Chapter 43: The Bishop’s Confession

The bell had ceased its tolling. In the sudden silence, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Drogo stood in the shadow of a pillar within the Palatine Chapel, watching the court assemble like crows around a carcass. The morning light filtered through the windows, catching dust motes in golden shafts, and the air was thick with incense and anticipation. Judith had summoned the bishops, the counts, the powerful men of the realm—all to witness her triumph.

At the center of it all stood Ebbo, Archbishop of Reims, his vestments heavy on his shoulders, his face a mask of marble. But Drogo saw the tremor in his hands, the way his eyes darted toward the doors as if seeking escape.

Judith entered, her gown of deep blue silk whispering against the stone floor, young Charles at her side. The boy—barely fourteen—walked with a prince’s bearing, but his eyes were those of a child playing a game he did not understand. Behind them came Lothar, his armor polished to a mirror sheen, his gaze fixed on the altar where the crown of Italy rested on a velvet cushion.

Drogo felt Bernard shift beside him. “This is madness,” Bernard breathed. “She will crown him before the council, and the empire will split before the week is out.”

“Patience,” Drogo murmured. “The madness is only beginning.”

Judith raised her hand, and the murmuring ceased. “My lords,” she said, her voice carrying to every corner of the chapel, “we are gathered today to witness the will of God made manifest. The emperor, my husband, has seen the light of truth. He has chosen to secure the succession of his realm by crowning his son, Charles, as co-emperor.”

A ripple of shock passed through the assembly. Drogo watched his father, seated on the throne at the far end of the chapel, his face unreadable. Louis had aged ten years in the past month, his beard gone gray, his eyes hollow with sleepless nights. He looked at Judith with the devotion of a man who had given his soul to a woman who would spend it freely.

“The emperor will now speak,” Judith said, and stepped back.

Louis rose slowly, his hands gripping the arms of the throne as if he needed their support to stand. He walked to the center of the chapel, his steps measured, and stopped before Ebbo.

“Archbishop,” Louis said, his voice rough as a stone dragged across gravel. “You have served this realm faithfully for many years. You have anointed kings and blessed emperors. But today, I must ask you a question that touches the very heart of your office.”

Ebbo swallowed. “Speak, my emperor.”

Louis’s eyes found Drogo’s for the briefest moment—a flicker of something that might have been hope, or might have been despair. “Do you swear, before God and this assembly, that you have never sought to undermine the unity of this realm? That you have never conspired against the house of Charlemagne?”

The silence stretched like a taut rope. Ebbo’s face drained of color. “I... I swear it.”

“Then why,” Louis said, his voice rising, “did you write to my son Lothar, urging him to claim the throne by force? Why did you promise him the support of the Church if he would march on Aachen?”

The gasps were audible. Judith’s face went white, then red. She stepped forward. “Louis, this is—”

“Silence,” Louis thundered, and for a moment, the emperor was there again—the son of Charlemagne, the ruler of the world. “I have heard enough whispers in my halls. I have seen enough shadows in my own household. Today, the truth will be spoken.”

Ebbo fell to his knees. “My emperor, I... I was misled. I was told that you intended to disinherit Lothar, to give everything to Charles. I acted out of loyalty to your eldest son, not out of treachery to you.”

“Loyalty,” Louis repeated, tasting the word like poison. “You call treason loyalty? You call conspiracy devotion?” He turned to the assembly. “This man has confessed his sins before God and all of you. Let him be stripped of his office and cast from this court.”

Judith moved to intervene, but Lothar caught her arm. His face was a mask of cold fury, and Drogo saw the calculation behind his eyes—the realization that Ebbo’s confession had undone weeks of careful planning.

“Father,” Lothar said, stepping forward, “Ebbo is a servant of the Church. His punishment belongs to the Pope, not to us.”

Louis turned to his eldest son. “And you would defend a traitor? You, who have raised armies against me? You, who have sought to tear this realm apart?” His voice cracked. “I have given you everything, Lothar. I have crowned you co-emperor. I have named you my heir. And still, you hunger for more.”

Lothar’s jaw tightened. “I have never—”

“Do not lie to me,” Louis said, and his voice was ice. “I know what you have done. I know what you have planned. And I know that the only son who has never sought to destroy me is the one I have treated as a fool.”

All eyes turned to Drogo. He felt the weight of them, the suspicion and the surprise. He kept his face carefully blank, his posture relaxed, as if the emperor’s words meant nothing to him.

Judith’s voice cut through the murmur. “This is a trick. Louis, you are being manipulated. Drogo has poisoned your mind against your own blood.”

“Drogo,” Louis said, his voice softening, “has done nothing but serve me. He has asked for nothing. He has schemed for nothing. He has stood by me when my other sons raised their swords against me.” He turned to face the assembly. “I have decided. I will not crown Charles today. I will not strip Lothar of his title—yet. But this court is concluded, and these men will return to their estates and ponder what they have witnessed here.”

The assembly dissolved into chaos. Bishops conferred in hushed tones. Counts exchanged glances that promised future conflict. Judith stood frozen, her hand on Charles’s shoulder, her eyes fixed on Drogo with a hatred that burned like a brand.

Drogo did not meet her gaze. He bowed to his father and withdrew, Bernard at his side, slipping through the crowd like a shadow through water.

“What have you done?” Bernard hissed when they reached the corridor. “You have made enemies of Judith and Lothar both. You have exposed Ebbo, but he will not forgive you. And your father has just declared to the entire court that he trusts you above his other sons.”

Drogo stopped and turned. “That was the point, Bernard. I needed him to say it aloud. I needed everyone to hear it.”

“Why?”

Drogo’s smile was thin and sharp as a blade. “Because now, when I disappear, when I vanish from this court and let them believe I have fled in fear, they will think my father is alone and vulnerable. They will move against him. And when they do, they will find that the game was never what they believed it to be.”

Bernard stared at him. “You are going to let them destroy him?”

“I am going to let them try,” Drogo said. “And then I am going to save him.” He looked toward the doors of the chapel, where the storm of the court raged on. “The seal is mine. The confession is public. The pieces are in place.”

He began to walk, and Bernard followed. Behind them, the chapel erupted into shouting, and Drogo knew that the war had truly begun.

But he also knew that he was no longer playing to win. He was playing to survive.

And the only way to survive was to make everyone believe he had already lost.