This is one of the best process explanations that I have read. The minimal use of screenshots is wonderful as too many writers use the screenshots as a crutch and use wonderful prose to repeat what is shown in the screenshot. Let Karloman dominate as this part is his story and we meet others through his eyes, later we will have Pepin's or other heir's, if he is unfortunate, story. Possible tools to use include ( ) , note at bottom of narrative or an overview every ten to fifteen chapters. My favorite pieces of info are age, stats (stats geek, sue me) and education. An example of ( ) would be Peksen (35yo 7-5-5-3-15 L4). Thank you very much for the update and please be safe.
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September 775,
His mother and Loup had cautioned him to wait for the assembly of a larger host, but Karloman had ignored them, electing instead to ride east within days of the news of the massacre with only around a thousand men gathered under arms, with the rest still mobilising across the vast Frankish realm. He had deemed it vital to secure the Rhine bridges and prevent the Saxons from spilling over into Frankia proper.
As it so happened he needn’t have bothered, as the King and his retinue arrived to find the bridges intact, no substantial panic along the nearby roads, and reports only that the Saxon rebels were running amok in Lower Saxony.
“We’ll hold the bridges here while we wait for the rest of my leal lords to join us,” Karloman decreed, “A thousand here can hold the crossing for months if necessary.”
The King’s confidence began to return as the next weeks passed, and no signs of a Saxon force appeared on the other side of the river, prompting him to detach dozens of fast-moving scouts on horseback across the Rhine bridges to scour the locations of the Saxon force as slowly the Frankish lords and their retinues began to arrive.
It was November by the time the King felt confident in his scout’s reports. Apparently, the Saxon host, numbering around twelve thousand men, had split into three, each comprised of roughly four thousand. The first group had marched east, towards the Elbe, seeking to re-take the most far-flung of Saxon territories from the Frankish forces still occupying it. The second group had marched south, invading the virtually unprotected lands of Lower Saxony, pillaging towns and slaughtering Christians and local Frankish officials. The third had marched west, and was now camped astride the village of Wetzlar.
“We should strike when we’ve mustered around eight thousand men,” the Blind Lion Maurad advised the King, “Any longer delay and the Saxons might gain an unassailable advantage, but any fewer, and we may not have the strength to deal with them,”
The rest of Karloman’s commanders agreed, and so did he,
“Yes, we’re fortunate they’ve chosen to split their ranks,” Karloman frowned, “A puzzling decision? I wonder why they could have taken it? Perhaps there is dissension in their ranks? Or perhaps they are merely confident enough of victory that they believe themselves unassailable?”
“Theodoric doesn’t strike me as a man who tolerates that,” Maurad replied,
“He doesn’t strike me as a man who would launch such a vicious revolt so soon after he learns the consequences of allowing that sort of action either,” Karloman replied, biting his lip, “Perhaps he doesn’t lead it? We’ve had no word on any new figures in Saxon positions of late, but the rebellion was quite sudden, so perhaps we’ve simply lacked the necessary intelligence to anticipate it.”…
Lower Saxony,
The new figure leading the Saxon Rebellion had clambered to the stop of the raised wooden dais that had been constructed for him after his latest victory. Though describing said victory as a ‘battle’ would’ve been too credit it too much. Only a few dozen poorly-equipped militiamen had risen up to defend their homes, no match for the skilled and ferocious Saxon warriors, and with the regular garrison largely annihilated, the whole of Lower Saxony was open to his men.
But Widukind had not rested on his laurels, and word that the King of the Franks had arrived on the Rhine sooner than anticipated had prompted him to hold the new ceremony. The Priestess herself had been urging it for some time, and she had proven herself right, yet again.
Clad in that heavy leather, he strode to the top of the dais and raised his arms skyward to the Heavens, as a roar went out over the assembled warriors, their blood up from the success of the day. Yes, she was right, it was time.
The roar became silence as he lowered his arms again, as though a great wave had swept across the crowd and smothered their tongues to prevent further speech.
“A great victory we have won!” He cried, laying it on thick. He knew full well these men had not yet fought even the vanguard of the Frankish force that was to come, with it’s horsemen clad in steel, with those large Frankish broadswords that cleaved so terrible a path through men and shield.
“A victory for which we must give sacrifice to the Gods!” Widukind cried, and the Priestess strode up upon the dais, her ragged black cloak trailing behind her as a long black train. She did not smile at the sight of her victory, but then, she never did.
A great cage made of wicker stood behind Widukind on the dais, with a large dog’s rug thrown over it. It was the priestess now who cast the rug aside, and let hundreds present spy the wretched sight within.
Stripped to his loins, old Chief Theodoric sat, shivering and shackled, his eyes were widened and white, and his teeth chattered audibly in the night. A gasp rose up from the assembled warriors at the sight, followed by a low murmur.
“Do not fear the cold, Grand Chief. You shall not feel it long.” The Priestess said, her voice was soft, but there was neither kindness nor warmth within it.
Widukind spoke again.
“For such triumphs, we must give praise! And sacrifice! Sacrifice is what has won us this day, and sacrifice will carry us forward to victory, for Saxony and for the old ways, the old Gods!”
Those black eyes seemed to burn in the night and some of the men seemed to feel a sharp shiver, as though a cold snap of the weather had suddenly turned their bones to frost. Though perhaps it was mere fancy, as their new leader stood, his unnerving priestess at his side.
“And what better sacrifice for the first then to sacrifice those whose failures brought us to this point? The wretched low to which we were brought?” He swept his hands from side to side, and some men cheered. This was carefully planned, as some of Widukind’s most loyal retainers had been stationed throughout the assembled force. “Only the blood of those whose abject cowardice led to the destruction of the Old Gods can satitate Vali’s lust for vengeance!” He cried.
He raised a knife high into the air, which he had produced from beneath his jerkin. The priestess reached her hands through the bars and roughly pulled the wretched old man in the cage to his feet. A few retainers strode forth to help her, and they tied the wicker cage to a small stake that protruded from the front of the wooden platform, where all who had assembled could see it.
Some began jeering at the sight of the wretched old man, frightened, shaking as he was. Widukind’s again, but it was not only they. The fever swept through the crowd, and within barely minutes, others were jeering and chanting too, shrieking loudly in the night.
“And oh what great treachery it was, that our leaders should bend knee and pass before the Frankish yoke even as the World Tree burned around them!” Widukind thundered, to more roars and jeers. The crowd was well and truly worked up now.
“Only a sacrifice can appease Vali’s anger at this transgression, this humiliation that the Gods have suffered, and only a sacrifice will redeem our people of their shameful surrender, and grant us the blessing to break the back of the Frankish oppressor! Must we sacrifice?”
“Kill him! Kill him!” The crowd jeered, and it was very clear whom they meant.
Like a wretched bull being led for slaughter, Poor Theodoric barely cried out as the blade pierced his chest, giving a soft, low mournful cry as he began to bleed. Quickly, the priestess lit the torch, and passed it to Widukind, who let it hang, suspended in the air for a few moments,
“Vali give us strength!” He chanted, “Vali grant us the power to drive off the darkness of the heathen Gods, and the foreign yoke!”
The priestess took up the cry as Widukind advanced towards the cage with the torch, “Vali grant your champion power! Vali grant us the strength to win!”
“Vali, Vali!” The assembled force cried as the wicker cage went up alight.
“Vali! Vali!” They cried as the wretched old man’s screams split the sky as the flame consumed him. To those few onlookers who felt compelled to tear their eyes away from the horrible spectacle and onto Widukind, he seemed to grow an inch taller, and his black eyes leered menacingly down into the assembled crowd from the dais.
“This I vow to Vali, and to you!” Widukind thundered, “When the war is won, and the Frankish force defeated, I shall plant the seeds of a new Yggdrasil! A new World Tree, for a new Saxony, that respects its gods, honours its heritage! A Saxony that will never again bend knee to the yoke of a foreign ruler!”
“For Saxony!” The frenzied force cried,
“For Widukind!” The Priestess cried, and the crowd answered.
Poor Theodoric was not the only one to die in this manner on that grisly night, for several dozen Frankish prisoners met the same fate, to be set alight within the cages. Once the brutal deed was done, Widukind had the priestess collect the ashes, and pledged that the ashes of the invaders would mark the site in which the sapling of the new World Tree would be planted, so the new Saxony would grow upon the ashes of the invaders they had crushed to bring it about.
And so with blood and fire, the sacrifice, and the fealty of Saxony’s warriors to their new lord, was sealed.
“King! King!” They cried, “King Widukind!”
This was what the Priestess had planned, though she did not say so, but even her features seemed to soften with a satisfied smirk as Widukind was dragged from the dais by his frenzied warriors, lifted high atop their shoulders and paraded around the clearing.
It all transpired as Vali predicted, she thought, and his Champion now rules as King, just as it must be before Ragnorak comes.
November, 775
His scouts had reported movement, The Saxons were besieging Berg, the Frankish fort that was closest to the Rhine bridges on the east bank.
For Karloman, it was time to decide. Barely eight thousand men at his command, facing an enemy that was determined, ruthless and savage in its ferocity. Could he ever civilise them? He had believed himself victorious before, become complacent in his triumph, failed to see that which festered beneath the surface of the serene, orderly peace he had brought to those savage lands.
A mistake he had paid for, but one that did not need to ruin him.
More of his forces were due to come, of that he had no doubt, but too wait for them? If Berg fell, all of Saxony might well rise up, convinced he was not coming, that he was trapped on the other side of the Rhine or worse, that he was afraid to face them, content to leave Saxony to fall back into savagery and paganism if only he could protect his own borders.
He remembered a night, many years ago, training with his father’s quartermaster and his sons, two older boys. He and his brother had sparred with him with sticks, night after night for months. The quartermaster’s son had given him a particularly severe thrashing one night, leaving him bruised and terrified in the grass afterward.
“Why did he do it?” the terrified boy had asked “Why did he not stop when I fell?”
His older brother’s voice, so clear and imposing even then, came through the fog of years to rise to the forefront of his mind, unbidden,
“Because you were afraid brother,” Karl had said, “Never let them know you are afraid.”
Never let them know you are afraid…
“Those still yet to come can cross later and meet with us on the other bank of the river, and reinforce us” the King said to himself. “We march at dawn with what we have.”
