Chapter 36: The Empress’s Harvest
The rain had not stopped for three days. It fell in sheets across Aachen, turning the palace courtyards to mud and the gutters to rushing rivers, as if heaven itself were trying to wash the stain of coming blood from the stones. Drogo stood at the window of his chamber, watching the water streak the glass, and thought of how fitting it was—that the world should weep before the sword fell.
Bernard entered without knocking. He was limping still, the wound in his side from Judith’s dungeon slow to heal, but his eyes were clear and hard.
“The messenger rode at dawn,” Bernard said. “He carries your father’s seal on a letter to Lothar.”
Drogo did not turn. “And the letter?”
“As you wrote it. Lothar is to believe the emperor has finally despaired of Pepin’s rebellion and wishes to name him sole heir, provided he marches on Aachen within the week to receive the crown personally.”
“And the seal?”
“Perfect.” Bernard hesitated. “Your father’s scribe will not know the difference. But when Lothar arrives and finds no crown waiting…”
“He will find something better,” Drogo said quietly. “He will find his brothers already at war with each other, and himself the peacemaker. Or he will find himself the aggressor against a father who will disown him before all Christendom. Either way, the trap springs.”
Bernard was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “You have become very good at this, my lord.”
“At what?”
“At lying.”
Drogo turned from the window. His face was pale, and there were shadows beneath his eyes that no amount of sleep could erase. “I learned from the best. My father lies to himself every day, believing God will forgive him if he only confesses loudly enough. My brothers lie to each other with every oath they swear. Judith lies with every smile she gives.” He paused. “I simply lie better.”
“And what will you tell your father when he discovers the seal is gone?”
“I will tell him the truth.” Drogo’s smile was thin and bitter. “That I used it to save his empire. And then I will ask him to forgive me, as he forgives everyone who betrays him.”
Bernard shook his head. “You walk a knife’s edge, Drogo.”
“I have walked it all my life. The trick is not to look down.”
A knock came at the door, and a young page entered, breathless and red-faced. “My lord prince—the Empress Judith requests your presence in her chambers. Immediately.”
Drogo exchanged a glance with Bernard. The trap was sprung, but Judith was still moving through the shadows, and she had never been a woman to wait for events to unfold.
“Tell the empress I will attend her shortly,” Drogo said, his voice smooth as oil.
The page bowed and fled.
Bernard stepped closer, his voice low. “She cannot know about the seal. If she did, you would already be in chains.”
“She does not know. But she suspects something.” Drogo straightened his tunic and ran a hand through his damp hair. “She always suspects something. That is what makes her dangerous.”
“What will you tell her?”
“Whatever she needs to hear.” Drogo moved toward the door. “Stay here. If I am not back within the hour, find my father and tell him everything.”
“Everything?”
Drogo paused at the threshold. “Tell him I stole the seal to save him. Tell him I have been lying to his sons to spare their blood. Tell him I love him, and that I am sorry.” He looked back at Bernard, and for a moment the mask slipped, revealing something raw and tired beneath. “And tell him to pray for me. I am going to need it.”
---
Judith’s chambers were warm and fragrant with burning herbs, a sharp contrast to the cold wet world beyond the windows. She sat by the fire, a book open on her lap, but her eyes were on the door when Drogo entered. Her smile was a blade wrapped in silk.
“Drogo,” she said. “How good of you to come so quickly.”
“I would never keep my stepmother waiting,” he said, bowing low. “Especially not when she summons me with such urgency.”
“Urgency? No.” She closed the book and set it aside. “I merely wished for conversation. The rain makes one contemplative, does it not?”
Drogo took the seat she indicated, across from her, the fire crackling between them like a living thing. “I find the rain makes one wet, Your Grace. But I am not a poet.”
“No,” Judith said, studying him with those sharp, knowing eyes. “You are something far more interesting. You are a strategist who pretends to be a fool.”
“I am sure I do not know what you mean.”
“Do you not?” She leaned forward, and the firelight carved deep shadows into her face. “I have watched you, Drogo. For years now, I have watched you stumble through court like a man asleep, smiling at everyone, committing to nothing. And yet, somehow, in the midst of all this chaos, you are always exactly where you need to be.”
“I am quite lucky,” Drogo said.
“Luck.” Judith laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “I do not believe in luck. I believe in preparation, and I believe in people who hide their claws. You, my dear stepson, have very long claws.”
Drogo said nothing. The fire crackled, and the rain hammered against the windows.
“I have heard a rumor,” Judith continued, her voice soft and dangerous, “that a messenger left Aachen this morning carrying a letter sealed with the imperial seal. A letter addressed to Lothar.”
“I would not know,” Drogo said. “I am not in the habit of reading my father’s correspondence.”
“No. But you are in the habit of taking it.” She rose from her chair and walked toward him, her gown whispering across the floor. “I know about the seal, Drogo. I have known since yesterday. I have eyes in places you do not imagine.”
The words hung in the air like a blade poised to fall. Drogo’s heart hammered, but his face remained calm, his smile fixed.
“Then why am I not in chains?” he asked.
“Because I do not yet know what you intend to do with it.” She stopped before him, looking down at him with a mixture of curiosity and cold calculation. “You could be saving us all. Or you could be destroying everything my son has worked for. I need to know which.”
“And if I told you I intended to save us all?”
“I would not believe you. But I might be willing to work with you.”
Drogo met her gaze. The firelight danced in her eyes, and he saw the steel beneath the beauty, the desperate mother beneath the empress. For a moment, something like understanding passed between them—two people who had spent their lives playing games they never wanted to play.
“I am going to end this war,” Drogo said quietly. “I am going to make certain that when the empire is divided, it is divided by law and not by blood. And I am going to make certain that your son has a place in that division.”
“My son,” Judith repeated. “You mean Charles.”
“I mean Charles,” Drogo said. “He deserves a crown, Judith. He deserves a kingdom. And I am the only one who can give it to him without destroying everything else.”
Judith was silent for a long moment. Then she smiled, slow and dangerous.
“You are a very interesting man, Drogo,” she said. “I think I am going to enjoy watching you try.”
She stepped back, and the moment passed. The fire crackled, and the rain continued to fall, and Drogo knew he had won—or at least, that he had bought himself another day.
He rose and bowed. “Your Grace is too kind.”
“No,” Judith said, her eyes glinting. “I am not kind at all. But I am patient. And I will be watching.”
Drogo walked to the door, and as he reached it, her voice stopped him.
“One more thing, Drogo. If you betray me—if you betray my son—I will not have you killed. That would be too merciful. I will take everything you love, and I will make you watch it burn.”
Drogo did not turn. “I would expect nothing less from you, Your Grace.”
He stepped out into the corridor, and the door closed behind him. His hands were shaking, and his heart was racing, but his smile was steady.
The storm was coming. And he was done playing the fool.