Archbishop Hincmar hurried toward the King’s work chamber as quickly as his painful toe would allow, clutching the letter from Pope Nicholas in his hand. King Charles would not be pleased about this, and with the recent attacks of the Northmen, he did not look forward to sharing this intelligence. As he reached the familiar door, the two guards posted on either side waved him in. A frequent visitor to the king’s work chamber, Hincmar required no introduction. As he entered, he felt a growing warmth under his stiff vestments. The blazing fire in the hearth set against the day’s autumn chill only added to his discomfort. King Charles II, grandson of Charlemagne, sat at a document-strewn table in one corner of the room studying a large map. He was not an imposing man, with his average height and thin build, but wore his power like his expensive clothing. One did not want to get on the wrong side of King Charles. From the expression on the king’s face as he looked to see who entered his chamber, Hincmar could tell he was in a foul mood. A thin-lipped frown set his unusually heavy jowls. Perhaps a trick of the lighting, but the dark circles under his eyes seemed deeper and his complexion more sallow than just the week before. Long, russet hair hung over his silken tunic, precious stones woven within and sparkling in the firelight. “These Northmen raids grow worse each passing day,” Charles said, seemingly more to himself than to Hincmar. “Sire,” Hincmar began, “I have a letter from Rome.” “If you inform me of another betrayal by one of my offspring,” Charles said slowly, looking up, “I shall ensure you fight at the front of the shield wall at the next Northman assault.” Hincmar rubbed a nervous hand over his stubble-filled chin but continued forward. This offhand threat, though intended to be a sardonic form of jest, was a penalty not unknown to the king. While the letter from the pope did not bring intelligence of another child’s betrayal, it did concern the subject. Hincmar felt certain his worth to the king continued to outweigh any wrath his highness might aim toward the messenger. He pressed on with as much false confidence as he could muster. “No, Sire. No additional children marrying without permission.” Hincmar stopped in front of the table. King Charles continued to stare at the map. “First, Judith runs off with a common soldier, then Louis marries a Neustrian harlot, and then young Charles marries the widow of a failed count, all without the asking for or receiving of permission. It is if they conspire together to dishonor me purposely.” Hincmar could feel sweat forming under his arms and at the small of his back. “This letter concerns Judith.” Charles looked up again, this time fixing his narrowed eyes on Hincmar. The king knew him well, but now he studied his archbishop as if for the first time. His eyes moved from the tonsure of the clergy at the top of his head, to the vestments he wore, then to the bishop’s eyes where he held an assassin’s stare. “From the lack of color on your face, I am certain she is not willingly returning to Verberie.” “No, Sire. Pope Nicholas has ordered the excommunication of Judith and Baldwin withdrawn. Additionally, he compels you to recognize their marriage with all the honor and privileges due the daughter of a king.” He held the document out for King Charles to look at, but with a lazy gesture of his hand, he waved it away. In contrast to the tirade Hincmar expected, King Charles remained calm, seeming to accept the ruling. Hincmar had seen this before, knowing the calm on the surface was temporary until the rage inside made its presence known. “All the honor and privileges due the daughter of a king,” Charles repeated softly, as his eyes focused on a section of the wall in front of him. “I do not know how he has swayed the pope, but there may be more to this Baldwin than just a simple soldier.” Hincmar waited, unsure if he should make his exit or stand silently until the king finished his thoughts. Charles’ brown eyes, fixing again onto Hincmar’s, answered the question for him. “Pray, Hincmar, you served in my father’s court and have served me well for nearly these two decades now. What would the Archbishop of Reims suggest be a fitting honor for a traitorous daughter?” A sudden thought struck Hincmar, inspired by the king’s threat of putting him at the front of the shield wall in the next Northman attack. He stepped closer to the king and pointed to the map before him. “May I, Sire?” “Of course,” Charles said with an uncharacteristic curiosity in his voice. He rotated it so Hincmar’s view was right-side up. Hincmar studied the lines and words with which he was already familiar. As a member of the clergy and among the few able to read, he had aided the