Chapter 101: Cardinal Morone
Konrad didn’t bother letting his anxiety spiral out of control.
As Katarina’s dress disappeared through the doors, Konrad simply shifted his gaze slightly to the left.
The shadow-walker who had just poured his spiced wine was still lingering near the edge of the high table, blending in with the other busy servants.
Konrad gave the spy a nod.
"Go with her," Konrad murmured, "Act as her lantern-bearer. When you reach the edge of the eastern pines, step forward and tell Klaus ’The iron cools in the west.’ He knows the phrase. It will prove to that paranoid bastard that she carries my authority."
The spy merely offered a respectful bow, grabbed a simple iron lantern from a nearby wall hook, and smoothly melted into the crowd, following the future Duchess out into the Swabian night.
Thus, the final loose thread was secured.
Konrad settled back into his chair, a sudden wave of confidence washing over his tired bones.
He took a long drink from his silver goblet.
He had actually done it... Against all the holy odds, he had cracked the Savoyard border and completely crushed Friedrich’s massive ambush!
Though the war was far from over, the immediate, existential threat to his valley was bleeding out in the mud of a foreign Duchy.
But his mind was already moving three steps ahead of the victory.
The news of Marshal Eckhard slaughtering seven thousand Bohemians was massive.
It was a complete earthquake that would shake the very foundations of the Holy Roman Empire.
In the year 1526, news traveled at the speed of a galloping horse or a fleeing coward.
Fleeing mercenaries, panicked merchants, and frantic border lords would inevitably spread the bloody tale of the Gatling carts across the trade routes.
It might take three days, or it might just take a few hours before a screaming courier rode into this very courtyard.
He needed to secure the political board before that inevitable explosion happened. He needed to know exactly who was sitting in his Great Hall.
He slowly turned his dark, predatory eyes toward the fat, sweaty papal envoy.
Bishop Tomas was currently chewing vigorously on a piece of roasted venison, laughing heartily at a terrible hunting story Duke Wilhelm had just finished telling.
Even so, the Bishop’s watery eyes were constantly darting around the Great Hall, quietly taking mental notes of the Swabian guards, the exits, and the overall mood of the local lords.
Konrad wanted to know exactly what kind of rat he was dealing with.
Was this fat man just a normal, low-level clerk sent to write tedious reports about the wedding?
Or was he a big spy, a true Vatican operative who actually held the ear of the high Cardinals?
Konrad set his silver goblet down on the table.
"Tell me, Bishop Tomas," Konrad began, "How much exactly does the Vatican pay you to spy on my household?"
After hearing such words, the high table seemed to freeze in time.
The bluntness of the question was utterly unheard of in noble society.
You didn’t just casually accuse a man carrying the Pope’s personal banner of being a spy in the middle of a wedding feast.
Duke Wilhelm choked on his wine, hacking and coughing into his rich velvet sleeve, his eyes bulging out of his head.
Bishop Tomas dropped his roasted venison right onto his silver platter.
His fat face turned a deep, offended shade of purple, his jowls shaking with genuine shock.
"V-Viscount!" the Bishop sputtered, "What kind of outrageous, utterly insulting accusation is this?! I am a holy servant of the Mother Church! I am here to bless your union before the eyes of God!"
"You are a man who counts things, Tomas," Konrad corrected him, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the wood.
"You count my guards. You count the silver plates. You count the amount of grain my servants carry from the cellars. You have been quietly poking your fat nose into my armories since the moment your carriage rolled through my front gates."
"Lord Konrad, please!" Duke Wilhelm finally wheezed, wiping his beard. "The Bishop is an honored guest of Bavaria! This is inappropriate for a feast!"
"Shut up, Wilhelm, this doesn’t concern you," Konrad snapped.
The six Swiss guards standing near the hearth shifted nervously, their hands drifting toward the handles of their halberds, but a dozen heavily armored Swabian Reiters immediately stepped out from the shadows of the hall, their hands resting clearly on their wheellock pistols.
The tension in the room skyrocketed.
"I am just trying to understand your absolute value, Tomas," Konrad continued, "Are you a minor clerk who just listens at keyholes and reports back to some miserable, illiterate abbot in Bavaria? Or are you sitting at the big table? Do you report directly to Cardinal Morone?"
The Bishop swallowed hard.
He tried to puff out his chest and rely on his crimson robes, but it felt entirely useless against the Viscount’s absolute certainty.
"I... I serve the Holy Father," Tomas stammered, "I simply observe the state of the Empire! It is my duty to ensure the flock is not straying into heresy!"
"Damnit, Tomas, don’t give me poetry," Konrad sighed, looking genuinely bored by the predictable lie.
"I am asking you a direct question. When the news of my recent actions finally reaches this keep are you the kind of man who has the actual authority to negotiate a treaty? Or are you just a pathetic messenger boy I can throw into the deep dungeon without Rome even caring?"