The Saxons would not see that he was afraid.
OOC: Big one today, with Widukind really taking centre stage as the threat and Karloman going into the field directly to oppose him. How will the war shape up? I've begun writing the next post, so we'll see
His mother and Loup had cautioned him to wait for the assembly of a larger host, but Karloman had ignored them, electing instead to ride east within days of the news of the massacre with only around a thousand men gathered under arms, with the rest still mobilising across the vast Frankish realm. He had deemed it vital to secure the Rhine bridges and prevent the Saxons from spilling over into Frankia proper.
As it so happened he needn’t have bothered, as the King and his retinue arrived to find the bridges intact, no substantial panic along the nearby roads, and reports only that the Saxon rebels were running amok in Lower Saxony.
“We’ll hold the bridges here while we wait for the rest of my leal lords to join us,” Karloman decreed, “A thousand here can hold the crossing for months if necessary.”
The King’s confidence began to return as the next weeks passed, and no signs of a Saxon force appeared on the other side of the river, prompting him to detach dozens of fast-moving scouts on horseback across the Rhine bridges to scour the locations of the Saxon force as slowly the Frankish lords and their retinues began to arrive.
It was November by the time the King felt confident in his scout’s reports. Apparently, the Saxon host, numbering around twelve thousand men, had split into three, each comprised of roughly four thousand. The first group had marched east, towards the Elbe, seeking to re-take the most far-flung of Saxon territories from the Frankish forces still occupying it. The second group had marched south, invading the virtually unprotected lands of Lower Saxony, pillaging towns and slaughtering Christians and local Frankish officials. The third had marched west, and was now camped astride the village of Wetzlar.
“We should strike when we’ve mustered around eight thousand men,” the Blind Lion Maurad advised the King, “Any longer delay and the Saxons might gain an unassailable advantage, but any fewer, and we may not have the strength to deal with them,”
The rest of Karloman’s commanders agreed, and so did he,
“Yes, we’re fortunate they’ve chosen to split their ranks,” Karloman frowned, “A puzzling decision? I wonder why they could have taken it? Perhaps there is dissension in their ranks? Or perhaps they are merely confident enough of victory that they believe themselves unassailable?”
“Theodoric doesn’t strike me as a man who tolerates that,” Maurad replied,
“He doesn’t strike me as a man who would launch such a vicious revolt so soon after he learns the consequences of allowing that sort of action either,” Karloman replied, biting his lip, “Perhaps he doesn’t lead it? We’ve had no word on any new figures in Saxon positions of late, but the rebellion was quite sudden, so perhaps we’ve simply lacked the necessary intelligence to anticipate it.”…
Lower Saxony,
The new figure leading the Saxon Rebellion had clambered to the stop of the raised wooden dais that had been constructed for him after his latest victory. Though describing said victory as a ‘battle’ would’ve been too credit it too much. Only a few dozen poorly-equipped militiamen had risen up to defend their homes, no match for the skilled and ferocious Saxon warriors, and with the regular garrison largely annihilated, the whole of Lower Saxony was open to his men.
But Widukind had not rested on his laurels, and word that the King of the Franks had arrived on the Rhine sooner than anticipated had prompted him to hold the new ceremony. The Priestess herself had been urging it for some time, and she had proven herself right, yet again.
Clad in that heavy leather, he strode to the top of the dais and raised his arms skyward to the Heavens, as a roar went out over the assembled warriors, their blood up from the success of the day. Yes, she was right, it was time.
The roar became silence as he lowered his arms again, as though a great wave had swept across the crowd and smothered their tongues to prevent further speech.
“A great victory we have won!” He cried, laying it on thick. He knew full well these men had not yet fought even the vanguard of the Frankish force that was to come, with it’s horsemen clad in steel, with those large Frankish broadswords that cleaved so terrible a path through men and shield.
“A victory for which we must give sacrifice to the Gods!” Widukind cried, and the Priestess strode up upon the dais, her ragged black cloak trailing behind her as a long black train. She did not smile at the sight of her victory, but then, she never did.
A great cage made of wicker stood behind Widukind on the dais, with a large dog’s rug thrown over it. It was the priestess now who cast the rug aside, and let hundreds present spy the wretched sight within.
Stripped to his loins, old Chief Theodoric sat, shivering and shackled, his eyes were widened and white, and his teeth chattered audibly in the night. A gasp rose up from the assembled warriors at the sight, followed by a low murmur.
“Do not fear the cold, Grand Chief. You shall not feel it long.” The Priestess said, her voice was soft, but there was neither kindness nor warmth within it.
Widukind spoke again.
“For such triumphs, we must give praise! And sacrifice! Sacrifice is what has won us this day, and sacrifice will carry us forward to victory, for Saxony and for the old ways, the old Gods!”
Those black eyes seemed to burn in the night and some of the men seemed to feel a sharp shiver, as though a cold snap of the weather had suddenly turned their bones to frost. Though perhaps it was mere fancy, as their new leader stood, his unnerving priestess at his side.
“And what better sacrifice for the first then to sacrifice those whose failures brought us to this point? The wretched low to which we were brought?” He swept his hands from side to side, and some men cheered. This was carefully planned, as some of Widukind’s most loyal retainers had been stationed throughout the assembled force. “Only the blood of those whose abject cowardice led to the destruction of the Old Gods can satitate Vali’s lust for vengeance!” He cried.
He raised a knife high into the air, which he had produced from beneath his jerkin. The priestess reached her hands through the bars and roughly pulled the wretched old man in the cage to his feet. A few retainers strode forth to help her, and they tied the wicker cage to a small stake that protruded from the front of the wooden platform, where all who had assembled could see it.
Some began jeering at the sight of the wretched old man, frightened, shaking as he was. Widukind’s again, but it was not only they. The fever swept through the crowd, and within barely minutes, others were jeering and chanting too, shrieking loudly in the night.
“And oh what great treachery it was, that our leaders should bend knee and pass before the Frankish yoke even as the World Tree burned around them!” Widukind thundered, to more roars and jeers. The crowd was well and truly worked up now.
“Only a sacrifice can appease Vali’s anger at this transgression, this humiliation that the Gods have suffered, and only a sacrifice will redeem our people of their shameful surrender, and grant us the blessing to break the back of the Frankish oppressor! Must we sacrifice?”
“Kill him! Kill him!” The crowd jeered, and it was very clear whom they meant.
Like a wretched bull being led for slaughter, Poor Theodoric barely cried out as the blade pierced his chest, giving a soft, low mournful cry as he began to bleed. Quickly, the priestess lit the torch, and passed it to Widukind, who let it hang, suspended in the air for a few moments,
“Vali give us strength!” He chanted, “Vali grant us the power to drive off the darkness of the heathen Gods, and the foreign yoke!”
The priestess took up the cry as Widukind advanced towards the cage with the torch, “Vali grant your champion power! Vali grant us the strength to win!”
“Vali, Vali!” The assembled force cried as the wicker cage went up alight.
“Vali! Vali!” They cried as the wretched old man’s screams split the sky as the flame consumed him. To those few onlookers who felt compelled to tear their eyes away from the horrible spectacle and onto Widukind, he seemed to grow an inch taller, and his black eyes leered menacingly down into the assembled crowd from the dais.
“This I vow to Vali, and to you!” Widukind thundered, “When the war is won, and the Frankish force defeated, I shall plant the seeds of a new Yggdrasil! A new World Tree, for a new Saxony, that respects its gods, honours its heritage! A Saxony that will never again bend knee to the yoke of a foreign ruler!”
“For Saxony!” The frenzied force cried,
“For Widukind!” The Priestess cried, and the crowd answered.
Poor Theodoric was not the only one to die in this manner on that grisly night, for several dozen Frankish prisoners met the same fate, to be set alight within the cages. Once the brutal deed was done, Widukind had the priestess collect the ashes, and pledged that the ashes of the invaders would mark the site in which the sapling of the new World Tree would be planted, so the new Saxony would grow upon the ashes of the invaders they had crushed to bring it about.
And so with blood and fire, the sacrifice, and the fealty of Saxony’s warriors to their new lord, was sealed.
“King! King!” They cried, “King Widukind!”
This was what the Priestess had planned, though she did not say so, but even her features seemed to soften with a satisfied smirk as Widukind was dragged from the dais by his frenzied warriors, lifted high atop their shoulders and paraded around the clearing.
It all transpired as Vali predicted, she thought, and his Champion now rules as King, just as it must be before Ragnorak comes.
November, 775
His scouts had reported movement, The Saxons were besieging Berg, the Frankish fort that was closest to the Rhine bridges on the east bank.
For Karloman, it was time to decide. Barely eight thousand men at his command, facing an enemy that was determined, ruthless and savage in its ferocity. Could he ever civilise them? He had believed himself victorious before, become complacent in his triumph, failed to see that which festered beneath the surface of the serene, orderly peace he had brought to those savage lands.
A mistake he had paid for, but one that did not need to ruin him.
More of his forces were due to come, of that he had no doubt, but too wait for them? If Berg fell, all of Saxony might well rise up, convinced he was not coming, that he was trapped on the other side of the Rhine or worse, that he was afraid to face them, content to leave Saxony to fall back into savagery and paganism if only he could protect his own borders.
He remembered a night, many years ago, training with his father’s quartermaster and his sons, two older boys. He and his brother had sparred with him with sticks, night after night for months. The quartermaster’s son had given him a particularly severe thrashing one night, leaving him bruised and terrified in the grass afterward.
“Why did he do it?” the terrified boy had asked “Why did he not stop when I fell?”
His older brother’s voice, so clear and imposing even then, came through the fog of years to rise to the forefront of his mind, unbidden,
“Because you were afraid brother,” Karl had said, “Never let them know you are afraid.”
Never let them know you are afraid…
“Those still yet to come can cross later and meet with us on the other bank of the river, and reinforce us” the King said to himself. “We march at dawn with what we have.”
The Saxons would not see that he was afraid.
OOC: Big one today, with Widukind really taking centre stage as the threat and Karloman going into the field directly to oppose him. How will the war shape up? I've begun writing the next post, so we'll see
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Poor Theoderic did not deserve such an end, he tried to do his best for his people but alas he failed.