mapmakers on occasion. This was a detailed map of Charlemagne’s vast kingdom after being cleft into three sections and divided among Charlemagne’s grandsons by the Treaty of Verdun. Charles’ kingdom of West Francia contained everything west of the Rhône and north of the land of the Moors. His half brother Louis received East Francia, containing all the lands east of the Rhine to the unconquered lands of the Sorbs, and north and east of Italy. His half brother, Lothair, controlled the narrow strip between the two rivers, from Friesland in the north to the Italian peninsula in the south. Some borders and placenames had changed in the two decades since the treaty, but Hincmar knew this map was not out for the purpose of demarcating the land. He focused on King Charles’ regnum and the supplementary markings on the map that recorded Northman attacks. The county of Flanders sat at the far northern edge of West Francia, on the border with Lothair’s land and slightly south of Frisia, a benefice granted to the converted Northman Roric. The markings representing the Northman attacks were plentiful up and down the coastline, but particularly heavy here. “Flanders needs a count, does it not? This county looks perfect for one so adept at fighting.” “Flanders is a march on the edge of my regnum, and as such, requires a margrave, not a count,” the king said offhandedly, then he paused. His brows knitted slightly as the hinted logic of Hincmar’s suggestion became apparent. “Yes, the county of Flanders has seen its fair share of the heathen. Making Baldwin margrave there may allow the problem to resolve itself naturally, leading Judith to scurry back home.” “Indeed, Sire.” “Hincmar,” Charles said, giving the archbishop his full attention and almost a smile. “That is a brilliant suggestion.” “Thank you, Sire. But what of Gerald of Orleans, whom you have as much as promised Flanders?” Charles made a shrugging gesture with one shoulder. “What of Gerald? I shall keep him in court until I need him. Or better yet, I shall make him Viscount of Flanders so he can keep me informed of the happenings there.” Hincmar gave a sly smile. “A wise choice, Sire.” “Prepare the documents and send them off immediately.” “Of course, Sire.” Hincmar turned and hurried toward the door to leave the excessively warm room, surprised and rather pleased at how the encounter had turned out.

Chapter 1 Archbishop Hincmar hurried toward the King’s work chamber as quickly as his painful toe would allow, clutching the letter from Pope Nicholas in his hand. King Charles would not be pleased about this, and with the recent attacks of the Northmen, he did not look forward to sharing this intelligence. As he reached the familiar door, the two guards posted on either side waved him in. A frequent visitor to the king’s work chamber, Hincmar required no introduction. As he entered, he felt a growing warmth under his stiff vestments. The blazing fire in the hearth set against the day’s autumn chill only added to his discomfort. King Charles II, grandson of Charlemagne, sat at a document-strewn table in one corner of the room studying a large map. He was not an imposing man, with his average height and thin build, but wore his power like his expensive clothing. One did not want to get on the wrong side of King Charles. From the expression on the king’s face as he looked to see who entered his chamber, Hincmar could tell he was in a foul mood. A thin-lipped frown set his unusually heavy jowls. Perhaps a trick of the lighting, but the dark circles under his eyes seemed deeper and his complexion more sallow than just the week before. Long, russet hair hung over his silken tunic, precious stones woven within and sparkling in the firelight. “These Northmen raids grow worse each passing day,” Charles said, seemingly more to himself than to Hincmar. “Sire,” Hincmar began, “I have a letter from Rome.” “If you inform me of another betrayal by one of my offspring,” Charles said slowly, looking up, “I shall ensure you fight at the front of the shield wall at the next Northman assault.” Hincmar rubbed a nervous hand over his stubble-filled chin but continued forward. This offhand threat, though intended to be a sardonic form of jest, was a penalty not unknown to the king. While the letter from the pope did not bring intelligence of another child’s betrayal, it did concern the subject. Hincmar felt certain his worth to the king continued to outweigh any wrath his highness might aim toward the messenger. He pressed on with as much false confidence as he could muster. “No, Sire. No additional children marrying without permission.” Hincmar stopped in front of the table. King Charles continued to stare at the map. “First, Judith runs off with a common soldier, then Louis