Chapter 39: The Debt of Ghosts (II)

The rain had not stopped for three days. It fell in sheets across Aachen, turning the streets to mud and the Palatine Chapel into a grey stone island adrift in a sea of weeping sky. Drogo stood at the window of his chamber, watching the water stream down the glass like tears he could not afford to shed.

Bernard entered without knocking. His face was pale beneath the bruise Judith’s men had left on him, but his eyes were clear.

“Lothar’s vanguard has been sighted,” he said. “Two hours from the gates. He rides with three hundred knights and a banner that claims the imperial title.”

Drogo did not turn. “And Pepin?”

“Still south of the Loire. His scouts have crossed, but his main force lingers. He is waiting for word that the gates are open before he commits.”

“Then we must give him that word.” Drogo finally turned, and Bernard saw the seal hanging from a leather cord around his neck, hidden beneath his tunic. “But first, we must make Lothar believe he has won.”

Bernard’s jaw tightened. “You mean to let him into the city.”

“I mean to let him think he has entered it by right. There is a difference.”

The great hall of Aachen was a study in controlled chaos when Lothar arrived. His knights filled the courtyard, their horses steaming in the cold rain, their banners sodden and heavy. The courtiers who had remained loyal to Louis the Pious stood in uneasy clusters, watching the eldest son dismount with the confidence of a man who already wore the crown in his heart.

Lothar strode into the hall, his cloak dripping, his eyes scanning the assembled faces until they found Drogo. The youngest prince stood near the far pillar, dressed in simple grey, his posture slack, his smile lazy and unthreatening.

“Brother,” Lothar said, his voice carrying across the hall. “I had heard you were ill. You look well enough to me.”

Drogo bowed, just deep enough to be polite, just shallow enough to be insulting. “I have been saving my strength, brother. I knew you would need someone to greet you when you arrived to claim what is yours.”

Lothar’s eyes narrowed, but the flattery was too sweet to resist. He approached, and the crowd parted like water before a ship.

“My father,” Lothar said. “Where is he?”

“In the chapel. Praying.” Drogo’s smile did not waver. “He has been praying for you, brother. For your soul. For your wisdom. For your mercy.”

“He will need prayers for his own soul before this is done.” Lothar’s hand rested on his sword hilt, a gesture of dominance he had perfected in a hundred courts. “He has broken his oaths to me. He has crowned and uncrowned me like a puppet. And now he will answer for it.”

Drogo nodded slowly, as if weighing the justice of these words. “He has. There is no denying it. And yet—he is still your father. And he still holds one thing you need.”

Lothar’s eyes glinted. “The seal.”

“The seal.” Drogo reached into his tunic and withdrew the heavy iron stamp, holding it up so the light caught the engraved image of Saint Peter. “I took it from his chambers three nights ago. He does not know it is missing. He believes it is locked in his private chest, safe from the chaos of your arrival.”

Lothar’s hand moved to take it, but Drogo’s fingers closed around the seal and pulled it back.

“Not yet,” Drogo said softly. “There is a price.”

“You dare bargain with me?”

“I dare to survive, brother.” Drogo’s smile became almost apologetic. “You know what I am. I am no soldier, no statesman. I am a man who enjoys good wine, good company, and the comfort of a warm bed. I have no desire to rule anything more than my own household. But I do desire to live. And I know that when you take the throne, you will need to cleanse the court of those who served your father too loyally.”

Lothar’s expression shifted, curiosity replacing suspicion. “You want protection.”

“I want a place at your table. A quiet corner, far from the intrigues. A small holding where I can raise my vines and drink my wine in peace.” Drogo lowered his voice. “And I want you to know that you have one brother who will never raise a hand against you. I will kneel to you publicly. I will proclaim you emperor before the whole court. And I will give you the seal that makes it true.”

Lothar studied him for a long moment. The rain hammered against the roof, filling the silence with its rhythm.

“And what of Pepin?” Lothar asked. “He marches north. He will not kneel so easily.”

Drogo’s expression grew somber. “Pepin is a fool who believes he was born for greatness. He will not accept a single crown, let alone an empire. He wants to carve the world into pieces and call himself king of the largest.”

“Then he must be stopped.”

“He will be stopped.” Drogo leaned closer. “But not by force of arms. By force of surprise. If you march south to meet him, he will have time to gather his strength. But if you let him believe Aachen is undefended—if you let him believe you have already taken the throne and grown complacent—he will walk into a trap of his own making.”

Lothar’s eyes flickered with calculation. “You speak as though you have already planned this.”

“I have had nothing else to do, brother. While you have been winning battles and commanding armies, I have been sitting in this city, watching the rain, and thinking. It is the only skill I have.” Drogo’s smile returned, thin and self-deprecating. “Will you hear my plan?”

Lothar hesitated. The weight of the moment pressed down on him—the throne, the crown, the legacy of Charlemagne. He had expected to fight for this, to bleed for it, to tear it from his father’s cold hands. Instead, here was his youngest brother, offering it on a silver platter.

“Speak,” Lothar said.

Drogo spoke. And as he spoke, he watched Lothar’s eyes grow bright with the vision of victory, and he felt the seal grow heavy against his chest, a stone tied to his heart.

The plan was simple. Lothar would enter the chapel, seize his father, and proclaim himself emperor before the assembled clergy. Drogo would produce the seal and stamp the charter of succession, making it legal in the eyes of God and man. Then Lothar would send word to Pepin that Aachen was his, and invite his brother to share in the spoils—an invitation that would lead Pepin into a trap of Lothar’s choosing.

It was a good plan. It was a clever plan. It was even, in its way, a true plan.

But it was not the plan Drogo intended to follow.

When Lothar left the hall, his knights thundering behind him, Bernard slipped to Drogo’s side.

“You lied to him,” Bernard said. “Every word.”

“Did I?” Drogo looked after his brother’s retreating figure. “I told him I would give him the seal. I told him I would kneel. I told him Pepin would fall into his trap.”

“And will you?”

Drogo turned, and his eyes were dark as the storm outside. “I will give him the seal. I will kneel. And Pepin will fall into a trap.”

He paused.

“But the trap was never meant to catch Pepin.”

Bernard’s breath caught. “Then who?”

Drogo did not answer. He walked toward the chapel, where his father knelt before the altar, praying for a miracle that would not come. And in the shadows of the pillars, Judith of Bavaria watched him pass, her smile a blade she had not yet drawn.