CHAPTER 20
Of Murder and Honor

The shop was little more than a mud hut sandwiched between two other shacks. That clutch of buildings comprised the whole center of what passed for a town on this rutted track through the Frank countryside.

Aude handed her horse’s reins to Jerome, who stood patiently nearby rubbing at his baggy eyes. She carefully lifted her skirts above the muck and climbed the steps to the shop’s front door. It opened with a creak, and she entered.

Darkness haunted the interior, for the only window was near the back, and it allowed only scant light to filter in. The smell of burnt oil and moldering herbs nipped at her nostrils. At a table under the grimy window, a man sat hunched over, intensely focused on his own gnarled hands that briskly sorted components into a small pestle. He was an ancient fellow, to be sure. The merchant who had directed her to this shop had whispered that this Gregory Apollonius could well be over a hundred years old, thanks to the Eastern potions and medicines he jealously guarded. Yet when Gregory’s eyes met hers, he simply looked like someone’s scholarly grandfather, his features wrapped in a white beard and wizened by a web of crinkles. He painfully straightened his hunched back as she drew close.

“I heard you enter, daughter,” he said, a bland smile on his lips that did not extend to his eyes. “How may I help you?”

She fished in her pocket for the bottle and held it out to him. “What is this? Can you tell me?”

He took it and held it up to the feeble light, closely examining the markings through squinted eyes.

“I need to understand what’s in the bottle,” Aude continued. “I’ve searched high and low through Aachen for someone to help me.” The old man appeared unmoved. She pointed at the sign painted on the glass. “Ethelbert of Tours visited the city two weeks ago and mentioned that you may use similar marks?” she prodded.

He rolled it between his fingers.

“Well,” he observed, “the glass could be mine, but it could have been filled by someone else.”

He found a clean cloth on the table, covered his fingers, and loosened the cork.

“I don’t suppose this is a healing mixture?” he asked.

“I really don’t know.” Aude watched him with interest. “I was expecting you to tell me. This is your profession, after all, is it not?”

“No need to get cheeky, my lady.” He sniffed the open bottle gingerly and ran his fingers through his beard. He wrinkled his nose thoughtfully as he considered the aroma. Then he swirled the bottle and eyed the motion of the liquid. “Aconitum, or wolfsbane, I should say. In certain circles in the East, the herb is used in minute doses as a tincture. But in larger draughts—well, it silences without a struggle.” His hawkish eyes examined her closely. “Where did you get this?”

Aude felt color rush to her cheeks.

“Sir,” she replied, keeping the timbre of her voice as firm as possible. “I serve the sister of the king.” She pulled a ring from her finger, one that her mother had given her long ago, bearing the stag of the Vale. Her heart beat in her throat as she held her breath.

He glanced at the ring. “Of course you do.” He pushed away from the table then shuffled to a desk where a vellum book lay open. Handwritten entries lay scrawled across the pages in blotted black ink. Ruffling page by page, he scanned lines until he found one in particular.

“Yes, here it is,” he mumbled sullenly. “I’ve seen him a few times. I’ve not much call for this mixture.”

“Can you tell me what he wanted it for?”

“I do not involve myself in the affairs of my customers, my lady. I merely inform them of the proper doses.”

“As a tincture or as a silencer?”

He glared at her defensively. “One must know the dangers of an improper dose.”

“Can you tell me anything about him, the one who ordered this?”

“Many of my clients depend on confidentiality.”

She mustered her most imperious look.

He returned her stare but only for a moment before dropping his eyes, shoulders sagging ever so slightly. He pulled the ledger an inch closer.

“Let me see.”

He lifted the book up to his nose, squinting. “I’ve a note here. A gentleman who made purchases with a scar over his left eye like so.” He drew a line across his forehead. “I always observe those buying stronger brews.” He seemed to be begging her confidence now. “And see here, this is the symbol I observed on his ring.” He thumped the book defiantly down on the desk and pointed.

“He had a signet ring?” Aude leaned over the page, a chill running through her blood.

He reviewed his scribbles. “Yes. It looked—bit like a lily.”

“A lily?”

“That’s what I said, my lady.” The irritation in his voice was just subdued enough to be decorous but not enough to be unnoticed. “Here.”

