The arrival at Esztergom was quiet, almost reverent. The storm that had followed them from Pozsony had broken two days before, leaving the world rinsed clean. The sun hung pale but steady in a washed-blue sky, the air damp and sharp from the river.

  The Slovak captain guided the boat to the dock, the ropes thrown and fastened to wet posts. His men worked quickly, their movements used to the routine. When Remy disembarked, boots thudding against the planks, the captain met him with a grin that was half fatigue, half relief.

  “Our deal’s done,” the man said, rubbing his calloused hands together. “Fair trade, my lord.”

  Remy handed over the remaining florins. “You’ve earned it,” he said. “Keep the river under you, not above.”

  The man laughed at that, teeth flashing, bowed clumsily, and went about shouting at his crew again.

  Remy turned to Jehan, who stood beside their mounts. Her hood was drawn against the sun’s glare, hair escaping in damp curls. His destrier stamped impatiently on the stones, muscles twitching beneath the saddlecloth. Jehan’s mare, smaller and gentler, flicked its tail and waited calmly.

  They mounted, the reins creaking, and set off into the heart of the city.

  The Várhegy, the Castle Hill, rose before them like a crown of stone. It dominated the city, a rocky bastion above the Danube, ringed by thick ramparts and watchtowers. From its summit, Esztergom ruled both river and plain.

  At its peak stood the Cathedral of Saint Adalbert. A Romanesque-Gothic hybrid, its rounded apses and tall, narrow windows bore the mark of centuries layered atop one another. Faded frescoes clung to its walls like ghosts, their colors muted by candle smoke and damp. The great bronze doors bore reliefs of saints and kings, Peter, Stephen, Adalbert, whose faces were worn smooth by pilgrims’ hands.

  Beside it rose the Archbishop’s Palace, not so grand as those of Florence or Avignon, but stately in its Hungarian modesty. It was a complex of courtyards and vaulted halls, with arched loggias overlooking the city. Murals of saints and angels filled the ceilings, and the scent of beeswax drifted through its cloisters.

  Guards stood at the gates in mail and fur, halberds crossed, while clerks hurried past with scrolls tucked under their arms. From the walls, one could see the Danube’s silver curve below, and the distant green of the Slovak hills stretching northward.

  Inside the fortress, the streets were narrow and echoing—stone-paved lanes between houses of canons and minor nobles. Small chapels dotted every turn, their bells chiming in uneven harmony. The dwellings bore coats of arms painted above the lintels, faded by weather but proud.

  Descending from the Várhegy, Remy and Jehan passed into the Szent Tamás Hill quarter, where the air softened with the smell of parchment and ink. This was the district of scholars and clerics, students in brown or black robes moving in pairs, their Latin debates spilling through open windows.

  Jehan’s gaze followed them curiously. “They remind me of Vienna,” she said quietly.

  “Vienna had its pomp,” Remy replied. “This place has purpose.”

  The buildings here were humbler, stone on the lower floors, timber above, with steep roofs and narrow arches. The lanes twisted around small courtyards where wells and herb gardens flourished. From one of the schools came the sound of a disputation, two young clerks arguing over the procession of the Holy Spirit, their words sharp as swords.

  Church bells rang the hour, answered by the bray of a mule and the chatter of tradesmen. The mingled sounds gave the city its own rhythm, a pulse of faith and trade, penance and commerce.

  Down the slope, the world changed. The Upper Town’s order gave way to the chaos of the port.

  The Lower Town hugged the riverbanks, a sprawl of noise, mud, and color. The docks were alive with motion, from sailors shouting in Hungarian, German, and Slovak as they loaded salt, furs, and casks of wine. Iron clanged against wood. Horses snorted in the chill. The smell of pitch and fish and smoke tangled together until the air itself felt heavy.

  Warehouses stood shoulder to shoulder with merchant houses, their upper floors jutting out above the narrow lanes. Inns spilled lamplight through open doors, laughter and quarrels tumbling out into the mud.

  “Alive, isn’t it?” Jehan murmured.

  “Alive,” Remy agreed, though his tone was more measured. “And half-rotten. But that’s what life looks like, most days.”

