Chapter 7: The Whispers of Aachen

The autumn of 817 bled gold across the palace roofs of Aachen, and Drogo watched it from the high window of his chambers as though it were a spectacle staged for his amusement alone. He lay sprawled on a cushioned bench, a half-eaten pear resting on his stomach, his tunic loose and unlaced—an image of such perfect indolence that even the servants had stopped noticing him. That was the art of it. To be so utterly unremarkable that men spoke freely in your presence, as though you were part of the furniture.

“You missed the hunt again,” Bernard of Septimania said, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The warrior stood in the shadows, his scarred hands folded before him, his eyes scanning the room for listeners before he moved deeper inside.

“I find hunting tedious,” Drogo replied, not looking at him. “The deer rarely have anything interesting to say.”

“And the stables? The mews? The practice yards?” Bernard’s voice carried a note of dry amusement. “You were seen napping by the kennels for three hours yesterday.”

“The dogs are excellent judges of character. They didn’t bark at me once.”

Bernard crossed to the window, standing close enough that their voices would not carry. Outside, the courtyard bustled with the business of empire—squires polishing harnesses, priests hurrying between chapels, and always, always the Emperor’s men, moving with purpose. Louis the Pious had returned from his summer progress three days ago, and already the palace hummed with the tension of a bowstring drawn too tight.

“Your father asked for you this morning,” Bernard said. “I told him you were unwell.”

“Was I convincing?”

“You have a talent for looking pale when it suits you.” Bernard paused. “But he is not the only one asking questions. Judith called her ladies to her chambers last night. She spoke of you.”

Drogo finally turned his head, one eyebrow lifting. “Did she? And what did the good Empress say of her stepson?”

“That you are a waste of good breeding.” Bernard’s mouth twitched. “That your mother would weep to see what you have become.”

“My mother is dead,” Drogo said flatly. “She weeps for nothing.” He sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bench, and the mask of laziness slipped for just a moment—beneath it, his eyes were sharp and cold as winter steel. “But Judith is watching. That is dangerous.”

“She watches everyone.”

“No,” Drogo said, rising. He crossed to the table where a half-finished game of chess sat abandoned, the pieces coated in a thin film of dust. He picked up the queen, a carved piece of ivory, and turned it over in his fingers. “She watches the ones she thinks matter. Lothar, because he is the heir. Pepin, because he is Aquitaine’s hope. Louis the German, because he has his father’s piety and his mother’s ambition.” He set the queen down with a click. “She does not watch me. I am beneath her notice.”

“Then why did she speak of you?”

Drogo smiled, and it was not a pleasant expression. “Because I am beneath her notice, and she wonders why I wish to remain there. A man who seeks obscurity either has nothing to hide or everything.” He looked at Bernard. “She is testing the waters. Feeling for stones beneath the surface.”

“And what will you do?”

“What I always do.” Drogo moved to the window again, looking down at the courtyard. A priest was crossing the stones, his robes billowing, and beside him walked a young man in the plain clothes of a clerk—but Drogo recognized the set of his shoulders, the way he carried himself like a soldier despite his robes. One of Bernard’s men, then. The network was growing.

“I will be more foolish,” Drogo continued. “I will be so useless, so utterly without ambition, that she will grow bored of watching me. She will turn her attention to Lothar, to Pepin, to the endless petty squabbles of the court. And I will be free to move.”

“And your father?”

Drogo’s expression softened, just a fraction. “My father is a good man, Bernard. He believes in the unity of the empire, the dream of his grandfather. He believes that God has ordained him to hold it together.” He paused. “But God is not the one with three sons who hunger for crowns. Lothar will not wait forever. Pepin chafes in Aquitaine. And Louis the German—he is the dangerous one. He smiles and bows, but I have seen his eyes when he looks at the map of Germania. He sees a kingdom there, not a march.”

“And you?” Bernard asked quietly. “What do you see?”

Drogo turned away from the window. For a long moment, he was silent, and when he spoke, his voice was low and weary. “I see the end of everything my grandfather built. I see rivers of blood and burning cities, and I see my brothers tearing each other apart over a crown that will not survive the first blow.” He looked at Bernard, and the mask was gone entirely. “I see no way to stop it. But I will try. Even if all I can do is save a few lives, spare a few villages, keep a few souls from damnation—I will try.”

Bernard studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded, slowly. “Then we will try together.”

A knock at the door made them both stiffen. Drogo’s mask snapped back into place with practiced ease—the lazy smile, the slouched shoulders, the half-lidded eyes that saw nothing and cared less. He was lounging against the window frame when the door opened, and a young page entered, red-faced and breathless.

“My lord prince,” the boy said, bowing. “The Emperor requests your presence in the chapel. He says it is a matter of some urgency.”

Drogo yawned, stretching his arms above his head. “The chapel? How dreadfully dull. Tell my father I am not feeling well.”

The page hesitated. “He said to tell you that the Empress will be present as well.”

Drogo’s smile did not waver, but something flickered behind his eyes. “Ah. Well then.” He pushed himself off the window frame with an exaggerated groan. “I suppose I must obey. Lead the way, boy.”

He followed the page out, but before he left, he glanced back at Bernard. The warrior’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword, and his eyes asked the question his lips could not. *What game is this?*

Drogo answered with a slight shake of his head, then turned and walked down the corridor, his footsteps light and aimless, a young man with nothing on his mind but his next meal.

But beneath the mask, his mind was racing. Judith had moved faster than he expected. She was not merely testing the waters—she was drawing him into the current. And if he was not careful, he would drown before he ever learned to swim.

The chapel doors loomed before him, carved with scenes of Christ’s passion, and Drogo paused just long enough to compose himself. Then he pushed them open, and stepped into the light.