Pepin peered at the man, hoping to penetrate his identity. But it was useless amid the tenacious shadows. The prince felt off balance—he hated being exposed without knowing with whom he bargained. Especially when bargaining for a throne.
“I wish to put down a beloved family pet.”
The man snorted. “Yes. I’m sure you do. I suppose you’ll wish for this ‘pet’ to slumber off into the beyond with no lingering questions.”
“Yes,” Pepin said. “And do tell your sponsors that they will be richly rewarded for this assistance.”
The man bowed slightly. “My prince,” he said from the depths of his hood, “if you succeed, you will have their best wishes. But upon payment, you will never hear from nor see us again.”
AOI
The champion’s official chambers lay in the palace complex near the royal quarters. Amid the grandeur, in a side corridor, a single, simple door stood marked with a placard of the rampant wolf above it. Gisela stood before that door, glancing back over her shoulder, her heart in knots. She swallowed hard, hoping the baldpate of Ganelon’s priest did not glisten into view. She cautiously pulled a thick iron key from her robes and tried it in the lock. The primitive mechanism sprung with a groan, and the door opened.
She quickly stepped inside and closed the door behind her. There was no one in the anteroom, so she quickly crossed the simple quarters to the bedchamber.
“It’s been so long since I’ve been here, dear departed husband,” she whispered, barely daring to speak the words. She paused at the bedroom door. “But our son believes something is amiss.”
She hesitantly opened the door and stepped within, her mind lost in memories. A merry child’s laugh rang off the stone walls, and, of a sudden, the child slipped past her, brushing her skirts, his blond hair a tangled mess. She stopped in the middle of the room, her limbs refusing to move further.
“Roland?” she whispered.
William, her dear husband, stepped into view from around a corner—tall and broad-shouldered, his face creased with a smile and framed by golden locks similar to his son’s. He roared like a lion.
“Where has my dinner run off to?” he snarled with a playful grin.
Gisela took a step back as he nearly collided with her.
But William’s shade parroted something already said on that far-distant day. “What is this haunting vision stalking my wood?” he said breathlessly with a smile meant only for her. “Come to steal my supper?” He reached for her face, but his fingers passed through her flesh, and he faded to the sound of a child’s laughter.
“Oh, my cherished memories, I should not have come,” she whispered. Roland’s clothes lay tossed about at random, lying where they had been cast off—so typical of her son. She felt a tightening in her chest knowing that she might only have a few moments before some squire or other arrived to care for the knight’s belongings.
She quickly scanned the room. At the end of the bed, she saw the worn and familiar chest where William had often locked away his valuables. She crossed to it, dabbing at the wetness around her eyes. In her hand was another key, this one a slender bit of brass. The catch turned freely, the lid lifted easily, and she bent to search through clothing, bits of jewelry, and scattered papers until she found a cache of medicine bottles. These had been obtained for William when they had brought him back to the city to recover from his wounds. Each bottle bore an apothecary mark stamped into the primitive glass. She examined them one at a time, giving each a little shake, recalling both the marks and the contents—she had fetched most of them for the royal surgeon herself, long ago.
But there was one bottle, plain enough, yet bearing an unfamiliar mark, a Greek letter worked into a floral pattern. She held it up to the light and turned it slowly. The dark liquid trembled inside with each motion. She tugged the cork loose and took a sniff, filling her nostrils with a pungent odor. She stoppered it back, slipping it into the folds of her skirts.
A noise at the door startled her. She smoothed her skirts, rising when a page entered, a small wisp of a lad with wild brown hair that could use a good combing.
“Well,” she said. “Where is your lord, Roland?”
The page’s eyes widened when he recognized Roland’s mother who was sister to the king.
“My lady!” he said, bowing awkwardly. “He’s—he’s at the stables.”
She flashed a sweet smile then brushed past him to the door.
“If you see him, tell him his mother was here to say hello.”
