Chapter 21: The Lion’s Table (III)

The snow fell in earnest now, a thick curtain that swallowed the castle’s towers and muffled the world beyond the walls. Konrad stood at the window of his chamber, watching the flakes drift past the glass like the ashes of a burned letter. The candle behind him guttered, and he did not turn when the door opened.

“You should not be here,” Margarethe said.

He heard the rustle of her gown, the soft click of the latch. She had come alone, unannounced, and that was a thing he had learned to fear.

“I was invited,” he said.

“By Ottokar. Not by God.” She moved to stand beside him, close enough that he caught the scent of winter herbs on her skin. “The feasts of Prague are not like those of Nuremberg. Here, the meat is carved by the same hand that pours the wine.”

Konrad turned to face her. Her face was pale in the candlelight, her eyes dark and watchful. He had seen that look before—on Rudolf, when he spoke of Ottokar’s wealth. It was the look of a player counting the pieces on a board.

“You warned me of the grey-cloaked woman,” he said. “You told me to find Sister Hedwig. You knew what she would say.”

“I knew she would tell you the truth.” Margarethe’s voice was low, careful. “Whether you believe it is another matter.”

“My father was murdered. By my own uncle. By the king I have served with quill and dagger.” He let the words hang between them, heavy as the snow beyond the glass. “And you, my promised bride, have been in Vienna. What did you do there, Margarethe?”

She did not flinch. For a long moment, she simply looked at him, and he saw something move behind her eyes—not guilt, but calculation. Then she reached into the folds of her sleeve and withdrew a small roll of parchment, sealed with wax the color of dried blood.

“I did what I was asked to do,” she said. “I carried this to the Bishop of Passau. It is a letter from Rudolf, confirming a betrothal between his daughter and the Margrave of Meissen. It was worth nothing when I carried it. It will be worth everything when Ottokar learns of it.”

Konrad took the letter, but did not unroll it. “You are telling me you spied for Rudolf.”

“I am telling you that I know which way the river flows.” She stepped closer, and now her voice dropped to a whisper. “I have seen the king’s ledgers, Konrad. I have seen the names of the men who have been paid, and the names of the men who have been buried. You are not the first fang he has sharpened. You are merely the one who has survived long enough to ask questions.”

“And you?” he asked. “What are you, Margarethe?”

She smiled, and it was not a warm smile. “I am the river. I go where the water is deepest.” She touched his hand, and the touch was cold. “But I have chosen to stand with you, for now. That is worth more than you know.”

A knock sounded at the door—three sharp blows, the rhythm of a servant in haste. Konrad tucked the letter into his doublet and crossed to open it. A young page stood in the corridor, his cheeks flushed from the cold.

“My lord,” the boy said, breathless. “The King of Bohemia requests your presence in the great hall. The feast is about to begin, and he wishes you to sit at his right hand.”

Konrad glanced back at Margarethe. She had not moved, but her eyes were bright with something that might have been warning, might have been anticipation.

“Tell the king I will come,” he said.

The page bowed and hurried away. Konrad turned to Margarethe, but she was already gathering her skirts.

“I will find my own way to the hall,” she said. “It is better that we are not seen arriving together.” She paused at the door, her hand on the latch. “One thing, Konrad. When Ottokar offers you wine, do not drink it unless you see him pour from the same flagon.”

She was gone before he could answer.

The great hall of Prague Castle was a cavern of light and noise. Torches flamed in iron sconces along the walls, and the long tables groaned under the weight of roasted swan, boar, and carp in spiced sauce. The air was thick with the smell of burning tallow and mulled wine, and the murmur of a hundred voices rose and fell like the tide.

Konrad walked the length of the hall with his chin high, feeling the weight of a hundred eyes upon him. The Bohemian nobles watched him with open suspicion, their jeweled fingers resting on the hilts of their daggers. The ladies of the court watched him with a different kind of hunger, their gazes sharp and speculative.

At the head of the hall, on a dais raised three steps above the floor, sat Ottokar II of Bohemia. The golden lion was dressed in a tunic of crimson silk threaded with gold, and his crown—a circlet of hammered gold set with sapphires—caught the torchlight like a promise of war. He did not rise as Konrad approached, but his eyes tracked him with the patience of a cat watching a mouse.

“Sir Konrad von Eppenstein,” Ottokar said, and his voice carried across the hall, silencing the murmur. “You have come to my feast. I had thought you would be too afraid.”

Konrad stopped before the dais and bowed, shallow and precise. “A king’s invitation is not a thing to be refused, Your Grace.”

“No,” Ottokar agreed. “But it is a thing to be feared.” He gestured to the seat at his right hand, a gilded chair that had been placed a little too close to the edge of the dais. “Sit. Let us see if you have the stomach for Bohemian hospitality.”

Konrad climbed the steps and took the seat, feeling the eyes of the hall upon him. The dark-haired lady was there, seated among the other noblewomen, her gaze fixed on him with that same intensity—neither hostile nor warm. She raised her cup to him, a small gesture that no one else seemed to notice, and Konrad felt a chill run down his spine.

Ottokar leaned close, his breath warm and sour with wine. “I have heard a strange thing, Sir Konrad. I have heard that you are not merely Rudolf’s envoy. I have heard that you are his nephew, and that he does not trust you.”

Konrad kept his face still. “The king trusts no one, Your Grace. It is what makes him king.”

Ottokar laughed, a sharp bark that drew the attention of the nearest courtiers. “Then we have something in common.” He raised his hand, and a servant stepped forward with a silver flagon. “But I am a generous host. I will prove my trust by pouring your wine myself.”

He did not pour from the flagon. Instead, he took Konrad’s cup, filled it from a second flagon that stood on the table before him, and handed it back with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

“Drink,” Ottokar said. “And tell me what your uncle truly wants in Prague.”