Chapter 25: The Road to Paderborn (III)

The rain began as a drizzle and became a curse. Autumn had turned the roads of Saxony to mud that sucked at hooves and wagon wheels alike, and Aldric, riding with his hood pulled low and his cloak plastered to his shoulders, felt every league as a personal insult. He had been wet before. He had been miserable before. But never, he reflected, had he been so thoroughly and magnificently bored.

Gerold rode beside him, a grim monument to stoicism. The Saxon’s scarred face betrayed nothing, not even the rivulets of water that carved paths through the grime on his cheeks. He had not complained once since they left Regensburg, and Aldric found that more unnerving than any storm.

“Gerold,” Aldric said, raising his voice over the wind, “if you die of silence, I shall have you buried without ceremony.”

“My lord is humorous,” Gerold replied, without looking at him.

“My lord is wet, cold, and profoundly tired of the company of soldiers who do not appreciate the finer points of conversation.” Aldric gestured vaguely at the column ahead—hundreds of horsemen, their banners sodden and drooping, their war-horses plodding with the grim patience of beasts who knew the road better than their riders. “This is absurd. The Emperor has more than enough men to conquer Saxony without me. He has more than enough clever men to plan a coronation. What possible purpose does my presence serve?”

“Perhaps,” Gerold said, “he wishes to keep you close.”

“That is the most terrifying sentence you have ever spoken.”

Gerold almost smiled. Almost.

They made camp that evening in a hollow between low hills, the fires hissing against the rain. Aldric found a spot near a gnarled oak, its branches offering a meager shelter, and sat with his back to the trunk, a waxed pouch of dried figs in his hands. He ate slowly, savoring each bite, because it was the only pleasure the day had offered.

The camp was quiet—not the silence of peace, but the wary hush of men who knew they were still in Saxon lands, where every shadow might hold a blade. Aldric had seen the burned villages along the road, the charred timbers and the fields gone to weeds. He had seen the crosses planted at crossroads, marking where the Emperor’s justice had fallen. The Saxons had been conquered, but not tamed. The blood was still wet in the earth.

He was reaching for his wineskin—a modest vintage, not worth the name, but drinkable—when a figure appeared at the edge of the firelight. Rotrude, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, her hair plaited and pinned beneath a woolen hood. She looked at him with that familiar expression of amusement and appraisal.

“You have chosen the worst spot in the camp,” she said, settling onto a log across from him. “Even the horses have better shelter.”

“The horses,” Aldric said, “do not have my conversation to enjoy.”

“A blessing for them.” She produced a small flask from her cloak and offered it. “Mead from the abbey at Herford. The abbess sends her regards.”

Aldric took the flask and drank. It was good mead—sweet, with a hint of clove. “Hildegard,” he said. “She would choose this moment to remind me she exists.”

“She speaks of you often.”

“That is not a comfort.”

Rotrude laughed, a quiet sound that did not carry beyond the fire. “She speaks of you the way a falconer speaks of a stubborn bird. With patience. And expectation.”

Aldric handed the flask back. “I am not a bird to be tamed.”

“No,” Rotrude agreed. “You are a puzzle to be solved. My father collects kingdoms. Hildegard collects secrets. I suspect you are her favorite piece.”

The rain eased to a drizzle. The fire crackled, sending sparks spiraling into the dark. Aldric stared at the flames, feeling the weight of the road ahead—Paderborn, then the long march south, across the Alps, to Rome. He had never wanted to see Rome. He had wanted to see his vineyards, his cellars, his quiet stone house with its view of the valley.

“Your father,” Aldric said slowly, “is going to be crowned Emperor of the Romans. He will place the crown upon his own head, and the Pope will have no choice but to bless it. And I…” He shook his head. “I will have helped him. I will have built the stage.”

“You could refuse.”

“And he would have me flayed.”

“He would not,” Rotrude said, her voice soft. “He values you too much. That is the tragedy, Aldric. You are too useful to be free, and too honest to pretend otherwise.”

Aldric looked at her. In the firelight, her face was half-shadowed, and he could not read her expression. “And what do you want, Princess?”

She was silent for a long moment. Then she said, “I want to see what you become when you stop running.”

He had no answer for that. The words settled into him like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through thoughts he had tried to keep still. He looked away, at the dark hills, at the watchfires of the army stretching into the night.

“We reach Paderborn in two days,” he said, changing the subject. “The Emperor will hold a council. He will speak of the Saxons and the Avars and the Lombards. He will speak of Rome.”

“And you will have a plan.”

“I will have several plans,” Aldric said, with a thin smile. “One of them might even work.”

Rotrude rose, brushing the damp from her cloak. She paused, looking down at him. “Aldric. Whatever you plan—for the coronation, for your vineyards, for your escape—remember this. The Emperor does not fear failure. He fears irrelevance. You are the one man who can make him feel small, and he cannot tolerate that for long. Be careful.”

She walked away, leaving him alone by the dying fire. Aldric watched her go, the rain beginning again, soft and relentless.

He thought of Hildegard’s arithmetic. He thought of Rotrude’s warning. He thought of the writ of immunity still unearned, tucked away in his saddlebag, a promise of freedom that grew more distant with every league.

The road to Rome was paved with ashes, and he was walking it willingly. But perhaps, he thought, there was another road—one he had not yet considered. One that ran not through the Emperor’s favor, but through his fear.

The rain fell. The fire died. And in the dark, Aldric began to plan.