Lombardy is ripe for the taking!
Saxony is subjugated!
This revolt in Spain could be the beginning of a push against the Muslims...
Saxony is subjugated!
This revolt in Spain could be the beginning of a push against the Muslims...
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October, 774 anno domini
Adelchis, son of Desiderius and Crown Prince of Lombardy
It was Bertrada who aroused King Karloman from sleep, her lined and wrinkled face peering down at him in the darkness, illuminated only by the torchlight that she held aloft in her hand.
“Come with me, we must speak,” she urged, and disappeared from view as Karloman groggily rubbed his eyes. He knew better by now than to argue with her, especially given his sleepy mind had barely begun to adjust itself to his waking.
Slowing arising, he buckled on his shoes and started down the stairs towards the gloomy flickering of the torchlight she held at the bottom of the stairwell.
“Clearly something of importance has come up,” Karloman said as he reached her.
Gesturing with her thumb for him to follow, she nodded, “I would not have roused you if it wasn’t.”
Down down and down they descended, deeper into the bowels of the fortified chateau until they arrived at Bertrada’s strongroom. Even Karloman himself had barely been there, so secretive she kept it. A slim man stood in the centre of the room, concealed beneath a hood, though the King almost started in shock when he realised he recognised him, Alexandros, one of Bertrada’s Greek spies.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked of his mother querulously.
“Tell him,” she nodded to Alexandros shortly
“Your Majesty” The man gave a small bow and grinned, his small pointed yellow teeth bared from behind his lips. “I bear words from the south.”
“From Lombardy you say?” Karloman asked, “well go on then!”
Alexandros nodded, coughed, “No doubt you’ve heard, King Desiderius lies ill, his powers failing, but in his absence, his son Adelchis seeks to take command. A green boy, of barely five and ten years, no experience of warfare and governance.”
“I’m familiar with the name,” Karloman cut in, impatiently, “Have you anything of relevance to tell me?”
“I would not have come all this way if I did not.” Alexandros simpered, then continued,
“Desiderius’s son has left Pavia in disguise, with a small group of companions. A force of Lombard sellswords set sail for Spain last spring, and he intends to cross the Pyrenees, join up with them in Valencia, and assist the revolt planned against the Umayyads,”
“The revolt you refused to aid,” Bertrada looked at Karloman pointedly.
“A revolt that will fail,” Karloman rejoined, “I have no interest in chaining men’s to a lost cause.”
“Anyway,” Alexandros interrupted, “We spotted the Prince and a handful of companions leaving Pavia under cover of darkness, planning to ride north. We tracked them to the foothills beneath the Alps before sending word. Apparently they plan to travel through southern Francia to cross the mountains before joining their compatriots in Spain.”
“Hmph,” Karloman grunted, somewhat impressed in spite of himself, “The boy has spirit, I’ll give him that, a secret ride through miles of hostile territory with a small escort? Not bad.”
“Do you want us to intercept, my king?”
“Oh no,” Karloman grinned, “I don’t want a hair on that boy’s head harmed. I have a better plan for what to do…”
Meanwhile…
“Grand Chief, you must eat.”
They huddled beneath their rags in the frozen winter snows, struggling to warm themselves by the light of their fires. Saxony was always cold in winter, but this winter was the harshest in living memory. For those who still kept to the old ways, now vanishingly few since the flower of their youth had perished in the fields fighting the Franks, it was clear the Gods had not forgiven the burning of the World Tree, punished them for their failure to protect it.
Gingerly, Theodoric raised his near-frozen hand and accepted the bowl, eating the tasteless meal with his hands. All food was tasteless since Wichimann died. The men around him who noticed their proud Grand Chief was a broken, hollow shell of his former self thought better than to say so to his face, though whether out of lingering respect or pity, none could say for sure.
A few muffled shouts and lingered yells broke the spell and Theodoric’s head snapped up, “What’s happening out there?”
But before any man could answer, a group of villagers at the edge of the fire parted to reveal the newcomers. A group of men, lean, fierce and clad in black winter furs were revealed. Silence fell over the assembled as this new group strode to take their place before Theodoric, but it was the one at their head who inspired the most attention, for he was a most ferocious looking man, bushy beard, fierce and haughty with hair as black as a midnight sea.
A shudder of fear fell through the assembled Saxons, for all knew who this man was, though none had seen him in some years. A figure out of terror and legend, a warrior who would eat the hearts of those whom he killed. A figure tainted by black magicks and sorcery…
Widukind…
OOC: Apologies for the lateness, RL work got in the way again. Just a short update to set the scene for future conflicts. Karloman and his devious mother are hatching some scheme involving the Lombards, but is a new enemy rising from that perennial bugbear Saxony? I'm really looking forward to writing more for both Adelchis and Widukind, as they're both very fascinating to explore but very, very different. And since so little is known about the real ones, I can let the imagination reign a lot more!
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Intrigue with Lombardy and Widukind rising from the shadows, interesting times are coming...
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This next update is taking a while because I've been doing a little research on some obscure historical things to make it as authentic as possible, but it's a long and detailed update, so don't stress. It'll be up on the weekend. Thanks a bunch for everyone whose been willing to support this AAR thus far. There's no better thing as a writer then knowing that people read and enjoy your stuff (OK, getting paid for people to read and enjoy your stuff is probably better, but I enjoy this very much as well:_)
Thanks for sticking with this mad project of mine so far. Lots more to come
Thanks for sticking with this mad project of mine so far. Lots more to come
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OOC: So, I did actually finish this on the weekend and then forgot to post before I went to sleep. Mea Culpa:_ All here now...
October, Saxony, Village of Theodoric, Grand Chief of Saxony
The wave of fearful silence that had swept over the clearing was broken by Widukind himself, who spoke first.
“It has been some years my friends, I had not thought to return here, beneath the eyes of the Gods I hold so dear.” He proclaimed, in a surprisingly soft, high-pitched voice.
“I see that you have been taking good care of the Gods and their worship in my absence,” he continued, a sneer curling across his lip, “Clearly they are estactic that the World Tree itself is a smoking husk beneath the Frankish flame! How well they weep! How low have our people fallen in my absence.”
“We fell low fighting the Franks,” Theodoric interrupted, strained voice a low growl, “I must admit to not noticing you being present to help us do it.”
“Alas,” Widukind smiled, a terrible gnarling grin of sharp teeth that jutted outward like the canines of a wolf, “One man cannot contend with the foolishness of the leaders of a people. Theodoric’s course was set for him the day he chose to war against the new King of the Franks,” Two black eyes fell now clean upon Theodoric’s face, glittering with malice, “Tell me old man, was it Wichimann’s folly or your own that brought our people to such ruin?”
Gasps of shock ran through the square at that, the sound of a spear being drawn was heard, “Take that back!” an older man in the square brandished his weapon, “Take that back you cur, or I’ll carve out your black heart from your chest and stick it on the end of the my spear!”
“And this is the finest example of Saxon bravery left standing!” Widukind suddenly proclaimed, “Where are all our young ones? Or has Theodoric’s folly only led us to the ruin of your youth as well as our nation. Have the Franks slain all our bold sons, our men of the future?”
Silence reigned, then it broke,
“WHERE ARE THEY?”
Before he’d finished, the old man had fallen, dead, blood suddenly falling from the tip of the spear that had been thrust through his back, behind him, a frightened boy’s hands shook as he pulled the spear from the old man.
“Ah! Here we have our first!” Widukind smiled, “Well done boy! By such actions we wash away the corrupt rot that brought our people to ruin and give birth to the new age!”
He raised his hands to the sky, black eyes gazing around the clearing,
“Hear me Saxons! Theodoric has failed us. All we are left with is withered old men and boys who shake when they hold a spear! But friends, there is hope! While he has smashed us against the Franks, I have raided and romped across the frozen north! I have brought glory and strength to the name of Saxony! And yet here I return to find the strength of our northern friends has faded in the land of my birth!” That fierce look blazed as he swirled around, gesticulating wildly.
“Look at them, men of the north!” He turned back and said, with a sneer, “Is there a sight before gods and men more pathetic than the sight of a people broken, shivering in their fear and frost, while the Franks take our lands, burn our Gods, butcher our sons and seize and convert our children and women to their false God? Is there a sight worse than men who quail before a Frankish King who spills the blood of their children? But that is what Theodoric, brave Grand Chief of Saxony has brought them too!”
Theodoric had heard enough, he rose, face pink with fury, “Shut up you miserable fool! In the name of Vali, shut up!”
He made to strike Widukind, but a backhanded blow from one of the northmen sent him sprawling face-down into the snow.
After what seemed like an eternity, that cold voice spoke again.
“Saxons.” Widukind’s volume was more subdued now, his tone quiet, “It is time we rid ourselves of the corruption and decadence of the elders who have brought us naught but ruin and death, and placed ourselves in bold new hands. In my hands, for I am the Chosen of Vali! And I shall bring us to glory! I call for a vote, who shall second it?”
Another voice from the shivering huddled men in the snow did, then another, then a third, raising slightly in anticipation. Rising from the snow, a chastened Theodoric could do nothing but watch helplessly as the priests made the rites and conducted the vote…
Widukind’s proposal passed near unanimously. Only a small handful of brave elders, faces quivering with a black fury, passed to object to Widukind’s measure.
