Chapter 2: The Wine of Paderborn
The road to Paderborn was a river of mud and steel. For eight days, Aldric rode at the heart of the royal column, surrounded by the glittering chaos of Charlemagne’s court—counts and bishops, shield-bearers and scribes, all churning toward the Saxon frontier with the urgency of men who believed the Emperor’s every whim was a divine command. Aldric believed only in the ache in his thighs and the persistent drizzle that found its way beneath his cloak no matter how he arranged it.
His wagon of wine—twelve casks of the finest vintages from his Vosges estates, aged in oak and blessed by the abbot of Saint-Dié—rattled behind him like a coffin on wheels. Gerold rode beside it, his scarred face set in the perpetual scowl of a man who expected an ambush at every bend. The Saxon had been unusually quiet since Aachen, and Aldric knew why.
“You think I should have refused,” Aldric said, without turning.
Gerold’s horse snorted. “I think you are the only man in the Empire who would call a summons from the Emperor a misfortune, and then obey it anyway.”
“Disobedience is exhausting,” Aldric replied. “Obedience is merely tedious. I choose the lesser evil.”
“And the wine?”
Aldric allowed himself a small smile. “The wine is insurance. A man who brings gifts is harder to hang.”
They crossed the Lippe at dawn on the ninth day, and Paderborn rose from the mist like a wound upon the land. It was not a city—not yet—but a sprawling encampment of timber halls and stone foundations, the skeleton of something Charlemagne intended to be permanent. The Saxon tribes had been crushed here, their idols burned, their chieftains baptized or executed depending on the weather and the Emperor’s mood. The smoke of a thousand cookfires hung low over the valley, and the sound of hammers never ceased.
Aldric was granted an audience that very evening, in the great hall that smelled of pine resin and wet wolfskin. Charlemagne sat at the head of a trestle table, his beard streaked with grey, his eyes as sharp as they had been twenty years ago when he had first summoned a young, reluctant lordling to his service. He was picking at a leg of boar with the air of a man who had not slept in weeks.
“Aldric,” the Emperor said, without looking up. “You came.”
“You commanded, Majesty. I am but a humble servant.”
Charlemagne laughed—a bark that startled the attending clerks. “Humble. You, who once convinced my own chaplain that the Danube flowed uphill, so that you might avoid a survey of the Bavarian frontier. You, who feigned leprosy to escape a hunting party, and then appeared at the feast that night reeking of perfume and smugness.” He finally met Aldric’s eyes. “Do not waste my time with humility.”
Aldric bowed, deeper than necessary. “Then I shall waste it with wine.”
He gestured, and Gerold hauled the first cask into the hall. The Emperor’s eyes widened as the stopper was drawn, and the scent of dark cherries and oak filled the smoky air. Charlemagne leaned forward, sniffing like a hound on a trail.
“This is the vintage of ’86,” he said. “You saved it.”
“I saved it for a moment worthy of it, Majesty. I did not think that moment would be a muddy camp on the edge of the world.”
The Emperor took a long draught, closed his eyes, and sighed. When he opened them again, the weariness was gone, replaced by something harder. “You know why I have called you here.”
“The Saxons,” Aldric said. “Again.”
“The Saxons are cattle. They break their oaths as easily as they break their teeth on our bread. No, Aldric. I have summoned you because I am going to Rome.”
The words hung in the air like a held breath. Aldric had heard rumors, of course—whispers that the Pope had been driven from the Lateran by a mob, that Leo III had fled north seeking protection, that Charlemagne had ridden to Paderborn not merely to inspect his conquests but to receive a desperate supplicant. The letter had mentioned maps and wine and a coronation, but Aldric had assumed the Emperor meant the coronation of a new Saxon duke, or perhaps a ceremonial crown for himself as King of the Franks.
“Rome,” Aldric repeated. “The Pope.”
“He came to me,” Charlemagne said, his voice low. “A broken old man, dragged through the passes, his eyes swollen with weeping. He claims he was attacked in the streets—that his enemies cut out his tongue and gouged his eyes, and that God restored them in a miracle.” The Emperor’s smile was thin and terrible. “I have seen many miracles in my life, Aldric. Most of them were manufactured by men with more ambition than scruples.”
“And yet you will go to Rome.”
“I will go to Rome because the throne of Saint Peter is in chaos, and chaos breeds enemies. The Lombards are stirring, the Byzantines watch from the east, and my own nobles grow restless with the business of empire. I need a crown, Aldric. Not the crown of a tribal king, but something greater. Something that will make the sons of Rome and the heirs of Constantinople look upon Aachen and see the center of the world.”
Aldric felt the familiar weight settle upon his shoulders—the weight of being seen, of being needed, of being trapped. “Majesty, I am a vintner. I know soil and weather and the patience of grapes. I do not know the politics of the Papal See.”
“You know how to read men,” Charlemagne said. “You know how to see the flaw in any design, the weakness in any argument. You built a drainage system that saved this palace from a Saxon raid by accident. You negotiated with the Avars while pretending to have a fever. You are the laziest man I have ever met, and that is precisely why I trust you—you have no hunger for power, and therefore no reason to lie to me.”
Aldric opened his mouth to protest, but the Emperor raised a hand. “You will map the route to Rome. You will ensure that the passes are safe, that the supplies are sufficient, that the Pope’s enemies do not find us vulnerable. And you will do it while appearing to do nothing at all.” Charlemagne smiled, a predator’s smile. “That is your genius, Aldric. You accomplish more by idleness than most men achieve in a lifetime of striving.”
The Emperor poured himself another cup of wine, and the gesture was a dismissal. Aldric bowed and retreated, his mind already racing through the impossible logistics of a winter crossing of the Alps—the passes choked with snow, the Lombard garrisons uncertain, the Pope’s enemies everywhere. And yet, as he stepped into the cold night air, a strange thought took root in his mind.
He could fail. He could fail so thoroughly, so catastrophically, that Charlemagne would have no choice but to send him home in disgrace. A botched route, a mislaid supply train, a diplomatic insult delivered with perfect politeness—and he would be free, forever, from the Emperor’s gilded cage.
But as he looked up at the stars, he remembered the wine he had brought, and the smile on Charlemagne’s face, and the way the Emperor had spoken of miracles. And he knew, with a sinking certainty, that his scheme for freedom would only lead him deeper into the heart of the storm.
Behind him, someone cleared their throat. Aldric turned to find a figure in a travel-stained cloak, hood raised against the cold. But the voice that spoke was unmistakably female, and unmistakably amused.
“Lord Aldric of the Vosges,” said Princess Rotrude, pulling back her hood to reveal a face alight with mischief. “I heard you were planning to be the most useful man in the Empire. I came to watch.”