Aude watched his finger trace the symbol. According to legend, she thought, the lilies pointed the way across a river for King Clovis as he rode to battle. Charles’s father, Pepin, struck the last of that line down years ago.

She straightened as the realization struck her.

“I thank you,” she whispered. She gathered her skirts and whisked from the shop.

A shadowy figure lingered in a nearby alley, watching Aude and Jerome ride hastily up the Aachen road. When she was out of sight, spider-veined hands pulled a finely made cowl over gaunt features, and Petras stepped out onto the track. He walked up the steps to the shop and pushed open the door.

Across the room, Gregory closed up the vellum book and shoved it to one side. He mumbled under his breath, turning to tend liquids bubbling in pots on oil braziers. The old apothecary paused when he heard Petras’s footfall.

“Oh,” he said, straightening and brushing thin strands of white hair from his eyes. “I didn’t see you come in. How may I help you?”

Petras drew back his cowl, a friendly smile stretched across his lips. But his eyes remained coldly fixed on the old man’s face.

“And how may I help you, Father?” Gregory said more respectfully, though this time a little more shortly.

Petras placed a hand flat on the book, his eyes still holding Gregory’s.

“It appears that you’ve been visited just now by a lovely and inquisitive young woman,” Petras said in a low voice.

Gregory paused, his eyes narrowing. “Why, yes. She was looking for an old family remedy. Something easily resolved.”

“Oh? And how does one resolve issues of succession with a brew?” Petras hissed, a long-bladed seax appearing in his hand from the folds of his cloak. The single-edged knife gleamed wickedly in the dim light.

“I assure you,” Gregory said, backing up a step or two, his feet painfully dragging the floor as he reached behind him, “I know nothing of succession or other things. I’m a simple apothecary.”

“Yes, I suppose now you’re just a simple apothecary,” Petras noted. “As a man should be who concocted potions for the Empress Irene and was forced to flee the Eternal City when Nicephorus took the crown into his bloody hands.”

“Sleeping philters are the norm of my trade, I assure you,” Gregory countered. “What do you want? Speak, man, or leave my shop this instant!”

He backed into a jumbled table with deceptive clumsiness, but he was quick. He flung a bowl at Petras, spraying oily drops that ignited as they passed over the flaming braziers.

Petras threw his hands up. The burning droplets seared his face, smoking splotches scattered across his dark robes. He howled and leaped forward, quick as a cat, hurtling over the worktable to bury the long knife into Gregory’s breast.

Blood spilled from the wound to the hard-packed earthen floor to sizzle among the flaming droplets of oil. The surprise and annoyance in Gregory’s eyes faded for good. Tears streaming down his blistered skin, Petras straightened, pushing the body away in disgust. He plunged his face into a pail of tepid water by the back door and scrubbed at his flesh, leaving angry red welts across his pale features. Then he turned his attention to the documents scattered across the shop, and particularly on the vellum book upon the desk while flames began to lick the dried herbs on the shelves.

Moments later, his visit concluded, Petras drifted down the front steps of the shop and faded into the shadows of the encroaching evening. Behind him, smoke twisted out a window and then billowed out the open door. Flames spread through cracks in the walls and up to the moldy roof thatching. Villagers tumbled from their huts to combat the flames quickly consuming the shop and spewing glowing cinders into the air to threaten them all.

Petras dug his heels into the flanks of his mount and cantered at a breakneck pace toward Aachen.

Aude clung to the saddle pommel atop the lathered horse that clattered into the courtyard. She brought the steed to a hard stop and dismounted, thrusting the reins into Jerome’s tired hands even before he could come to a stop behind her, then dashed up the steps of the palace.

In the adjoining garden, Gisela played with Baldwin. The young woman rushing across the tiled floor to the grand stairs caught Gisela’s eye, and she gestured for a nursemaid to watch over the baby as she hurried after Aude.

At the top of the staircase, Aude’s door was slightly ajar. Gisela knocked quietly and pushed it open to find Aude standing in the center of the room, wiping wet eyes.

When Aude caught sight of the older woman, she flung her arms around her.