“Thank you,” that deceptively quiet voice spoke again, “I shall not lay down the burden you have placed upon me until our people are freed again,” Widukind gestured to Theodoric, “Take the old man away and chain him, I will have further need of him later.”
Thus did Theodoric, Grand Chief of Saxony lose his hold on the people he had led for decades.
Later,
“I had forgotten what a small noisome people my Saxons are,” Widukind said quietly, black eyes flickering to the corner of the room.
The priestess glanced at him, “They serve their purpose,” she replied, “That is enough.”
He stiffened, rising up to his full height as he turned to gaze at her. She was a priestess of Vali, the Chosen, tall and pale and fierce. Her raven wind-swept hair was pulled back off her face and pinned in place. Unusually tall for a woman, it was she who had first identified Widukind for his great destiny when they had met, fighting high up in the frozen north.
“The Franks and their false god would destroy us if Theodoric had been permitted to continue,” she said, “But your people have been shaken in their faith in their Gods, and themselves. It is your role as Vali’s chosen to strengthen their resolve.”
She moved towards him slowly, breath coming out of her mouth in small white puffs of mist upon the air. His eyes caught the slow rise and fall of her chest as she strode toward him,
“You are the champion of the Gods,” she whispered in his ear, stroking the side of his head, with one long-fingered hand, “You will bring back the old ways, and restore the Saxons to glory,”
He shifted beneath her grasp, shrugging her hand away,
“You had best be right priestess,” he replied curtly, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a war to plan.” and Widukind strode from the room,
She stood alone, with her bones and her visions.
“Vali give me the strength to see your champion’s path,” she murmured.
January, 775 anno domini, Southern Francia
“Cheer up Adelchis,” the sunny-haired Frederigo replied, “We’re making good progress”.
The Prince looked up at his closest friend, and gave a small smile, “I know, but I’m worried about father, and the kingdom. Leaving him behind… I’m just not sure it’ll turn out well.”
“Your father’s strong,” Frederico reassured him, “He’s battled the Franks for decades, a fever won’t kill him.”
“We all die Frederico,” Adelchis replied gloomily, “Father is no different,”
“Ach! You’re getting us all down,” his friend and closest companion tutted, “Come on, I’m sure there’s some good Sicilian wine in the packs with our names.”
Despite himself, the Prince smiled again at that, “You always know how to make me feel better.”
Their small group had come to rest astride one of the major roads. Disguised as they were, with no identifying sigils or heraldry, they had passed none but travelers and traders upon this road, with no sign of Frankish soldiers. Originally fearful that the Franks might have been alerted to their dangerous crossing through their lands, Adelchis had relaxed when they had emerged on the other side of the Alps into southern Frankia without incident and ridden past Marseilles.
They opened their packs then, a grinning Frederico breaking out the wine for the others, who passed the skins along and drank from them gingerly. Adelchis grabbed his reins as his skittish horse shied as he tried to take the skin from Frederico.
“Sorry friend, the mare’s playing up today,”
“Aye,” Frederico grinned, “It’s always the horse’s fault with you,”
“Is that how you speak to your future King?” Adelchis demanded in a voice of mock indignation, “I’d have half a mind to charge you with disrespect!”
“Good thing you’ve only got half a mind then,” Frederico replied grinning, “Because without me you’d lose the other half and-“
His spiel was interrupted by a sudden series of whinnies from Adelchis’s mare and the sound of onrushing hoofbeats. Before they could react, a small cluster of horsemen surrounded their little group, bearing the colours of the local Frankish lord, the Duke of Provence..
Blast it, Adelchis thought, The horse was trying to warn me, He cursed himself for having let his guard down as they had gotten deeper into the land of the Franks, and now they were surrounded, with no way out.
Still, it was better to hope they didn’t know whom he was yet, so he raised his hand and let a smile spread over his features.
“A good noon to you!” he spoke cheerily to the nearest of the riders. “To what do I and my companions owe the pleasure? We have wine, if you’d like to share it?”
The horsemen rode forward slightly, edging his heels into the flanks of his gelding. He was a short, ugly man with a brutish face and a twisted nose, obviously one that had been broken at least once. His expression was a mingled one of pity and distaste.
“No need Prince Adelchis, we have our own wine,” the Frank replied, in good Italian, Adelchis’s face fell and the rider triumphantly noted the sagging of his shoulders. Yes, this was the one.
“We noticed your advent several days ago, and my lord felt that it would be discourteous to allow you to pass through our lands without a formal welcome. He requests your presence at his villa nearby.”
The request was worded politely, but the fact that they were surrounded by armed horsemen who outnumbered them made clear that it was not an optional invitation. The Frankish lord was quite prepared to have his men killed and him taken by force, Adelchis knew. Politeness or no, he was being taken hostage.
“Your lord does me great honour to show such courtesy,” he replied, keeping his face carefully neutral, he shook his head, very slightly, as Frederico gave him a questioning glance, We’ll wait and see what happens, he seemed to say.
“Splendid, then I trust you and your friends will have no trouble following me?”
“None,” Adelchis replied, pasting a smile on his face once again, Let them think me beat, at least until I can think a way out of it.
“Lead on good fellows, that I may meet this lord of yours,” the Prince stated, exchanging a concerned look with Frederico.
So much for the plan to remain unseen. He thought to himself as the Frankish troop rode slowly north around them, enclosing them in a circle as they did so to ensure there were no sudden breaks for freedom.
Thus far, Adelchis’s first venture on his own hadn’t exactly gone as planned...
October, Saxony, Village of Theodoric, Grand Chief of Saxony
The wave of fearful silence that had swept over the clearing was broken by Widukind himself, who spoke first.
“It has been some years my friends, I had not thought to return here, beneath the eyes of the Gods I hold so dear.” He proclaimed, in a surprisingly soft, high-pitched voice.
“I see that you have been taking good care of the Gods and their worship in my absence,” he continued, a sneer curling across his lip, “Clearly they are estactic that the World Tree itself is a smoking husk beneath the Frankish flame! How well they weep! How low have our people fallen in my absence.”
“We fell low fighting the Franks,” Theodoric interrupted, strained voice a low growl, “I must admit to not noticing you being present to help us do it.”
“Alas,” Widukind smiled, a terrible gnarling grin of sharp teeth that jutted outward like the canines of a wolf, “One man cannot contend with the foolishness of the leaders of a people. Theodoric’s course was set for him the day he chose to war against the new King of the Franks,” Two black eyes fell now clean upon Theodoric’s face, glittering with malice, “Tell me old man, was it Wichimann’s folly or your own that brought our people to such ruin?”
Gasps of shock ran through the square at that, the sound of a spear being drawn was heard, “Take that back!” an older man in the square brandished his weapon, “Take that back you cur, or I’ll carve out your black heart from your chest and stick it on the end of the my spear!”
“And this is the finest example of Saxon bravery left standing!” Widukind suddenly proclaimed, “Where are all our young ones? Or has Theodoric’s folly only led us to the ruin of your youth as well as our nation. Have the Franks slain all our bold sons, our men of the future?”
Silence reigned, then it broke,
“WHERE ARE THEY?”
Before he’d finished, the old man had fallen, dead, blood suddenly falling from the tip of the spear that had been thrust through his back, behind him, a frightened boy’s hands shook as he pulled the spear from the old man.
“Ah! Here we have our first!” Widukind smiled, “Well done boy! By such actions we wash away the corrupt rot that brought our people to ruin and give birth to the new age!”
He raised his hands to the sky, black eyes gazing around the clearing,
“Hear me Saxons! Theodoric has failed us. All we are left with is withered old men and boys who shake when they hold a spear! But friends, there is hope! While he has smashed us against the Franks, I have raided and romped across the frozen north! I have brought glory and strength to the name of Saxony! And yet here I return to find the strength of our northern friends has faded in the land of my birth!” That fierce look blazed as he swirled around, gesticulating wildly.
“Look at them, men of the north!” He turned back and said, with a sneer, “Is there a sight before gods and men more pathetic than the sight of a people broken, shivering in their fear and frost, while the Franks take our lands, burn our Gods, butcher our sons and seize and convert our children and women to their false God? Is there a sight worse than men who quail before a Frankish King who spills the blood of their children? But that is what Theodoric, brave Grand Chief of Saxony has brought them too!”
Theodoric had heard enough, he rose, face pink with fury, “Shut up you miserable fool! In the name of Vali, shut up!”
He made to strike Widukind, but a backhanded blow from one of the northmen sent him sprawling face-down into the snow.
After what seemed like an eternity, that cold voice spoke again.
“Saxons.” Widukind’s volume was more subdued now, his tone quiet, “It is time we rid ourselves of the corruption and decadence of the elders who have brought us naught but ruin and death, and placed ourselves in bold new hands. In my hands, for I am the Chosen of Vali! And I shall bring us to glory! I call for a vote, who shall second it?”
Another voice from the shivering huddled men in the snow did, then another, then a third, raising slightly in anticipation. Rising from the snow, a chastened Theodoric could do nothing but watch helplessly as the priests made the rites and conducted the vote…
Widukind’s proposal passed near unanimously. Only a small handful of brave elders, faces quivering with a black fury, passed to object to Widukind’s measure.