Duke Wilhelm stared at Konrad in horror.
The Duke finally realized that the Swabian Viscount hadn’t been planning a wedding for the last week.
He had been planning a war, and the Duke of Bavaria was sitting right in the middle of ground zero.
Bishop Tomas was trembling now.
He opened his mouth, trying to formulate a holy excuse that would save his own skin.
But before the fat clerk could speak a single word, someone burst through the side doors of the Great Hall.
It was Isolde.
She rushed forward. She completely ignored the Duke of Bavaria, she ignored the papal envoy, and she ignored the strict rules of the feast.
She ran directly to the high table and leaned down next to Konrad.
Her pale face was stricken with terror that Konrad had never, ever seen on his spymaster before. Her hands were shaking.
"Konrad..." Isolde whispered, her voice cracking.
Konrad instantly stood up from his chair, "What is it?" Konrad demanded, his voice tight with sudden dread. "Is it Katarina? Did Klaus shoot her?"
Isolde grabbed the sleeve of his velvet doublet, her grip strong.
"No... it isn’t the forest..." Isolde choked out, a single tear slipping down her cheek.
"It’s Albrecht... he is burning up, Konrad... the boy has a fever."
"Where is he?!" Konrad demanded.
"In the upper nursery..." Isolde choked out, her hands trembling. "The maids tried cold rags, but he is burning, Konrad... he is so hot."
Konrad didn’t waste a single fraction of a second. He turned on his heel and sprinted.
He didn’t excuse himself from the high table. He just pushed past the chairs, his velvet doublet catching the wind of his own violent momentum.
Isolde ran right behind him, abandoning her role as the spymaster of Swabia.
"Wait! Viscount!" Duke Wilhelm yelled from the table, baffled by the sudden exit. "Where are you going?!"
Konrad ignored him. He shoved the doors of the Great Hall open so hard they slammed against the stone walls with a deafening crash, leaving the Bavarian guards and the Vatican spy sitting in silence.
Konrad took the winding stairs two at a time.
He could hear Isolde’s ragged breathing right behind him. She was a woman who ordered assassinations and managed a network of ruthless shadow-walkers, but right now, she was just a mother terrified of losing her only child.
Even so, Konrad tried to force his mind to take over.
It was a fever... In the year 1526, an infant fever was basically a death sentence.
The local physicians would suggest bleeding the child with leeches or balancing his ’humors’ with toxic herbs.
"Damn it..." Konrad hissed through his teeth as he reached the upper landing. "If a leech-monger is in that room, I will throw him out the window."
They tore the heavy door of the nursery off its iron hinges.
The room was warm, heated by a large stone hearth.
Three terrified maids were huddled near a lavish wooden crib, wringing out linen cloths in a basin of tepid water.
Standing next to them, clutching her rosary and whispering Latin prayers, was Mathilda, Konrad’s mother.
However, Konrad barely even registered the Dowager Baroness. His eyes locked onto the small bundle of blankets in the center of the crib.
He stepped forward.
Albrecht was so small. The infant’s face was flushed a bright red. His tiny chest was heaving with rapid shallow breaths. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and a weak frail whimper escaped his lips.
Konrad reached out, his hand touching the baby’s forehead.
It was like touching a hot iron stove...
A wave of profound sadness slammed into Konrad’s chest.
Isolde collapsed against the edge of the crib, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking.
"The Lord is testing him," Mathilda said sternly, stepping closer, though her own eyes were wide with fear.
"We must pray, Konrad. I have sent for the local physician to bring the bleeding bowls. We must purge the bad blood before it boils his brain."
"If you let a physician near my son with a knife, Mother, I will hang him from the battlements," Konrad snapped, "And you will stop praying for a miracle because I am going to fix this myself."
Mathilda gasped, clutching her rosary. "Heresy! You cannot fight the will of God, Konrad!"
Though the sadness was heavy, the knowledge in his brain began to rapidly sort through the math.
"Isolde," Konrad commanded, grabbing the spymaster by her shoulders and pulling her upright. "Look at me."
Isolde opened her tear-filled eyes, looking up at him with desperation. "Konrad... he is burning... we are going to lose him..."
"We are not losing him," Konrad stated, "But I need you to focus. I need you to be my spymaster right now."
She swallowed hard, nodding slowly. "What do you need?"
"I need ice," Konrad ordered rapidly. "Send your fastest shadow-walkers down to the deep root cellars. We packed the lowest vaults with winter ice blocks to preserve the venison. I want a bucket of it brought here immediately. Do not let anyone stop them."
Isolde didn’t ask questions. She simply wiped her tears, gave a nod, and sprinted out of the nursery.
Konrad turned to the maids. "You! Strip him! Take every single wool blanket off this crib right fucking now!"
"B-But My Lord!" a maid stammered, horrified. "The cold air will kill him! The physician says he must sweat the fever out!"
"Do it, or I will throw you in the dungeon!" Konrad roared.
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