  They rode slowly through the market square near the Water Gate. Stalls crowded every inch of space, baskets of bread and onions, slabs of smoked fish, wheels of cheese, pots of honey, bolts of rough cloth dyed Venetian red or Kraków blue. Traders barked prices, beggars muttered prayers, and somewhere a minstrel played a cracked lute.

  The air was thick with woodsmoke and ale, horse dung and the damp breath of the river. It was a smell that clung to the skin, as real and persistent as the place itself.

  Beyond the walls, Franciscan and Dominican friaries marked the city’s outskirts. Their gardens were orderly, the soil dark and well-kept. Pilgrim hostels huddled near them, humble buildings with painted crosses over the doors. A few hospitals stood close by, staffed by sisters who moved through the courtyards like quiet wraiths in grey.

  Farther still were vineyards and watermills, their wheels turning slow in the river’s current. The hills were green with new growth, dotted with orchards and fields.

  Remy paused once atop a small rise, looking back at the city. He could see the pattern and the layers of fortification and faith. The castle above, the scholars in the middle, the traders and workers below. Each level feeding the other, bound by the same river that had carried them here.

  Jehan followed his gaze. “It looks peaceful,” she said.

  “It only looks that way,” Remy replied. “Every stone here knows war.”

  He could see it in the thickness of the walls, the vigilance of the watchmen. Esztergom had been rebuilt and reinforced many times. The Ottoman threat loomed ever closer from the south. Fortresses along the Danube were sharpening their teeth. Even now, masons worked along the lower ramparts, patching cracks, driving in fresh timber for the palisades.

  By sundown, the gates would close. Only those with writs could pass through after curfew. The guards already carried torches, their light glinting off steel.

  As evening fell, Esztergom transformed.

  The city glowed gold in the fading light, the cathedral’s dome burnished like a coin. Smoke rose in lazy threads from chimneys. From the taverns came the dull hum of men at drink, the ring of cups on wood.

  They found lodging near the upper quarter, a modest inn whose courtyard opened to the slope. The keeper bowed low when he saw Remy’s armor and offered a room with shutters that faced the river. Jehan saw to the horses, as always, murmuring to them in low tones that made them settle.

  Remy stood at the window after supper, watching the sun dip behind the hills. From here, the city looked like a fortress built upon layers of song and stone, walls stepping upward toward the cathedral, each terrace lit by torches.

  “Beautiful,” Jehan said softly beside him.

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  For a while, they said nothing. The bells from the cathedral began to toll, slow and solemn, calling the canons to the night offices. The sound rolled down the hills, mingling with the river’s murmur.

  Below, the watchmen’s calls echoed through the streets, marking the hour, warding the dark. The scent of woodfires drifted through the shutters, warm and faintly sweet.

  Remy leaned on the windowsill, watching torchlight flicker along the walls. “Strange,” he murmured, “how cities always feel alive, even when they sleep.”

  Jehan smiled faintly. “Because people pray,” she said. “Even when they rest, someone prays. That keeps the world awake.”

  He glanced at her, and for once, did not argue.

  After curfew, silence fell thick as velvet. The only sounds were distant, boots on cobblestone, the soft whisper of Latin from the cathedral hill.

  Remy unbuckled his sword belt, setting it by the bed. The metal gleamed faintly in the lamplight. He sat, staring at the wall, listening to the chant rise and fall beyond the window.

  Domine, labia mea aperies…

  The words carried across the river like breath.

  Jehan knelt near the door, whispering her own prayers. Her voice was low, steady, unbroken by doubt. Remy envied that sometimes, the certainty, the peace of knowing whom to address in the dark.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  He had lost that certainty long ago.

  When Jehan finished, she turned to him. “Tomorrow, what will you do?”

  “Find the merchants. And the archbishop’s clerk, if he’s still alive,” he said. “I need letters confirmed, seals renewed.”

  “Letters?”

  “Writs of passage,” he explained. “A Miles Christi must keep his papers in order. It’s what keeps me alive more than steel.”

  She nodded, though she clearly only half understood. “Do you think we’ll stay long?”

  “Long enough to rest. Not long enough to grow roots. But that may change when winter comes.”

  She smiled at that. “You always speak as if the road calls you by name.”

  He looked at her, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Maybe it does.”