“Thank you,” that deceptively quiet voice spoke again, “I shall not lay down the burden you have placed upon me until our people are freed again,” Widukind gestured to Theodoric, “Take the old man away and chain him, I will have further need of him later.”
Thus did Theodoric, Grand Chief of Saxony lose his hold on the people he had led for decades.
Later,
“I had forgotten what a small noisome people my Saxons are,” Widukind said quietly, black eyes flickering to the corner of the room.
The priestess glanced at him, “They serve their purpose,” she replied, “That is enough.”
He stiffened, rising up to his full height as he turned to gaze at her. She was a priestess of Vali, the Chosen, tall and pale and fierce. Her raven wind-swept hair was pulled back off her face and pinned in place. Unusually tall for a woman, it was she who had first identified Widukind for his great destiny when they had met, fighting high up in the frozen north.
“The Franks and their false god would destroy us if Theodoric had been permitted to continue,” she said, “But your people have been shaken in their faith in their Gods, and themselves. It is your role as Vali’s chosen to strengthen their resolve.”
She moved towards him slowly, breath coming out of her mouth in small white puffs of mist upon the air. His eyes caught the slow rise and fall of her chest as she strode toward him,
“You are the champion of the Gods,” she whispered in his ear, stroking the side of his head, with one long-fingered hand, “You will bring back the old ways, and restore the Saxons to glory,”
He shifted beneath her grasp, shrugging her hand away,
“You had best be right priestess,” he replied curtly, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a war to plan.” and Widukind strode from the room,
She stood alone, with her bones and her visions.
“Vali give me the strength to see your champion’s path,” she murmured.
January, 775 anno domini, Southern Francia
“Cheer up Adelchis,” the sunny-haired Frederigo replied, “We’re making good progress”.
The Prince looked up at his closest friend, and gave a small smile, “I know, but I’m worried about father, and the kingdom. Leaving him behind… I’m just not sure it’ll turn out well.”
“Your father’s strong,” Frederico reassured him, “He’s battled the Franks for decades, a fever won’t kill him.”
“We all die Frederico,” Adelchis replied gloomily, “Father is no different,”
“Ach! You’re getting us all down,” his friend and closest companion tutted, “Come on, I’m sure there’s some good Sicilian wine in the packs with our names.”
Despite himself, the Prince smiled again at that, “You always know how to make me feel better.”
Their small group had come to rest astride one of the major roads. Disguised as they were, with no identifying sigils or heraldry, they had passed none but travelers and traders upon this road, with no sign of Frankish soldiers. Originally fearful that the Franks might have been alerted to their dangerous crossing through their lands, Adelchis had relaxed when they had emerged on the other side of the Alps into southern Frankia without incident and ridden past Marseilles.
They opened their packs then, a grinning Frederico breaking out the wine for the others, who passed the skins along and drank from them gingerly. Adelchis grabbed his reins as his skittish horse shied as he tried to take the skin from Frederico.
“Sorry friend, the mare’s playing up today,”
“Aye,” Frederico grinned, “It’s always the horse’s fault with you,”
“Is that how you speak to your future King?” Adelchis demanded in a voice of mock indignation, “I’d have half a mind to charge you with disrespect!”
“Good thing you’ve only got half a mind then,” Frederico replied grinning, “Because without me you’d lose the other half and-“
His spiel was interrupted by a sudden series of whinnies from Adelchis’s mare and the sound of onrushing hoofbeats. Before they could react, a small cluster of horsemen surrounded their little group, bearing the colours of the local Frankish lord, the Duke of Provence..
Blast it, Adelchis thought, The horse was trying to warn me, He cursed himself for having let his guard down as they had gotten deeper into the land of the Franks, and now they were surrounded, with no way out.
Still, it was better to hope they didn’t know whom he was yet, so he raised his hand and let a smile spread over his features.
“A good noon to you!” he spoke cheerily to the nearest of the riders. “To what do I and my companions owe the pleasure? We have wine, if you’d like to share it?”
The horsemen rode forward slightly, edging his heels into the flanks of his gelding. He was a short, ugly man with a brutish face and a twisted nose, obviously one that had been broken at least once. His expression was a mingled one of pity and distaste.
“No need Prince Adelchis, we have our own wine,” the Frank replied, in good Italian, Adelchis’s face fell and the rider triumphantly noted the sagging of his shoulders. Yes, this was the one.
“We noticed your advent several days ago, and my lord felt that it would be discourteous to allow you to pass through our lands without a formal welcome. He requests your presence at his villa nearby.”
The request was worded politely, but the fact that they were surrounded by armed horsemen who outnumbered them made clear that it was not an optional invitation. The Frankish lord was quite prepared to have his men killed and him taken by force, Adelchis knew. Politeness or no, he was being taken hostage.
“Your lord does me great honour to show such courtesy,” he replied, keeping his face carefully neutral, he shook his head, very slightly, as Frederico gave him a questioning glance, We’ll wait and see what happens, he seemed to say.
“Splendid, then I trust you and your friends will have no trouble following me?”
“None,” Adelchis replied, pasting a smile on his face once again, Let them think me beat, at least until I can think a way out of it.
“Lead on good fellows, that I may meet this lord of yours,” the Prince stated, exchanging a concerned look with Frederico.
So much for the plan to remain unseen. He thought to himself as the Frankish troop rode slowly north around them, enclosing them in a circle as they did so to ensure there were no sudden breaks for freedom.
Thus far, Adelchis’s first venture on his own hadn’t exactly gone as planned...
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What treachery lie in Saxon Black Hearts? Lombards plan and Franks laugh. Thank you for updating and please be safe, my king.
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While my general pace has slowed a bit due to renewed RL workload I am still writing steadily, so don't feel forgotten! I have a lot to get through in the next few planned posts so I'm currently just juggling how to set them up and where to sort of put them all in as these were very eventful in-game years in the playthrough! I should have the next post to standard by tomorrow sometime though, so hopefully I'll be updating then
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The Northmen are coming with ancient gods on their side, I hope Karloman is ready.
Adelchis has taken a serious risk with his trek but perhaps the Saxons will provide enough of a distraction for him to hatch some sort of plot.
Adelchis has taken a serious risk with his trek but perhaps the Saxons will provide enough of a distraction for him to hatch some sort of plot.
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February, 775. Provencal Villa of Count Jerome
It was now Adelchis had begun to wonder if he should’ve gone down fighting… For several weeks he and his fellow ‘guests’ had languished, hostages in all but name for their mysterious hosts. It had been claimed that they were merely there to greet their Frankish host, but the presence of armed guards at every post out of the villa had disproven that. Nor were their own weapons removed from them, suggesting that whoever had ordered them kept here had confidence in the abilities of the guards to prevent their escape.
“Clearly someone wants us here for a reason,” Frederico had consoled him. “Nothing for it now but to just relax and see what our hosts want from us.”
“It’s the fact that we’ve heard nothing that worries me,” Adelchis replied, through gritted teeth,
“Cheer up my Prince,” Frederico grinned, slapping him on the shoulder, “If they’d wanted you dead, I’d wager your head would be affixed to a pole outside.”
“You’re all comfort Frederico.”
It was by evening that day that answers finally arrived. The silence guards invited them into the central room, fed them food and watched them eat in silence.
One of the Frankish guards spoke a few words to another, who nodded and left,
“I didn’t catch that, what did he say?” Adelchis asked,
“Don’t know, But I hope it wasn’t ‘cut their throats,’” Frederico responded, with a worried look.
Before they could ponder it further, the door swung open. The guard had returned, accompanied by a man wearing a large brown tunic, his face hidden beneath a blue grey hood.
“Welcome, Prince Adelchis” a deep, surprisingly pleasant sounding voice boomed from beneath the cloak, “I’m pleased to finally meet you.”
Adelchis paused, looking puzzled.
“As am I good man, though I would be more pleased if I knew whom I was speaking to.”
The man flung back his cowl, exposing his carefully clipped golden hair to them all. His gaunt, thin frame and pale face came into better view as he shifted on one foot.
“You may leave us,” he nodded to the guard who had brought him.
Five of the eight men who had been guarding them marched out of the room, though Adelchis noted that three remained, furthermore, as their visitor swung himself down onto the empty chair at the head of their table. He moved with an easy, casual grace, and Adelchis doubted very much he was unarmed.
“I suppose I should identify myself,” he spoke in fluent Italian, marking him as a well-educated Frank, “I am Karloman, King of the Franks.”
A jolt of frission rang through Frederico, though Adelchis only narrowed his eyes.
“I see, are we your prisoners then?”
King Karloman laughed, a small, mirthless laugh that held no joy, exposing small pointed teeth, “Prince Adelchis, you sit here, fully armed and unshackled, and ask if you are imprisoned? Have prisons changed much in your own Italia then, that you cannot recognise them when you see them?”
“Yet we are under armed guard,”
“A necessary precaution,” Karloman waved the objection aside with a lazy swipe of his arm, “Not unusual, considering relations between our two nations,”
“I see,” Adelchis chewed thoughtfully. He wants something, though what? Hard to tell… If only Father were here to advise, he would know how to deal with this Frankish monarch.