The war should lean in Karloman's favor but there are significant risks throughout and we've seen that capture is not a pleasant fate.
However, since the blood court was the outcome of a regular invasion, I expect that Karloman's revenge will be all the more brutal for a rebellion of this magnitude.
The war should lean in Karloman's favor but there are significant risks throughout and we've seen that capture is not a pleasant fate.
However, since the blood court was the outcome of a regular invasion, I expect that Karloman's revenge will be all the more brutal for a rebellion of this magnitude.
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Whether Karloman might have been fared well in his gamble was never actually tested in battle. The Saxons broke off the siege of Berg, pulling up stakes and marching east after only a few minor cavalry skirmishes with the advancing Franks. Though the more experienced and heavier Frankish horse came off the better of these engagements, it was clear the Saxons had learned from their prior mistakes, it would not be as easy to tempt them into pitched battle this time.
Arriving in the fort, Karloman had found half the men in it dead and nearly all others sick or wounded in some way. His relief force had clearly arrived only just in time, but it had been a near run thing.
“I was right to march across the Rhine when I did,” Karloman told Maurad as they stood together atop the walls of the battered fort, overseeing some swift repairs to the structural damage. “Another few days, and the Saxons might have been able to block us off from advancing any further.”
That said, Karloman’s scouts did learn useful information in the following days. Namely, the change in leadership of the Saxon tribes that apparently served as the impetus for this new revolt.
“So, Theodoric is dead,”
“Aye sovereign,” the scout captain bowed his head. “This… Widukind had usurped him and seized his warriors, calling for a new insurrection, and then, once he had his position, he had Theodoric killed"
“How do we know for sure?”
“One of the Saxons we captured saw it happen, they stripped him down to his loins and had him burned in a wicker cage… Along with some of our prisoners.” The scout replied grimly.
“God have mercy on them,” Karloman muttered. The King did not invoke the name of the Lord as strictly as his chaplain often said he should do, so his doing so indicated just how much this piece of information disturbed them.
“Theodoric was not a friend of ours, but he didn’t deserve that fate,” Maurad cut in, the blind lion’s ageing face visibly disturbed by this news.
“Indeed,” The King nodded, face turned to flint and steel. “Nor did our prisoners. It only strengthens my resolve to put down this revolt once and for all. Saxony MUST be passive and quiet, and if I have to butcher every tribal village between the Rhine and the Elbe to make her mine, I shall do it.”
He said it quietly, but a chill emanated from his words in a way that made those present experience a slight frission of fear…
Paderborn, Saxony, Foot of the World Tree.
The second of the religious duties of the newly-crowned King Widukind was far less vicious than the first, namely, the planting of the saplings where he had sprinkled the ashes of the slain atop the site of where the World Tree had once stood. The saplings would, in time, sprout and grow, marking the return of the Old Gods, the old ways, and the birth of a new Saxony.
The news of the breaking of the siege at Berg did not visibly disturb Widukind, nor did the news that King Karloman was now on the eastern side of the Rhine.
“The Frankish King is not one to surrender lightly,” he remarked to his murmuring chieftains, “Just because he has arrived sooner than expected, does not mean we should be surprised by his advent.”
The grumbling was two-fold, first, not all were happy about Widukind’s kingship. He was a stranger to many of them, a strange man who walked strange roads and had been absent for years until his recent return. Not a true man of Saxony, instead he had raided and looted his way through the conflicts of their northern neighbours. He had earned great fame and renown yes, but none truly KNEW him. A chieftain had to accept the advice of his fellows, had to persuade and lead by example. But a King could rule, and his word was law.
And secondly, the original hinge of Widukind’s war plans had been gambling that the Franks would have taken at least a further month too fully mobilise before sending their forces over the Rhine. By that point, Widukind had hoped to have bottled the Rhine crossing up and nearly completed the reconquest of virtually undefended Saxony. It was clear this part of the plan had now failed.
Instead, Widukind had given two separate tranches of orders. For the force of around 4000 that had broken off the siege of Berg, Widukind ordered them northwards, and to shadow King Karloman’s force as he marched east. If he marched for Widukind and the largest of the three Saxon encampments at Paderborn, the Frankish King would have to contend with a force of eight thousand men on two different flanks of his army.
As for the force further east, Widukind ordered them merely to hold position on the west bank of the Elbe and draw reinforcements from the few Saxon communities in Holstein. The area was nominally part of Saxony, but the Franks had barely seemed to bother administering it, on account of its small size and scant importance. Widukind fully intended to tap the resources and manpower of the region to help give him the forces to throw back the Franks…
OOC: Bit of manuovering of armies around this post, but not a lot of battle yet. That's coming up next posts! The pieces are on the board, now they just have to clash
@slothinator, Yeah, Poor Theodoric failed a lot. That said, I'm not sure his people would fare any better under Widukind than other Karloman honestly...
And yes, there's a touch of how resolved Karloman is to ensure there are no more Saxon revolts in this chapter. And he's certainly shown before he's quite willing to get bloody hands if he has too. We'll see how it plays out.
Thanks a bunch for everyone leaving a like, a comment or just plain reading! It really is the best motivation for me too continue this AAR as I continue to write up the campaign into story form. Thanks for sticking through all the nonsense, and I promise plenty more to come as long as people want more!
Arriving in the fort, Karloman had found half the men in it dead and nearly all others sick or wounded in some way. His relief force had clearly arrived only just in time, but it had been a near run thing.
“I was right to march across the Rhine when I did,” Karloman told Maurad as they stood together atop the walls of the battered fort, overseeing some swift repairs to the structural damage. “Another few days, and the Saxons might have been able to block us off from advancing any further.”
That said, Karloman’s scouts did learn useful information in the following days. Namely, the change in leadership of the Saxon tribes that apparently served as the impetus for this new revolt.
“So, Theodoric is dead,”
“Aye sovereign,” the scout captain bowed his head. “This… Widukind had usurped him and seized his warriors, calling for a new insurrection, and then, once he had his position, he had Theodoric killed"
“How do we know for sure?”
“One of the Saxons we captured saw it happen, they stripped him down to his loins and had him burned in a wicker cage… Along with some of our prisoners.” The scout replied grimly.
“God have mercy on them,” Karloman muttered. The King did not invoke the name of the Lord as strictly as his chaplain often said he should do, so his doing so indicated just how much this piece of information disturbed them.
“Theodoric was not a friend of ours, but he didn’t deserve that fate,” Maurad cut in, the blind lion’s ageing face visibly disturbed by this news.
“Indeed,” The King nodded, face turned to flint and steel. “Nor did our prisoners. It only strengthens my resolve to put down this revolt once and for all. Saxony MUST be passive and quiet, and if I have to butcher every tribal village between the Rhine and the Elbe to make her mine, I shall do it.”
He said it quietly, but a chill emanated from his words in a way that made those present experience a slight frission of fear…
Paderborn, Saxony, Foot of the World Tree.
The second of the religious duties of the newly-crowned King Widukind was far less vicious than the first, namely, the planting of the saplings where he had sprinkled the ashes of the slain atop the site of where the World Tree had once stood. The saplings would, in time, sprout and grow, marking the return of the Old Gods, the old ways, and the birth of a new Saxony.
The news of the breaking of the siege at Berg did not visibly disturb Widukind, nor did the news that King Karloman was now on the eastern side of the Rhine.
“The Frankish King is not one to surrender lightly,” he remarked to his murmuring chieftains, “Just because he has arrived sooner than expected, does not mean we should be surprised by his advent.”
The grumbling was two-fold, first, not all were happy about Widukind’s kingship. He was a stranger to many of them, a strange man who walked strange roads and had been absent for years until his recent return. Not a true man of Saxony, instead he had raided and looted his way through the conflicts of their northern neighbours. He had earned great fame and renown yes, but none truly KNEW him. A chieftain had to accept the advice of his fellows, had to persuade and lead by example. But a King could rule, and his word was law.
And secondly, the original hinge of Widukind’s war plans had been gambling that the Franks would have taken at least a further month too fully mobilise before sending their forces over the Rhine. By that point, Widukind had hoped to have bottled the Rhine crossing up and nearly completed the reconquest of virtually undefended Saxony. It was clear this part of the plan had now failed.
Instead, Widukind had given two separate tranches of orders. For the force of around 4000 that had broken off the siege of Berg, Widukind ordered them northwards, and to shadow King Karloman’s force as he marched east. If he marched for Widukind and the largest of the three Saxon encampments at Paderborn, the Frankish King would have to contend with a force of eight thousand men on two different flanks of his army.
As for the force further east, Widukind ordered them merely to hold position on the west bank of the Elbe and draw reinforcements from the few Saxon communities in Holstein. The area was nominally part of Saxony, but the Franks had barely seemed to bother administering it, on account of its small size and scant importance. Widukind fully intended to tap the resources and manpower of the region to help give him the forces to throw back the Franks…
OOC: Bit of manuovering of armies around this post, but not a lot of battle yet. That's coming up next posts! The pieces are on the board, now they just have to clash
@slothinator, Yeah, Poor Theodoric failed a lot. That said, I'm not sure his people would fare any better under Widukind than other Karloman honestly...
And yes, there's a touch of how resolved Karloman is to ensure there are no more Saxon revolts in this chapter. And he's certainly shown before he's quite willing to get bloody hands if he has too. We'll see how it plays out.
Thanks a bunch for everyone leaving a like, a comment or just plain reading! It really is the best motivation for me too continue this AAR as I continue to write up the campaign into story form. Thanks for sticking through all the nonsense, and I promise plenty more to come as long as people want more!
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Please, Please continue my King. To the poor Saxon people following a religious madman is still following a madman. Saxony, Father Time marches on and is relentless, there is no returning to Old Ways.
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Just an update. I've been working on the next post, slowly but surely, but been distracted by some RL issues. I haven't forgotten this, it was just slower going than usual Should be a more regularised schedule from this week onwards. Thanks for your patience.
Should be a more regularised schedule from this week onwards. Thanks for your patience.- 1
Thank you for updating whenever possible, but Real Life must come first! Take care, my King!