The lovers wandered through the royal gardens beneath trees reaching spectral limbs to the clear sky above, branches glimmering frostily in the moonlight. Roland and Aude walked together nearly as one, whispering and leaning into each other to hear what the other had to say. Near a small grove of trees, Roland pulled Aude under the crook of a great oak. She threw her arms around his neck, burying her head in his chest. He brushed loose hair from her face and lifted her chin so that her eyes met his. Tears left a wet trail across his hand.
“What is it that bothers you?” he asked.
She tried to blink away the tears and smile. “Must you go?” she asked. “It breaks my heart even now to think on it, with you still here.”
He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her softly, her lips warm and wet against his. “When spring comes,” he said, “the campaign will begin. And much needs to be done—gathering supplies, training the troops, reconnaissance of the region. Charles has placed his faith in the information I’ve been charged to gather.”
She frowned, clearly not interested in the minutiae of campaign logistics. “But the last time you left, it was three years before I saw your face! Three years before I could breathe again and dare to claim your heart.”
At a loss, Roland fumbled at his belt pouch and drew out the ruby necklace.
“My first wages as champion,” he said. “A symbol of my troth.”
She laughed then touched his face to smooth away the hurt she saw in his eyes. “It’s beautiful. Truly it is. But it’s not shiny bits of stone I want.”
Roland took her hand in his and pulled her out from under the tree.
“Then come with me,” he said.
AOI
The dimly lit pub bustled with young noblemen carousing and drinking. Weapons clattered, and bravos exchanged heated words over minor offenses—the glance of a comely girl, an ill-spoken barb, or even a reference to questionable parentage. In the corner opposite the fireplace, someone broke into a slurred song, pounding his fist on a table to keep unsteady time.
Shrouded in a dark cloak, the agent entered the inn and glanced about the room. When he pushed back his cowl, the dim light revealed his face, flesh sunken and sallow, eaten with pox and bearing a scar down his left cheek from eye to jaw. His searching gaze skimmed over a far corner where another man sat, this one more handsome and refined—Gothard. The young noble lifted a cup to his lips, but the man noticed that he didn’t swallow. Smart, he thought. This wasn’t the time to indulge and become addled in the head.
The agent loosed the cloak from his shoulders, feeling the heat from the smoky fire in the stone hearth when he passed. He pulled up a stool and sat at a table to Gothard’s side.
Gothard sloshed his cup around then raised it once more to his mouth. “You met with the prince?”
“Yes,” the agent replied. “There was a request for something subtle. To ease a beloved pet into the eternities.”
No emotion registered on Gothard’s features. “Well. I know someone who has expertise in such things, a learned man who studied with alchemists in Constantinople. He’s served well in the past.”
The agent raised his own cup. “It would please our dear prince.”
“Yes, it would. To watch the last gasping breath of his beloved, that is.”
This time Gothard did take a drink.
CHAPTER 10<
br />
Conspiracies
The room was dark, but it was not still. Bishop Turpin lay in a tumble across the simple bed with a homespun blanket pulled up about his ears, and his snoring rattled the cup on the table nearby.
Someone rapped on the door, and he snorted, stuttered, and coughed. He rolled over to bury his head deeper in the thin feather pillow. After a pause, his snores once again resumed their rollicking rhythm.
The knock was repeated, this time more forcefully.
Turpin mumbled unintelligibly. He rolled from the bed, rubbing his eyes and scratching at his woolen nightclothes. Another knock came, rattling the cup more than had his snores.
Turpin shook his head and found his voice. “I’m coming!” He took a drink from the cup and slammed it down. “Can’t you give a man a moment to clear the cobwebs?”
The royal chapel was usually quiet at this time of night, save for the occasions when Charles sought the Lord at the candlelit altar. Turpin entered still dressed in his bed robes, searching the shadows for something, anything, to drink.
“Oh, I’m in need, that is certain,” he grumbled, tugging on his priestly vestments. Roland and Aude followed him into the chapel, their hands clenched tightly together. Turpin waved them to the altar where they knelt down together.