Karloman looked younger than he had thought, barely a decade older than himself, but already winning renown for victories in war, and his formidable transformation of the Frankish forces. ‘Karloman the Cruel’, they called him, a butcher who slaughtered prisoners and a kinslayer who brought his own brother’s doom. No proof, but the whispers persisted. A dangerous man, Perhaps best to let this game play out as he wills it… for now.
“Well perhaps, King Karloman, you would be kind enough to tell me what it is you wish to discuss,” Adelchis responded finally, after long moments of silence had passed, “Since you have clearly come a long way from fair Paris to arrange this meeting,”
“Indeed I have, very well, I shall make my purpose known.” Sharp boy, Karloman thought, He wants me to dictate the pace until he’s more sure of his footing. Didn’t bluster or threaten. Oooh, he will be one to watch if he grows into himself.
“I have for you a proposal, Crown Prince, that I believe will benefit both our kingdoms, that have warred so long.”
“Oh? Do tell,” Adelchis smiled, though he felt less confident than he sounded.
“I bring an offer that I hope will shepherd a new era of peace between our realms, which have warred and shed each other’s blood for too long.”
Now THAT he had not expected,
“What kind of offer.”
“An offer of peace is seldom arranged any other way,” Karloman replied, “An offer of matrimony.”
Ah, and now we come to it.
“And what kind of matrimony would that be?”
“I have a sister,” King Karloman observed, “Princess Gisela, fourteen years old. The right age of betrothal, I can think of no better consort for a King of the Lombards than a Princess of Frankia.”
“And her children will be heirs to the Lombard throne, your nephews and nieces.”
“Her children will be Karlings,” the King replied, “This is non-negotiable,” he insisted, when Adelchis opened his mouth to reply. “Your father is dying, young Prince, and the throne of your kingdom is in jeopardy. I have the men, and the resources, to march across the Alps and sack Pavia before the year is out. You know there are some in my court that would wish me to do so. Yet your father and mine warred for years, and it never helped them any. I wish to provide an opportunity for peace.”
And to control the Kingdom through your nephew after my death, which no doubt will be as soon as your sister has birthed one. A Frankish prince in our nest, hmm. Your machinations are transparent King, yet dare I refuse him?
“It is my father’s responsibility to make such arrangements, King Karloman,” Adelchis replied, “Surely your offer is his responsibility.”
“Unless your father has recovered from his illness, I believe that is not an option,” Karloman replied, eyes not smiling when his mouth did Nice try young prince, he seemed to be saying. “In his absence, you are the highest man of your household, and thus, the offer must pass to you.”
Clever King Karloman, Kidnap me while I’m travelling through your lands, but do it in a way that is not violent so you can pass it off as diplomacy. If I refuse the offer, no doubt I die, and then some story is concocted about me trying to ambush the King of the Franks with a bunch of armed companions. I will be too dead to contradict them, and the King would have his cassus belli for war. Likewise, if I agree, he binds the future of our realm to his family… Unless I can break out of it later.
That was perhaps, the best weakness in King Karloman’s plan. He was proposing a bethrothal, not a marriage, and the girl sounded like she was still a year or two off of marrying Enough time to figure out how to break the agreement? Perhaps, but if done wrongly, it will also bring war. Clever Karloman, to strike where my father cannot help me, nor strike back against you later.
“I accept,” The Prince replied neutrally.
“Fantastic!” The King replied, joyously throwing his arms in the air. “It has been a pleasant negotiation after all. Shall I call in my guards and have them witness our seals on the betrothal agreement?”
“Do so,” Adelchis nodded, Of course he wouldn’t let me go with only a verbal promise.
And so the King of the Franks and the Prince of the Lombards signed this most strange of pacts, extracted with thin smiles and veiled lies in the dead of night, in a villa in southern Frankia.
It was the following morning the Prince was permitted to depart on his way, only to receive a runner who reported troubling news. The leader of the Spanish rebellion had died after wounds received in a border skirmish with the Caliphate, bringing the uprising to an abrupt halt. The sellswords had deserted, preferring to flee with their coin intact than to fight for a cause that no longer seemed credible.
“It seems pointless to continue now, does it not?” Frederico asked him.
“Aye, pointless,” Adelchis nodded. Smiling he clasped his friend’s arm. “Come on Frederico, let’s go home.”
Because if I’m right, we’ll soon have a much bigger problem than a few Spanish rebels and disloyal sellswords…
OOC: A nice little bit that shows off Karloman's scheming. He seems to have his eyes set on the Kingdom of the Lombards, and wants to outflank Adelchis, either by battle or bedroom politics. But will the threat rising in the east draw his eyes once more? I'll have another post up in a day or two! This one got so long I had to split it in two so the next one won't take nearly as long to post. Probably tomorrow
It was now Adelchis had begun to wonder if he should’ve gone down fighting… For several weeks he and his fellow ‘guests’ had languished, hostages in all but name for their mysterious hosts. It had been claimed that they were merely there to greet their Frankish host, but the presence of armed guards at every post out of the villa had disproven that. Nor were their own weapons removed from them, suggesting that whoever had ordered them kept here had confidence in the abilities of the guards to prevent their escape.
“Clearly someone wants us here for a reason,” Frederico had consoled him. “Nothing for it now but to just relax and see what our hosts want from us.”
“It’s the fact that we’ve heard nothing that worries me,” Adelchis replied, through gritted teeth,
“Cheer up my Prince,” Frederico grinned, slapping him on the shoulder, “If they’d wanted you dead, I’d wager your head would be affixed to a pole outside.”
“You’re all comfort Frederico.”
It was by evening that day that answers finally arrived. The silence guards invited them into the central room, fed them food and watched them eat in silence.
One of the Frankish guards spoke a few words to another, who nodded and left,
“I didn’t catch that, what did he say?” Adelchis asked,
“Don’t know, But I hope it wasn’t ‘cut their throats,’” Frederico responded, with a worried look.
Before they could ponder it further, the door swung open. The guard had returned, accompanied by a man wearing a large brown tunic, his face hidden beneath a blue grey hood.
“Welcome, Prince Adelchis” a deep, surprisingly pleasant sounding voice boomed from beneath the cloak, “I’m pleased to finally meet you.”
Adelchis paused, looking puzzled.
“As am I good man, though I would be more pleased if I knew whom I was speaking to.”
The man flung back his cowl, exposing his carefully clipped golden hair to them all. His gaunt, thin frame and pale face came into better view as he shifted on one foot.
“You may leave us,” he nodded to the guard who had brought him.
Five of the eight men who had been guarding them marched out of the room, though Adelchis noted that three remained, furthermore, as their visitor swung himself down onto the empty chair at the head of their table. He moved with an easy, casual grace, and Adelchis doubted very much he was unarmed.
“I suppose I should identify myself,” he spoke in fluent Italian, marking him as a well-educated Frank, “I am Karloman, King of the Franks.”
A jolt of frission rang through Frederico, though Adelchis only narrowed his eyes.
“I see, are we your prisoners then?”
King Karloman laughed, a small, mirthless laugh that held no joy, exposing small pointed teeth, “Prince Adelchis, you sit here, fully armed and unshackled, and ask if you are imprisoned? Have prisons changed much in your own Italia then, that you cannot recognise them when you see them?”
“Yet we are under armed guard,”
“A necessary precaution,” Karloman waved the objection aside with a lazy swipe of his arm, “Not unusual, considering relations between our two nations,”
“I see,” Adelchis chewed thoughtfully. He wants something, though what? Hard to tell… If only Father were here to advise, he would know how to deal with this Frankish monarch.
Karloman looked younger than he had thought, barely a decade older than himself, but already winning renown for victories in war, and his formidable transformation of the Frankish forces. ‘Karloman the Cruel’, they called him, a butcher who slaughtered prisoners and a kinslayer who brought his own brother’s doom. No proof, but the whispers persisted. A dangerous man, Perhaps best to let this game play out as he wills it… for now.
“Well perhaps, King Karloman, you would be kind enough to tell me what it is you wish to discuss,” Adelchis responded finally, after long moments of silence had passed, “Since you have clearly come a long way from fair Paris to arrange this meeting,”
“Indeed I have, very well, I shall make my purpose known.” Sharp boy, Karloman thought, He wants me to dictate the pace until he’s more sure of his footing. Didn’t bluster or threaten. Oooh, he will be one to watch if he grows into himself.
“I have for you a proposal, Crown Prince, that I believe will benefit both our kingdoms, that have warred so long.”
“Oh? Do tell,” Adelchis smiled, though he felt less confident than he sounded.
“I bring an offer that I hope will shepherd a new era of peace between our realms, which have warred and shed each other’s blood for too long.”
Now THAT he had not expected,
“What kind of offer.”
“An offer of peace is seldom arranged any other way,” Karloman replied, “An offer of matrimony.”
Ah, and now we come to it.
“And what kind of matrimony would that be?”
“I have a sister,” King Karloman observed, “Princess Gisela, fourteen years old. The right age of betrothal, I can think of no better consort for a King of the Lombards than a Princess of Frankia.”
