Chapter 2: In the King’s Service

The first day on the road filled Johannes with a rush of excitement he had never felt before. The land unfolding before them still belonged to the Bishopric of Trier—familiar country with familiar risks. He knew these roads well. As a boy, he had ridden them at his father’s side, and later as a squire, learning the weight of armor and responsibility.

Now he rode in service to Frederick I, Holy Roman Emperor, heading toward Rome with the weight of his new station settling heavily upon him. The familiarity of the terrain did little to ease the tension tightening in his gut. Tomorrow would be better, he told himself. Tomorrow, they would leave Trier’s borders behind, and the eyes that might still remember him.

After the evening meal, Johannes climbed the steps to the castle ramparts, where the men-at-arms kept their steady patrols. He crossed to the western wall overlooking the Saar River. From up here, the water looked calm, but he knew better than to trust calm things. They had a habit of changing without warning.

Below him, the village nestled between the hill and the Saar River, lanterns flickering to life one by one like the first stars of evening. Johannes watched the villagers make their way home after long hours in the fields and vineyards. Their lives followed a predictable rhythm: work, eat, sleep, then rise again at the sound of the morning bell. A simple rhythm. A safe one.

He found himself envying them.

But he also knew that routines could shatter in an instant and that tomorrow’s sunrise promised nothing.

The thought struck Johannes with surprising force: how close he had come to a life that was never meant to be his. If fate had nudged him even an inch in the wrong direction, he would not be here at all. He would be shut away in a monastery, buried beneath endless hours of labor, silence, and prayer—a life measured by bells instead of choices.

He felt a chill work its way up his spine. The king had personally pulled him from that path, and Johannes would never forget it. Gratitude did not even begin to cover what he owed Frederick I, the soon-to-be Holy Roman Emperor.

When his shift came, he took his place outside the king’s chambers, planting his boots beside the heavy wooden door. Torchlight cast long shadows across the stone corridor, the shadows that moved when he did not. Johannes kept one hand near his sword. He had no doubt about his purpose: if danger came, he would meet it head-on and die before he allowed it to reach the king.

The hours dragged into the early morning—cold and silent—until another guard arrived to relieve him. Johannes stepped away from his post, his limbs stiff, though his resolve remained as sharp as ever.

When Johannes was finally relieved from his post, exhaustion gripped him, as though his arms and legs were encased in lead. He made his way to the small room he shared with the other royal guards, knowing he would have only a few hours’ sleep. King Frederick wanted an early departure, and no one in the escort questioned that—not if they valued their position or their life.

They left Saarburg Castle just after sunrise. The air was cold enough to bite, and the early light cast long shadows across the road ahead. Johannes knew this stretch well. He had ridden it countless times with his father, long before duty and oath had given his life a new direction.

They were heading east, toward ground that felt more like home than any other place on their journey. Once they reached Merzig, the land would no longer belong to the Bishopric of Trier. Instead, they would enter the lands of Count Simon—his father’s lord—a man under whose banner Johannes had once dreamed of serving.

The moment they crossed that unseen border, the pressure in his chest eased. The fear of the abbot sending someone after him—subtly, quietly—faded like mist in the morning sun. Here, at last, he could breathe beyond Trier’s reach.

Or at least, he told himself that. On a road to Rome, with a king to protect, safety wasn’t assured; it could be shattered around the next bend. An assassin’s arrow would mean failure.

It didn’t take long for Johannes to realize he wasn’t the only one breathing easier. The other knights rode with straighter backs and lighter shoulders, their earlier tension melting into relaxed chatter. Even their banter with Frederick I, the newly elected Holy Roman Emperor, took on a more playful tone. There was good-natured teasing among them, though each still maintained an awareness of their surroundings just beneath the surface.

More than once, someone broke into song—off-key, rowdy, but welcome. It filled the gaps between hoofbeats and helped keep their minds sharp as they scanned the road and tree lines for trouble. Every now and then, a different knight nudged his horse ahead to ride point, eyes sweeping the terrain for threats that might not stay hidden for long.

By the time they reached Merzig, hunger gnawed at all of them. The castle’s steward greeted the king’s party warmly and provided a late meal that tasted even better for being unexpected.

Ritter Frederick Franke, the man charged with guarding the region, was nowhere in sight. He was away, trying to calm a dispute between local farmers and those from the lands of the Lord of Luxembourg—two groups ready to spill blood over newly cleared fields they each claimed as their own.

Johannes listened to the explanation and felt the old reminder settle in: even peaceful lands could turn volatile without warning, and trouble, in his experience, rarely stayed contained for long.

The king’s party didn’t linger in Merzig. They stayed just long enough to eat and let the horses rest. The meal was simple but filling, and the mood remained relaxed until Johannes spotted something that put him instantly on alert.