The early battles for the future of Saxony went mildly Karloman’s way, as the King harried and harassed the Saxon force that had fled east from Berg. Carrying orders from the King, his outriders ventured into the towns and villages who had supported the rebels, with orders to spare none. The locals were butchered and put to the sword, their trees ripped from root and stem, their thatched huts burned, livestock slaughtered and their gods and idols mocked and defiled by the Frankish invader. Karloman remained apparently unmoved by the devastation caused by his troops, hoping that the destruction would enrage the Saxons and tempt them into an open engagement.
It didn’t work for his enemies too the west, but from the north, those whom Widukind had ordered to shadow Karloman had begun to chomp at the bit like a ragged horse. Here the invader was, marching through their land as if they owned it. Stealing their livestock, burning their homes and crops and slaughtering their families, and they were given orders not to engage them?
“King Widukind has a plan, and he is Vali’s champion. We must trust him,” came the response from their commander when they applied to him for an order to attack.
Tensions within the camp rose after a night of hard drinking, and twice fights between rival tribes seemed on the verge of breaking out. In desperation and near his wits end, the commander sent word to King Widukind, hoping he would receive the order to extract his forces from their mission and rejoin the main Saxon force gathering near Paderborn…
Such orders never came, but word soon reached King Karloman of discord within the enemy camp. A former Saxon loyalist, disgruntled at Widukind’s assumption of kingly power, defected to the King’s camp early the morning of December 9th, bringing crucial information about enemy movements.
“Enemies to the north, enemies to the east, and discontent in both camps,” The King mused as he peered at Marshal Maurad over his maps. “Does that sound right?”
“It would make sense as to why we haven’t been assailed from either direction yet,” Maurad nodded, “Widukind likely wants to marshal his strength at Paderborn, it’s the natural defensive point since he took it from our forces.”
“Agreed, which means it’s this northern camp where the factionalism has begun to make things interesting.”
Karloman chewed his lip. Maurad knew that look in his eye.
“You have a plan?”
A smile split the King’s pale face.
“Aye, I do.”
That evening, the army pulled up stakes on its camp and slithered away into the woods near Dossneim, away to the north…
The poor Saxon commander who had been tasked with shadowing Karloman’s force awoke two morns later to a rude shock. Discovering that the Frankish King had stolen a march on them and turned up at his gates in the middle of the night sent him into a panic. He ordered a hurried march east, abandoning both the army’s baggage supplies and camp followers. The attempt to break out before they were surrounded might have worked, had Karloman’s forces not heard the plan from disgruntled camp women who, wailing that they were going to be abandoned, had sold the plan to the Franks. The Frankish cavalry, directed by the Blind Marshal and the King, cut off the retreat off the vast mass of the struggling Saxon infantry and butchered them, forcing the survivors into a bloody rout. With barely a few dozen casualties, the King had won a stunning victory.
Even Karloman himself was a little surprised by the stunning collapse of the Saxon forces, and rather than pursue the routing enemy, he allowed his troops to rest and set up a camp to celebrate their swift triumph. He also hoped that this victory would give him the opportunity to bring fresh troops and supplies across the Rhine now that the land routes over the river were fully cleared.
Little did he know that, by not pursuing his defeated quarry, he passed up an opportunity to end the war right then and there…
OOC: Some early success for Karloman as Widukind seems to have overreached too quickly. But perhaps the Frankish King has made a mistake?
Will have another post up soon.
It didn’t work for his enemies too the west, but from the north, those whom Widukind had ordered to shadow Karloman had begun to chomp at the bit like a ragged horse. Here the invader was, marching through their land as if they owned it. Stealing their livestock, burning their homes and crops and slaughtering their families, and they were given orders not to engage them?
“King Widukind has a plan, and he is Vali’s champion. We must trust him,” came the response from their commander when they applied to him for an order to attack.
Tensions within the camp rose after a night of hard drinking, and twice fights between rival tribes seemed on the verge of breaking out. In desperation and near his wits end, the commander sent word to King Widukind, hoping he would receive the order to extract his forces from their mission and rejoin the main Saxon force gathering near Paderborn…
Such orders never came, but word soon reached King Karloman of discord within the enemy camp. A former Saxon loyalist, disgruntled at Widukind’s assumption of kingly power, defected to the King’s camp early the morning of December 9th, bringing crucial information about enemy movements.
“Enemies to the north, enemies to the east, and discontent in both camps,” The King mused as he peered at Marshal Maurad over his maps. “Does that sound right?”
“It would make sense as to why we haven’t been assailed from either direction yet,” Maurad nodded, “Widukind likely wants to marshal his strength at Paderborn, it’s the natural defensive point since he took it from our forces.”
“Agreed, which means it’s this northern camp where the factionalism has begun to make things interesting.”
Karloman chewed his lip. Maurad knew that look in his eye.
“You have a plan?”
A smile split the King’s pale face.
“Aye, I do.”
That evening, the army pulled up stakes on its camp and slithered away into the woods near Dossneim, away to the north…
The poor Saxon commander who had been tasked with shadowing Karloman’s force awoke two morns later to a rude shock. Discovering that the Frankish King had stolen a march on them and turned up at his gates in the middle of the night sent him into a panic. He ordered a hurried march east, abandoning both the army’s baggage supplies and camp followers. The attempt to break out before they were surrounded might have worked, had Karloman’s forces not heard the plan from disgruntled camp women who, wailing that they were going to be abandoned, had sold the plan to the Franks. The Frankish cavalry, directed by the Blind Marshal and the King, cut off the retreat off the vast mass of the struggling Saxon infantry and butchered them, forcing the survivors into a bloody rout. With barely a few dozen casualties, the King had won a stunning victory.
Even Karloman himself was a little surprised by the stunning collapse of the Saxon forces, and rather than pursue the routing enemy, he allowed his troops to rest and set up a camp to celebrate their swift triumph. He also hoped that this victory would give him the opportunity to bring fresh troops and supplies across the Rhine now that the land routes over the river were fully cleared.
Little did he know that, by not pursuing his defeated quarry, he passed up an opportunity to end the war right then and there…
OOC: Some early success for Karloman as Widukind seems to have overreached too quickly. But perhaps the Frankish King has made a mistake?
Will have another post up soon.
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My King, thank you for the update and Happy Saxon Hunting! The Blind Marshal sees more than a crop of generals.
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With this victory, Karlomann has almost made himself equal to the Saxon forces. If he can hold it together, victory is quite feasible, especially with the discord bubbling up among the Saxons.
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December, 775.
After several days of rest, Karloman had secured fresh troops, supplies, and a clearly defended crossing over the Rhine.
Had he advanced immediately after the routing Saxons, he would have caught the forces of King Widukind, unprepared, and marching north to shadow Karloman’s army. Upon realising the Frankish king had turned north rather than marching east, Widukind had been tempted out from behind his new fortifications. Instead of meeting the Franks headlong however, he ran into the remnents of the Saxon force Karloman had slaughtered, whose panicked gabbling told the story of the sudden, stunning collapse of their forces.
“I think it’s time we turn back to Paderborn,” Widukind had determined, upon hearing of the defeat. “With a third of our force obliterated, Karloman has the north-west entirely too himself. We go to ground at Paderborn, force him to come to us. If we lay siege to the Frankish forts that still remain there, the King will have to follow us, and confront us on the open ground.”
Within days, Karloman was doing just that, his forces bolstered by new supplies and recruits, and marched onwards to Paderborn.
“Scouts screen their approach as they march west,” the priestess reported to King Widukind,
“Not surprising. Karloman is no fool. We won’t be luring him into the deep wood with no flanks and no cover to screen his approach.”
“He’ll have to march through the Bosartig wood, is there potential for an ambush there?” The Priestess queried.
Widukind considered, lowering his brows across his face gave him a mean, flattened look.
“Perhaps…”
As it turned out, though he had dispatched some ambushers, they had a nasty shock. Upon seeing the thickness of the wood through which his forces would’ve had to march, Karloman had simply halted his men at the base of the wood, then summoned a group of his most skilled woodsmen who were in his army.
“Cut yourselves some torches, go down to the edge of the wood, light the trees up. In this weather, we should be able to light it up without difficulty. Unless I’m much mistaken, the fire will be able to burn through the whole wood in several hours.” He looked to his most experienced woodsman. “Is that roughly accurate?”
He nodded carefully, “Provided the winds don’t shift dramatically Majesty, yes, it will be possible.”
“Fantastic,” the King gave them one of his rare smiles. “I trust you to oversee the operation.”
And indeed, oversee it they did. It would have been perfection, had it not been for a sudden westerly gust taking hold. A panicked Karloman frantically commanded his camp to pack up and begin to move further back from the forest edge. But it was one of the Duke of Burgundy’s retainers, a former huntsman and poacher, who kept his head. Remembering a fire in his local lord’s barn, he managed to rope a bunch of his fellows into three separate work gangs, collecting water buckets from a local creek branching off the Rhine, carrying the buckets, and dousing the edge of the flames with them too keep them away from the camp. When the King realised what he was doing, he regained his senses, and briskly ordered his lords to organise their own work teams. Within a few hours, the wind had shifted back to the east, urging the fire to rage through the wood, and burn out the cover for any Saxon guerrillas.
Somewhat chastened by his own failure to keep his cool, the King summoned the woodsman to him, and granted him a large cash bonus and an honorary title for his bravery and quick-thinking. When the scouts returned, they reported the Saxons gathering again in force, this time at Paderborn, laying siege to one of the few remaining forts there still under Frankish control. And they were under Widukind’s command…
The King ordered the march east once again to meet his enemy in the open field.
OOC: Next up, the Battle of Paderborn! (again). Will the Saxons throw back the Frankish occupier, or will Karloman crush them and snuff out the last vestiges of Saxon independence. Stay tuned for the next post
After several days of rest, Karloman had secured fresh troops, supplies, and a clearly defended crossing over the Rhine.
Had he advanced immediately after the routing Saxons, he would have caught the forces of King Widukind, unprepared, and marching north to shadow Karloman’s army. Upon realising the Frankish king had turned north rather than marching east, Widukind had been tempted out from behind his new fortifications. Instead of meeting the Franks headlong however, he ran into the remnents of the Saxon force Karloman had slaughtered, whose panicked gabbling told the story of the sudden, stunning collapse of their forces.
