Chapter 19: The Seed of Doubt

The rain had not stopped for three days. It fell in sheets against the windows of the Palatine Chapel, turning the marble floors to mirrors that reflected the candlelight in shimmering pools. Drogo stood at the edge of the nave, watching the courtiers drift past like ghosts in the grey half-light, their whispers swallowed by the drumming of water on stone.

Anskar had not come.

Bernard had returned the first night with nothing—Lothar’s promises were guarded more closely than his gold. But Drogo had expected that. The eldest son of the emperor had learned to keep his secrets close, especially now that the scent of rebellion hung in the air like smoke before a fire. What Drogo had not expected was the summons that came at dawn, carried by a boy no older than twelve with wide eyes and a trembling voice.

“The Emperor wishes to see you, my lord. Alone.”

Drogo had dressed slowly, deliberately, taking time to adjust the fall of his tunic and the weight of his belt. Let them think he was still the lazy prince, more concerned with his appearance than the business of empire. The boy had shifted from foot to foot, impatient, and Drogo had smiled at him with the lazy warmth that had become his mask.

“Patience, lad. A prince must not appear before his father looking like a common groom.”

The smile had been easy. The walk to his father’s chambers had not.

Now, standing in the antechamber with its heavy tapestries and the faint smell of incense that always clung to the emperor’s private rooms, Drogo felt the weight of the moment pressing against his chest. The door opened before he could knock, and a servant gestured him inside.

Louis the Pious sat by the window, his face turned toward the rain-streaked glass. He looked older than his years, the lines on his face deepened by sleepless nights and the slow erosion of hope. His crown rested on a table beside him, a thing of gold and jewels that seemed to mock its own uselessness.

“Father.” Drogo bowed, keeping his voice low and even.

“Come here, Drogo.” Louis’s voice was thin, worn thin by too many betrayals. “Sit. I would speak with you.”

Drogo crossed the room and took the stool opposite his father. The emperor’s eyes were red-rimmed, and there was a tremor in his hands that had not been there a month ago.

“You have heard the news from the east?” Louis asked.

“That Lothar has been gathering his forces? Yes. The servants talk, and I listen.”

“You listen more than you let on.” Louis’s gaze sharpened, and for a moment Drogo saw the man who had once ruled half the world with Charlemagne’s iron will. “Sometimes I wonder if you are the fool you appear to be, or if the fool is a mask you wear for reasons I cannot fathom.”

Drogo said nothing. The rain hammered against the glass.

“Judith came to me last night,” Louis continued. “She told me that you have been meeting with Bernard of Septimania, that you have been asking questions about Lothar’s movements, that you have been—how did she put it?—‘playing a game that does not belong to you.’”

“Judith sees conspiracies in every shadow, Father. It is her nature.”

“Is it?” Louis leaned forward, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “I have trusted you, Drogo. I have allowed you to play your little games, to whisper your secrets into the dark, because I believed you were working for this house. For me. For your brothers, as broken as they are. But if you are playing a different game—if you are working against me, against your own blood—”

“I am not.”

The words came out harder than Drogo had intended, and he saw the surprise flicker across his father’s face. He softened his tone, forcing the languid mask back into place.

“I am not working against you, Father. I am working for you. But I cannot tell you everything, because if I do, and if you should speak of it—even in confession, even in prayer—it will fail. And we will all drown.”

Louis stared at him for a long moment. The rain filled the silence, a steady drumbeat that seemed to count the seconds.

“What do you know?” Louis asked finally. “What do you know that I do not?”

“I know that Lothar has already sent envoys to the Pope. I know that Pepin is gathering his armies in Aquitaine, and that Louis the German has crossed the Rhine with more men than he has any right to command. I know that there are courtiers in this very palace who have already chosen their side, and that they are waiting for the moment when you are weak enough to strike.”

Louis’s face went pale. “How do you know this?”

“Because I have made it my business to know.” Drogo leaned forward, lowering his voice. “And because I have allowed them to believe I am a fool. A fool is invisible, Father. A fool can go where a prince cannot, hear what a king cannot, and learn what an emperor would never be told.”

Louis was silent for a long time. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper.

“What would you have me do?”

“Nothing,” Drogo said. “That is what you must do. Let them believe they are winning. Let them believe you are broken, that you have given up, that you are ready to surrender everything to keep what little peace remains. And while they believe that, I will work. I will find their weaknesses, their fears, their secret hopes—and I will use them to tear their alliance apart from within.”

“And if they attack first? If Lothar marches on Aachen before you are ready?”

“Then we will lose everything.” Drogo’s voice was flat, unflinching. “But we will lose it together, as a family, with our honor intact. And that is more than they will have.”

Louis studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached out and took Drogo’s hand. The emperor’s fingers were cold, trembling, but his grip was surprisingly strong.

“I have trusted God all my life,” he said. “I have trusted my bishops, my counselors, my sons. And they have all failed me, one by one, until I had nothing left but my faith and my fear. Now you ask me to trust you, to trust a son I have never truly known, to trust a game I do not understand.”

He paused, and the rain seemed to hold its breath.

“Very well, Drogo. I will trust you. But if you betray me—if you betray this house—I will not pray for your soul. I will pray for your death.”

Drogo bowed his head, feeling the weight of his father’s words settle over him like a shroud.

“I understand, Father.”

Louis released his hand and turned back to the window. The audience was over.

Drogo rose and walked to the door, but paused with his hand on the latch. He looked back at his father, silhouetted against the grey light, and felt something twist in his chest—a pain he had not allowed himself to feel in years.

“Father?”

“Yes?”

“I will not fail you. I swear it.”

Louis did not turn around. But Drogo saw his shoulders relax, just slightly, and that was enough.

He slipped out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. The hall was empty, lit by a single torch that guttered in the draft. Bernard was waiting at the far end, his face unreadable.

“Well?” Bernard asked.

“He trusts me. For now.”

“And Judith?”

Drogo’s jaw tightened. “Judith is the greater danger. She knows I am not what I appear to be, and she will use that knowledge against me if she can. We need to move faster.”

“Faster how?”

Drogo turned to face him, and for the first time in months, his smile was cold.

“We need to give Lothar a reason to trust us. A reason to believe that I am his ally, not his enemy. And there is only one way to do that.”

“What way?”

“We give him something he wants. Something he believes will bring him closer to the crown.”

Bernard’s eyes narrowed. “What do we have that Lothar wants?”

Drogo’s smile widened, and there was something dangerous in it.

“We have his father’s trust. And we are going to sell it to him—piece by piece, coin by coin, until he believes he has bought it all.”

The rain continued to fall, and somewhere in the palace, a door slammed shut.