  When the lamps were dimmed and the last chant faded into silence, Remy lay awake, staring at the ceiling’s shadowed beams. Outside, the wind carried faint traces of incense and river mist.

  Esztergom slept, but the fortress above glowed faintly, its chapel lamps burning red like watchful eyes.

  Morning light filtered through the shutters, pale and cold. The bells of Saint Adalbert’s had only just ceased when Remy rose, dressed, and prepared himself for an audience with the Archbishop.

  Jehan followed close behind, the leather of her boots creaking faintly. When questioned by attendants, he introduced her plainly as his squire. No one seemed to doubt it. Her short hair and quiet bearing made the title believable enough, and she carried herself with the subdued composure of one who had seen more of the world than she ought to at her age.

  The Archbishop’s palace stood beside the cathedral, built of pale stone and softened by age. Its vaulted corridors smelled faintly of wax, parchment, and incense. Candles flickered in sconces shaped like lilies. Servants passed quietly, their shoes wrapped in cloth to dull the echo of steps.

  Archbishop Pálóczi Gy?rgy received him in a high chamber whose windows overlooked the Danube. Sunlight streamed through colored glass, scattering muted reds and blues across the marble floor. He was a tall man, broad in the shoulders, robed in scarlet trimmed with fur. His beard was neat, his eyes a sharp gray, and his hands, resting upon the armrest of his chair, showed both age and discipline.

  Remy had learned of the man long before this meeting. Pálóczi had come from one of Hungary’s old noble families. A scholar who had studied at Kraków and Vienna, he’d once been Provost of Spi?, then Bishop of Erdély, before ascending to the Archbishopric of Esztergom in 1423. He had represented the intellectual class of the clergy, educated, pragmatic, and cautious. And in King Sigismund’s long absences, he had at times acted as regent of Hungary itself apparently.

  Remy had crossed paths, indirectly, with his influence before, guiding one of the Archbishop’s representatives during the Council of Basel years earlier.

  Now, standing before the man himself, he bowed with a soldier’s restraint and greeted him in polished Latin.

  “Ego sum nobilis dominus Lucien de domo Valois,” he said, voice even. “Miles Christi, receptus in bulla papali, sub litteris Martini Quinti, et gerens insigne domini Eugeni Quarti.”

  The Archbishop regarded him steadily, the corners of his mouth lifting in faint approval.

  “Your Latin is clean, domine Valois,” he replied in the same tongue. “You honor the Lord by keeping the old tongue uncorrupted.”

  He motioned for Remy to rise, and when he did, Pálóczi’s gaze went briefly to Jehan, then back to him.

  “You carry the marks of Rome,” he continued. “I have seen the bull of Martin and the seal of Eugenius. Few can claim both. Tell me, what is it you seek in my city? An ally? A cause? Or perhaps something greater?”

  There was curiosity in his tone, but beneath it was calculation. This was a man accustomed to politics, not confession.

  Remy inclined his head. “I seek neither throne nor crown, Your Grace. My cousin, Charles of Valois, wears the crown that I never wished to contest. The Duke of Alen?on knows the same. I have no patience for courts or flatterers. My path is service, not sovereignty.”

  For a moment, silence lingered between them. The Archbishop’s expression shifted slightly... interest, perhaps even confusion.

  “You surprise me,” he said at last. “Blood and blessing both favor you, and yet you turn from them. Many would see divine will in such a lineage.”

  Remy’s lips curved faintly. “Perhaps. But I have seen what divine will does to men who mistake it for destiny. Thrones are built for those who crave stillness. I have no such craving.”

  Pálóczi studied him, eyes narrowing in thought. It was clear to Remy that he heard reports of a knight who had wandered between kingdoms, who had fought in Italy, who spoke Latin like a scholar and sometimes prayed like a monk.

  His tone softened. “Rome changes a man,” he said. “I know this from those who return from her councils. You have been there?”

  Remy nodded once. “I guided your own representative to Basel. A dutiful man, measured, honest. He spoke well of his Archbishop.”

  That earned a small smile. “Then you know I am cautious by nature.”

  “I would expect no less from one entrusted with a kingdom in its king’s absence.”

  The Archbishop did not deny it. He shifted slightly, the folds of his robe catching the light.

