Chapter 64: The Cartulary of Frozen Levers

The riders reined in fifty paces distant, their horses blowing clouds of steam into the mountain air. Aldric counted eight of them—hard men in leather and ring-mail, their cloaks the grey of wolf pelts, their faces hidden behind the raised hoods of the Alpine cold. They did not draw weapons. They did not need to. The pass was narrow, the snow was deep, and Gerold’s hand had already moved to the hilt of his sword.

“Steady,” Aldric murmured, more to himself than to his bodyguard. “If they meant to kill us, they would have done it from the rocks above.”

“Unless they want to be sure,” Gerold said.

The lead rider dismounted with the easy grace of a man who had spent his life in the saddle. He walked forward, boots crunching in the frozen crust, and stopped at the edge of spear-throw. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly gentle.

“Lord Aldric of the Vosges?”

“I am he,” Aldric said, keeping his own voice level. “And you are?”

“A messenger.” The man reached into his cloak and produced a leather tube, sealed with wax the color of dried blood. “From the Abbess Hildegard of Metz.”

Aldric’s heart stuttered, though he did not let it show. He took the tube, broke the seal, and unrolled the parchment within. The handwriting was unmistakable—sharp, precise, each letter cut like a blade.

*Aldric—*

*You will reach Rome before the snows close the passes, but you will not reach it alone. The Emperor’s couriers ride ahead of you, carrying word of your coming to every bishop and count between here and the Lateran. You are expected. You are awaited. You are, in short, a fixed point in a moving world.*

*I have done what I can from this side of the Alps. The rest is up to you.*

*Remember: the crown is not the prize. The crown is the lever. And you, my dear former betrothed, are the fulcrum.*

*—H.*

Aldric read the message twice, then folded it carefully and tucked it into his own cloak. He looked up at the rider, who had not moved.

“The abbess sent eight armed men to deliver a letter?”

The rider’s mouth twitched beneath his hood. “She sent us to ensure you received it. The passes are not safe, my lord. There are wolves, and worse.”

“Worse than wolves?”

“Men who do not wish to see the Emperor crowned. Men who have heard that a certain lord of the Vosges has been tasked with the coronation’s planning—and who would prefer that planning to end in a snowdrift.”

Aldric felt the cold whisper at the back of his mind, the voice that had been with him since Regensburg. It was not fear. It was something worse: the recognition that Hildegard had seen this coming, had known that his journey would draw enemies like carrion crows, and had moved to counter them without asking his leave.

He hated her for that. He also, grudgingly, admired it.

“Your name?” he asked.

“Wulfstan,” the rider said. “Late of the Saxon marches, like your man there. The abbess thought I might find common ground with your bodyguard.”

Gerold grunted. “We shall see.”

Wulfstan turned and gestured to his companions. They dismounted in unison, leading their horses forward with the practiced ease of men who had done this a hundred times. Within minutes, the small party had formed a loose defensive ring around Aldric and Gerold, their eyes scanning the ridgelines above.

Aldric watched them work and felt the familiar resignation settle over him. He had wanted to travel quietly, unseen, a shadow slipping through the Alps toward Rome. Hildegard had other plans. Of course she did. She had never once let him choose his own path, not since they were children and she had decided that his destiny was too interesting to leave to chance.

“She knew,” he said softly, almost to himself. “She knew someone would come for me.”

“The abbess knows many things,” Wulfstan said. “She also knows that you are the only man in the Empire who could ruin the coronation by accident—and save it by design. She does not intend to let you waste that talent.”

“Talent,” Aldric repeated, tasting the word like vinegar. “I have no talent. I have a gift for doing nothing well, and an unfortunate habit of being noticed when I do it.”

Wulfstan’s hood shifted, and Aldric caught a glimpse of a scarred face and pale eyes. “The abbess said you would say something like that. She told me to tell you that self-deprecation is a luxury you cannot afford. Not anymore.”

Gerold laughed, a short, harsh sound. “He has been saying that since Paderborn. It has not stopped him yet.”

“It will not stop me now,” Aldric said, though the words tasted like ash. “Very well, Wulfstan. You and your men will ride with us. But I have conditions.”

“Name them.”

“First, you will not speak of this to anyone—not to the Emperor’s court, not to the bishops, not to the counts. Second, when we reach Rome, you will release me from your charge and return to the abbess with my thanks. Third—” He paused, feeling the weight of the words before he spoke them. “Third, you will tell me what you know of the men who wait for us in the passes.”

Wulfstan was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly.

“There is a count named Berengar,” he said. “He holds lands south of the Alps, near the Lombard border. He has been heard to say that the Emperor’s crown is a Frankish invention, and that Rome should look to its own lords for leadership. He has gathered a following—mercenaries, disaffected nobles, men who lost their lands in the wars against the Avars.”

“Berengar,” Aldric repeated, filing the name away. “And he knows of my mission?”

“He knows only that a lord of the Vosges rides toward Rome with the Emperor’s blessing. He does not know why. But he suspects, and suspicion is enough.”

Aldric looked at Gerold, then at the white peaks rising around them. The pass was narrow, the snow was deep, and somewhere below them, a man named Berengar was waiting with soldiers and a grudge.

He should have felt afraid. Instead, he felt something else—a spark of interest, unwanted and unbidden. A problem to be solved. A lever to be pulled.

He crushed it quickly, but not quickly enough.

“Very well,” he said, turning his horse toward the south. “Then we shall give Count Berengar something to suspect. We shall ride openly, as the Emperor’s men, with banners flying and horns sounding. We shall make ourselves too visible to ignore.”

Wulfstan frowned. “That will draw his attention, my lord. It will make us targets.”

“No,” Aldric said, and for the first time in weeks, he felt the familiar shape of a plan forming in his mind—a plan that required him to do very little, and to appear to do even less. “It will make us bait. And Count Berengar, whoever he is, will take the hook.”

Gerold sighed. “I do not like this.”

“You never do,” Aldric said. “And yet you are still here.”

He urged his horse forward, and the party followed, their hoofbeats muffled by the snow. Behind him, the pass curved out of sight, and the shrine of Saint Bernard vanished into the white.

Ahead lay Rome. Ahead lay the coronation. Ahead lay a man named Berengar, who had no idea that he was about to become the latest in a long line of obstacles that Aldric had never wanted to overcome.

The path of least resistance, Aldric thought, had never once led him home. But it had, he realized with a chill that had nothing to do with the cold, led him exactly where Hildegard had always intended him to go.

And he was beginning to think that was the most dangerous thing of all.