Prologue
April, 1537 A.D.
MAINZ
The yellow lantern-lights of Mainz’s dockside inns reached out across the dark Rhine. Standing on the prow of the riverboat, Erik Hakkonsen stared at them, thinking of little more than food and a bed. He’d left his home in Iceland three weeks earlier, to answer the Emperor’s summons. They’d had a stormy crossing. Then the late spring thaw had ensured that the roads of the Holy Roman Empire were fetlock deep in glutinous mud. And, finally, the river had been full and the rain steady. Tomorrow he would have to go to the Imperial palace, and find out how to seek an interview with Emperor Charles Fredrik.
But tonight he could sleep.
The riverboat nudged into the quay. A wet figure stepped out from under the eaves of the inn. “Is there one Erik Hakkonsen on this vessel?” he demanded, half-angrily. The rain hadn’t been kind to the skinny courtier’s bright cloak. The satin clung to him, and he was shivering.
Erik pushed back his oilskin-hood. “I’m Hakkonsen.”
“Thank God for that! I’m soaked to the skin. I’ve been here for hours,” complained the man. “Come. I’ve got horses in the stable. The Emperor awaits you.”
Erik made no move. “Who are you?”
The fellow shivered. “Baron Trolliger. The Emperor’s privy secretary.” He held out his hand to show a heavy signet. It was incised with the Roman Eagle.
That was not a seal anyone would dare to forge. Erik nodded. “I’ll get my kit.”
The shivering baron shook his head. “Leave it.” He pointed to the sailor who had paused in his mooring to stare. “You. Watch over this man’s gear. Someone will be sent for it.”
As much as anything else, the alacrity with which the sailor obeyed the order drove home the truth to Erik. He was in the heart of the Holy Roman Empire, for a certainty. In his native Iceland—or Vinland, or anywhere else in the League of Armagh—that peremptory order would have been ignored, if not met with outright profanity.
“Come,” the baron repeated. “The Emperor is waiting.”
* * *
Passing from the narrow dark streets and sharp-angled tall houses into the brightness of the imperial palace, Erik had little time to marvel and gawk at the heavy gothic splendor of it all. Instead, Baron Trolliger rushed him through—still trailing mud—into a large austere room. As soon as Erik entered, the baron closed the door behind him, not entering himself.
In the center of the room, staring at Erik, stood the most powerful man in all of Europe. He was a large man, though now a bit stooped from age. His eyebrows seemed as thick and heavy as the purple cloak he was wearing; his eyes, a shade of blue so dark they almost matched the cloak.
Charles Fredrik. The latest in a long line of Hohenstauffens.
Guardian of the Church, Bulwark of the Faith. Lord of lands from northern Italy to the pagan marches in the Baltic. Ruler over millions of people throughout central Europe.
The Holy Roman Emperor, himself. In direct line of descent from the great Fredrick Barbarossa.
All of that mattered little to Erik. His tie to the Emperor was a clan tie, not a dynastic one. He was there to become the Emperor’s servant, not his subject. So, Erik simply bowed to the old man, rather than kneeling, and spoke no words of fealty. Simply the old oath: “Linn gu linn.”
The words were Gaelic, but the oath that bound him came from the cold fjells of pagan Norway. An oath that went back generations, to the time when a Hohenstauffen prince had rescued a pagan clan from demons set loose by their own foolishness.
Charles Fredrik spoke like an old man—despite being no older than Erik’s father. But he voiced the ritual words strongly. “From generation to generation.”
He held out the dagger that Erik had heard described with infinite care all his life. The dagger was iron. Old iron. Sky iron. Hammered with stone in the pagan Northlands, from a fallen thunderbolt. The hilt was shaped into a dragon head—the detail lost in the blurring of hundreds of years of use.