  “What you may not know,” he said, “is that Esztergom stands at a crossroads. The Turks press from the south, the Hussites threaten from the north, and within our own walls the question of reform gnaws at every priest’s conscience. It is a time of testing. Men who arrive unbidden are seldom without purpose.”

  Remy met his gaze without flinching. “And yet, purpose is not always intrigue. Sometimes, it is pilgrimage. Sometimes, penance.”

  That earned him a pause. The Archbishop’s eyes lingered on him, searching, weighing, not unkind.

  “Tell me,” Pálóczi said, voice lowering, “what loyalty holds you now? To Rome? To France? To yourself?”

  “None of those, entirely,” Remy answered. “And all of them, in measure. I serve the cross, Your Grace. Not the throne that stands beneath it.”

  The Archbishop’s fingers drummed lightly on the armrest. It was not a rebuke, more a gesture of thought. “A dangerous answer,” he murmured. “And yet one that may be the truest I have heard this month.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Do you write?”

  “When I must.”

  “Do you read Greek?”

  “A little.”

  “Then you have learned much, and seen more. Tell me, what is your view of reform?”

  Remy hesitated. The question was a blade. The Council of Basel had cut many friendships along its edge.

  “I think reform is needed,” he said carefully. “But men mistake cleansing for burning. The Church must heal, not flay itself raw.”

  Pálóczi nodded slowly. “Good,” he said at last. “That is a sound answer. I would not have a zealot within my walls.”

  His eyes flicked toward Jehan, who had stood silent throughout. “And this one?”

  “My squire,” Remy replied smoothly. “A faithful one.”

  “He looks young.”

  “He looks as I once did when I still believed the world could be mended in a single lifetime.”

  That earned a faint chuckle from the Archbishop, the first true smile to touch his face. “A pity it cannot,” he said. “Still, faith in youth is no sin.”

  The conversation stretched on for nearly an hour. The Archbishop’s questions came in slow, deliberate turns, each one probing without offense.

  Why do you travel?

  What mission calls you east?

  What knowledge do you seek or guard?

  Remy answered each with poise, his replies careful but never evasive enough to provoke suspicion. He had long since learned how to give truth a courteous disguise.

  When the questioning was done, Pálóczi rose. “You carry yourself with grace, domine Valois. I see why the Holy See honors you.”

  He turned to an attendant. “See that Lord Lucien receives a stipend during his stay, and a letter of safe conduct under my seal. He may lodge within the guest quarter until he departs.”

  The attendant bowed and left.

  Remy inclined his head. “You are generous, Your Grace.”

  “Not generous,” the Archbishop corrected, “but prudent. A knight bearing papal sanction and French blood will be honored.”

  There was no malice in the words, only the pragmatic candor of a ruler who understood the world’s games.

  Remy smiled faintly. “Then I am honored to be kept in plain sight.”

  Pálóczi’s eyes softened just enough to betray amusement. “Go with God, domine Valois. Rest while you may. The road east grows long, and the cross grows heavy the farther one carries it.”

  Remy bowed deeply. “May the Lord keep your city, Your Grace.”

  As he and Jehan left the chamber, the doors closing behind them, she spoke in a low voice. “He seemed like a hard man.”

  “He is,” Remy replied. “Hard, but just. The kind the Church needs if it wishes to endure.”

  They stepped out into the courtyard, where sunlight glimmered off the Danube far below. The wind from the river carried the faint scent of woodsmoke and iron. Jehan squinted against it, her hand resting on her sword’s hilt.

  “What did he want of you?” she asked.

  “Nothing he’ll admit aloud,” Remy said. “He wanted to know what kind of man I am. Whether I serve a crown, a creed, or something else.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “The truth,” he said. “That I serve the cross. But not always the men who stand behind it.”

  Jehan nodded slowly. “Then he’ll remember you.”

  Remy’s eyes lifted toward the cathedral’s towering roof, its bells beginning to toll again. “Perhaps,” he said. “But men like him remember too much, and too long.”

  They walked on through the courtyard, past clerks with scrolls and messengers on errands.

  The city below stirred in afternoon light, alive with the noise of trade and prayer.

  Remy felt the folded parchment of his new safe-conduct against his breastplate and exhaled softly.