“What is it, child?” Gisela brushed strands of hair from Aude’s face. “What frightens you so?”

“Poison, my lady! A draught for a silent death!” Aude wiped her face with the back of her hand. “And the symbol of Ganelon’s house? A white lily on a field of blue?”

“Yes. The sign of our Lady, the mother of God.”

“As well as the symbol of deposed Childeric, exiled by your father, Pepin.” She drew a shaky breath and plunged on. “The man who bought your potion bore the same symbol.”

Gisela’s hand trembled though her fingers continued to clench Aude’s in hers. “As I had feared, but I was afraid to speak. So it was Ganelon?”

“No,” Aude said. “The apothecary noted a scar above the eye.”

“Gothard,” Gisela breathed through her clenched teeth. “Oh, dear God, Roland was right. Charles must know.”

Aude prepared for the journey south at a livery near the outskirts of the city, for the royal stables stood too close to the corridors of gossip in the palace. Besides herself and Jerome, only two retainers of unquestioned loyalty would be their entire strength. She opted for haste rather than building a cumbersome entourage that would not only slow each step but also draw attention to her movements. The older of her two retainers, Gregory, fretted over details much like he had in the years since being sidelined from service in the Vale’s auxiliaries. In those days, he served as a supply sergeant, a man who knew everything from the daily price of meat in any local market to the weight of barley needed for soldiers’ rations. And he knew how best to acquire such items, legitimately or otherwise.

Peonius, a tall, dark, younger man from the vale, augmented Gregory’s obsessive focus with quiet strength and simple, honest humor. He checked gear and sorted supplies with nary a cross word or question. For the better part of two days, both men quietly vanished from their quarters early each morning, not returning again until just before the palace gates closed in the evening.

For her part, Aude sorted through the accumulation of things she’d collected while living in Aachen for the past three years. Most would remain behind, locked in her quarters to await her return. But she packed spare boots, a cloak, and trousers in her travel bag. She paused when she came to Roland’s sparkling necklace. She pressed it to her lips, that magical night of their wedding now but a closely held memory. She thought she could still detect his lingering scent—

A young woman’s voice said, “So it’s true. You’re leaving us.”

“Oh,” Aude said, a bit flustered.

Berta stood in the doorway, a frown upon her lips.

“My dear, you startled the life out of me.”

Berta’s good-natured soul never allowed her to long hold a frown. Still, Aude tended to tread lightly with all members of the royal family—a habit she’d acquired while dealing with Aldatrude’s ever-changing moods.

“Imagine how I felt knowing you were leaving and hadn’t told me,” Berta said, pouting. “I thought I’d be the first to know such things!”

Aude put down her folded clothes.

“I’m sorry,” she began, then launched into the excuse she’d worked up. “I’ve received word Father may not live through the autumn. I do want to stay, dear heart, but I must attend to him.”

Berta rushed in and wrapped her arms around Aude, burying her head in her shoulder.

“I don’t wish you to leave!” she blurted out. “There are so few to speak with, or even trust.”

Aude returned her embrace. To her, the court nobility were just barely tolerable in their incessant jockeying for position—but there was a sweetness about Berta that Aude used for a refuge from the constant machinations at court.

“I shall miss you too,” she whispered. “But it will be only for a short time. Before you know it, I’ll return. Then we shall have tales to tell and confidences to exchange!”

Berta released her, and Aude brushed the tears from her eyes.

“Take me with you!” Berta pleaded. “Take me from this pit of vipers! Oh, I’m sure one or two mean well, but I’ve no one to confide in except old priests and the scholars with their fingers stained in ink. I’ll be no trouble, I swear! And I’d love to see the Vale in the fall.”

“I can’t bring you,” Aude said. “You’re central to the kingdom, with your family campaigning in Spain and an army on the Saxon frontier. But I can bring you something, if you like. A gift from my home, perhaps.”

Berta stomped her foot. “I knew you’d say that. I could have the guard hold you—keep you in the palace.”

Aude smiled and brushed a stray lock of dark hair from Berta’s face, tucking it gently behind her ear. “And then my father would die without his daughter at his side. I wouldn’t be good conversation were that to happen.”