“And her children will be heirs to the Lombard throne, your nephews and nieces.”
“Her children will be Karlings,” the King replied, “This is non-negotiable,” he insisted, when Adelchis opened his mouth to reply. “Your father is dying, young Prince, and the throne of your kingdom is in jeopardy. I have the men, and the resources, to march across the Alps and sack Pavia before the year is out. You know there are some in my court that would wish me to do so. Yet your father and mine warred for years, and it never helped them any. I wish to provide an opportunity for peace.”
And to control the Kingdom through your nephew after my death, which no doubt will be as soon as your sister has birthed one. A Frankish prince in our nest, hmm. Your machinations are transparent King, yet dare I refuse him?
“It is my father’s responsibility to make such arrangements, King Karloman,” Adelchis replied, “Surely your offer is his responsibility.”
“Unless your father has recovered from his illness, I believe that is not an option,” Karloman replied, eyes not smiling when his mouth did Nice try young prince, he seemed to be saying. “In his absence, you are the highest man of your household, and thus, the offer must pass to you.”
Clever King Karloman, Kidnap me while I’m travelling through your lands, but do it in a way that is not violent so you can pass it off as diplomacy. If I refuse the offer, no doubt I die, and then some story is concocted about me trying to ambush the King of the Franks with a bunch of armed companions. I will be too dead to contradict them, and the King would have his cassus belli for war. Likewise, if I agree, he binds the future of our realm to his family… Unless I can break out of it later.
That was perhaps, the best weakness in King Karloman’s plan. He was proposing a bethrothal, not a marriage, and the girl sounded like she was still a year or two off of marrying Enough time to figure out how to break the agreement? Perhaps, but if done wrongly, it will also bring war. Clever Karloman, to strike where my father cannot help me, nor strike back against you later.
“I accept,” The Prince replied neutrally.
“Fantastic!” The King replied, joyously throwing his arms in the air. “It has been a pleasant negotiation after all. Shall I call in my guards and have them witness our seals on the betrothal agreement?”
“Do so,” Adelchis nodded, Of course he wouldn’t let me go with only a verbal promise.
And so the King of the Franks and the Prince of the Lombards signed this most strange of pacts, extracted with thin smiles and veiled lies in the dead of night, in a villa in southern Frankia.
It was the following morning the Prince was permitted to depart on his way, only to receive a runner who reported troubling news. The leader of the Spanish rebellion had died after wounds received in a border skirmish with the Caliphate, bringing the uprising to an abrupt halt. The sellswords had deserted, preferring to flee with their coin intact than to fight for a cause that no longer seemed credible.
“It seems pointless to continue now, does it not?” Frederico asked him.
“Aye, pointless,” Adelchis nodded. Smiling he clasped his friend’s arm. “Come on Frederico, let’s go home.”
Because if I’m right, we’ll soon have a much bigger problem than a few Spanish rebels and disloyal sellswords…
OOC: A nice little bit that shows off Karloman's scheming. He seems to have his eyes set on the Kingdom of the Lombards, and wants to outflank Adelchis, either by battle or bedroom politics. But will the threat rising in the east draw his eyes once more? I'll have another post up in a day or two! This one got so long I had to split it in two so the next one won't take nearly as long to post. Probably tomorrow
- 1
In this corner, we have young Prince Adelchis carrying a small beacon. In that corner, we have King Karloman whose mighty shadow makes noon dark. Will day or night prevail or will we have an uneasy truce? Only Father Time holds the answer to this! Thank you for updating, My King.
@LPDK 356, you wove a beautiful tapestry without the crutch of a single screenshot.
@LPDK 356, you wove a beautiful tapestry without the crutch of a single screenshot.
- 1
Saxony, 775.
Orders had gone, secretively flown from town to town in the dead of night. Weapons were stockpiled, alliances made, coin changed hands and promises whispered in dank, smokey halls. But the new war chief of the Saxon people sought to play his advantages carefully.
“We need to give them no sign of our plans,” Widukind had said to his war council, “I intend that our cooperation with our Frankish masters be nothing short of perfection for months, not a peep of resistance, from any of us.” He turned those unnerving black eyes around the room. “It is the will of the Gods that we avenge our fallen and rise from the ashes a new nation, but we must do so sensibly.”
“Is it not cowardly to pretend to be cravens, and lie down as dogs in the pit?”
It was those unnerving eyes that swiveled to round on the one who had spoke, Chief Uthred, “Deception in the service of victory is no vice,” Widukind had finally replied, “The Gods are just, and know that mens hearts matter more then their actions.”
Uthred fell silent, and it was Widukind, now firmly ensconsed as the figure in whom those Saxon men put their trust, who spoke again. “Our riders have gone east and north to rally those who still have larger populations of fighting men to spare. My scouts estimate that, if we stretch our recruitment capacity, we can raise around twelve thousand men. More than enough.”
“The Franks will not sit idle,” Uthred replied, “Especially if we begin behaving as though we are pacified,”
“King Karloman will no doubt seek to come east once he has wind of our movement it is true. But it’ll take months for him to raise substantial forces, and if we follow the plans our priestess has devised, we could have the whole of Saxony within our grasp by then.”
THAT made the men unhappy. They did not trust the tall, wild-haired priestess who had arrived with Widukind from the north, with her finger bones and her rituals. They whispered that the god Vali had placed dark sorcery at her command, sorcery which Widukind had also been associated with. Could anyone who consorted with such power be trusted?
Nevertheless, they had placed their faith in Widukind. What other choice did they have? Theodoric could not lead them, Wichimann’s death had left him broken by the trials of his life. Only an empty shell of a man lived inside him now, and with him had died the spirit of the Saxons. Only Widukind had any chance of reclaiming that spirit now.
And yet once they had gathered the men, they still needed a signal, a way to spark the uprising and inspire the rest of the beaten and bloodied Saxons to rise up in their support. How did they propose that would happen?
“Leave it to the priestess and I” was Widukind’s grim reply…
Paris, France.
Bertrada’s face rested upon her son with mild interest. “You got the Prince to cooperate.”
“Yes yes, rather easily actually,” he gave a lazy wave of his hand. “If the boy had been smart, he’d have fought his way out. Fortunately, we it didn’t occur to him that we might be trapping him into a pact he did not want.”
“The only downside now is if the boy finds a way to break the pact without causing diplomatic offence,” she added thoughtfully.
“Unless the Papacy decides to help him out, that’s unlikely,” Karloman cut in, “He made a betrothal pact, and it’s sealed and done. Either he follows the pact, and we get a Carolingian heir to the Lombard throne, or he breaks it, and provides an excuse for war. Spurned betrothals are grounds that will be acceptable, and his Holiness will not object, so long as we rid him of his Lombard problem.”
“Hmm,” Bertrada raised an eyebrow, “Just be sure Honorius doesn’t decide that you’ve replaced his Lombard problem with a Frankish problem.”
“Well, I’m still working on how to avoid that,” Karloman admitted, a sheepish grin crossing his face, “Will let you know how that goes.”
Is this what was meant to happen all along? She asked herself, Karl was the elder, all this was his by right. He should be sat in that chair, making these plans, having these discussions. And yet here the younger boy sits, and so far, with the sense to take my advice. Perhaps I misjudged him after all.
“Your wife is feeling neglected again,” Bertrada told him. Karloman’s eyes rolled in his head exasperatedly,
“I’d spend more time with her if she weren’t completely stupid and devoid of conversational ability” he muttered, grinding his teeth. “God knows Gerberga had some sense at least, Sigalis’s head has nothing in it but clothes and air.”
“Go to her tonight, get her pregnant again,” his mother advised, “It’ll give her something to fill her head with.”
He sighed again, but rose from his seat.
“I suppose I do need to sleep,” he muttered, “Marshal Maurad wants me to do an inspection of his new cavalry drills tomorrow. Aren’t we fortunate to have that man overseeing our innovations of our levies? Blind as a bat, yet smarter than all the rest of them combined. He is a wonder!”
Karloman shook his head in wonderment as he made his way slowly out of his room.
Bertrada remained, deep in thought.
Let us hope he takes my advice on Sigalis, the Queen is young, fertile and still has her looks. If he leaves her alone too long, she may find herself making a serious mistake. How fortunate then that he has no campaigns planned in the near future…
OOC: Just a quick update on the Saxons preparations and on Karloman's domestic life. He's pretty happy with how the thing with Adelchis turned out but the Saxons are beginning to make their preparations for their grand uprising, unbeknowest to the Franks. What will be the spark that lights Saxony ablaze? Widukind clearly has some idea. We shall see
Orders had gone, secretively flown from town to town in the dead of night. Weapons were stockpiled, alliances made, coin changed hands and promises whispered in dank, smokey halls. But the new war chief of the Saxon people sought to play his advantages carefully.
“We need to give them no sign of our plans,” Widukind had said to his war council, “I intend that our cooperation with our Frankish masters be nothing short of perfection for months, not a peep of resistance, from any of us.” He turned those unnerving black eyes around the room. “It is the will of the Gods that we avenge our fallen and rise from the ashes a new nation, but we must do so sensibly.”
