Chapter 13: The Loire Crossing

Dawn came gray and weeping, as if the sky itself had caught the sickness of the land. Drogo stood at the narrow window of his chamber, watching the rain turn the courtyard of Aachen to a mirror of mud and torchlight. Below, grooms ran with saddles and arms, and the clang of a smith’s hammer rang out in a rhythm that matched the pulse in his temples.

Pepin was marching.

Bernard had brought the news at midnight, and now the hours had condensed into a single, terrible certainty. The second son of the emperor, the man who wore Aquitaine like a stolen cloak, was crossing the Loire with banners raised against his father. Drogo pressed his palm against the cold stone of the wall and breathed. He had known this day would come. He had planned for it, plotted around it, laid his whispers and his traps with the patience of a spider. But knowing a storm is coming and standing in its path are two different things.

A knock came—not the signal, but a servant’s timid rap. Drogo turned, composing his face into its practiced mask of lazy indifference. The servant bowed. “The Empress Judith requests your presence in her chambers, my lord. She says it is urgent.”

Drogo smiled, slow and easy. “Does she, now? Then the lady shall have her audience. Give me but a moment to make myself presentable.”

The servant hesitated, then bowed again and withdrew. Drogo let the smile fall the instant the door closed. Judith moved quickly when she smelled blood. Pepin’s march had not yet reached the ears of the court—Bernard’s riders had outpaced the news—but Judith had her own sources, her own web of spies and confessors and frightened maids who listened at keyholes. She knew. And she was calling him to her like a cat summoning a mouse.

He changed into a tunic of deep green, dark enough to be somber, rich enough to be courtly. He ran a hand through his hair, let a lock fall carelessly over his brow, and practiced his slouch in the polished bronze of his mirror. The fool’s mask was his greatest armor. But Judith had seen through it once already, and that made her the most dangerous person in the palace.

Her chambers smelled of lavender and wax. The morning light filtered through thin curtains, casting the room in a soft, deceptive warmth. Judith sat by the brazier, her hands folded in her lap, her face unreadable. She did not rise when Drogo entered, and he did not expect her to.

“Prince Drogo,” she said. “How kind of you to come so swiftly.”

“I am ever at your service, Empress.” He bowed, low and graceful, with just a hint of theatrical languor. “What urgent matter requires my humble attention?”

Judith’s lips curved. It was not a smile. “Pepin has left Aquitaine,” she said. “He crosses the Loire. My riders confirmed it an hour ago.”

Drogo let his eyes widen, just a fraction. “Surely not. The king of Aquitaine would not dare such rebellion against his own father.”

“The king of Aquitaine would dare anything if he believed he could win,” Judith said. “And he has reason to believe it. The nobles are restless. The bishops whisper that Louis has failed God by failing to lead. Lothar waits in Italy, sharpening his claws. And you—” She paused, studying him with those sharp, calculating eyes. “You stand here, playing at idleness, while your family tears itself apart.”

Drogo spread his hands. “I am the youngest son of a concubine’s blessing, Empress. What could I possibly do?”

“You could stop pretending,” Judith said softly. “I know what you are, Drogo. I have known since the night you spoke to Lothar in the hall, planting doubt where none had grown. You think yourself subtle, but I have watched you. I have watched you watch everyone.”

The room seemed to hold its breath. Drogo felt the weight of her gaze like a stone on his chest. He could deny it, deflect it, bury his truth in another layer of feigned foolishness. But Judith was not a fool, and lies would only amuse her for a moment before she struck.

“If I am as clever as you believe,” he said carefully, “then you must understand that I have no desire to see my brothers destroy each other. Nor my father destroyed with them.”

“Then help me.” Judith rose, smoothing her gown. She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell the rosewater on her skin. “Help me protect Charles. He is a child, Drogo. He has done nothing to deserve the fate that awaits him if Lothar takes the throne. You have no ambition for the crown—I have seen that in you, too. So help me ensure that my son has a place in this world, and I will help you keep yours.”

Drogo met her eyes. For a moment, the masks slipped, and he saw the fear beneath her iron composure. Judith of Bavaria was not a monster. She was a mother, fighting with every weapon she had for a child who could not yet hold a sword. He understood that. He understood it perhaps better than she knew.

“I will do what I can,” he said. “But I cannot promise you victory. Only that I will not stand in your way.”

Judith’s smile returned, colder than before. “That is more than I expected. Go, then. Your father has asked for you. He is in the chapel, praying for a miracle he will not receive.”

Drogo bowed and left her, the weight of her words pressing on him as he walked the long corridor toward the Palatine Chapel. The rain had not stopped. It fell against the windows in sheets, blurring the world beyond into a wash of gray.

The chapel was quiet, lit by candles that guttered in the draft. Louis the Pious knelt before the altar, his shoulders bowed, his hands clasped in desperate prayer. He did not hear Drogo approach. He was murmuring in Latin, his voice cracked with sleeplessness and sorrow.

“Father,” Drogo said softly.

Louis flinched, then turned. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollow. “Drogo. You have heard.”

“I have heard.”

“My son,” Louis whispered. “My own son, marching against me. I gave him Aquitaine. I gave him everything. And still he comes with fire and sword.”

Drogo knelt beside his father, not out of duty but out of something deeper. He took the old man’s hand, felt the tremor in it. “He is not coming to destroy you, Father. He is coming because he is afraid. Lothar has promised him nothing but submission. Pepin fights not against you, but against what he believes you will do.”

Louis shook his head. “I do not know what to believe anymore. I have trusted God all my life, and God has given me betrayal after betrayal.”

“Then trust me,” Drogo said. “Just a little longer. Let them march. Let them think they have won. And when the moment comes, we will show them that the game was never theirs to play.”

Louis looked at him, searching his face for something—hope, perhaps, or a lie he could believe. Finally, he squeezed Drogo’s hand. “I have no one else. You know that, don’t you? I have no one else.”

“I know,” Drogo said.

He rose, leaving his father to his prayers, and walked out into the rain. Bernard was waiting in the shadows of the colonnade, his hood pulled low.

“The empress knows,” Drogo said. “And she has chosen her side.”

Bernard nodded. “And you?”

Drogo looked out at the gray, weeping sky. “I am still choosing. But Pepin’s crossing changes everything. Go to him. Find his camp. Tell him that his brother Drogo sends a message of friendship—and that the gates of Aachen will open to him, if he wishes them to.”

Bernard’s eyes widened. “You would betray your father?”

“I would save him,” Drogo said. “And the only way to save him is to make sure that when Pepin arrives, he believes he has already won.”