Chapter 20: The Road to Regensburg

The road to Regensburg was a wound across the earth, half-frozen mud that sucked at the hooves of Aldric’s mare and spat them back out with a wet, obscene sound. Snow had begun to fall before noon, thin and mean, the kind of snow that did not blanket the world but stung it, flecking the bare branches of the oaks like salt on a wound. Aldric pulled his cloak tighter, but the cold found its way through the wool, through the linen, through the layers of his indifference.

Gerold rode beside him, a mountain of fur and iron, his scarred face turned into the wind as though it were an old enemy he had long since learned to ignore. “You are quiet, lord.”

“I am always quiet,” Aldric said. “It is one of my few virtues.”

“You are quieter than usual,” Gerold observed. “That is what I meant.”

Aldric said nothing. The writ of immunity sat in his saddlebag, sealed with the abbess’s own ring, but it was a promise written on parchment, and parchment was a poor shield against an emperor’s will. Charlemagne had paid the price Hildegard had set—or so she had claimed—and yet here he was, riding east toward Regensburg, toward a campaign that had been moved forward by a season, toward a war that would not wait for his schemes.

“They say the Saxons are gathering again,” Gerold said, breaking the silence. “Widukind’s shadow still walks among them, even though the man himself is baptized and broken.”

“They say many things,” Aldric replied. “Most of them are lies designed to keep men like you on horseback in weather like this.”

Gerold grunted. “You think the Emperor is lying about the Saxons?”

“I think the Emperor is not lying about anything,” Aldric said slowly. “That is what makes him so dangerous. He believes every word he speaks, every war he wages, every crown he seeks. And he expects the rest of the world to believe it too—and to help him make it true.”

The road crested a low hill, and below them, Regensburg sprawled along the banks of the Danube, its walls black against the grey sky, its towers bristling with banners. The imperial standard flew from the highest keep, the eagle and the cross, the old symbols of a new power. Aldric reined in his mare and stared.

“He is already here,” he said.

“He moves fast,” Gerold said.

“He moves like a man who knows time is against him.” Aldric’s breath fogged in the cold air. “The year 800 is coming, Gerold. He wants his crown before the century turns, and he will crush anything—or anyone—that stands in his way.”

They descended toward the city, passing through gates that opened at the sight of the imperial warrant Aldric carried, past soldiers who saluted with spears and stares. The streets were choked with wagons and horses, with priests and clerks and messengers, the machinery of an empire grinding into motion. And at the center of it all, in a great hall that smelled of woodsmoke and wax and sweat, Charlemagne sat on a throne that was almost too small for him.

He was not a young man anymore. The red hair had greyed at the temples, the face was lined with the burdens of thirty years of war, but the eyes—the eyes were still the eyes of a hawk, bright and terrible and fixed on Aldric the moment he entered the hall.

“Lord Aldric of the Vosges,” Charlemagne boomed, and his voice filled the room like a bell. “I had wondered whether you would come.”

“You commanded me, Majesty,” Aldric said, bowing low. “I am but a loyal subject.”

“Loyal,” Charlemagne repeated, tasting the word. “You are many things, Aldric. Loyal has never been the first that springs to mind. But you are here, and that is what matters.” He rose, and even from a distance, he towered. “The Saxons have broken their oaths again. Widukind’s son—a boy, barely old enough to hold a sword—has rallied the tribes of the north. They think the winter will slow us. They think we will wait for spring.”

“And we will not?” Aldric asked carefully.

“We will not.” Charlemagne stepped down from the dais, close enough that Aldric could smell the wine on his breath, the old sweat of campaign. “I have summoned you here, Aldric, because you have a gift for seeing what others miss. The road to the Saxon lands is long, and the supply lines are thin. The last campaign nearly starved us. I need a plan.”

Aldric felt the trap closing around him. “Majesty, I am no soldier. I am a vintner.”

“You are a vintner who saved Aachen from a Frankish siege with a drainage plan,” Charlemagne said, smiling without warmth. “You are a vintner who turned a forged illness into a diplomatic triumph over the Avars. You are the laziest man in my empire, and yet everything you touch turns to gold. So I will ask you again: I need a plan.”

The hall was silent. Aldric could feel the eyes of the court upon him, the clerks and the counts and the bishops, all of them waiting to see what the idle lord would do. And in that moment, he heard Hildegard’s voice again, not sharp and amused this time, but low and urgent: *Make the cost too high.*

He had tried that. It had not worked.

“Majesty,” Aldric said, and his voice was steady, “I will give you your plan. But I have a condition.”

Charlemagne’s eyes narrowed. “You dare to bargain with me?”

“I dare to ask for what is mine already,” Aldric said. “My writ of immunity. Signed and sealed. I will give you your campaign, and then I will go home to my vineyards, and you will never trouble me again.”

The Emperor stared at him for a long moment, and then he laughed—a great, booming laugh that echoed off the stone walls. “By the crown of Peter, you have audacity, Aldric. Very well. You will have your writ—when the campaign is done. Not before. And if you fail me, you will have nothing but a dungeon in Regensburg to call home.”

Aldric bowed his head, but his heart was cold. He had asked for his freedom, and Charlemagne had offered him a promise—a promise that would be broken the moment it became inconvenient.

“I understand, Majesty,” he said, and he did. He understood that the hook was sunk deep, and the line was pulling him under, and there was only one way out: to make the cost of the crown so high that even an emperor would balk.

But as he left the hall, he saw a figure waiting in the shadows of the colonnade—a woman in the grey robes of a Benedictine abbess, her veil pulled back to reveal the sharp, amused face of Hildegard of Metz.

“You came,” he said.

“I was curious,” she replied. “I wanted to see how you would handle the Emperor when he refused to pay the price I set.”

“You knew he would refuse.”

“I knew he would bargain,” she said, stepping closer. “I did not know what you would offer in return. But now I do.” She smiled, and it was not a kind smile. “You have given him your mind, Aldric. The only thing he ever truly wanted. And what have you gained in return?”

“Time,” he said. “Time to find another way.”

“Time,” she repeated, and her laugh was soft and bitter. “Time is the one thing you have never had, my love. And it is running out.”