“Is it not cowardly to pretend to be cravens, and lie down as dogs in the pit?”
It was those unnerving eyes that swiveled to round on the one who had spoke, Chief Uthred, “Deception in the service of victory is no vice,” Widukind had finally replied, “The Gods are just, and know that mens hearts matter more then their actions.”
Uthred fell silent, and it was Widukind, now firmly ensconsed as the figure in whom those Saxon men put their trust, who spoke again. “Our riders have gone east and north to rally those who still have larger populations of fighting men to spare. My scouts estimate that, if we stretch our recruitment capacity, we can raise around twelve thousand men. More than enough.”
“The Franks will not sit idle,” Uthred replied, “Especially if we begin behaving as though we are pacified,”
“King Karloman will no doubt seek to come east once he has wind of our movement it is true. But it’ll take months for him to raise substantial forces, and if we follow the plans our priestess has devised, we could have the whole of Saxony within our grasp by then.”
THAT made the men unhappy. They did not trust the tall, wild-haired priestess who had arrived with Widukind from the north, with her finger bones and her rituals. They whispered that the god Vali had placed dark sorcery at her command, sorcery which Widukind had also been associated with. Could anyone who consorted with such power be trusted?
Nevertheless, they had placed their faith in Widukind. What other choice did they have? Theodoric could not lead them, Wichimann’s death had left him broken by the trials of his life. Only an empty shell of a man lived inside him now, and with him had died the spirit of the Saxons. Only Widukind had any chance of reclaiming that spirit now.
And yet once they had gathered the men, they still needed a signal, a way to spark the uprising and inspire the rest of the beaten and bloodied Saxons to rise up in their support. How did they propose that would happen?
“Leave it to the priestess and I” was Widukind’s grim reply…
Paris, France.
Bertrada’s face rested upon her son with mild interest. “You got the Prince to cooperate.”
“Yes yes, rather easily actually,” he gave a lazy wave of his hand. “If the boy had been smart, he’d have fought his way out. Fortunately, we it didn’t occur to him that we might be trapping him into a pact he did not want.”
“The only downside now is if the boy finds a way to break the pact without causing diplomatic offence,” she added thoughtfully.
“Unless the Papacy decides to help him out, that’s unlikely,” Karloman cut in, “He made a betrothal pact, and it’s sealed and done. Either he follows the pact, and we get a Carolingian heir to the Lombard throne, or he breaks it, and provides an excuse for war. Spurned betrothals are grounds that will be acceptable, and his Holiness will not object, so long as we rid him of his Lombard problem.”
“Hmm,” Bertrada raised an eyebrow, “Just be sure Honorius doesn’t decide that you’ve replaced his Lombard problem with a Frankish problem.”
“Well, I’m still working on how to avoid that,” Karloman admitted, a sheepish grin crossing his face, “Will let you know how that goes.”
Is this what was meant to happen all along? She asked herself, Karl was the elder, all this was his by right. He should be sat in that chair, making these plans, having these discussions. And yet here the younger boy sits, and so far, with the sense to take my advice. Perhaps I misjudged him after all.
“Your wife is feeling neglected again,” Bertrada told him. Karloman’s eyes rolled in his head exasperatedly,
“I’d spend more time with her if she weren’t completely stupid and devoid of conversational ability” he muttered, grinding his teeth. “God knows Gerberga had some sense at least, Sigalis’s head has nothing in it but clothes and air.”
“Go to her tonight, get her pregnant again,” his mother advised, “It’ll give her something to fill her head with.”
He sighed again, but rose from his seat.
“I suppose I do need to sleep,” he muttered, “Marshal Maurad wants me to do an inspection of his new cavalry drills tomorrow. Aren’t we fortunate to have that man overseeing our innovations of our levies? Blind as a bat, yet smarter than all the rest of them combined. He is a wonder!”
Karloman shook his head in wonderment as he made his way slowly out of his room.
Bertrada remained, deep in thought.
Let us hope he takes my advice on Sigalis, the Queen is young, fertile and still has her looks. If he leaves her alone too long, she may find herself making a serious mistake. How fortunate then that he has no campaigns planned in the near future…
OOC: Just a quick update on the Saxons preparations and on Karloman's domestic life. He's pretty happy with how the thing with Adelchis turned out but the Saxons are beginning to make their preparations for their grand uprising, unbeknowest to the Franks. What will be the spark that lights Saxony ablaze? Widukind clearly has some idea. We shall see
- 1
Widukind plots but will Karloman have the last laugh? Does Adelchis have a glimmer of hope? What is Bertrada's master plan? My king, thank you for updating.
A very nice dynastic ploy from Karloman, I wonder how long it will take for Adelchis to have an "accident" or if the Lombard nobles might even accept such an arrangement.
A Saxon revolt sounds like the optimal time for the Umayyads to strike and the Lombards to break their deals, things are going to be very delicate.
It's nice to see mother and son getting along so well despite their...past differences, here's hoping that Sigalis manages to get a child to love.
A Saxon revolt sounds like the optimal time for the Umayyads to strike and the Lombards to break their deals, things are going to be very delicate.
It's nice to see mother and son getting along so well despite their...past differences, here's hoping that Sigalis manages to get a child to love.
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@slothinator Ha! We'll see how Sigalis goes. Yes, Bertrada is working for the greater good of the family now. If not Karloman, she has no King left of her line.
The Saxon revolt will certainly be a distraction for him, yes.
@Midnite Duke As always, thanks. Your support for this AAR has been wonderful the whole way through. Thanks should really be yours for consistently reading my ramblings and being so supportive of them all the way encouraging me to keep doing it
The Saxon revolt will certainly be a distraction for him, yes.
@Midnite Duke As always, thanks. Your support for this AAR has been wonderful the whole way through. Thanks should really be yours for consistently reading my ramblings and being so supportive of them all the way encouraging me to keep doing it
- 1
West Saxony, June, 775.
Chief Hesso’s jowls rumbled as he gave a great belching laugh at the joke told by one of his feast table intimates. For sure, the Chief of Lower Saxony was a man indubitably fond of his own pleasures. Since being granted control of these lands, and tasked by King Karloman with civilising his fellow countrymen who rejected the will of Holy Mother Church and the One True God, Hesso had not missed a moment to attend to the gluttony of his attitude. That said, despite the flagrant displays of his wealth and opulence, those who had begun his rule by underestimating him had quickly learned the folly of that practice, for the new Frankish installed chief of these lands proved an able administrator and reformer, able to squeeze a miser out of his last coin in tax and able to set up the missions in such a way that dozens of new local converts settled under the rule of the Christian God each and every day.
Perhaps it was this then, that made him such a symbol of the progress Francia had made in civilising the backward Saxons. For if one of their own could embrace God’s ways on his own, and then teach them to his fellows, then surely there remained hope for the rest of them?
It was this concept, that of Hesso as the forerunner of a new kind of Saxon, a loyal client of the Frankish king and subject to its growing Empire, who kept his followers bellies full and brought the benefits of civilisation and order to the desolate north, that had brought this newest visitor to his halls. Gladrug, a Saxon warrior from further north, had come to feast with Hesso.
“You want to join with us I take it?” Hesso asked as he had the wine brought forth at Gladrug’s request.
The trim, fit warrior nodded, “Aye, it’s time to accept the old ways are dying, whatever Theodoric and the others may believe.”
“Hmm, and how do we know your conversion is genuine?” Hesso asked, with a beady look coming over his corpulent face.
“I can offer something better than merely my service,” Gladrug smiled, All too easy, “Word of a revolt planned in Upper Saxony, Theodoric’s men murdered a tax collector there a week ago, which was the signal for a generalised uprising across all the northern tribes. They plan to seize the south right up to the east bank of the Rhine, declare Christians outlawed, and fortify the Rhine against Karloman before the winter sets in. They hope to hold it into the next year of the Christian calendar, and by that measure, if they succeed, the Franks will find it impossible to dislodge them once the Old Ways have returned, and once the tribes of Lower Saxony see that the Franks can be beaten.”
A-Ha! Hesso understood now why there had been such cooperation between his fellow Saxons and the Frankish soldiers he sent out to enforce the laws of the new order of things. Almost suspiciously compliant, his countrymen had been of late. Now he knew why.
“They murdered a tax collector hey? Well I think we can stop this insurrection dead in its tracks, thanks to your early warning Gladrug, Ulric!” he clapped his hand, summoning his steward,
“My lord?” the well-dressed Steward appeared, dressed in fine furs lined with a trim of silver, Are they all so decadent when they abandon the Old Ways? Gladrug thought disapprovingly, but he let nothing of his disgust show on his face.
“We have a problem. I’ll need to summon the garrison for a punitive expedition.”
“All the garrison my lord?”
“Yes all of them, are your ears stoppered all of a sudden?” Hesso snapped impatiently,
“I’ll… give the orders,” Ulric replied, bowing as he left.
“How large is your garrison force?” Gladrug was curious to know,
“About three thousand strong, why?” Hesso inquired,
Three thousand. Huh. Widukind’s priestess has a twisted sense of righteousness
“That will be more than enough,” Gladrug replied, not answering the question, “Is that enough then to earn my freedom if I were to convert to the New Ways and bend the knee to King Karloman?”
