while the crowd debated, led him outside.

Once they had left the city hall, the consul exhaled deeply.

“You really ought to…” he said earnestly. “You’d best stay out of such matters in the future. And we must seek help from the Holy See. Many Tuscans have joined the Pisans—I suspect the Bishop of Pisa is behind this.”

“The Holy See has no time to help you now,” Anselmo replied curtly.

The consul was at a loss before such stubbornness.

He was clearly trying to help Anselmo—couldn’t he see that?

The consul’s expression darkened. “Just send word to the Holy See. His Holiness will make his own decision.”

Anselmo looked at the consul, seeming to deliberate. Only when the atmosphere had grown heavy did he nod.

“I’ll send someone.”

“Good.” The consul said nothing more and left at once.

As for the obstinate Anselmo, there was little else to say.

Afterwards, Anselmo summoned his attendant. Loyal as ever, the attendant rushed over at a beckon.

“My lord, what is your command?” he asked.

“Wait,” Anselmo said, leading his attendant into the church.

Under the gaze of the clergy, he entered the office.

He pulled out parchment and quill, scribbled a message, then handed both the letter and his ring to the attendant. The attendant nodded, taking the letter.

He slid the letter into an envelope, sealed it with molten wax, and pressed the ring firmly to the seal.

Thus, a letter befitting the Middle Ages was ready.

“Deliver this to Rome,” Anselmo instructed. “Be careful leaving the city—take the southern gate, slip out at night, and don’t get caught.”

“Yes, sir.”

The attendant tucked the envelope into his inner pocket. Producing a black cloak from somewhere, he draped it over his shoulders.

“Fetch a horse from the stables,” Anselmo said.

“Thank you, my lord,” replied the attendant.

Watching his servant depart, Anselmo exhaled deeply, his heart heavy. To be forced into submission by a crowd of citizens was beyond imagining.

The attendant, however, thought little of it.

He mounted his horse at the gate, had the guards open it, and rode out.

When one leaves the safety of familiar walls, anxiety and alertness emerge.

So it was for the attendant.

Outside the city, he grew wary, glancing at the slightest sound in the silent night.

Before long, he halted.

He reached for the pouch by his saddle, retrieving a water skin. Shaking it, hearing the faint slosh, he opened it and drank deeply.

As he drank, a rustling suddenly sounded nearby.

The attendant dropped the water skin, drew his sword, and scanned the darkness, fearful of someone charging out.

“Who’s there?” he shouted, trying to bolster his courage.

After a long pause, nothing appeared. As he returned his sword to its sheath, hurried footsteps sounded behind him.

He hadn’t time to turn before a dull blow struck his head—a blunt object colliding with his skull.

He didn’t even manage a cry; his body went limp, sliding from the horse.

Corrado, gripping a wooden club, shook his head.

Two other squire-knights emerged from the woods, joining Corrado.

“Did you kill him?” one asked.

“Impossible. I was careful—he’ll be fine,” Corrado replied, crouching to search the attendant.

After a moment, he found an envelope.

Corrado fell silent, staring at it.

The pause made the two squires beside him grow excited.

A messenger, after all.

“Quick, let’s bring him back—there’ll be a reward for this.”

Corrado snapped to attention, hoisted the messenger onto his own horse, mounted, and without delay sped off, racing back to camp with his prize.