# Chapter 4: The Servant in Swabia

  The great hall of Gundelfingen Keep lay silent in the hour before dawn. Stone pillars vanished into shadow, and a single candle burned on the high table, its flame flickering as cold air crept through the cracks in the walls. Duke Henry X the Proud stood over a map of Swabia, red ink marking troop routes, garrisons, and supply lines.

  Sir Herold Tarly Glint stood opposite him, arms folded, still dressed in the plain green tunic he had slept in. The Sword Cavalry had returned only days earlier. The border was tense. Too tense.

  Henry straightened slowly.

  Duke Henry:

  Sit, Herold.

  Herold pulled out the chair and sat. Henry slid a sealed parchment across the table, keeping his fingers on it for a moment.

  Duke Henry:

  I need intelligence. Real intelligence. Not tavern talk, not rumors whispered by drunk merchants. The Hohenstaufen brothers are moving. Frederick. Conrad. I want to know how many men they have, where they’re gathering, and who’s paying for it.

  Herold frowned slightly.

  Sir Herold:

  You’re asking me to spy.

  Duke Henry:

  No. I’m asking you to listen. There’s a difference.

  Sir Herold:

  With respect, Your Grace… I’m no shadow-creature. My blade is for open battle, not corridors and whispers.

  Henry exhaled, almost amused.

  Duke Henry:

  If I wanted someone to slit throats, I wouldn’t be sending you. You’re going to gather information. Nothing more.

  He released the parchment.

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  Duke Henry:

  I already have someone inside Swabia. Lady Rose Hawkthorn.

  Herold stiffened.

  Sir Herold:

  A Hawkthorn? Quarren Hawkthorn swore himself to the Hohenstaufens years ago. His own sister can’t be trusted.

  Duke Henry:

  She can. Because she hates him. Quarren arranged her betrothal to Quintin Wettin to gain favor with Conrad I of Meissen and Frederick. Sold their father’s lands for influence. Rose came to me on her own. I didn’t recruit her.

  Sir Herold:

  And now she’s gone silent.

  Duke Henry:

  Four months. No ravens. No coded letters. I don’t know why.

  Sir Herold:

  That’s dangerous.

  Duke Henry:

  That’s why you’re going. Find out what happened. If she’s alive. If she’s still loyal. And bring back whatever she’s gathered.

  Herold glanced down at the map, at the circled stronghold in Swabia.

  Sir Herold:

  What exactly do you want?

  Duke Henry:

  Weapon shipments. Mercenary payments. Muster rolls. Anything that tells me how close they are to war. And Herold… avoid blood if you can.

  A pause.

  Sir Herold:

  When?

  Duke Henry:

  Three days.

  Herold nodded once.

  Sir Herold:

  I’ll go.

  ---

  The cart left Gundelfingen before sunrise, rolling quietly through the side gate. No banners. No escort. Just a farmer’s wagon piled with turnips and straw. Beneath it, Herold lay still, hood pulled low, a dagger hidden at his belt. His sword, Clarus, lay wrapped in oilcloth at the bottom of the cart.

  The road was slow and miserable. They avoided main routes, skirted villages, passed fields where peasants stared with suspicion. Once, a Swabian patrol stopped them. Spears prodded the straw while the driver complained loudly about poor harvests and hungry children.

  Herold didn’t breathe until the patrol left.

  On the third morning, the cart halted near a line of trees. Beyond them, Frederick II’s keep rose from a low hill, surrounded by palisades and watchtowers.

  Driver:

  This is as far as I go.

  Herold slipped out, adjusted his hood, and walked the remaining distance alone.

  At dusk, he approached the servants’ gate carrying a basket of firewood. Two guards blocked his path.

  Guard 1:

  Name.

  Guard 2:

  Business.

  Sir Herold:

  Kitchen hand. From the village. Cook needed help. Feast tomorrow.

  Guard 2:

  Papers.

  Herold handed over the forged parchment. The guard glanced at it, grunted, and waved him through.

  Inside, the courtyard buzzed with servants. Maids carried linens. Cooks shouted orders. Grooms led horses through the mud. Herold blended in, moving toward the kitchens.

  Then a calm voice spoke from the shadows.

  Rose:

  You’re late.

  Herold turned.

  Lady Rose Hawkthorn stepped out from beneath an archway. She wore a fine gray gown, high-necked and modest, her dark hair pinned beneath a linen coif. Her green eyes studied him without hesitation.

  Sir Herold:

  Lady Rose. Duke Henry sent me.

  Rose:

  I know. Not here.

  She led him into a storeroom and closed the door.

  Rose:

  So. You’re Herold Glint. The Blade of Nobility.

  Sir Herold:

  I prefer my name.

  Rose:

  Henry speaks highly of you. He worries.

  Sir Herold:

  About your silence. Why no ravens?

  Rose:

  Conrad ordered them watched. Every bird flying west is shot down. Someone leaked their numbers months ago. I couldn’t risk it.

  Sir Herold:

  That explains four months of nothing.

  Rose:

  Four months of patience. Now listen. Frederick’s private study. Second floor. East wing. Locked. Guarded. The ledgers are inside.

  Sir Herold:

  Why not you?

  Rose:

  They watch me. Every step. You’re new. Invisible.

  Sir Herold:

  Henry feared you’d turned.

  Rose:

  I’d sooner poison my brother than betray Henry. Quarren sold our family lands and name for favor. I’m here for revenge.

  Herold studied her, then nodded.

  Sir Herold:

  I’ll do it.

  Rose handed him a kitchen tunic and apron.

  Rose:

  Blend in. Feast tonight. Guards will be distracted. Move after midnight.

  Sir Herold:

  And if I’m caught?

  Rose:

  You won’t be.

  Herold took the bundle and headed toward the kitchens.

  : To be Continued