Chapter 38: The Debt of Ghosts

The rain had not stopped for three days. It fell in sheets across Aachen, turning the palace courtyards to mud and the streets to rivers of grey. Drogo stood at the window of his chamber, watching the water streak down the glass like tears from a grieving sky, and he thought of his father.

Louis the Pious had not left his bed since the morning of the seal’s theft. The court physicians spoke of a humour gone bad, of the emperor’s blood turning to water. But Drogo knew the truth: his father was dying of a broken heart, and the pieces were scattered across an empire that no longer remembered how to love him.

Bernard appeared in the doorway, his face drawn and pale. The wound Judith had given him was healing, but it had left a scar that pulled at the corner of his mouth whenever he spoke.

“The message has been sent,” Bernard said. “Lothar will be at the gates within the week.”

Drogo did not turn from the window. “And Pepin?”

“He has crossed the Loire. His scouts are a day’s ride from the city. He believes the gates will open for him.”

“Good.” Drogo let the word hang in the air. “And Judith?”

Bernard hesitated. “She has called for a meeting of the court. She wants to address the nobles before Lothar arrives.”

Drogo turned, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Does she now?”

“She means to consolidate her position. To make sure her son Charles is named in the succession before the storm breaks.”

“Then we must give her the stage.” Drogo crossed the room, his steps light and unhurried. “But we must also make sure she performs the right play.”

Bernard frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Judith believes she is the architect of this moment. She believes she has outmaneuvered me, that I am a fool dancing on her strings.” Drogo paused at the door. “Let her believe it. Let her stand before the court and speak of loyalty and legacy. And then, when she has said her piece, I will show her what she has truly built.”

“And what is that?”

Drogo’s smile did not reach his eyes. “A pyre.”

The Great Hall was crowded when Drogo arrived. Nobles and bishops, counts and abbots, all pressed together beneath the vaulted ceiling, their voices a low hum of anxiety and ambition. Judith stood at the far end, beside the empty throne, her gown of deep crimson a slash of colour against the stone.

She saw Drogo enter, and her eyes narrowed. But she did not acknowledge him. Instead, she raised her hands, and the hall fell silent.

“My lords,” she began, her voice carrying to every corner. “My faithful servants of the empire. We stand at a crossroads. The emperor, my husband, lies ill. His sons have taken up arms against him and against each other. And we must decide what kind of world we will leave to our children.”

The nobles murmured. Drogo slipped into the shadows near the pillars, watching.

“I have called you here to speak of the future,” Judith continued. “To speak of succession, of stability, of the sacred duty we owe to the memory of Charlemagne.”

“And what of the emperor’s other sons?” called a voice from the crowd. “What of Pepin and Louis?”

Judith’s smile was thin. “They have chosen their path. They have chosen rebellion over loyalty, ambition over duty. But there is one son who remains faithful, one son who has always remained faithful.” She paused, letting the words settle. “Prince Charles. My son. A boy of fifteen, but a boy of great promise.”

Drogo almost laughed. Great promise. The boy was a child, a pawn in Judith’s game. But he held his tongue.

“I propose,” Judith said, “that we name Charles as co-emperor, to rule alongside his father until the emperor’s health is restored. And when the emperor passes, Charles will rule alone.”

The hall erupted. Shouts of approval and outrage mingled, a cacophony of voices that seemed to shake the very stones. Judith stood unmoved, her hands folded before her, her eyes scanning the crowd for dissent.

She found it in Drogo.

He stepped forward, out of the shadows, and the noise faltered. He was dressed simply, in dark wool, no jewels, no gold. But there was something in his bearing that silenced the room.

“My lady,” he said, his voice soft but carrying. “You speak of loyalty. You speak of duty. And yet, as we stand here, the armies of your stepson Lothar march toward this city. The armies of your stepson Pepin camp within a day’s ride. And you speak of a boy of fifteen.”

Judith’s smile did not waver. “I speak of the future, Drogo. Something you have never understood.”

“Oh, I understand the future,” Drogo said. “I understand it better than you think. I understand that when Lothar arrives, he will not ask about Charles. He will ask about the seal. The imperial seal that has gone missing from the emperor’s chamber.”

The hall went still. Judith’s eyes flickered, a crack in her composure.

“The seal,” Drogo continued, “is the symbol of power. Without it, no decree is valid, no succession is legal, no name can be proclaimed emperor. And I know where it is.”

Judith’s voice was ice. “Then you are a thief.”

“I am many things,” Drogo said. “But I am not a thief. I am a son, protecting his father’s legacy. And I am here to offer you a choice.”

He reached into his sleeve and drew out the seal, holding it up so that all could see. The gold gleamed in the torchlight, the image of Charlemagne stamped upon its face.

“You may continue to scheme, Judith. You may continue to build your little castle of ambition. But without this seal, it will crumble before the first wind.” He paused. “Or you may ally with me. You may let me guide this family through the storm, and I will ensure that your son Charles finds a place in the world that does not end in blood.”

Judith’s face was unreadable. The hall held its breath.

“And what would you ask in return?” she said finally.

Drogo’s smile was gentle, almost kind. “Only that you trust me. Only that you let me be the one to decide how this ends.”

The silence stretched, a thread stretched to its breaking point. And then Judith inclined her head, a barely perceptible nod.

“Very well,” she said. “I will trust you. For now.”

Drogo tucked the seal back into his sleeve. “Then we have much to do. Lothar will be here within the week. And we must be ready to receive him.”

He turned and walked from the hall, the eyes of the court following him. Bernard fell into step beside him.

“She will betray you the moment it suits her,” Bernard said.

“I know,” Drogo said. “But by then, it will be too late.”

They emerged into the rain, and Drogo looked up at the grey sky.

“Light the candle, Bernard,” he said. “We are going to need every prayer we can get.”