Hesso shook his head, “Oh no no no,” he wagged his finger at Gladrug, “You’re coming with us. I’ll need you to guide my men right to the spot of where this insurrection is being planned. Once I’ve seen for myself to confirm your story, then and only then will you receive what you ask for.”
Gladrug pretended to gnash his teeth in annoyance, “Fine,” he replied tartly, “I’ll guide your men,”
“Splendid,” Hesso replied, with a smile that was almost benign, “Do help me take care of them on the march, they’re good men,” he beamed with pride, as though he himself had anything to do with whether or not the troops had been well trained.
Surprisingly, the normally terse and taut Gladrug replied with an answering smile of his own.
“Oh don’t worry Hesso, I’ll take care of them.”
Several Weeks Later,
If the 3000 Frankish soldiers who ventured north under the command of Duke Hesso of Lower Saxony ever realised that Gladrug had disappeared into the wilderness before the arrows started flying and thousands of mad Saxon warriors had appeared on all sides to cut them down piece by piece, they never got a chance to vent their frustration. Over hours the Saxon horde whittled down the whole garrison until, by day’s end, barely a hundred men remained.
Duke Hesso fell on his sword at midnight while one of the Frankish officers, Phillipe, took fifty men and managed to hack his way through the Saxon advance and escape south back towards the safe lands of Lower Saxony. Around fifty survivors were captured, all that was left of the Frankish garrison on the east bank of the Rhine…
Chalons, Eastern Frankia. August 775.
“Are they too your liking, Majesty?” Duke Loup asked, curious as to what Karloman thought.
The new cavalry component had completed their drill, having paraded before the King of the Franks.
Smiling at the aging Duke of Gascony, Karloman smiled, “They are impressive, the blind Lion has done his work well.”
And we may need them in a future Italian campaign…
A disturbance at the far end of the field caught the King’s ear, shouts were heard, and a new figure was coming galloping towards the raised platform on which Karloman and Loup were stood.
The figure was dirtied with mud and dust, his horse covered in sweat which dripped off its flanks, it’s breathing heaved as it slowed to a trot and then halted for it’s rider to clumsily dismount, almost falling from his saddle as he did so.
“Something’s wrong,” the King frowned, making his way down from the platform, Loup following with a speed that belied his advancing age.
The mud-stained rider dropped to his knees, body swaying back and forth in a state of obvious exhaustion. From the state of him, and his horse, Karloman bet he had been riding non-stop, for days at least.
“What is the meaning of this?”
“Sire, News from Saxony.”
Sensing the note of doom in his voice, Karloman reacted quickly, Smiling at the onlookers who had been startled by the interloper, he quickly thanked them for their demonstration and dismissed them from the field, sensing that what the new arrival had to say was probably not best disseminated publicly.
“Now then, tell me what happened,” The King continued, returning his attention to the new arrival.
“Sire,” The man’s voice was halting, drawn, “Our garrison in Lower Saxony across the Rhine has been wiped out. Duke Hesso is dead, as are most of his attendants. All of Upper Saxony is in full revolt, and they are besieging the holdings of the Lower Saxons who refuse to join them. Over ten thousand Saxon warriors are in the field against us, they are raiding villages, destroying farms, stealing all the crops and livestock.”
Damn them all to hell. How can one civilise such a savage bunch?
“The whole garrison?” Karloman’s face had blanced. Loup had never seen the King look so genuinely frightened as he did now, “All of them?”
The man swallowed, nodded, “Aye sire. All three thousand men were dispatched to accompany Duke Hesso on a punitive expedition. One of the local guides, a Saxon convert, betrayed us as we marched through the forests of Upper Saxony. We were ambushed, picked off, and cut down one by one. Very few of us survived, Duke Hesso fell on his sword.”
“Three thousand men?” Loup thundered, “Hesso took the whole garrison on a punitive expedition?”
The soldier shrugged as Karloman and Loup exchanged incredulous glances. Fool. I should’ve placed a military man. I knew Saxony was ill-secured, but I never dreamed it was this bad. I thought… given time to settle down…
“How did you escape?” Duke Loup asked?
“Captain Phillipe and about fifty of us,” The man explained, “He alone kept his head, and we managed to cut our way out and head back south. We managed to warn some of the locals the Saxons were coming so they could flee towards the Rhine bridges, he sent me to ride west at full gallop, and planned to hold the bridges,” he hurried on before they could interrupt, “But whether he still holds them or not I cannot say.”
“Did they take any prisoners?” Karloman asked,
“Aye some,” the man replied, “But I don’t know what happened to them.”
Three thousand men. The whole of the garrison across the Rhine, gone, Lower Saxony besieged, Upper Saxony in revolt and the Rhine bridges gone or held by fifty men, it’s a catastrophe. Three thousand. The same number killed in the Blood Court. This was the signal they intended for a generalised uprising. While I played at Italian dynastic politics, my old enemies to the east were regrouping.
“Get me Bertrada and Marshal Maurice, now!” Karloman snapped to Loup, he nodded and hurried off, while Karloman kindly thanked the exhausted soldier and gave him a silver coin for his troubles, ordering him to his barracks for food and a hot bath.
He would need to assemble his council… For war had come again, and the Saxon threat had been reborn.
OOC: My average of posting has slowed down a lot due to RL work, all I can promise is that I will keep updating and I'll keep trying to make sure that when I do post, they're large and good-quality so far as possible. The Great Saxon uprising has finally begun though, so things are really coming to a head now and it's mostly Karloman vs Widukind for the next little while.
Chief Hesso’s jowls rumbled as he gave a great belching laugh at the joke told by one of his feast table intimates. For sure, the Chief of Lower Saxony was a man indubitably fond of his own pleasures. Since being granted control of these lands, and tasked by King Karloman with civilising his fellow countrymen who rejected the will of Holy Mother Church and the One True God, Hesso had not missed a moment to attend to the gluttony of his attitude. That said, despite the flagrant displays of his wealth and opulence, those who had begun his rule by underestimating him had quickly learned the folly of that practice, for the new Frankish installed chief of these lands proved an able administrator and reformer, able to squeeze a miser out of his last coin in tax and able to set up the missions in such a way that dozens of new local converts settled under the rule of the Christian God each and every day.
Perhaps it was this then, that made him such a symbol of the progress Francia had made in civilising the backward Saxons. For if one of their own could embrace God’s ways on his own, and then teach them to his fellows, then surely there remained hope for the rest of them?
It was this concept, that of Hesso as the forerunner of a new kind of Saxon, a loyal client of the Frankish king and subject to its growing Empire, who kept his followers bellies full and brought the benefits of civilisation and order to the desolate north, that had brought this newest visitor to his halls. Gladrug, a Saxon warrior from further north, had come to feast with Hesso.
“You want to join with us I take it?” Hesso asked as he had the wine brought forth at Gladrug’s request.
The trim, fit warrior nodded, “Aye, it’s time to accept the old ways are dying, whatever Theodoric and the others may believe.”
“Hmm, and how do we know your conversion is genuine?” Hesso asked, with a beady look coming over his corpulent face.
“I can offer something better than merely my service,” Gladrug smiled, All too easy, “Word of a revolt planned in Upper Saxony, Theodoric’s men murdered a tax collector there a week ago, which was the signal for a generalised uprising across all the northern tribes. They plan to seize the south right up to the east bank of the Rhine, declare Christians outlawed, and fortify the Rhine against Karloman before the winter sets in. They hope to hold it into the next year of the Christian calendar, and by that measure, if they succeed, the Franks will find it impossible to dislodge them once the Old Ways have returned, and once the tribes of Lower Saxony see that the Franks can be beaten.”
A-Ha! Hesso understood now why there had been such cooperation between his fellow Saxons and the Frankish soldiers he sent out to enforce the laws of the new order of things. Almost suspiciously compliant, his countrymen had been of late. Now he knew why.
“They murdered a tax collector hey? Well I think we can stop this insurrection dead in its tracks, thanks to your early warning Gladrug, Ulric!” he clapped his hand, summoning his steward,
“My lord?” the well-dressed Steward appeared, dressed in fine furs lined with a trim of silver, Are they all so decadent when they abandon the Old Ways? Gladrug thought disapprovingly, but he let nothing of his disgust show on his face.
“We have a problem. I’ll need to summon the garrison for a punitive expedition.”
“All the garrison my lord?”
“Yes all of them, are your ears stoppered all of a sudden?” Hesso snapped impatiently,
“I’ll… give the orders,” Ulric replied, bowing as he left.
“How large is your garrison force?” Gladrug was curious to know,
“About three thousand strong, why?” Hesso inquired,
Three thousand. Huh. Widukind’s priestess has a twisted sense of righteousness
“That will be more than enough,” Gladrug replied, not answering the question, “Is that enough then to earn my freedom if I were to convert to the New Ways and bend the knee to King Karloman?”
Hesso shook his head, “Oh no no no,” he wagged his finger at Gladrug, “You’re coming with us. I’ll need you to guide my men right to the spot of where this insurrection is being planned. Once I’ve seen for myself to confirm your story, then and only then will you receive what you ask for.”
