Power, Thrones, and Papal Rings: Control of the body and soul

Throughout the Dark Ages and medieval period, there was an often unspoken, although other times shouted, power struggle between the nobility and Catholic Church. The Church had spent centuries trying to tighten its grip on Europe’s kings and citizens, but deeply rooted traditions kept much of that power just out of reach. I revisit this conflict often when shaping the power struggles in my books. Removed from its religious frame, the dynamic becomes a portrait of ambition: one mighty institution, and many rulers unwilling to cede even a sliver of control. They had everything—land, titles, riches—but still they wanted more. That tension feels endlessly rich to explore.

The kings, not the Papacy, chose the bishops that presided over churches within their own kingdom. Those churchmen often owed fealty first to their liege lords instead of Rome. Many priests, allowed to marry and pass wealth to their kin, treated their bishoprics as private holdings, prioritizing personal influence and family advancement over Church goals. Even the Pope was chosen by a cadre of kings and other high-ranking nobles, not by the bishops that were to be under their control. 

The Church viewed this as unacceptable.

Pope Nicholas II made a plan to gather control, starting with the synod held in the Lateran at Easter, 1059. Nicholas convened over one hundred bishops to institute a list of reforms, including changing the papal election process. Kings in Italy and nearby regions could no longer decide who led the Church. Now, that power belonged to the bishops, who would choose the Pope themselves. This marked a turning point, as the Church declared its independence and began positioning itself above secular rulers, backed by the threat of excommunication.

Official digital representation of the Bayeux Tapestry – 11th century. Credits: City of Bayeux, DRAC Normandie, University of Caen Normandie, CNRS, Ensicaen, Photos: 2017 – La Fabrique de patrimoines en Normandie

The men and women from whom the Church was usurping power did not take this change lightly, and Pope Nicolas II’s successor, Alexander II, was all too aware of that. Alexander II had grand designs for the Catholic Church, but he needed the support of powerful secular rulers to implement his audacious plans. Like the pope before him, Alexander II wanted the Church to have total authority—including control over bishops and the lands they managed. While the debate was framed in moral terms, it was really about power and money. In a world where kings could give or take land at will, the Church’s position was anything but secure. That’s why, in 1066, Pope Alexander made a deal with William le Bâtard, otherwise known as William the Conqueror.

William, Duke of Normandy, was a French noble whose position was shaky due to his illegitimate birth and the Norman nobility’s violent tendencies toward anyone who posed a threat to their power. William earned a reputation as a ruthless—and frankly, borderline psychopathic—ruler who stopped at nothing to get what he wanted. That mindset drove him to claim the English throne based on a supposed promise from a dead king, a promise no one else had heard, conveniently enough.

In 1066, William asked Pope Alexander II for support in his bid for the English crown. The Pope agreed, sending him not just a written order for the English clergy to back him, but also a papal ring and a banner as signs of approval. This was a bold and rather unheard of endorsement to bring violence to another Christian land, and could easily be seen as a proto-crusade. But it’s exactly what Pope Alexander II needed. 

Alexander II hoped that if William was successful, the newly crowned king of England would forever be indebted to the papacy, serving as an example for others to fall in line in obeisance to the Church. 

This failed spectacularly.

If Alexander II had been more inquiring about the man he helped win a crown, he would have known William was a cutthroat, selfish thug. William’s only concern was what was good for William, which is exemplified by his treatment of his wife, his children, and their inheritance which led to decades of warfare.

When Alexander II died in the spring of 1073, his protege and successor, Gregory VII –known by his birth name, Hildebrand –  continued his work. If Nicholas II and Alexander II were ambitious, Gregory VII was downright revolutionary. Gregory VII established that priests and bishops could have neither wives nor children. Though he was not the first to advocate for compulsory celibacy among the clergy, the encyclical he published in 1074 finished the debate. This mandate absolved people from their obedience to bishops who allowed married priests, and thus caused a massive shift in how the priesthood operated, ensuring the bishops’ ambitions aligned first and foremost with the Church instead of the profit of their immediate families and themselves.

Gregory VII was a controversial figure who found himself at odds with many of Europe’s elites, including Holy Roman Emperor Henry IV who he excommunicated three times, and though his combative nature ultimately led him to die in exile, he helped set the Church on a path to total domination over the western world for centuries.  

I enjoy drawing from the historical tension between Church and nobility when shaping the power dynamics in my book. For example, Aurora’s conflict with the priestess mirrors the age-old clash between spiritual authority and political power. The priestess claims divine right over Aurora’s fate, while her father, a noble with his own ambitions, steps in to assert control. This layered struggle, inspired by real historical conflicts, lets me explore how institutions use faith, bloodlines, and influence to fight for dominance, often at the expense of the individual caught between them.