Chapter 1: The Bloodied Ford

The cold autumn mist curled above the River Aller, swallowing the world in pale silence. Hadelin of Tours hunched his shoulders against the chill, clutching a wax tablet to his chest. He was a scribe in the retinue of Count Berengar, whose banners—blue with the golden cross—fluttered limp and wet in the dawn. In the distance, the Saxon woods loomed dark and ancient, with the threat of heathen rebels lingering beyond every tree. The Franks had come to Saxony as conquerors, but Hadelin felt only fear. He had never seen real battle before this campaign. He wrote letters, copied decrees, and counted horses—his world ink and parchment, not iron and blood. But Charlemagne demanded records as much as victories. Today, the camp simmered with unease. A Saxon envoy was to arrive under truce, promising to parley and perhaps forestall more bloodshed. Instead, the Frankish outposts had returned with news that chilled even the grizzled warriors: a nobleman’s horse had been found by the ford, riderless, its saddle slashed and splattered with blood. Hadelin’s master, Count Berengar, paced before his tent as the scribe approached. The Count’s face was a map of old scars and new worries. “The king’s patience wears thin, Hadelin. If this envoy is dead, there will be reckoning.” Hadelin nodded. “They say it was Sir Eginhard, my lord—the Saxon who pledged to bring word from Widukind himself.” Berengar spat into the mud. “Widukind lies and slaughters in the shadows. If he means to break faith, Charlemagne will answer with fire.” But Hadelin’s mind, trained to notice the small details, lingered on the oddities: the envoy’s horse returned, but the body was missing. The saddle was cut, not torn by accident. Someone had wanted the Franks to find this horse. Someone had staged a warning. As the sun clawed above the mist, horns blared—an alarm from the outposts. Berengar drew his sword, and Hadelin tucked his tablet into his satchel, heart pounding. The world was about to change, and he was caught in its turning. —

Chapter 2: The Iron Oath

The Frankish camp seethed with rumor as Hadelin made his way through the rows of tents. Soldiers argued in rough Latin and Frankish dialects, voices tight with suspicion. The Saxon envoy’s disappearance was more than an insult; it was a threat to the fragile peace that had kept the blades sheathed for a week. In the command tent, a hush reigned. Charlemagne himself was not present—he was further south, gathering fresh levies—but his missives arrived daily, bearing the king’s seal and his iron will. Today, the message was grim: “If the Saxons betray our mercy, let them answer for it in blood.” Berengar assembled his captains—grim men with battered shields and gray in their beards. Hadelin stood at the edge, unnoticed, tablet poised. “We must discover the truth before the king acts,” Berengar declared. “If Eginhard is slain, we must know by whose hand. Hadelin, you will inquire among the camp. Speak with the Saxon hostages, the scouts, the stablehands. Someone saw something.” Hadelin’s mouth went dry. “I am no inquisitor, lord.” The Count fixed him with a hard gaze. “You are clever, and unknown to many. Men will speak to you where they would not to a knight. Find the truth, scribe—or we all may drown in Saxon blood.” As Berengar dismissed him, Hadelin’s mind raced. The Frankish hostages—Saxon boys and girls, held as surety—were watched by grim-faced guards. The scouts, drawn from the borderlands, trusted neither Saxon nor Frank. And the stablehands, who tended the horses, had their own secrets—like the sullen boy who’d found the bloodied mount. Hadelin set off, aware that in this camp of strangers and enemies, every word could be a blade. —

Chapter 3: The Stableboy’s Secret

The stables stank of horseflesh and damp straw. Hadelin’s boots squelched in the muck as he sought out the boy who’d returned the envoy’s mount. He found him hunched in a corner, scrubbing a bridle with nervous, red-knuckled hands. “Your name is Alaric?” Hadelin kept his tone gentle. The boy nodded, eyes darting. “You found the horse by the river?” Another nod, more fearful. Hadelin crouched beside him, lowering his voice. “Did you see anything strange?” Alaric licked his lips. “It was just before dawn. I was fetching water when I heard the horse. It came from the trees—alone, wild-eyed. There was blood… but not much. I followed its tracks, but they vanished in the mud.” “Did you see anyone else?” Hadelin pressed. The boy hesitated. “A man—cloaked. Not in Saxon furs. I thought it was one of our own, but he moved like he didn’t want to be seen. He went back toward the camp.” Hadelin’s heart hammered. “Would you know him again?” Alaric shook his head, but his eyes flicked to the far end of the stable, where a groom with a twisted mouth watched them both. Hadelin rose, thanked Alaric, and made a note to return. Already, the mystery deepened. If a Frank had slain the envoy, what motive could they have? Was it vengeance, or a plot to ignite war? Outside, the camp was stirring. The scent of fear was thick as woodsmoke. Hadelin hid his tablet within his cloak, and walked toward the Saxon hostages—hoping that among children and prisoners, he might find another thread to unravel. —

