Chapter 8: The Price of a Crown
The autumn wind carried the smell of woodsmoke and dying leaves through the colonnaded corridors of Aachen, but Aldric noticed neither. His mind was still fixed on the image that had taken root there: the pope’s emissaries, their silver-tongued requests, and the slow, inexorable tightening of the noose around his own neck.
“You’ve gone quiet, my lord,” Gerold observed from behind him. “That is never a good sign.”
“On the contrary,” Aldric said, pausing to admire a fresco of Daniel in the lion’s den, “quiet is precisely what I intend to achieve. The question is how to make it permanent.”
The great hall buzzed with the evening’s business—clerks scratching at wax tablets, courtiers murmuring in clusters, the occasional burst of laughter from a table of young knights. Aldric navigated through them with the practiced ease of a man who had learned to be invisible in plain sight. He had nearly reached the shadowed stairwell that led to his chambers when a voice, smooth as honeyed wine, stopped him cold.
“Lord Aldric. How fortunate to find you skulking about.”
He turned to find Hildegard of Metz descending from the gallery above, her wimple immaculate, her eyes glittering with the particular amusement that had always preceded his undoing. She carried a leather-bound codex under one arm and wore the expression of a cat who had already cornered a mouse.
“Abbess,” he said, bowing shallowly. “I was under the impression you had returned to your convent.”
“I was under the impression you had returned to your vineyards,” she replied, falling into step beside him. “Yet here we both are, in Aachen, during the most turbulent autumn of Charles’s reign. Curious, is it not?”
Aldric suppressed a groan. “The emperor has a talent for making my absence impossible.”
“And you have a talent for making your presence indispensable.” She tapped the codex. “I have been reading the correspondence between Rome and the palace. The pope grows bolder by the week. He speaks of crowns and empires, of the dignity of the Roman name. And Charles—our dear, pragmatic Charles—listens with an eagerness that troubles me.”
They had reached the alcove beside the stairwell, a recess hidden by a hanging tapestry depicting the baptism of Clovis. Hildegard gestured, and Aldric, knowing resistance was futile, followed her into the cramped space. The tapestry fell shut behind them, muffling the hall’s noise to a distant hum.
“You see the danger, then,” she said, her voice low.
“I see many dangers,” Aldric replied. “The Saxons are restless. The Avars grow bolder. The pope wants something that will cost more than gold. And Charles—Charles sees himself as the successor of Constantine, whether the world is ready or not.”
“And you see an opportunity.”
He met her eyes. “I see a door.”
Hildegard’s smile was slow, knowing. “You intend to let him walk through it, and then slip away while he is distracted.”
“Something of that nature.”
“It will not work.”
“It always works.”
“It has never worked,” she said, “not once, in the four years I have known you to attempt it. Your drainage plan saved the palace. Your forged illness secured the Avar treaty. Your ‘accidental’ suggestion about the Saxon hostages—” she raised an eyebrow, “—resulted in three thousand conversions and a personal letter of thanks from the pope. You are cursed, Aldric. Blessed, perhaps. But certainly not destined for obscurity.”
He felt the familiar weight of her words, the truth of them settling like stones in his stomach. “Then I shall have to be more creative.”
“Or,” she said, “you could accept what you are.”
“And what is that?”
“The emperor’s most reluctant instrument.” She reached out, adjusting the collar of his tunic with a familiarity that made his heart stutter. “You could do great things, Aldric. Things that would be sung of for generations.”
“I do not wish to be sung of,” he said. “I wish to be left alone.”
“Then you have chosen the wrong century, and the wrong emperor.” She pulled back the tapestry, letting the light spill in. “Think on what I have said. And consider this: if you truly wish to escape, you must stop being useful. Entirely. Completely. That is the only way.”
She departed without another word, leaving Aldric in the alcove, the scent of her prayer-soap lingering in the air.
He did not sleep that night. Instead, he sat by his window, watching the stars wheel over Aachen, and considered her counsel. Stop being useful. It was so simple, so elegant. All he had to do was fail. Miserably. Spectacularly. The emperor would lose interest, and he would be sent home in disgrace—free, at last, to rot among his vines.
The plan took shape by dawn.
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The opportunity came sooner than he expected. Three days later, Charlemagne summoned his inner circle to the great hall to discuss the coming winter campaign against the Saxons. Aldric attended, positioned near the back, affecting the posture of a man barely awake.
“The Saxon chieftains grow bold again,” the emperor announced, his voice carrying to the rafters. “They raid our marches, burn our churches, and laugh at our envoys. I will not suffer it. I intend to strike at their heartland before the snows close the passes.”
The assembled counts and bishops murmured approval. Aldric yawned, deliberately loud.
Charlemagne’s gaze snapped to him. “You have something to add, Lord Aldric?”
“Only that the passes will close in a month, Majesty,” Aldric said, slurring his words slightly. “And that winter campaigns in Saxony have a history of—how shall I put this—disappointing outcomes. Perhaps it would be wiser to wait until spring.”
A ripple of shock ran through the hall. No one contradicted Charles in open council. Aldric felt the satisfaction of a man who had just set fire to his own reputation.
But the emperor only laughed. A great, booming laugh that echoed off the marble columns.
“You see?” Charlemagne said, gesturing at Aldric. “This is why I keep him. He says what others dare not think. Very well, Lord Aldric. If you believe winter is a fool’s errand, then you shall lead the quartermasters. You will ensure that my army is fed, shod, and armed for a spring offensive—and you will do it without exceeding my treasury.”
Aldric’s stomach dropped. “Majesty, I have no experience with—“
“You will learn,” Charles said, already turning away. “Consider it a promotion.”
The hall dissolved into laughter. Aldric stood frozen, his carefully constructed failure crumbling to dust.
Gerold appeared at his elbow. “My lord,” the Saxon murmured, “I believe you have just been made responsible for the largest logistical undertaking in the history of this realm.”
“I know,” Aldric said, his voice hollow.
“And if you fail, you will be executed for incompetence.”
“I know.”
“And if you succeed—” Gerold paused, a rare smile cracking his scarred face, “—you will be indispensable for another decade.”
Aldric closed his eyes. Somewhere beyond the hall, the wind howled, carrying the first flake of snow. And in the distance, he could almost hear Hildegard’s laugh, mocking and triumphant, as the trap closed around him once more.