Chapter 11: The Weight of Oaths
The rain had not ceased for three days. It fell in sheets across Aachen, turning the palace courtyards to mud and the stone corridors to echoing caverns of damp. Drogo stood at a narrow window in the east tower, watching the water stream down the glass like tears from a stone saint. Behind him, Bernard of Septimania waited in the shadows, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword—a habit he wore as naturally as his tunic.
“You have been quiet, Bernard,” Drogo said, not turning. “That is unlike you.”
“I am waiting for you to tell me what game you are playing.”
Drogo smiled at the window. “I am playing no game. I am merely watching it unfold.”
Bernard stepped forward, his voice low and rough. “Judith has been in the emperor’s chambers since dawn. She brought her son with her. Charles is barely a boy, and she parades him like a crowned prince. The court whispers that she is pushing Louis to revise the Ordinatio Imperii.”
Drogo turned. The smile remained, but his eyes were cold. “Let her push. My father is not a man to be moved by whispers alone. He needs certainty, and Judith offers him fear. Fear of his sons, fear of the future, fear of God’s wrath. But fear is a poor foundation.”
“And what do you offer him?”
“Peace.”
Bernard laughed, a short, bitter sound. “Peace. You offer peace to a man whose sons are sharpening blades against each other. You offer peace to an empire that is bleeding from a hundred wounds. You are a fool, Drogo, or you are something far more dangerous.”
“Perhaps both.”
The door behind them creaked open. A servant, young and nervous, bowed low. “Your Highness, the empress requests your presence in the private chapel. She says it is a matter of some urgency.”
Drogo raised an eyebrow. “The empress requests? How gracious.” He nodded to the servant, who fled. When the door closed, he turned to Bernard. “She does not summon me to pray. She summons me to dance.”
“You could refuse.”
“I could. But then I would not learn what she fears.” Drogo adjusted his tunic, the rich fabric falling in careless folds. “And I have discovered that Judith of Bavaria only reaches for God when she is afraid.”
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The private chapel was small, lit by a dozen candles that cast trembling shadows against the gilded walls. Judith stood before the altar, her hands clasped, her head bowed. She wore a gown of deep blue, the color of the Virgin’s mantle, and her hair was hidden beneath a veil of white linen. She looked, Drogo thought, like a painting of piety—until she turned, and he saw the sharpness in her eyes.
“You came,” she said. “I am surprised.”
“You asked. I am nothing if not obedient to my stepmother.”
Judith’s lips curved, but there was no warmth in it. “You are obedient to no one, Drogo. You play at sloth, but I have watched you. You notice everything. You remember everything. And you use what you know like a knife, slipping it between ribs when no one is looking.”
“You flatter me.”
“I warn you.” She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Louis is dying. Not in body, not yet, but in spirit. He sees his sons tearing apart what his father built, and he cannot bear it. He will do anything to keep the peace—anything, Drogo. He will even betray you.”
Drogo’s expression did not change. “You speak as if you know his mind.”
“I know his heart. I have shared his bed for years. He trusts me with his fears, his regrets, his prayers. And I have told him that you are dangerous. That you are working against his interests, that you are feeding whispers to Lothar, that you are—how shall I put it?—a serpent in the garden.”
The candlelight flickered. Drogo felt the cold crawl up his spine, but he kept his voice even. “And did he believe you?”
Judith smiled, and for a moment, she looked almost kind. “He wept. He always weeps. But he also listens. He has summoned Lothar to Aachen. He intends to confront him, to demand an oath of loyalty, to bind him with words and chains of faith. And he has asked me to prepare a list of those he suspects of treachery.”
She paused. “Your name is on that list, Drogo. I wrote it myself.”
The words hung in the air like smoke. Drogo let them settle, let the silence stretch, and then he laughed—a soft, genuine laugh that seemed to catch Judith off guard.
“You are magnificent,” he said. “You have painted me as a traitor to my own father, and you have done it so cleanly that no one will question it. But tell me, Judith—if I am removed, who will be next? Lothar? Pepin? Your own son, when Louis looks at him and sees the cause of all this strife?”
Judith’s smile faltered. “Charles is innocent.”
“Charles is a threat. He is a child, but he is a child with a claim.” Drogo stepped closer, his voice softening. “You have made yourself an enemy of everyone, Judith. You have no allies but the man who is dying and the son who is too young to protect you. And when the storm comes, as it is coming, you will find yourself alone.”
Her eyes flashed. “Is that a threat?”
“It is a warning. From one survivor to another.” Drogo bowed, the gesture fluid and mocking. “I will keep your secret, stepmother, if you keep mine. We are both playing for the same thing, after all.”
“And what is that?”
“To live long enough to see the dawn.”
He turned and walked out of the chapel, his heart pounding in his chest. He had spoken boldly, but the truth was darker than he let on. Judith had moved faster than he had anticipated. The list—his name on it—was a weapon she could wield at any moment. And his father, fragile and desperate, was a man who might believe anything to stop the bleeding.
---
That night, Drogo found Louis in the great hall, alone before the fire. The emperor sat in a high-backed chair, his hands resting on his knees, his face lined and weary. He did not look up when Drogo entered.
“Father.”
“I have been thinking,” Louis said, his voice hollow. “About Charlemagne. About what he would say if he saw us now. His sons, his grandsons, tearing each other apart like wolves.”
Drogo knelt before him. “He would say that you have done your best.”
“My best.” Louis laughed, a dry, broken sound. “My best has been penance and prayer. My best has been crowning and uncrowning sons. My best has been watching my empire crumble while I hold the pieces together with trembling hands.” He looked at Drogo, and there was something raw in his eyes. “Judith told me you are a traitor.”
Drogo met his gaze. “And do you believe her?”
Louis was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “I believe you are the only one who has never asked me for anything. Not for land, not for titles, not for power. You ask for nothing, Drogo. And that terrifies me more than any betrayal.”
Drogo felt the words land like stones in his chest. “I ask for your trust, Father. That is all.”
Louis reached out and placed a hand on Drogo’s head, the gesture of a blessing. “Then you shall have it,” he said. “But know this: if you are lying to me, if you are working against this house, I will treat you as I would any traitor. I will see you dead.”
Drogo bowed his head. “I know.”
But as he left the hall, the weight of his father’s hand still warm on his brow, he knew the truth was more complicated than any oath. He was not lying to save himself. He was lying to save them all. And when the storm broke, as it would break, he might not be able to save anyone.