Gladrug pretended to gnash his teeth in annoyance, “Fine,” he replied tartly, “I’ll guide your men,”
“Splendid,” Hesso replied, with a smile that was almost benign, “Do help me take care of them on the march, they’re good men,” he beamed with pride, as though he himself had anything to do with whether or not the troops had been well trained.
Surprisingly, the normally terse and taut Gladrug replied with an answering smile of his own.
“Oh don’t worry Hesso, I’ll take care of them.”
Several Weeks Later,
If the 3000 Frankish soldiers who ventured north under the command of Duke Hesso of Lower Saxony ever realised that Gladrug had disappeared into the wilderness before the arrows started flying and thousands of mad Saxon warriors had appeared on all sides to cut them down piece by piece, they never got a chance to vent their frustration. Over hours the Saxon horde whittled down the whole garrison until, by day’s end, barely a hundred men remained.
Duke Hesso fell on his sword at midnight while one of the Frankish officers, Phillipe, took fifty men and managed to hack his way through the Saxon advance and escape south back towards the safe lands of Lower Saxony. Around fifty survivors were captured, all that was left of the Frankish garrison on the east bank of the Rhine…
Chalons, Eastern Frankia. August 775.
“Are they too your liking, Majesty?” Duke Loup asked, curious as to what Karloman thought.
The new cavalry component had completed their drill, having paraded before the King of the Franks.
Smiling at the aging Duke of Gascony, Karloman smiled, “They are impressive, the blind Lion has done his work well.”
And we may need them in a future Italian campaign…
A disturbance at the far end of the field caught the King’s ear, shouts were heard, and a new figure was coming galloping towards the raised platform on which Karloman and Loup were stood.
The figure was dirtied with mud and dust, his horse covered in sweat which dripped off its flanks, it’s breathing heaved as it slowed to a trot and then halted for it’s rider to clumsily dismount, almost falling from his saddle as he did so.
“Something’s wrong,” the King frowned, making his way down from the platform, Loup following with a speed that belied his advancing age.
The mud-stained rider dropped to his knees, body swaying back and forth in a state of obvious exhaustion. From the state of him, and his horse, Karloman bet he had been riding non-stop, for days at least.
“What is the meaning of this?”
“Sire, News from Saxony.”
Sensing the note of doom in his voice, Karloman reacted quickly, Smiling at the onlookers who had been startled by the interloper, he quickly thanked them for their demonstration and dismissed them from the field, sensing that what the new arrival had to say was probably not best disseminated publicly.
“Now then, tell me what happened,” The King continued, returning his attention to the new arrival.
“Sire,” The man’s voice was halting, drawn, “Our garrison in Lower Saxony across the Rhine has been wiped out. Duke Hesso is dead, as are most of his attendants. All of Upper Saxony is in full revolt, and they are besieging the holdings of the Lower Saxons who refuse to join them. Over ten thousand Saxon warriors are in the field against us, they are raiding villages, destroying farms, stealing all the crops and livestock.”
Damn them all to hell. How can one civilise such a savage bunch?
“The whole garrison?” Karloman’s face had blanced. Loup had never seen the King look so genuinely frightened as he did now, “All of them?”
The man swallowed, nodded, “Aye sire. All three thousand men were dispatched to accompany Duke Hesso on a punitive expedition. One of the local guides, a Saxon convert, betrayed us as we marched through the forests of Upper Saxony. We were ambushed, picked off, and cut down one by one. Very few of us survived, Duke Hesso fell on his sword.”
“Three thousand men?” Loup thundered, “Hesso took the whole garrison on a punitive expedition?”
The soldier shrugged as Karloman and Loup exchanged incredulous glances. Fool. I should’ve placed a military man. I knew Saxony was ill-secured, but I never dreamed it was this bad. I thought… given time to settle down…
“How did you escape?” Duke Loup asked?
“Captain Phillipe and about fifty of us,” The man explained, “He alone kept his head, and we managed to cut our way out and head back south. We managed to warn some of the locals the Saxons were coming so they could flee towards the Rhine bridges, he sent me to ride west at full gallop, and planned to hold the bridges,” he hurried on before they could interrupt, “But whether he still holds them or not I cannot say.”
“Did they take any prisoners?” Karloman asked,
“Aye some,” the man replied, “But I don’t know what happened to them.”
Three thousand men. The whole of the garrison across the Rhine, gone, Lower Saxony besieged, Upper Saxony in revolt and the Rhine bridges gone or held by fifty men, it’s a catastrophe. Three thousand. The same number killed in the Blood Court. This was the signal they intended for a generalised uprising. While I played at Italian dynastic politics, my old enemies to the east were regrouping.
“Get me Bertrada and Marshal Maurice, now!” Karloman snapped to Loup, he nodded and hurried off, while Karloman kindly thanked the exhausted soldier and gave him a silver coin for his troubles, ordering him to his barracks for food and a hot bath.
He would need to assemble his council… For war had come again, and the Saxon threat had been reborn.
OOC: My average of posting has slowed down a lot due to RL work, all I can promise is that I will keep updating and I'll keep trying to make sure that when I do post, they're large and good-quality so far as possible. The Great Saxon uprising has finally begun though, so things are really coming to a head now and it's mostly Karloman vs Widukind for the next little while.
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Great Post! Food, Clothing and Shelter must come first! My King, even if we double your wage, you will be unable to fulfill even one. We will gladly take the scraps of your time without complaint. Good Luck, my King and please do not allow treacherous Saxons to waylay you!
Oh my, they never learn, the echo of Teutoburg is heard from far away.
I'm looking forward to how Karloman will handle the revolt. Might it be too much even for him?
I'm looking forward to how Karloman will handle the revolt. Might it be too much even for him?
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Yeah, I was wondering if you'd catch the similarities to Teutoberg
Karloman is certainly rattled right now, but he's done a lot of growing into his role since the beginning, so now we put that to the test.
As for the next post, I am working on it still, it's close to being ready but not quite done yet, so I should have it up in a couple of days. I had hoped it would be earlier but it didn't pan out that way.
Instead, let me share some thoughts about how this story is going to develop in terms of my style going forward. The early posts have, obviously, been very heavily focused on Karloman and he's going to be the central character for the next while, but all the other characters in his orbit who are significant (Bertrada, Maurad the Blind and others) will still be getting some focus, with more added to as time goes on. Also, once these next couple of conflicts are wrapped up, I'll begin zooming in on Karloman's children and making them characters in their own right, particularly his son, Pepin, who is too young to have much of an impact on the story yet, but will be getting an introduction soon. I haven't focused much on any of Karloman's children yet because I find it very hard to write much about characters who aren't of an age where they're starting an education, so I'm making a 'six or seven' rule where if I have a central character who is going to be focused on a lot, that's the earliest age at which I'll start writing from their viewpoint, so I have something tangible to talk about. The day is fast approaching where I can write about Pepin though, and I suspect he and Karloman will soon be more like co-equals in the story rather then just having one central character. As much as I like writing Karloman I do think the story needs to include other central viewpoints as well, particularly those of his family and equals, so I'll be starting on writing Pepin fairly soon and will probably do the occasional bit from Bertrada's POV as well.
For those who are interested though, Karloman at this point in the story has three children, Pepin, Gaudildas and Framberta, aged 6, 5 and 1 respectively. The first two are Gerberga's children, the son and eldest daughter, while Framberta is Sigalis's kid. I'll try to be more precise in specifying when children come from now on because they'll get more important. The early years of Karloman's reign were so war-focused that it's quite hard to get in all those little details as well as all the more significant stuff with Saxons, Lombards and... other enemies (hint hint, am I hinting at a new antagonist soon? You betcha).
Also, a word on traits. I'll try to mostly write the characters with the traits they have in the game, though I'll rarely explicitly label them such. Karloman, for example, had both 'Envious' and 'Ambitious' as well as 'Deceitful' and 'Chaste' so I try to write those aspects of his character into the narrative naturally, without necessarily being too heavy-handed in telling you about them. In Karloman's case, I tried to show that in his relationship with his brother, his mother, his insecurities over his throne and his methods for gaining and securing it. Same with other characters. I will occasionally take artistic licence with the traits if I think portraying a character differently than their game persona works better (Widukind, for example, probably did not have black eyes and an evil 'sorceress' advising him, but I had an idea I thought was better and ran with it). Let me know if that way of doing things is working for you or if you want me to be a bit more explicit with that sort of stuff in future.
Finally, on screenshots. I don't tend to use them much, but I will occasionally, and if you want more, tell me and I'll try to use more. I usually have them for important moments (Significant battles, coronations, deaths, maybe occasionally a snapshot of a highly significant character, as I did for Adelchis). If you'd like more, please let me know, but otherwise I'll keep doing what I'm doing, which is using them, but fairly sparingly.
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I agree with all your points here and I appreciate how your style manifests. I'm excited to meet Pepin and see what he's like!
As for screenshots, I think the current setup works well; I like seeing maps in general (it comes with the games I guess) but it's reasonable to use them sparingly.
Keep up the good work!
As for screenshots, I think the current setup works well; I like seeing maps in general (it comes with the games I guess) but it's reasonable to use them sparingly.
Keep up the good work!
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