Chapter 17: The Bishop’s Gambit
The rain had not stopped for nine days. It fell in sheets across Aachen, turning the streets to rivers of mud and the Palatine Chapel into a cavern of dripping echoes. Drogo stood at the high window of his chambers, watching the water streak down the glass like tears from heaven, and thought that God must be weeping for what was to come.
“You’ve been standing there for an hour,” Bernard said from the doorway. “A man might think you were praying.”
“I am,” Drogo said. “I’m praying that Father doesn’t do something foolish before I can stop him.”
Bernard moved into the room, closing the door behind him. He was soaked to the skin, his cloak leaving a trail of water across the stone floor. “He’s called for Ebbo of Reims.”
Drogo turned. “When?”
“This morning. The messenger rode out before dawn.”
The name hung between them like a blade. Ebbo of Reims—archbishop, imperial counsellor, a man who had risen from serfdom to the highest ranks of the Church on the strength of Louis’s favour. A man who had stood by the emperor through every humiliation, every penance, every betrayal. And a man whose loyalty had been wavering for months, caught between his devotion to the crown and his fear of what Lothar might do if he won.
“Why would Father summon Ebbo now?” Drogo asked, though he already suspected the answer.
Bernard shook his head. “The court whispers say he wishes to make a public declaration. To reaffirm his authority before the bishops and the nobles. To remind them that he is still emperor, still the vicar of Christ on earth.”
“And to remind them that he still has allies,” Drogo finished. “He’s gathering his flock before the wolf comes.”
Bernard’s jaw tightened. “The wolf is already inside the fold. Three of the palace guard have been seen taking coin from Lothar’s agents. The kitchens are full of spies. Even the confessors cannot be trusted.”
“I know.” Drogo turned back to the window. The rain blurred the world beyond, turning the walls and towers of Aachen into ghosts. “That is why I must speak to Ebbo before Father does.”
Bernard stepped forward, his voice low and urgent. “You can’t be serious. Ebbo is the emperor’s man. He’ll go straight to Louis and tell him everything you say.”
“Perhaps.” Drogo smiled, the expression languid and careless. “But what exactly will he have to tell? That I am concerned for my father’s health? That I pray for peace in the realm? These are not treasons, Bernard. These are the words of a dutiful son.”
Bernard studied him for a long moment, his eyes searching. “You play a dangerous game, Drogo. One day you will slip, and when you do, there will be no one to catch you.”
“I have never asked anyone to catch me.” Drogo moved past him, pausing at the door. “Only to watch my back while I fall.”
---
He found Ebbo in the chapel’s side chamber, a small room where the archbishop had been given leave to prepare his sermons and receive visitors. The old man looked weary, his face lined with the weight of years and the burdens of office. He looked up as Drogo entered, and his eyes narrowed.
“Prince Drogo,” Ebbo said, his voice carefully neutral. “I did not expect to see you here.”
“I came to pray,” Drogo said, settling into a chair across from the archbishop. “And to talk. You are a man of God, Ebbo. You know the value of confession.”
Ebbo’s lips twitched. “I have heard that you prefer confession to prayer, my lord. That you spend more time seeking absolution than seeking virtue.”
“I have much to be absolved for.” Drogo leaned forward, his voice dropping. “But I also have much to say, and I need a man who can keep a confidence.”
The archbishop’s eyes flickered with interest. “I am bound by the seal of confession. Whatever you say here will remain between us and God.”
“Then I will speak plainly.” Drogo paused, letting the silence stretch. “My father is dying. Not in body, but in spirit. He has been broken by the betrayals of his sons, by the weight of a crown he never wanted, by the endless wars that have torn his kingdom apart. He believes that if he can just hold on, if he can just keep the empire united, God will reward his faith.”
“And you do not believe this?”
“I believe that God rewards wisdom, not stubbornness.” Drogo met the archbishop’s gaze. “The empire is already divided, Ebbo. It has been divided since the day Charlemagne died, and no amount of prayer or penance will change that. Lothar wants the crown. Pepin wants his lands. Louis the German wants his independence. And Judith wants her son to inherit everything.”
Ebbo’s face paled. “You speak of treason.”
“I speak of truth.” Drogo’s voice was gentle now, almost kind. “My father cannot win this war. He cannot defeat Lothar, cannot appease Pepin, cannot control Louis the German. He can only choose how he loses—with dignity, or with ruin. And I am asking you to help him choose wisely.”
The archbishop was silent for a long moment, his hands trembling slightly on his knees. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “What would you have me do?”
“When my father asks for your counsel, tell him the truth. Tell him that the empire cannot be held together by force alone. Tell him that division is not defeat—that it may be the only way to preserve what matters. Tell him that a wise king knows when to sheathe his sword.”
“And if I refuse?”
Drogo smiled, the same languid smile that had fooled so many. “Then you will watch my father destroy himself, and you will carry the weight of his ruin to your grave. I have seen the visions that haunt your prayers, Ebbo. I know you dream of a peaceful death, a quiet end after a life of service. I am offering you the chance to earn it.”
The archbishop’s eyes glistened. For a moment, Drogo thought he might weep. Then Ebbo bowed his head, his voice thick with emotion. “I will do as you ask, my lord. God forgive me.”
“God will forgive you,” Drogo said, rising. “He always forgives those who act out of love.”
He left the room without looking back, his heart cold and his mind racing. The seeds had been planted. Now he could only wait for them to grow.
---
Bernard was waiting in the corridor, his face unreadable. “Did he agree?”
“He will think about it.” Drogo walked past him, his steps quick. “That is the best I can hope for.”
“And if he decides to go to the emperor instead?”
Drogo paused, looking back. “Then I will have to find another way to save my father from himself.”
Bernard shook his head. “You cannot save a man who does not want to be saved.”
“I know.” Drogo’s gaze drifted to the window, where the rain still fell in endless sheets. “But I am his son. I have to try.”
Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled across the sky, and Drogo felt the storm closing in around them all.