Chapter 5: THE LION’S BREATH

The road to Krems ran beside the Danube, and the river was a swollen, grey beast that spring. Konrad rode with six men, all sworn to him by oaths that would mean nothing if he fell. The thaw had come early, and the mud sucked at the hooves of their horses, slowing their pace to a crawl. He had time to think, which was the worst punishment of all.

He had not told Margarethe where he was going. He had left her in Vienna, in the drafty house near the Stephansdom that Rudolf had granted them as a provisional holding. She had stood in the doorway as he mounted, her face unreadable, her hands folded in the precise, measured way she had when she was hiding something. She had not asked him to stay. She had not wished him well. She had only said, “The Bohemian will offer you a better price than your uncle.”

He had laughed, but the laugh had died in his throat when he saw her eyes. They were the colour of river ice, and just as hard.

Now, as the walls of Krems rose against the pale sky, Konrad forced the memory aside. He had a part to play. He had always had a part to play.

The town was a trading hub, a knot of warehouses and taverns where the Danube trade paused before the final push to Vienna. Ottokar had chosen it for its neutrality, or perhaps for its proximity to the border—a reminder that the Bohemian king could reach into Habsburg lands whenever he chose. Konrad dismounted in the courtyard of the inn, his boots sinking into the churned mud, and nodded to the steward who came to meet him.

“Sir Konrad von Eppenstein,” the steward said, a thin man with a clerk’s stoop and a weasel’s smile. “His Majesty the King of Bohemia awaits you in the upper chamber. He asks that you come alone.”

Konrad glanced at his men. “See to the horses.”

He climbed the narrow stairs, his hand resting lightly on the dagger at his belt. The door at the top was oak, banded with iron, and it swung open before he could knock. Inside, the room was warm, lit by a fire that crackled in a stone hearth. The air smelled of woodsmoke and spiced wine. And there, seated in a high-backed chair as if it were a throne, was Ottokar II of Bohemia.

The Golden Lion was not what Konrad had expected. He was a big man, yes, broad-shouldered and thick-necked, with the hands of a soldier who had swung a sword more often than he had signed a treaty. But his face was not the face of a tyrant. It was the face of a man who had once been handsome and was now merely tired, the lines around his eyes deep as riverbeds. His hair, grey-streaked, fell to his shoulders, and his beard was trimmed close in the Bohemian fashion. He wore a tunic of dark velvet, unadorned, and a simple gold chain at his throat.

“So,” Ottokar said, his voice a low rumble. “The serpent sends a cub.”

Konrad bowed, shallow and correct. “Your Majesty. I come with words, not fangs.”

Ottokar laughed, a short, bitter sound. “That is a lie, and we both know it. Sit.”

Konrad sat across from him, the fire between them. A servant poured wine, then vanished. For a long moment, the two men regarded each other in silence.

“Your uncle,” Ottokar said at last, “has taken my Austrian lands. He has taken my Styrian lands. He has taken everything I won with thirty years of blood and treaty, and he has done it with a piece of parchment and a crown that was never his to wear.” He swirled his wine, watching the ruby liquid catch the firelight. “Tell me, cub. Why should I not have you thrown from the window and tell Rudolf that his messenger fell while drunk?”

“Because,” Konrad said, “you need me.”

Ottokar’s eyebrows rose. “Bold. And why would I need a landless knight with a poet’s tongue?”

Konrad leaned forward. “Because my uncle is losing his grip. The electors crowned him because they feared you, not because they loved him. Every prince in the Empire watches him with hungry eyes, waiting for him to stumble. And he will stumble, Your Majesty. He is old. He is ill. His sons are bickering children who will tear his legacy apart the moment he dies.” He paused, letting the words settle. “But you do not have to wait for that. You can strike now, and I can tell you where.”

Ottokar set down his cup. His eyes, dark and unreadable, fixed on Konrad with the intensity of a hawk. “You would betray your own blood?”

“I would serve my own future,” Konrad said. “The Habsburgs have used me as a tool. A dagger to be drawn and discarded. I am tired of being a tool.”

The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Ottokar studied him for a long moment, then smiled—a slow, dangerous smile that did not reach his eyes. “You have nerve. I will grant you that. But nerve is cheap. What do you have that I can use?”

Konrad reached into his doublet and pulled out a folded parchment. He laid it on the table between them, his hand steady. “A letter from my uncle, sent to the Bishop of Passau, three weeks ago. In it, he outlines his plan to march on Prague before the summer. He names his marshals, his supply routes, and the date he intends to cross the border.”

Ottokar reached for the parchment, but Konrad’s hand shot out, pinning it to the table.

“I want something in return,” Konrad said.

“Name it.”

“The hand of Lady Margarethe von Stade, with her lands held in fief from the Crown of Bohemia, not the Empire. And a promise of protection for my own holdings, whatever they may be, once the Habsburgs are broken.”

Ottokar’s smile widened. “You are asking me to make you a lord in your own right. To free you from your uncle’s shadow.”

“Yes.”

“And you expect me to trust you?”

Konrad met his gaze. “No. I expect you to use me. And I expect to use you. That is how such bargains are made.”

For a long moment, Ottokar was silent. Then he laughed—a full, genuine laugh that filled the room. “By God, you are a snake among snakes.” He pushed the parchment aside and stood, walking to the window. The Danube glinted below, grey and cold. “I will consider your terms. But know this, Konrad von Eppenstein. If you play me false, I will not kill you. I will send you back to your uncle with your hands cut off and a confession written in your own blood. The Bohemians have long memories.”

Konrad stood, his heart hammering against his ribs. “I would expect nothing less.”

Ottokar turned from the window. “Go. Return to Vienna. Tell your uncle that I am building my army at Olomouc, and that I will meet him on the field by autumn. Let him believe he has the advantage.”

Konrad bowed again. “And the marriage?”

“I will send word.” Ottokar’s voice was flat, final. “Do not presume to press me.”

Konrad left the room without another word. He descended the stairs, his legs unsteady, and stepped out into the cold air. His men were waiting, their faces expectant.

“We ride for Vienna,” he said.

But as he mounted, he saw it—a flash of grey in the shadow of the stable, a figure watching him. A woman’s silhouette, familiar in its stillness. Before he could look closer, she was gone, swallowed by the gloom.

He had not told Margarethe where he was going. But she had followed him anyway.

And he had no idea which side she was on.