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.
It still drew blood for the blood-oath like new steel did. 'Blood for blood. Clan for clan.' Erik renewed the oath calmly.
After binding their wounds himself, Charles Fredrik took Erik by the elbow and led him across to a window. The window was a mere arrow-slit, testimony to the palace's ancient origins. Against modern cannon, such fortifications were almost useless. But . . . there was a certain undeniable, massive dignity to the huge edifice.
There they stood, silent for some time, looking out at the scattered shawl of lights which was the great sleeping city of Mainz. Erik was quite sure that those lights represented more people than lived in all Iceland. Their lives, and those of many more, rested in the hands of the old man standing next to him.
The Emperor seemed to have read his thoughts. 'It is a great load, at times,' he said softly.
His heavy jaws tightened. The next words were spoken almost harshly. 'I have called for the Clann Harald because my heirs have need. My son is . . . very sickly. And I do not expect my only surviving brother to outlive me. Not with his wounds. So I must take special care to watch over my two nephews, for it is quite likely that one of them will succeed to the throne after I am gone.'
The Emperor sighed. 'Your older brother Olaf watched over my nephew Conrad for his bond-time, as your father Hakkon watched over me.' A slight smile came to his face. 'To my surprise, I find I miss him. He used to beat me, you know.'
'He has told me about it, Godar of the Hohenstauffen.' Erik did not add: Often.
Charles Fredrik's smile broadened. 'According to your brother Olaf--'often.' ' He chuckled. 'It did me the world of good, I eventually came to realize. Nobody had dared punish me before that. Do you know that your family are the only people in the world who don't call me 'Emperor,' or 'Your Imperial Highness?' I think it is why we trust you.'
'Our loyalty is to the Godar of the Hohenstauffen. Not to the Empire.' That too his father had said. Often.
'You must sit and tell me the news of them once I have given you your task. I warn you, it will be a more onerous chore than Olaf's. Manfred, my younger nephew, reminds me of myself at that age. You will have to--as your father did with me--serve as confrere in the monastic order of the Knights of the Holy Trinity. Of course--as then--your identity and purpose must remain secret. Manfred's also.'
Erik nodded. 'My father has told me about the Knights.'
The Emperor's eyes narrowed. 'Yes. But things have changed, Hakkonsen. It is one of the things that worries me. The Knights have always been--nominally, at least--independent of the Empire. Servants of God, not of any earthly power. In practice they have served as the Empire's bulwarks to the North and East. In your father's day the nobility from all the corners of the Holy Roman Empire came to serve as the Knights of Christ, in the pious war against the pagan. And many brave souls came from the League of Armagh, not just the handful of Icelanders sworn by clan loyalty to the service of the Emperor.'
Erik nodded again. 'My grandfather says that in his day, Aquitaines made up as many as a quarter of the order's ranks.'
The Emperor clenched his fist, slowly. 'Exactly. Today, no knight from that realm would dream of wearing the famous tabard of the Knights of the Holy Trinity. Once the brotherhood Knights were truly the binding threads in the cloak of Christianity. Today . . . the Knights of the Holy Trinity come almost entirely from the Holy Roman Empire. Not even that. Only from some of its provinces. They're Prussians and Saxons, in the main, with a small sprinkling of Swabians. A few others.'
He paused. Then he looked Erik in the eyes. 'They're beginning to take an interest in politics. Far too much for my liking. And they're also--I like this even less--getting too close to the Servants of the Holy Trinity. Damn bunch of religious fanatics, that lot of monks.'
Charles Fredrik snorted. 'All of it, mind you, supposedly in my interests. Some of them probably even believe it. But I have no desire to get embroiled in the endless squabbling of Italian city-states, much less a feud with the Petrine branch of the church. The Grand Duke of Lithuania and King Emeric of Hungary give me quite enough to worry about, leaving aside the outright pagans of Norseland and Russia.'
Again, he sighed. 'And they're not a binding force any more. Today, the common people call the church's arm militant 'The Knots,' more often than not. And, what's worse, the Knights themselves seem to relish the term.'
'The Clann Harald do not mix in Empire politics,' stated Erik firmly. His father had warned him that this might happen.