Aude whispered to Roland, “Our commitment is for God and us. Please, it would kill my father in his sickbed if he thought he failed to drive a bargain on his daughter’s dowry.”
Roland squeezed her hand in his. “Of course. But someone should be here.”
“Someone?” Aude asked.
Oliver stepped into the light then, waving off the page escorting him when he saw what was unfolding at the foot of the altar.
“Hello. What’s this?” he said, color rising to his cheeks. He pulled out his dagger as he crossed the floor to them.
Roland raised both hands and spoke quickly. “I wouldn’t betray her trust, my friend! Or yours—that’s why we’re here!” Oliver hesitated for a heartbeat. Roland took the pause as a chance to drive onward. “She knows everything that makes even you blush when I tell it, but still she’d have me. Before God, I love her. I promise to love no other!”
Oliver searched Roland’s face for falsehood. “Is this true?” Oliver asked his sister at last. “Do you love him? Will you accept him?”
“Yes,” she said with a smile. “I do—with all my heart. I will. And now you’ll be together in battle …”
“And united in our love for you,” he finished for her. He tossed the dagger to the floor and placed his hands in hers, and Roland clasped his own hands around theirs.
Turpin dabbed at his eyes with a corner of his nightshirt. Then he opened a worn old vellum Bible, held it up to the candlelight, and squinted at the hand-scrawled print.
“Not much call for this sort of thing on the battlefield,” he mumbled. He straightened, tugged at his bishop’s accoutrements, and then began.
“We are gathered here in the sight of God and His angels, to see this man and this woman united in holy matrimony …”
Not all chapels that served the faithful and the sinner in Aachen were adorned in gold leaf and exotic silks. Some could be—only very generously—described as humble.
At one such ramshackle edifice, Pepin crept through the graveyard, stepping carefully past crude markers to a shadowed chapel door. He tugged at the latch and pushed the door open. The inside was shrouded in stygian darkness, forcing Pepin had to feel his way to the broken-down confessional. His heart filled his throat as he opened the door and sat on the stool.
It was one thing to dream of being king and quite another to realize the act of becoming one. He longed to be unbridled from the ancient Frank customs that split households, estates, and entire kingdoms between sons when a father passed on. A quaint tradition for backwater homesteads in a much simpler time, he supposed—but tradition was no way to run a kingdom beset on all sides by enemies. So here he was to firmly take his fate into his own hands. He pulled the curtain closed then leaned close to the fretted wooden panel at his elbow.
“Forgive me, Father,” Pepin said dutifully, “for I am about to sin.”
The agent, shrouded by his cowl, opened the small door in the panel and passed Pepin an amber bottle. “Yes, well, my master wishes you Godspeed.”
“I’m not sure God fills my sails at the moment,” Pepin admitted. “When this is over, though, I’ll build Him a fine monastery and set my brother to watch over it.”
He stood up, pushing open the confessional door, and stalked from the chapel before his sickly knees could buckle. Pulling his cloak tightly about his body, he hurried through the cemetery and quickly rounded the yard to the thoroughfare in front. Stepping out to the street, he nearly collided with Demetrius. But the Greek hopped to the side, allowing the prince to continue on.
“Good evening, my prince!” Demetrius said with a slight bow.
“Yes, my apologies, Ambassador,” Pepin said, pulling his hood up.
“It’s not safe for you to wander alone on the streets,” Demetrius called after him. “Shall I escort you?”
Pepin waved a hand dismissively. “I’m safe enough. Good evening to you.”
He continued down the street.
Demetrius glanced at the decrepit chapel. Just then a hooded figure exited by the side door and rushed through the graveyard.
“What’s this?” Demetrius muttered under his breath. He fell in a fair distance behind the man and started following him through the dark streets.
Roland and Aude stood facing each other before the simple bed in the champion’s chambers, the room bathed in the subtle glow of winter moonlight. They kissed, and in that kiss Roland discovered something in himself.
