Exiling the Corrupt Bishop
A sharp knock shattered the silence of the office. I glanced cautiously at the door. A guard approached me and informed me who had come calling.
"A messenger from the military governor."
I had to bite back a curse. Sending a messenger meant he was still alive, which irritated me no end. Even a corrupt governor like him had defended Malaga County in his own way—a soldier through and through. That competence only made me angrier. If he'd shown even a hint of cooperation, I could've dragged him along... but he hadn't, so now I had to deal with this infuriating moment.
Personnel were already scarce as it was. Having decided to cut ties, I steeled myself with grim resolve and schooled my expression.
"Let him in."
A man entered. He showed no signs of injury, so he probably hadn't joined the fighting personally. Standing before me, the messenger offered a formal bow. With his stiff-necked superior Jermi Walli over there, this underling had no choice but to bow to me.
"Is the governor unharmed?"
"Yes, my lord. He hasn't taken the targeted port of Bensu yet, but they've landed safely on the nearby coast."
"Good. God's grace is with him—fortunate indeed."
Empty words. I had to say I was glad he was alive.
"The coastline is secured. He requests reinforcements and supplies."
"Understood. We'll move them out as soon as they're ready."
"The governor hopes you'll act immediately."
The messenger had crossed the line. Realizing his blunder, he bowed deeply.
"I... I mean, to seize the landing point swiftly and... aid Your Excellency in taking Ceuta..."
Trying to squirm out of it. I shot him a glare, then softened my face into benevolence.
"No need to worry. Tell him I'll come personally—have him hold on."
"Y-yes, my lord."
He fled like a whipped dog. I glared after him and let out a heavy sigh.
"One bastard or the other..."
Two men turning my head inside out: the military governor and the bishop.
Before the messenger arrived, the bishop had sent someone demanding "tithes" pronto. The envoy reeked of wine, tongue thick with drink. This mad bishop was still drowning in booze even as the territory plunged into war. For a full week now, he'd been partying. When the money ran dry, he'd sent that fool babbling about tithes being the path to heaven.
Anyway, the bishop's antics meant I couldn't march on the governor just yet. I'd told the messenger I'd go myself, but the time wasn't right.
The Catholic League fleet hadn't even sortied from Jerba properly. True to form for the League, squabbling over leadership had them stalled in debate.
Moving now would be suicide—straight into the enemy's blades. I needed to delay our departure as long as possible. My secret weapon to buy that time was due any moment... but it hadn't arrived.
"The cardinal wouldn't betray me..."
The way to eliminate one of my internal enemies, the bishop, lay in a letter from the Ragusa Archbishop. It ordered his transfer. Even for a secular holding, a direct command from the Papacy was binding. The clergy-noble divide was ironclad in this era. Priests were practically nobles under the Church's thumb—their "lord" was the Pope, and only his word mattered.
Stalling with the bishop would buy time. Plus, I'd drag it out further by "escorting" his replacement.
In short, I'd use every excuse to let Jermi Walli wither on the vine. I'd send minimal support, claiming it was all for the Catholic League. The governor would starve either way. He could defect to the enemy or die for the Lord for all I cared.
The problem was his troops and weapons—such a waste. But rotten flesh couldn't be saved. Some things you just cut away.
If the governor died, my forces would halve. He'd cling on, convinced I'd rescue him. With our already thin ranks cut further, taking Ceuta would be impossible.
But I had a way to fill the gap: foreknowledge of the future. The moment the Battle of Jerba began—that's when I'd march on Ceuta.
In stoic patience, I sat in the office, awaiting my letter.
"Whaaat?!"
The Seville Bishop's tongue slurred as he shoved wine into his mouth and glared at his servant.
"A direct order from the Papacy."
"Whash this nonsense...?"
He snatched the parchment and read the Latin aloud, word for word.
The Seville Bishop of Motril Temple is hereby appointed Bishop of Encamp in Andorra...
A tiny Pyrenees duchy under French sway—Encamp was a backwater parish village in the Urgell diocese, home to a handful of goatherds. Fury twisted the Seville Bishop's face.
"This can't happen! It can't!"
He bellowed, waving his wine bottle. The clerics carousing with him startled and stared.
"Father can't treat me like this! After all the money I poured in to become bishop..."
His father, a wealthy merchant, had bought nobility through massive Church donations—secular power under the Pope's wing. The bishop was just clawing back that fortune... only for the Papacy to sabotage it.
Anywhere else, maybe—but barren Encamp? Accumulating wealth there was a pipe dream.
"N-no... this won't do. Gotta write Father."
He fumbled for pen and paper, but wine-fogged, no words came.
"Damn it... back to the temple! Hurry!"
He and his retinue staggered to the temple. There, unfamiliar figures milled about.
"Ugh... wh-who're you?"
He grabbed a random man, reeling.
The man turned. "A guard of Don Juan de Austria, Count of Malaga."
"G-guard...? Whash a guard doin' here?"
His tongue hopelessly tangled, the bishop squinted. Then he spotted the count emerging and lurched forward, arms wide in protest.
"C-count! What's this? Bringing soldiers to God's house? He'll smite you for it!"
"Haha, calm yourself, Bishop. I'm here to pay tithes."
The bishop froze—oh no. He'd sent for money when the wine ran dry, never dreaming the count would show so fast.
"Haha... didn't realize... s-sorry."
"No matter. You seem quite intoxicated."
"Intoxicated? Nay—filled with the Lord's blood and flesh, my soul overflows this mortal shell. Haha!"
Drunken nonsense. He barely knew what he said.
"Pity—we'd grown fond, yet now we part. Such a shame."
The count feigned regret. The bishop waved it off.
"Me, leave? God forbids it! My mission guards this land—where would I go?"
"But the Papal letter?"
"A mistake, surely. Father must've erred."
The count smirked faintly. The bishop tilted his head.
"Why smile?"
"Trying to hide the heavens with your palm—it's just pitiful."
Realizing the mockery, the bishop flushed redder than his wine.
"Y-you...! Mocking God's servant?!"
"Haven't you mocked this territory's lord?"
"I never... er..."
"Which bishop drinks like a fish, gambles, and beds women without shame?"
"...Wh-where'd you hear such lies...?"
His face paled. Denying reality, he eyed the young count.
"You reveled well while I was in Rome."
"Slandering a bishop—God's servant—with rumors? Father won't stand for it!"
"Will he now?"
The count grinned. The bishop blanched further. Before him stood a man: none other than Santiago Cardinal, a sub-deacon cardinal, aide to the Pope. He oversaw Spain's bishops, linking them to the Vatican—practically the Pope's hand and foot. In Spain, he was the Pope's vicar, absolute to the clergy.
The bishop trembled, knowing it.
"Father erred..."
The cardinal's voice was ice.
The bishop shuddered, backpedaling. "N-not Father—administrative mix-up mid-process..."
"So we erred?"
"N-no, not that..."
His wine-addled brain spun slower than usual. Desperate, he scanned the room and pointed at a underling priest.
"H-he seduced me! Devil's whisper led me astray!"
To survive, he betrayed his own. Grabbing the young priest's wrist, he shoved him forward.
"S-see! Confess! How'd you drag me into the devil's pit?!"
"M-me, Father?"
"Yes! You did it, you fiend! Spit it out!"
Flailing for his life. Meanwhile, the cardinal and count's faces darkened.