“I think it’s time we turn back to Paderborn,” Widukind had determined, upon hearing of the defeat. “With a third of our force obliterated, Karloman has the north-west entirely too himself. We go to ground at Paderborn, force him to come to us. If we lay siege to the Frankish forts that still remain there, the King will have to follow us, and confront us on the open ground.”
Within days, Karloman was doing just that, his forces bolstered by new supplies and recruits, and marched onwards to Paderborn.
“Scouts screen their approach as they march west,” the priestess reported to King Widukind,
“Not surprising. Karloman is no fool. We won’t be luring him into the deep wood with no flanks and no cover to screen his approach.”
“He’ll have to march through the Bosartig wood, is there potential for an ambush there?” The Priestess queried.
Widukind considered, lowering his brows across his face gave him a mean, flattened look.
“Perhaps…”
As it turned out, though he had dispatched some ambushers, they had a nasty shock. Upon seeing the thickness of the wood through which his forces would’ve had to march, Karloman had simply halted his men at the base of the wood, then summoned a group of his most skilled woodsmen who were in his army.
“Cut yourselves some torches, go down to the edge of the wood, light the trees up. In this weather, we should be able to light it up without difficulty. Unless I’m much mistaken, the fire will be able to burn through the whole wood in several hours.” He looked to his most experienced woodsman. “Is that roughly accurate?”
He nodded carefully, “Provided the winds don’t shift dramatically Majesty, yes, it will be possible.”
“Fantastic,” the King gave them one of his rare smiles. “I trust you to oversee the operation.”
And indeed, oversee it they did. It would have been perfection, had it not been for a sudden westerly gust taking hold. A panicked Karloman frantically commanded his camp to pack up and begin to move further back from the forest edge. But it was one of the Duke of Burgundy’s retainers, a former huntsman and poacher, who kept his head. Remembering a fire in his local lord’s barn, he managed to rope a bunch of his fellows into three separate work gangs, collecting water buckets from a local creek branching off the Rhine, carrying the buckets, and dousing the edge of the flames with them too keep them away from the camp. When the King realised what he was doing, he regained his senses, and briskly ordered his lords to organise their own work teams. Within a few hours, the wind had shifted back to the east, urging the fire to rage through the wood, and burn out the cover for any Saxon guerrillas.
Somewhat chastened by his own failure to keep his cool, the King summoned the woodsman to him, and granted him a large cash bonus and an honorary title for his bravery and quick-thinking. When the scouts returned, they reported the Saxons gathering again in force, this time at Paderborn, laying siege to one of the few remaining forts there still under Frankish control. And they were under Widukind’s command…
The King ordered the march east once again to meet his enemy in the open field.
OOC: Next up, the Battle of Paderborn! (again). Will the Saxons throw back the Frankish occupier, or will Karloman crush them and snuff out the last vestiges of Saxon independence. Stay tuned for the next post
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Thank you for the update! A Saxon Weiner Roast sounds delightful. Please be careful, My King!
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December 10th 775.
On the noon of the 10th, the Frankish army arrived outside the Paderborn fort. In response, King Widukind shortened up his line and prepared for an attack, but it did not come. Karloman instead put his men into camp and had a trench and stakes put up on the side of it facing the Saxon force. An attempt by a small number of Saxon horse to tempt the Franks into open engagement went nowhere, and Widukind withdrew his force back behind their line just prior to dusk.
“He will attack tomorrow,” The Saxon king told his retainers, “And he brings more men than we have, particularly in his foot soldiers.”
The priestess spoke up, her presence at the council drawing looks of ire from some present. It was not the place of a mere soothsayer, they had said, to intrude on military matters, but the King had insisted upon it. “Yet we have more horse and more archers than the Frankish invader.”
“And how does the great word of Vali suggest we use those advantages?” A sarcastic jibe from one of the monarch’s retainers
The King cut the priestess off before she could reply, “You touch it with a needle, our greater numbers of horse and arrows will be our advantages, as will the flat, open ground. We’ll fight with two wings I think, left and right, no centre. Deny the enemy a point of anchor on which he can concentrate a massed charge. Karloman’s strength has been in his cavalry, so we’ll force him to slug it out with the footman, and then rain death and thunder from above.”
In his own tent, King Karloman slept fitfully, having been taken ill by a sudden, minor headache. He had risen and fallen back into his hard camp bed several times, up and pacing around nervously, mind racing, and then returning to try and sleep. His fitful dreaming was interrupted at dawn, his servant not commenting on the dark black circles that dwelled beneath the King’s eyes when he rose. As he entered his war tent, his headache was gone, but his weariness remained.
11th of December, 775 anno domini.
The approximately eleven thousand Frankish force had deployed into three lines, as was it’s usual pattern. The King himself commanded the centre division, which was backed by the bulk of the heavy cavalry, of which Karloman considered himself, not without reason, to be the army’s foremost expert. The Frankish right, weaker than the center and the left, was commanded by Lord Adalbart Nibelung. The brother of the man whom King Karloman had executed for adultery with his first wife, the substantial influence the family had enjoyed with the king had fallen after that disgrace. But the King had taken a liking to the young Adalbart, and the young lord was determined to redeem that old disgrace in Karloman’s eyes by holding the weakest flank of the army against the Saxon horde. On the more heavily stacked left, the fierce, bearded Clothaire, High Chief of Munster commanded the Frankish force which would press into the close quarters battle against the stronger Saxon left, hoping to sweep them from the field and envelop the right once the other wing was put to rout.
Karloman had spied at once that Widukind had deployed with no center, his flanks dented inwards to adopt a defensive posture. A wise move given his smaller numbers. The battlefield was a sparse, rolling plain, flanked by thick fog on one side and marshland upon the other, making flanking attacks or surprise charges all but impossible. There was nowhere to go but forward or back, and nowhere to hide.
“No clever tricks today and no diversional manuoveres.” The King instructed his commanders prior to the battle, “It’ll probably be the least creative battle I’ve fought, but neither the flat terrain nor the Saxon dispositions leaves room for much else. We’ll fight them in the open, man-for-man, a slugging match to the end, and let God judge the victor as he will.”
All present knew that meant Karloman felt the pressure of the day. The King was usually the first to say that good planning trumped prayers as a prelude to victory. But still, sometimes the best plans were no guarantee, one simply had to shrug, let the dice fly high, and the chips fall where they may. On the ninth hour of the morn of the 11th of December, 775, it was Karloman who assaulted first, ordering the Frankish archers and skirmishers forward to begin pelting the Saxon shield wall with missiles. A softening measure only, for the real attack would soon come. While the missiles pelted the Saxon right, Clothare advanced the Frankish heavy foot while covered by the Frankish missile fire. The pelting had forced the Saxon archers to hold their fire for now, but Karloman knew that the centre would have to advance to support Clothare once they had begun to open fire on his advancing forces.
Widukind, for his part, had spied the comparative spareness of the Frankish right, and begun to give orders for an assault. His huscarls, the bulk of the shield wall, would have to hold defensively, but his spear and pike could move forward and begin the assault. Cautiously, he ordered them to move forward, seeking to probe the Frankish line. They advanced slowly, mile by mile, minute by minute.
By the eleventh hour of the morn Karloman, scanning the battlefield from his vantage point behind the lines of his main centre wing, could not worry about the probes of the Frankish right, for his skirmishers had nearly exhausted their natural volleys, and the moment was rapidly approaching when the Saxon archers would be able to emerge from their cover and begin to fire upon Clothaire’s advancing forces.
“Now,” Karloman said to the Blind Marshal, who gave the orders for the men to advance cautiously forward. Guided by the spoken words of the two retainers who rode beside him and accompanied him in every battle, the Blind Marshal could see the battlefield as well as any man with use of his eyes, and even better than some. Karloman felt a sudden rush of gratitude that this wise old man was with him on this most significant of battlefields.
The skirmishers withdrew, and almost on queue, the Saxon volleys began with Clothaire’s forces having barely fifty metres to go before they hit the Saxon line. Halting, Clothaire ordered shields to go up, but some men fell before they did as Karloman ordered the center forward, hoping to give the archers something else to fire upon. The King hoped his greater numbers would cover the advance of the wings long enough to allow Clothaire to break the stronger of the Saxon flanks, and that the centre would be near enough to either flank to act as a moving reserve if things got dicey.
They had already begun to do so on the right, with Adalbart beginning to face several waves of assault from the fearsome Saxon warriors. To his credit, the young man fought viciously, with his horse cut down from beneath him in the opening moments of the fighting, he rolled clear from his saddle and rose from the dust to fight anew, shouting to his underlings to reform and reposition to cover gaps that the assault had exposed. He was leading from the front, just as the King knew he would do.
Muttering a quick prayer to God that Adalbart would hold, he ordered the light horse forward, with himself in command. Not to assault the Saxons, but to launch a series of feints towards the Saxon left, hoping to convince Widukind that an assault there was imminent, and that his huscarls covering the shield wall were in danger of being cut off from the force that was assaulting Adalbart. Over the next fifteen minutes, the King rode a series of sorties towards the Saxon line with his horse, who threw spears and shot bows into the Huscarl lines, prompting Widukind to break off the assault on the harried Frankish right. Bloodied, but alive, Adalbart’s men cheered and whooped as they saw the Saxons withdraw back to cover their exposed line. On the Saxon front, Widukind swore and spat as he saw his opponent’s greater numbers being used to threaten his shield wall.
But the Saxon right was now his more pressing concern, once the ferocious Clothaire’s assault began. The great heave and press of human bodies clashing against one another and the shouts and cries of clashing arms wafted across that open field as men slick with sweat and blood threw themselves at the Saxon shield wall. The Munsterian Madman, as men called Clothaire heaved his great waraxe aloft across his shoulders, and struck two Saxon men dead in a single blow, screaming a battlecry as he did so. Widukind raced his reserve to meet them and they fell upon Clothaire’s men with fury, forcing the brawling Munsterian back. Cursing his ill luck, Karloman signalled Clothaire to break off the attack and pull back to his own lines.
The two sides fell back to their natural positions and broke their fasts at midday. The battle was not over, but both had been bloodied by the battle in the morn, and neither wanted to commit fresh troops until they had taken stock of the situation. A beaming Karloman congratulated the bloody-faced Adalbart for his heroic defence of the right, and re-assured the frothing mad Clothaire that the failure of the assault was due to ill luck, not to any failure of his, and informed him that he would get his second chance.