He pulled back his lips and looked into her eyes as her lips parted invitingly.
“Oh, my beautiful wife,” he whispered, fully intoxicated with her. “I will always love you, beyond my last breath and into the eternities.”
Aude stretched on her tiptoes to reach his lips once more. “And I you, my husband. The knight of all my dreams …”
Roland traced her face with his fingers, caressing each curve of her cheekbones. “Are you happy?” he asked. “Even if we didn’t have a public spectacle for a wedding?”
She laughed in a throaty manner. “To the depths of my soul. And you?”
Roland began tugging at her bodice. “More than I have ever known.”
Their clothes fell in a rumpled heap to the floor as the two tumbled to the bed.
Servants checked the red-hot braziers to ensure the king’s room remained warm through the night. One fluffed the royal pillows, another drew the curtains, and still another turned down the blanket and sheets. Through the nightly ritual, Charles sat at his desk, his tired, red-rimmed eyes scanning endless manuscript pages. He scratched out letters in the margins with an ink quill that blotted at annoyingly random intervals.
Naimon stood next to the desk holding another sheaf of vellum documents, an urgent look on his face even though the hour was late. “Sire, these need to be signed as well.”
Charles pushed the documents to the side.
“I’m sorry,” he said with a yawn. “Writing my name over and over again is so taxing. Call up my wine. I’ll finish this in the morning.”
Naimon bowed professionally, and quickly gathered up the scattered documents. He hurried from the room with the bundle at arm’s length, fearful that still-wet ink would stain his fine robes.
Demetrius hurried to keep up with the cloaked man while remaining unnoticed. It was a task made all the more difficult by the scarcity of people about at this hour, not to mention the man’s expert dodging between carriages, back-alley vagrants, and stray dogs. When they crossed into the less savory sections of the city, Demetrius found himself forced further into the shadows.
The Greek suspected
that any one of the ruffians and cutpurses lazing about would likely recognize his quarry’s face if confronted. Demetrius picked up the pace, closing the distance between them, but the man scurried along faster. Throwing all caution to the wind, he rushed to cut the man off before he could bolt down an alley, but the man dodged again and broke into a loping run. They were sprinting now, hopping over the clutter of trash, crates, and barrels. Then the man looked over his shoulder and tripped on his cloak. With a cry, Demetrius was upon him, bearing him down to the frozen ground.
“I see you have time for me after all, my friend!” the Greek huffed, drawing out his dagger and pressing it hard to the man’s throat.
“And I’m in need of drink and a warm bed! Now let me go. Here, take my money. It’s not much.”
Demetrius grabbed the man’s arm—his hand bore a dagger instead of a purse. The Greek smashed the man’s knuckles against the ground, over and over again until the weapon clattered away.
“That’s an awfully slim ‘purse,’” he said. “Now quickly, it’s news I require—news of princes and dark deeds!”
The man chewed up dirt as he spoke. “Princes? You think I rub elbows with royalty? You’re daft!”
“Am I now?” Demetrius whispered as he drew the dagger’s edge along the man’s throat, a line of crimson springing up on his skin. “Princes and paupers. I wonder what they do worshiping together. By the time this is through, we’ll know who’s daft.”
He pressed the dagger point under the man’s chin.
“Now, you were saying? Quickly, man, before we test the knife’s edge yet a little deeper.”
The steward, his gray locks a riot of tangles, shuffled down the hall bearing a tray with a precariously teetering cup threatening to tumble with each of his steps. Of course, he wasn’t so much worried about the cup spilling—he’d done this nightly for the better part of fifteen years. No, he was much more worried about not getting the wine there quickly enough, for the king dearly loved his drink before his other nocturnal activities. The steward was a religious man, and he shuddered at the thought of the things that went on behind those closed doors. To him the king revealed a paradox of passions and intentions, most of them rightly ordered—others, not so much. He nearly dropped his charge when Pepin stepped from a doorway ahead of him.
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