Chapter 4: The Hostage and the Cross

The Saxon hostages were kept in a makeshift pen of wattle and sharpened stakes, their faces pale in the morning light. Hadelin hesitated before entering, eyeing the guards—one nodded, recognizing the scribe’s authority. Inside, he found a boy of perhaps twelve, with tangled blond hair and a battered wooden cross hanging from a leather thong. His name was Odo, son of a minor thane. Hadelin had seen him at prayers, lips moving in Latin, but with Saxon defiance flickering in his eyes. “Odo,” Hadelin began, “did you see anything before dawn?” The boy shrugged. “We’re watched always. But I heard the men talking. They say the Franks killed Eginhard themselves, to give the king cause for slaughter.” Hadelin frowned. “Did you see anyone near the river?” Odo hesitated, then leaned close. “I saw a knight with the Raven banner—one of Lord Berengar’s captains. He argued with a cloaked man by the edge of the camp. I thought nothing of it, but perhaps…” The cross trembled in Odo’s fingers. Hadelin thanked him, mind racing. The Raven banner was a mark of the old Saxon gods—but some Frankish knights had taken it as a trophy. Was it a Saxon, disguised? Or a Frank playing at heathenry? He returned to Berengar’s tent, the weight of secrets pressing down. The lines between friend and foe, Christian and pagan, were blurring. And if the wrong truth came to Charlemagne’s ears, rivers of blood would follow. —

Chapter 5: The Captain’s Guilt

That evening, the camp was tense with expectation. Fires burned low; armor was polished, blades sharpened. Hadelin sought out Sir Gautier, Berengar’s captain known for his fierce temper and the Raven banner stitched to his cloak—a token taken from a Saxon chieftain last spring. He found Gautier pacing by the riverbank, sword at his hip, eyes troubled. “Sir Gautier,” Hadelin greeted, voice measured. “Where were you before dawn?” Gautier’s jaw clenched. “I was making my rounds, as every night.” “With whom did you speak?” The captain’s eyes narrowed. “You play at priestly questions, scribe.” “Because a man died, and the king’s wrath is near,” Hadelin said quietly. “If you have nothing to hide—” Gautier glared, then looked away. “I argued with a Saxon—one of Widukind’s men, but not Eginhard. He offered me gold to betray Berengar. I sent him running, but perhaps I was followed. I do not know.” “Did you see Eginhard?” “No. But Eginhard was a man of peace. He would not have come alone, nor easily slain. If he is dead, it is the work of traitors.” Hadelin nodded, reading the guilt in Gautier’s eyes. But was it guilt for murder, or for failing to prevent it? The river whispered in the dusk. Somewhere, an owl called—a Saxon omen of death. Hadelin realized the truth was slipping farther away, even as the hour of reckoning drew near. —

Chapter 6: The King’s Judgment

News spread through the camp like wildfire: Charlemagne was approaching, his banner of lilies and eagles visible on the distant rise. The king’s coming meant judgment—swift, unyielding. Hadelin rushed to Berengar, sharing what he’d learned. Berengar listened grimly, then summoned Gautier, Alaric, and Odo to stand before the king’s tent. Charlemagne entered, tall and broad, his gaze as cold as the northern sea. He listened as Hadelin recounted the strange evidence—the staged horse, the cloaked man, the Raven banner, and the rumors of sabotage. The king’s face betrayed nothing. “The truth is lost in shadows,” he said at last. “But the Saxons have broken faith too often. If this death is a ruse to spark vengeance, so be it—they have chosen their fate.” Hadelin’s heart clenched. He had hoped to avert massacre. Instead, he had only proved the futility of seeking justice in a world torn by suspicion and war. That night, the order went out. Eight thousand Saxon prisoners were to be executed—the infamous Massacre of Verden. Hadelin could only bear witness, his conscience forever stained by what he could not prevent. —

Chapter 7: Ashes and Silence

The riverbank was blackened with ash and grief. The massacre left the land silent, save for the crows wheeling above. Hadelin wandered among the ruined camp, the weight of his failure heavy as iron. He found Alaric cleaning the bloodstained bridles, face gray with exhaustion. Odo had vanished—smuggled away by a sympathetic guard, or taken by the chaos. Sir Gautier sat alone, his Raven banner discarded in the mud. Berengar called Hadelin to his side as the Frankish host broke camp. “You did what you could, scribe. But justice is a luxury in times of war.” Hadelin said nothing. He recorded the names of the dead in his ledger, his hand shaking. The truth of Eginhard’s fate was swallowed by the river mist, lost among the greater crimes. As the Franks marched south, Hadelin looked back once more. The land of Saxony, scorched and grieving, would not forget. Nor would he. —