marries a Neustrian harlot, and then young Charles marries the widow of a failed count, all without the asking for or receiving of permission. It is if they conspire together to dishonor me purposely.” Hincmar could feel sweat forming under his arms and at the small of his back. “This letter concerns Judith.” Charles looked up again, this time fixing his narrowed eyes on Hincmar. The king knew him well, but now he studied his archbishop as if for the first time. His eyes moved from the tonsure of the clergy at the top of his head, to the vestments he wore, then to the bishop’s eyes where he held an assassin’s stare. “From the lack of color on your face, I am certain she is not willingly returning to Verberie.” “No, Sire. Pope Nicholas has ordered the excommunication of Judith and Baldwin withdrawn. Additionally, he compels you to recognize their marriage with all the honor and privileges due the daughter of a king.” He held the document out for King Charles to look at, but with a lazy gesture of his hand, he waved it away. In contrast to the tirade Hincmar expected, King Charles remained calm, seeming to accept the ruling. Hincmar had seen this before, knowing the calm on the surface was temporary until the rage inside made its presence known. “All the honor and privileges due the daughter of a king,” Charles repeated softly, as his eyes focused on a section of the wall in front of him. “I do not know how he has swayed the pope, but there may be more to this Baldwin than just a simple soldier.” Hincmar waited, unsure if he should make his exit or stand silently until the king finished his thoughts. Charles’ brown eyes, fixing again onto Hincmar’s, answered the question for him. “Pray, Hincmar, you served in my father’s court and have served me well for nearly these two decades now. What would the Archbishop of Reims suggest be a fitting honor for a traitorous daughter?” A sudden thought struck Hincmar, inspired by the king’s threat of putting him at the front of the shield wall in the next Northman attack. He stepped closer to the king and pointed to the map before him. “May I, Sire?” “Of course,” Charles said with an uncharacteristic curiosity in his voice. He rotated it so Hincmar’s view was right-side up. Hincmar studied the lines and words with which he was already familiar. As a member of the clergy and among the few able to read, he had aided the mapmakers on occasion. This was a detailed map of Charlemagne’s vast kingdom after being cleft into three sections and divided among Charlemagne’s grandsons by the Treaty of Verdun. Charles’ kingdom of West Francia contained everything west of the Rhône and north of the land of the Moors. His half brother Louis received East Francia, containing all the lands east of the Rhine to the unconquered lands of the Sorbs, and north and east of Italy. His half brother, Lothair, controlled the narrow strip between the two rivers, from Friesland in the north to the Italian peninsula in the south. Some borders and placenames had changed in the two decades since the treaty, but Hincmar knew this map was not out for the purpose of demarcating the land. He focused on King Charles’ regnum and the supplementary markings on the map that recorded Northman attacks. The county of Flanders sat at the far northern edge of West Francia, on the border with Lothair’s land and slightly south of Frisia, a benefice granted to the converted Northman Roric. The markings representing the Northman attacks were plentiful up and down the coastline, but particularly heavy here. “Flanders needs a count, does it not? This county looks perfect for one so adept at fighting.” “Flanders is a march on the edge of my regnum, and as such, requires a margrave, not a count,” the king said offhandedly, then he paused. His brows knitted slightly as the hinted logic of Hincmar’s suggestion became apparent. “Yes, the county of Flanders has seen its fair share of the heathen. Making Baldwin margrave there may allow the problem to resolve itself naturally, leading Judith to scurry back home.” “Indeed, Sire.” “Hincmar,” Charles said, giving the archbishop his full attention and almost a smile. “That is a brilliant suggestion.” “Thank you, Sire. But what of Gerald of Orleans, whom you have as much as promised Flanders?” Charles made a shrugging gesture with one shoulder. “What of Gerald? I shall keep him in court until I need him. Or better yet, I shall make him Viscount of Flanders so he can keep me informed of the happenings there.” Hincmar gave a sly smile. “A wise choice, Sire.” “Prepare the documents and send them off immediately.” “Of course, Sire.” Hincmar turned and hurried toward the door to leave the excessively warm room, surprised and rather pleased at how the encounter had turned out.