Chapter 7: THE GREY CLOAK

The frost of Margarethe’s words followed Konrad through the corridors of the Augsburg residence, clinging to him like a second skin. He did not sleep. Instead, he sat by the embers of his fire, turning her question over and over in his mind like a polished stone. *Why does she follow you?*

He had first seen the woman in the grey cloak three weeks past, in the stables at Prague. A flash of wool between the stalls, a whisper of movement where no movement should have been. He had dismissed it as a trick of the lamplight, a groom’s shadow. But now, with Margarethe’s warning fresh in his ears, he could no longer afford such comfort.

By dawn, Konrad had made his decision. He would not wait for the figure to reveal herself. He would hunt her.

The morning broke grey and bitter over Augsburg, the sky the colour of old iron. Konrad pulled on his riding cloak and made his way to the Franciscan cloister at the city’s edge, where Brother Anselm kept his cell among the lime trees. The friar was already at his prayers when Konrad pushed open the door, and the sight of him—kneeling before a simple wooden cross, his tonsured head bowed—stirred something uncomfortable in Konrad’s chest.

“You have come early,” Anselm said without turning. “The sins of the night must be heavy indeed.”

“The sins of the night are not mine,” Konrad replied. “But the questions are.”

He told Anselm everything: the shadow in the Prague stables, Margarethe’s cryptic warning, the sense he could not shake that he was being watched by more than Ottokar’s spies. Anselm listened in silence, his hands folded in his lap, and when Konrad finished, the friar let out a long, slow breath.

“You speak of a woman who follows you,” Anselm said. “But you do not ask *why* she follows you. You ask only *who* she is. Is that not curious, Konrad?”

“I am a practical man.”

“No,” the friar said, rising to his feet. “You are a man who fears what he might learn. The woman in grey is not Ottokar’s creature. The Bohemian king does not hide in shadows; he roars. This is something else.” He moved to the window, looking out at the bare trees. “There is a woman in Augsburg. A widow of the cloth trade, known to the bishop’s household. She has been asking questions about the Habsburg retinue. About you, specifically.”

Konrad’s jaw tightened. “You know her name?”

“I know her story,” Anselm said. “Her name is Lady Hedwig von Ravensburg. Her husband was a merchant who dealt with the Přemyslid court. He died in Prague two years ago, under circumstances the Bohemians called an accident and his widow called murder. She has spent her fortune since then seeking the truth of it.”

“And what does she want with me?”

Anselm turned, and his eyes held a sorrow that Konrad had rarely seen in them. “She believes you were there, Konrad. In Prague, on the night her husband died.”

The words fell like stones into still water. Konrad stood frozen, the memory rising unbidden: a cold night in the Old Town, a merchant’s house near the Týn Church, a contract he had carried from Rudolf’s hand. The man had been a broker, one of several who had refused to support the Habsburg claim. He had been found dead two days later, his death attributed to a fall.

Konrad had not pushed him. He had only delivered the message.

“I did not kill him,” Konrad said quietly.

“That may be true,” Anselm said. “But the widow does not know that. And she is not the only one watching you.”

The friar stepped closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. “The king has sent for you. Rudolf arrived in Augsburg last night, ahead of his retinue. He wishes to speak with you before noon. He did not say why.”

Konrad felt the familiar cold settle in his stomach—the cold of a man who has walked into a room and realised, too late, that the trap has already closed. He nodded once, thanked the friar, and left without another word.

---

Rudolf of Habsburg had taken residence in the bishop’s palace, a fortress of red stone that loomed over the cathedral square. Konrad was admitted without delay, led through halls hung with tapestries of the Crusades, past guards who did not meet his eyes. The king was in a small solar overlooking the courtyard, seated before a fire that crackled and spat. He looked older than Konrad remembered, the lines on his face deeper, the hand that held his goblet trembling slightly.

“Nephew,” Rudolf said, gesturing to the chair opposite him. “You have been busy.”

“Your Majesty.”

“Do not ‘Your Majesty’ me,” the king said, his voice sharp. “You have been seen in the company of the von Stade widow. You have been asking questions about the Přemyslid court. And now I hear that a woman in grey has been following you through the streets of Augsburg, and that you have done nothing about it.”

Konrad said nothing. Rudolf leaned forward, and his eyes, pale and watery, fixed on Konrad with the intensity of a hawk.

“Ottokar is moving,” the king said. “He has raised an army in Bohemia, and he has sent envoys to the electors, offering gold and land in exchange for their votes. He means to challenge my election. He means to take the crown by force if necessary.”

“That is no surprise,” Konrad said. “Ottokar has never accepted your kingship. He calls you the ‘poor count of Habsburg.’”

“Let him call me what he will,” Rudolf said. “But he has also sent a woman to Augsburg. A widow named Hedwig von Ravensburg. She is here on his coin, and she is here for you.”

Konrad’s blood went cold. “The widow seeks justice for her husband.”

“The widow seeks *you*,” Rudolf said. “And I have decided to give you to her.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy as lead. Konrad stared at his uncle, and for the first time in his life, he saw not the patriarch who had lifted him from obscurity, but a man who would sacrifice anyone to secure his dynasty.

“You would hand me to Ottokar’s creature?” Konrad asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“I would use Ottokar’s creature to my own end,” Rudolf said. “The widow has access to the Bohemian court. She can carry messages, observe, report. She wants revenge against the man she believes killed her husband. We will give her a different target. We will make her understand that Ottokar’s hand was behind her husband’s death, and that the Habsburgs are her only path to justice.”

Konrad sat in silence, the firelight dancing across his face. He had thought himself the serpent’s fang, but he saw now that he was merely a scale on its belly, worn and expendable.

“And if I refuse?” he asked.

Rudolf smiled, and it was a terrible thing to see. “Then I will tell the widow the truth of her husband’s death. And I will tell her who carried the message that sealed his fate.”

The king rose, and Konrad rose with him, his legs unsteady.

“You will meet her this evening,” Rudolf said. “You will convince her that you are her ally. And you will do it because if you do not, the Habsburg name will be the least of your concerns.”

Rudolf moved past him toward the door, then paused, his hand on the latch.

“You are my fang, Konrad,” he said. “But fangs can be pulled.”

The door closed, and Konrad stood alone in the firelight, the weight of his uncle’s words settling into his bones like frost.

He had not told Rudolf about Margarethe’s warning.

But the king had known about the woman in grey.

And for the first time, Konrad von Eppenstein understood that the serpent he served had not one head—but two.