When Karloman renewed his assault at three in the afternoon, he got his chance. The Frankish left and centre advanced, while the right under Adalbart held defensively, marching steadily ahead only to keep pace with the rest of the army and prevent a gap emerging between the lines, but Adalbart was under orders to fight defensively, and he trusted in Karloman’s battle plans enough not to disobey his orders.
Widukind, still convinced the right was Karloman’s weakness, had re-strengthened the Saxon left during the midday break and ordered an all-out assault there at three, including his Huscarls this time. They plunged ahead, axes and swords flashing. Heedless of danger or casualties, these men screamed and rained sharp death blows upon their foes. Saxon archers, safe behind the shield wall, also pelted Clothaire as he advanced, but the indefatigable chief shrugged off his losses and advanced, crashing into the shield wall with a roar of bloodlust
Hard-pressed, Adalbart plunged once again into the front rank, hewing a Huscarl with his broad sword, one man fell, a spear through his eye, and another stepped up beside him to take his place. One looked up and saw a sea of Saxons, pushing and shoving and jowling one another in their effort to be the first to breach the Frankish line.
The trumpet blasted at Adalbart’s signal, one long low, mournful note. For the Frankish officers, trained to both impart and receive that signal, it’s missing was clear and crisp as a summer’s morn Help!
The cry was answered with the thunder of hooves. They cheered as the great yellow banner of the King’s horse crashed into that sea of Saxons like a great wave upon the shore. Combining the heavy and light horse into one force, and riding hard to commandeer command of them, the King had plunged them headfirst into the rear of the Saxon assault, riding right over them, trampling hundreds to death.
Some men and horses fell to those terrible great axes. But even the mightiest of Huscarls could not withstand withstand the shock of a full blow from half a tonne of wound up horseflesh. The cry went up from the bruised Franks, as they cheered him.
“Karloman! Karloman! Karloman!”
The collapse of the Saxon left rolled up the line like a carpet. It was over within an hour after that, as the broken remnant of Widukind’s assault on the weakest part of the Frankish line fell back to the now tattered shield-wall, the Saxon King realised the day was done. Facing renewed attack from Clothaire, and aware that his surviving troops now were exposed from the left, he ordered a general withdrawal, clambering onto his great black steed and fleeing the field, tears straming freely down that fierce face.
For the Franks, a great victory, and one they honoured. As the victorious men assembled, they cheered him, they cheered Adalbart, they cheered for Clothaire, and above all, they cheered for Karloman.
“Imperator!” The cry went up, “Imperator!” Another replied, until the sea of men took it up as the cry of their victory,
“Imperator,” “Imperator!” They cried, “Imperator Karloman!” Emperor of the Franks they hailed him there, the thin bloodied man with the pale, sallow complexion, the thin blonde-hair and those sunken fierce blue eyes. But no trace of that notorious sullenness today, as the new Emperor beamed with pride. He spoke graciously, thanking his men for their fight, crediting Clothaire and Adalbart and the Blind Marshal Maurad for their role in bringing it about. His final words struck a warning note, telling his men that the fight was not yet over, would not be over until the rebel Widukind was dead, and all Saxons subjugated and brought firmly under heel. But he promised them plunder, booty and all the riches of this land for their victory. Above all, he promised them that their trust would be rewarded, for the would-be King of the Saxons had fled from the men of Frankia like a whipped cur, and once his numbered days were done, they would return home, and the glory of history would be theirs, for the future, he promised, would marvel at their triumphs.
The Battle of Paderborn was won.
OOC: Big long one today, and since it's a big battle I thought I'd show off a screenshot. Big victory for the Franks and Karloman is hailed Emperor on the field by his troops! But Widukind is still at large and who knows what the other powers of Europe will think of a King who is named with the titles of the Emperors of old Rome...
On the noon of the 10th, the Frankish army arrived outside the Paderborn fort. In response, King Widukind shortened up his line and prepared for an attack, but it did not come. Karloman instead put his men into camp and had a trench and stakes put up on the side of it facing the Saxon force. An attempt by a small number of Saxon horse to tempt the Franks into open engagement went nowhere, and Widukind withdrew his force back behind their line just prior to dusk.
“He will attack tomorrow,” The Saxon king told his retainers, “And he brings more men than we have, particularly in his foot soldiers.”
The priestess spoke up, her presence at the council drawing looks of ire from some present. It was not the place of a mere soothsayer, they had said, to intrude on military matters, but the King had insisted upon it. “Yet we have more horse and more archers than the Frankish invader.”
“And how does the great word of Vali suggest we use those advantages?” A sarcastic jibe from one of the monarch’s retainers
The King cut the priestess off before she could reply, “You touch it with a needle, our greater numbers of horse and arrows will be our advantages, as will the flat, open ground. We’ll fight with two wings I think, left and right, no centre. Deny the enemy a point of anchor on which he can concentrate a massed charge. Karloman’s strength has been in his cavalry, so we’ll force him to slug it out with the footman, and then rain death and thunder from above.”
In his own tent, King Karloman slept fitfully, having been taken ill by a sudden, minor headache. He had risen and fallen back into his hard camp bed several times, up and pacing around nervously, mind racing, and then returning to try and sleep. His fitful dreaming was interrupted at dawn, his servant not commenting on the dark black circles that dwelled beneath the King’s eyes when he rose. As he entered his war tent, his headache was gone, but his weariness remained.
11th of December, 775 anno domini.
The approximately eleven thousand Frankish force had deployed into three lines, as was it’s usual pattern. The King himself commanded the centre division, which was backed by the bulk of the heavy cavalry, of which Karloman considered himself, not without reason, to be the army’s foremost expert. The Frankish right, weaker than the center and the left, was commanded by Lord Adalbart Nibelung. The brother of the man whom King Karloman had executed for adultery with his first wife, the substantial influence the family had enjoyed with the king had fallen after that disgrace. But the King had taken a liking to the young Adalbart, and the young lord was determined to redeem that old disgrace in Karloman’s eyes by holding the weakest flank of the army against the Saxon horde. On the more heavily stacked left, the fierce, bearded Clothaire, High Chief of Munster commanded the Frankish force which would press into the close quarters battle against the stronger Saxon left, hoping to sweep them from the field and envelop the right once the other wing was put to rout.
Karloman had spied at once that Widukind had deployed with no center, his flanks dented inwards to adopt a defensive posture. A wise move given his smaller numbers. The battlefield was a sparse, rolling plain, flanked by thick fog on one side and marshland upon the other, making flanking attacks or surprise charges all but impossible. There was nowhere to go but forward or back, and nowhere to hide.
“No clever tricks today and no diversional manuoveres.” The King instructed his commanders prior to the battle, “It’ll probably be the least creative battle I’ve fought, but neither the flat terrain nor the Saxon dispositions leaves room for much else. We’ll fight them in the open, man-for-man, a slugging match to the end, and let God judge the victor as he will.”
All present knew that meant Karloman felt the pressure of the day. The King was usually the first to say that good planning trumped prayers as a prelude to victory. But still, sometimes the best plans were no guarantee, one simply had to shrug, let the dice fly high, and the chips fall where they may. On the ninth hour of the morn of the 11th of December, 775, it was Karloman who assaulted first, ordering the Frankish archers and skirmishers forward to begin pelting the Saxon shield wall with missiles. A softening measure only, for the real attack would soon come. While the missiles pelted the Saxon right, Clothare advanced the Frankish heavy foot while covered by the Frankish missile fire. The pelting had forced the Saxon archers to hold their fire for now, but Karloman knew that the centre would have to advance to support Clothare once they had begun to open fire on his advancing forces.
Widukind, for his part, had spied the comparative spareness of the Frankish right, and begun to give orders for an assault. His huscarls, the bulk of the shield wall, would have to hold defensively, but his spear and pike could move forward and begin the assault. Cautiously, he ordered them to move forward, seeking to probe the Frankish line. They advanced slowly, mile by mile, minute by minute.
By the eleventh hour of the morn Karloman, scanning the battlefield from his vantage point behind the lines of his main centre wing, could not worry about the probes of the Frankish right, for his skirmishers had nearly exhausted their natural volleys, and the moment was rapidly approaching when the Saxon archers would be able to emerge from their cover and begin to fire upon Clothaire’s advancing forces.
“Now,” Karloman said to the Blind Marshal, who gave the orders for the men to advance cautiously forward. Guided by the spoken words of the two retainers who rode beside him and accompanied him in every battle, the Blind Marshal could see the battlefield as well as any man with use of his eyes, and even better than some. Karloman felt a sudden rush of gratitude that this wise old man was with him on this most significant of battlefields.
The skirmishers withdrew, and almost on queue, the Saxon volleys began with Clothaire’s forces having barely fifty metres to go before they hit the Saxon line. Halting, Clothaire ordered shields to go up, but some men fell before they did as Karloman ordered the center forward, hoping to give the archers something else to fire upon. The King hoped his greater numbers would cover the advance of the wings long enough to allow Clothaire to break the stronger of the Saxon flanks, and that the centre would be near enough to either flank to act as a moving reserve if things got dicey.
They had already begun to do so on the right, with Adalbart beginning to face several waves of assault from the fearsome Saxon warriors. To his credit, the young man fought viciously, with his horse cut down from beneath him in the opening moments of the fighting, he rolled clear from his saddle and rose from the dust to fight anew, shouting to his underlings to reform and reposition to cover gaps that the assault had exposed. He was leading from the front, just as the King knew he would do.
Muttering a quick prayer to God that Adalbart would hold, he ordered the light horse forward, with himself in command. Not to assault the Saxons, but to launch a series of feints towards the Saxon left, hoping to convince Widukind that an assault there was imminent, and that his huscarls covering the shield wall were in danger of being cut off from the force that was assaulting Adalbart. Over the next fifteen minutes, the King rode a series of sorties towards the Saxon line with his horse, who threw spears and shot bows into the Huscarl lines, prompting Widukind to break off the assault on the harried Frankish right. Bloodied, but alive, Adalbart’s men cheered and whooped as they saw the Saxons withdraw back to cover their exposed line. On the Saxon front, Widukind swore and spat as he saw his opponent’s greater numbers being used to threaten his shield wall.