Berta bit her lip. “No, I suppose that’s true,” she admitted. “You know I wouldn’t do it anyway.”

“Of course I do.” Aude rummaged through her bag and withdrew a small silver-chased crucifix that had been given to her long ago. She held it up to Berta. “Here, sister. This was my mother’s. Keep it safe for me.”

Even with all the baubles provided by her station, Berta’s eyes widened.

“You mean it?”

It was then that Aude realized that Berta had never been offered something so personal—a sort of acceptance into another’s family and life.

“I do. Since I cannot take you with me, you must keep a piece of me with you.”

Berta nodded, and Aude strung it about her throat.

“I swear to you, I will keep it safe,” Berta whispered as she admired the delicate work, turning the crucifix gingerly in her fingers. Then she looked up, her eyes brimming once more. “Return to me, sister. Swear it!”

“I swear,” Aude said, not knowing if she told the truth.

AOI

The pickets raised a noise along the river facing the Saxon frontier, startling the Frank camp from its fitful slumber. Shouted alarms passed from station to station. Soldiers tumbled from their sleeping bags, gathering weapons and armor as they stumbled into the gray dawn.

Gothard shrugged through his tent flaps, tugging a leather coat over his head. He craned his neck while he gathered his weapons and rushed toward the commotion. Soldiers jostled into hasty formation and armored knights thundered past atop their steeds. Gothard pushed through the ranks to the front, and what he saw arrayed across the field caused his breath to chill in his lungs. A vast Saxon army spread out in loose battle order along their side of the Rhine. Ten thousand enemy throats let out a raucous jeer as the Franks scampered into place, those with shields taking positions in the front ranks.

With no time to kit out his steed and locate the levies from Tournai, Gothard pulled on his mail coat and found a place among a group of peasant levies. Apprehension fluttered in his stomach. He shook his arms and legs to encourage circulation as a handful of Tournai men appeared at his side, having followed him from the tents. Gothard nodded to them wordlessly.

The Saxons stomped to within fifty yards and then with hardly a pause charged with a booming roar. The Franks drew their swords and braced themselves before the Saxons rushing across the field. With a metallic crunch, they drove into the front ranks and cut a swath with heavy blades that left the Franks struggling to fill the gaps of the fallen.

Gothard stepped over a peasant on his knees clutching at his ruptured bowels. He shouted encouragement at his struggling comrades to keep the heavily armored Saxons at bay, but the onslaught was unrelenting. The Saxons drove hard into the buckling center, cutting down the ill-equipped Frank irregulars with a bloody reaping that left the field sown in a torn and mangled human crop. As Tournai men fell around Gothard, even their bitter resolve began to melt. That melting became a stream and then a rush of men fleeing the field, leaving their comrades to struggle against the overwhelming Saxon tide.

A nearby youth dropped his weapon and turned to run.

“Stand and fight!” Gothard shouted raggedly. He deflected a wicked cut from a stout warrior and plunged his sword into the man’s bearded face. The deserter hesitated as Gothard tugged his sword free—but only for a moment. He shook his head and turned to run. Gothard cut him down before he could take two more steps.

“Rally, men! Rally!” he yelled above the din.

A tall Saxon broke through the Frank shields, roaring at the top of his lungs and hacking through limbs with his broadsword. A spray of blood showered Gothard’s eyes. Heedless, he stepped into the gap and took off the Saxon’s head with a snapping cut.

Sudden pain shot through his own gut, and Gothard’s body jerked. His heart seemed weighted by a stone. He looked down to see the tip of a rusty blade protruding from his belly through his mail coat. Blood exploded in a flood through his garments. He painfully turned to see who had stuck him, and his legs buckled, the ground rushing up to greet him.

The battle swirled and seethed around him but then passed him by. Retreating Franks were replaced by charging Saxons until only stragglers sprinting among the wounded to keep up with the fluid battle-line could be seen. Through blurring eyes, Gothard watched an old peasant sink down to embrace the body of the coward he had killed.

Gothard chuffed blood.

A passing Saxon swiped indiscriminately at the old man’s neck. He clutched at a fountaining wound, sagging in a heap over the boy even as Gothard’s own last breath choked through his teeth.