But the Saxon right was now his more pressing concern, once the ferocious Clothaire’s assault began. The great heave and press of human bodies clashing against one another and the shouts and cries of clashing arms wafted across that open field as men slick with sweat and blood threw themselves at the Saxon shield wall. The Munsterian Madman, as men called Clothaire heaved his great waraxe aloft across his shoulders, and struck two Saxon men dead in a single blow, screaming a battlecry as he did so. Widukind raced his reserve to meet them and they fell upon Clothaire’s men with fury, forcing the brawling Munsterian back. Cursing his ill luck, Karloman signalled Clothaire to break off the attack and pull back to his own lines.
The two sides fell back to their natural positions and broke their fasts at midday. The battle was not over, but both had been bloodied by the battle in the morn, and neither wanted to commit fresh troops until they had taken stock of the situation. A beaming Karloman congratulated the bloody-faced Adalbart for his heroic defence of the right, and re-assured the frothing mad Clothaire that the failure of the assault was due to ill luck, not to any failure of his, and informed him that he would get his second chance.
When Karloman renewed his assault at three in the afternoon, he got his chance. The Frankish left and centre advanced, while the right under Adalbart held defensively, marching steadily ahead only to keep pace with the rest of the army and prevent a gap emerging between the lines, but Adalbart was under orders to fight defensively, and he trusted in Karloman’s battle plans enough not to disobey his orders.
Widukind, still convinced the right was Karloman’s weakness, had re-strengthened the Saxon left during the midday break and ordered an all-out assault there at three, including his Huscarls this time. They plunged ahead, axes and swords flashing. Heedless of danger or casualties, these men screamed and rained sharp death blows upon their foes. Saxon archers, safe behind the shield wall, also pelted Clothaire as he advanced, but the indefatigable chief shrugged off his losses and advanced, crashing into the shield wall with a roar of bloodlust
Hard-pressed, Adalbart plunged once again into the front rank, hewing a Huscarl with his broad sword, one man fell, a spear through his eye, and another stepped up beside him to take his place. One looked up and saw a sea of Saxons, pushing and shoving and jowling one another in their effort to be the first to breach the Frankish line.
The trumpet blasted at Adalbart’s signal, one long low, mournful note. For the Frankish officers, trained to both impart and receive that signal, it’s missing was clear and crisp as a summer’s morn Help!
The cry was answered with the thunder of hooves. They cheered as the great yellow banner of the King’s horse crashed into that sea of Saxons like a great wave upon the shore. Combining the heavy and light horse into one force, and riding hard to commandeer command of them, the King had plunged them headfirst into the rear of the Saxon assault, riding right over them, trampling hundreds to death.
Some men and horses fell to those terrible great axes. But even the mightiest of Huscarls could not withstand withstand the shock of a full blow from half a tonne of wound up horseflesh. The cry went up from the bruised Franks, as they cheered him.
“Karloman! Karloman! Karloman!”
The collapse of the Saxon left rolled up the line like a carpet. It was over within an hour after that, as the broken remnant of Widukind’s assault on the weakest part of the Frankish line fell back to the now tattered shield-wall, the Saxon King realised the day was done. Facing renewed attack from Clothaire, and aware that his surviving troops now were exposed from the left, he ordered a general withdrawal, clambering onto his great black steed and fleeing the field, tears straming freely down that fierce face.
For the Franks, a great victory, and one they honoured. As the victorious men assembled, they cheered him, they cheered Adalbart, they cheered for Clothaire, and above all, they cheered for Karloman.
“Imperator!” The cry went up, “Imperator!” Another replied, until the sea of men took it up as the cry of their victory,
“Imperator,” “Imperator!” They cried, “Imperator Karloman!” Emperor of the Franks they hailed him there, the thin bloodied man with the pale, sallow complexion, the thin blonde-hair and those sunken fierce blue eyes. But no trace of that notorious sullenness today, as the new Emperor beamed with pride. He spoke graciously, thanking his men for their fight, crediting Clothaire and Adalbart and the Blind Marshal Maurad for their role in bringing it about. His final words struck a warning note, telling his men that the fight was not yet over, would not be over until the rebel Widukind was dead, and all Saxons subjugated and brought firmly under heel. But he promised them plunder, booty and all the riches of this land for their victory. Above all, he promised them that their trust would be rewarded, for the would-be King of the Saxons had fled from the men of Frankia like a whipped cur, and once his numbered days were done, they would return home, and the glory of history would be theirs, for the future, he promised, would marvel at their triumphs.
The Battle of Paderborn was won.
OOC: Big long one today, and since it's a big battle I thought I'd show off a screenshot. Big victory for the Franks and Karloman is hailed Emperor on the field by his troops! But Widukind is still at large and who knows what the other powers of Europe will think of a King who is named with the titles of the Emperors of old Rome...
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January, 776.
The following month had seen Karloman, now styling himself Emperor of the Franks in a flurry of activity. He had set himself up at a court in Paderborn. Within days of the great victory, he had split his force into two. The first, under command of Clothaire, he had sent east, to liberate the territories that Widukind’s rebellion had captured, and to bridge the Elbe river and eliminate the last organised Saxon resistance to the Franks rule. Karloman, for his part, was sure Widukind would flee east, seeking to link up with the last of his three armies he had separated at the beginning of the campaign, numbering approximately four thousand men. To try and catch him, he had sent Maurad in command of a force who would harass and harry the flanks of the last of the Saxon armies in the field, and try to prevent Widukind linking up with them.
The Blind Marshal had less success than Clothaire, who had successfully burned through several villages in the past weeks. Widukind had gone to ground, appearing with a few men here, raiding a supply caravan there, and then vanishing as quickly as he had come. While he had not yet linked up with the main Saxon army still in the field, it was clear that he did not intend to give up the fight.
For Karloman, his time was spent reorganising his newly reconquered province and ensuring Saxony would have a solid administration once the war was done. The past time, he had made a mistake in leaving Saxony too early, this time, he would do it right, and this time, he knew the war would not be done until Widukind was found, either alive or dead.
So it was when he received the news in early February that the would-be King of Saxony had surfaced, once again in the lead of his last remaining army, which was perhaps four thousand strong, the Emperor of the Franks was anxious to be back in the saddle and off in pursuit of him. But he had one last task to perform first…
They gathered the crowd in Paderborn, around the spot where Widukind had made such a great ceremony of the replanting of the saplings of the world tree. There, the Frankish monarch gave a short, blunt speech. The Old Ways were gone, the Old Gods were dead, he said, and the people of Saxony had to be brought into the new world, and the worship of the true God in the light of the True Church. Then, men with shovels dug up the roots of the saplings, ripped them to shreds, and threw them upon a lit bonfire, under a clear sky, for all the Gods of the earth to see. Their time was done, and in the ashes that burned away the last traces of the old, the new world was rising…
Karloman mounted his steed, with an honour guard of around a hundred horse, to link up with Maurad’s forces and join the pursuit of Widukind the following day. For only when the last of the Saxons was dead, could the new Saxony be brought into being.
West of the Elba, Northern Saxony
His men had bled away, trickling back in their dozens to a long, slow march home. The sting of that most bitter of defeats had convinced many the cause was lost, the scale of the disaster not able to be hidden even from the lowest among them, and now, with another defeat piled on top of the rest, they were more outnumbered than ever.
Some had simply given up, they had gone to Widukind. They wanted to go home, they had said. They had fought three wars with the Frankish invader. Shed blood and buried sons to keep their homeland free, but it was all for nothing. The enemy was too strong, her horsemen too effective, their resolve unshakable. They wanted to return home, plant their crops, till their fields, raise a new generation of sons to replace the lost one that had been slain on the battlefield, thrown into the crucible of their useless, futile struggle.
Widukind had raged at them, called them defeatist hypocrites, cowards and traitors, among other things, but he had exhausted himself. After hours of raving, he made no move to stop them, and those who sought a return to peace simply walked off the camp to trickle back to their old lands. With luck, the Franks might leave them alone.
Many were not left alone, as Karloman now seemed determined to wipe out any and all resistance, including those who had welcomed Widukind’s rise beforehand. Some settlements, the lucky few, were made to pay heavy fines, a levy and stronger taxes were imposed upon them to pay the costs of their Frankish occupier. Others were burned, crops destroyed, women defiled and whole villages wiped out by the invader, as the Franks sought to punish the defiance of those who should have known themselves subjugated.
Even the priestess had abandoned Widukind now, to where she had gone, he did not know. North probably, into the lands where he had found her first, and where she had convinced him of his destiny. A destiny that had been burned to ash at Paderborn…
Paderborn, Paderborn, the name dinged into his brain like a bell tolling failure. It had been the place where his dreams had crashed to earth. The Gods had picked him as their champion, and he had failed them. He had been tested in the crucible of fire and steel, and had been found wanting.
He did not intend to give in. A few thousand who still remained to him would fight, probably to the bitterest of ends. He certainly would, and while the Frankish forces harried and harassed his flanks, denying him aid and supply, tightening the noose around his rapidly depleting army, he knew, as certain as the head who is bowed before the headsmans axe, that the hammer stroke was coming for him.
Soon Karloman would be hunting him again, and Widukind knew there would be nowhere left to run…
Paris, Palace of Emperor Karloman Karling, February 776.
Queen Mother Bertrada smoothed the crumpled parchment and read it once again. Somehow, repetition of it in her own mind helped sear it into her memory, and her years of service as spymaster, first for her late husband Pepin, and then for both his sons, had taught her that a document unremembered might as well be one that you never read at all.
Karloman has defeated the Saxon rebel at Paderborn and is now engaged in pursuit. Victory and total triumph over the Saxons is nigh. Keep the peace at home, and await his triumphant return.
In the month of February, year of our lord 776.
Enscribed by the orders of Emperor Karloman Karling, King of the Franks.
Emperor? Betrada thought, smiling wryly. He’s not lost his ambitions then. Why did it not surprise her that her younger son, who had never been content with the lot his father had left him, now seemed intent on surpassing him, as well as the brother he had killed to get the second of the titles he had so scrupulously ordered the scribes to record on that parchment.
But why Emperor? Perhaps to provoke the Lombards? He will have received my report by now that Desiderius may recover soon, and that the poor boy he bullied into the engagement with his sister may not be in charge just yet after all. Is this another provocation to stir the Italians to action? Does he really seek the mantle of Augustus?
Watching the small group of boys training under the watchful eye of the quartermaster below, the Queen Mother chewed her lip.
Her son played a dangerous game, if his letter spoke true. The Emperors in Constantinopolis still held claim to the legacy of the Caesars, and would not take kindly to a self-proclaimed pretender rising in the West. The Lombards would see it, probably rightly, as a threat. Even his Holiness, Honorius II might contend himself a Frankish ally against the Lombard encroachments upon her late husband’s donatives to him, but would he be willing to publicly endorse the claim of a Frankish King who seemed determined to carve himself a realm larger than any in the west in living memory?
Bertrada knew better than to believe she could dissuade her son. So that formidable mind crumpled the parchment once again, tucked it into the folds of her robe, and began to think.
The boys below did not notice her, but she noticed them training. It seemed that it was the young Pepin, her grandson, who was up to train. The boy was enjoying a major growth spurt now, which would no doubt shock his father when he would come home. He would not be cursed with his father or grandfather’s shortness, but would be broad of shoulder and sinewy in his limbs. He also had his mother’s hair and eyes, not his father’s, which pleased Bertrada. She didn’t think she would like him as much if he had closely resembled Karloman.
As I did his grandfather, as I do his father, I must keep the young boy safe. Pepin once asked me, all those years ago, if I would keep his realms and his descendants safe from harm until my own dying day, and I have done so. No matter who rules them, my late husband’s last wish holds true. Whatever folly Karloman has embarked upon, I must ensure he succeeds, lest both he and his son pay the price of his heedlessness.
She snapped from her reverie as the quartermaster managed to knock the boy to the ground with his stick, giving him a small nod. Good, he was improving his weapon-work.
She moved away then, back into the dimly-lit rooms that encompassed her chambers, and shut those heavy wooden doors behind her. And plotted.
OOC: Just starting the mop up of Saxony now, but while Karloman remains occupied with that, other minds at his court already scour the field further afar for threats and opportunities. The war with the Saxons is winding down, but there's always new enemies ahead...
The following month had seen Karloman, now styling himself Emperor of the Franks in a flurry of activity. He had set himself up at a court in Paderborn. Within days of the great victory, he had split his force into two. The first, under command of Clothaire, he had sent east, to liberate the territories that Widukind’s rebellion had captured, and to bridge the Elbe river and eliminate the last organised Saxon resistance to the Franks rule. Karloman, for his part, was sure Widukind would flee east, seeking to link up with the last of his three armies he had separated at the beginning of the campaign, numbering approximately four thousand men. To try and catch him, he had sent Maurad in command of a force who would harass and harry the flanks of the last of the Saxon armies in the field, and try to prevent Widukind linking up with them.
The Blind Marshal had less success than Clothaire, who had successfully burned through several villages in the past weeks. Widukind had gone to ground, appearing with a few men here, raiding a supply caravan there, and then vanishing as quickly as he had come. While he had not yet linked up with the main Saxon army still in the field, it was clear that he did not intend to give up the fight.
For Karloman, his time was spent reorganising his newly reconquered province and ensuring Saxony would have a solid administration once the war was done. The past time, he had made a mistake in leaving Saxony too early, this time, he would do it right, and this time, he knew the war would not be done until Widukind was found, either alive or dead.
So it was when he received the news in early February that the would-be King of Saxony had surfaced, once again in the lead of his last remaining army, which was perhaps four thousand strong, the Emperor of the Franks was anxious to be back in the saddle and off in pursuit of him. But he had one last task to perform first…
They gathered the crowd in Paderborn, around the spot where Widukind had made such a great ceremony of the replanting of the saplings of the world tree. There, the Frankish monarch gave a short, blunt speech. The Old Ways were gone, the Old Gods were dead, he said, and the people of Saxony had to be brought into the new world, and the worship of the true God in the light of the True Church. Then, men with shovels dug up the roots of the saplings, ripped them to shreds, and threw them upon a lit bonfire, under a clear sky, for all the Gods of the earth to see. Their time was done, and in the ashes that burned away the last traces of the old, the new world was rising…
Karloman mounted his steed, with an honour guard of around a hundred horse, to link up with Maurad’s forces and join the pursuit of Widukind the following day. For only when the last of the Saxons was dead, could the new Saxony be brought into being.
West of the Elba, Northern Saxony
His men had bled away, trickling back in their dozens to a long, slow march home. The sting of that most bitter of defeats had convinced many the cause was lost, the scale of the disaster not able to be hidden even from the lowest among them, and now, with another defeat piled on top of the rest, they were more outnumbered than ever.
Some had simply given up, they had gone to Widukind. They wanted to go home, they had said. They had fought three wars with the Frankish invader. Shed blood and buried sons to keep their homeland free, but it was all for nothing. The enemy was too strong, her horsemen too effective, their resolve unshakable. They wanted to return home, plant their crops, till their fields, raise a new generation of sons to replace the lost one that had been slain on the battlefield, thrown into the crucible of their useless, futile struggle.
Widukind had raged at them, called them defeatist hypocrites, cowards and traitors, among other things, but he had exhausted himself. After hours of raving, he made no move to stop them, and those who sought a return to peace simply walked off the camp to trickle back to their old lands. With luck, the Franks might leave them alone.
Many were not left alone, as Karloman now seemed determined to wipe out any and all resistance, including those who had welcomed Widukind’s rise beforehand. Some settlements, the lucky few, were made to pay heavy fines, a levy and stronger taxes were imposed upon them to pay the costs of their Frankish occupier. Others were burned, crops destroyed, women defiled and whole villages wiped out by the invader, as the Franks sought to punish the defiance of those who should have known themselves subjugated.
Even the priestess had abandoned Widukind now, to where she had gone, he did not know. North probably, into the lands where he had found her first, and where she had convinced him of his destiny. A destiny that had been burned to ash at Paderborn…
Paderborn, Paderborn, the name dinged into his brain like a bell tolling failure. It had been the place where his dreams had crashed to earth. The Gods had picked him as their champion, and he had failed them. He had been tested in the crucible of fire and steel, and had been found wanting.
He did not intend to give in. A few thousand who still remained to him would fight, probably to the bitterest of ends. He certainly would, and while the Frankish forces harried and harassed his flanks, denying him aid and supply, tightening the noose around his rapidly depleting army, he knew, as certain as the head who is bowed before the headsmans axe, that the hammer stroke was coming for him.
Soon Karloman would be hunting him again, and Widukind knew there would be nowhere left to run…
Paris, Palace of Emperor Karloman Karling, February 776.
Queen Mother Bertrada smoothed the crumpled parchment and read it once again. Somehow, repetition of it in her own mind helped sear it into her memory, and her years of service as spymaster, first for her late husband Pepin, and then for both his sons, had taught her that a document unremembered might as well be one that you never read at all.
Karloman has defeated the Saxon rebel at Paderborn and is now engaged in pursuit. Victory and total triumph over the Saxons is nigh. Keep the peace at home, and await his triumphant return.
In the month of February, year of our lord 776.
Enscribed by the orders of Emperor Karloman Karling, King of the Franks.
Emperor? Betrada thought, smiling wryly. He’s not lost his ambitions then. Why did it not surprise her that her younger son, who had never been content with the lot his father had left him, now seemed intent on surpassing him, as well as the brother he had killed to get the second of the titles he had so scrupulously ordered the scribes to record on that parchment.
But why Emperor? Perhaps to provoke the Lombards? He will have received my report by now that Desiderius may recover soon, and that the poor boy he bullied into the engagement with his sister may not be in charge just yet after all. Is this another provocation to stir the Italians to action? Does he really seek the mantle of Augustus?
Watching the small group of boys training under the watchful eye of the quartermaster below, the Queen Mother chewed her lip.
Her son played a dangerous game, if his letter spoke true. The Emperors in Constantinopolis still held claim to the legacy of the Caesars, and would not take kindly to a self-proclaimed pretender rising in the West. The Lombards would see it, probably rightly, as a threat. Even his Holiness, Honorius II might contend himself a Frankish ally against the Lombard encroachments upon her late husband’s donatives to him, but would he be willing to publicly endorse the claim of a Frankish King who seemed determined to carve himself a realm larger than any in the west in living memory?
Bertrada knew better than to believe she could dissuade her son. So that formidable mind crumpled the parchment once again, tucked it into the folds of her robe, and began to think.
The boys below did not notice her, but she noticed them training. It seemed that it was the young Pepin, her grandson, who was up to train. The boy was enjoying a major growth spurt now, which would no doubt shock his father when he would come home. He would not be cursed with his father or grandfather’s shortness, but would be broad of shoulder and sinewy in his limbs. He also had his mother’s hair and eyes, not his father’s, which pleased Bertrada. She didn’t think she would like him as much if he had closely resembled Karloman.
As I did his grandfather, as I do his father, I must keep the young boy safe. Pepin once asked me, all those years ago, if I would keep his realms and his descendants safe from harm until my own dying day, and I have done so. No matter who rules them, my late husband’s last wish holds true. Whatever folly Karloman has embarked upon, I must ensure he succeeds, lest both he and his son pay the price of his heedlessness.
She snapped from her reverie as the quartermaster managed to knock the boy to the ground with his stick, giving him a small nod. Good, he was improving his weapon-work.
She moved away then, back into the dimly-lit rooms that encompassed her chambers, and shut those heavy wooden doors behind her. And plotted.
OOC: Just starting the mop up of Saxony now, but while Karloman remains occupied with that, other minds at his court already scour the field further afar for threats and opportunities. The war with the Saxons is winding down, but there's always new enemies ahead...
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A wonderful presentation of Karloman, Widukind, and Bertrada. We have the past: Widukind; the present: Karloman; the future: Bertrada with her vision of Pepin. Go with God's blessing, my king emperor.
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I very much enjoyed that battle scene! Congratulations to Karloman on his new Empire! I wonder if anyone in the East will have something to say about that.
Good to see Saxony back in Frankish control, soon the Empire will be at peace, but for how long?
Good to see Saxony back in Frankish control, soon the Empire will be at peace, but for how long?
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