Chapter 1: The Mist on the Rhine

The fog rolled thick over the waters of the Rhine, swallowing the city of Neuss in a damp, silver shroud. From his vantage in the scribes’ chamber of the Quirinus Minster, Matthias Kühn pressed a trembling palm to the cold glass, peering out across the city’s rooftops. The distant clang of hammers echoed as townsfolk shored up the battered walls, preparing for another day under siege. It was February of 1473, and Neuss had been surrounded for months. Matthias’s inkwell had run dry just after Michaelmas, but he had scraped soot from the hearth and mixed it with vinegar to make a thin, smoky ink that left his fingers blackened. The city council demanded daily accounts of provisions and morale; as apprentice to Master Scribe Hildebrandt, Matthias recorded each ration of flour, each rumor of relief from Emperor Frederick III. Outside, a bell tolled—hoarse, urgent. Matthias snatched his ledger and hurried down the spiral stairs, boots echoing on stone. In the market square, townsfolk clustered in anxious knots. At the gatehouse, Captain von Steden’s men stood watchful, their armor dull from weeks of rain and ash. Beyond the walls, campfires glittered in the enemy lines: the banners of Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, snapped in the wind. Charles had arrived in July last, intent on punishing Neuss for siding with the Archbishop of Cologne in their bitter feud. Now, the city starved and waited. “Matthias!” Master Hildebrandt’s voice cut through the morning. The old man beckoned him to a corner of the square, where the city elders huddled over a battered table. “We must record the council’s decisions. Quickly, boy.” Matthias dipped his pen and listened as the elders debated rationing, the state of the wells, and the rumors of imperial troops mustering upriver. The baker’s daughter, Greta, passed by with her mother, faces pinched and pale. Their eyes met, a silent exchange of worry and hope. The council adjourned. Matthias gathered the ledgers, his heart thumping. The siege pressed in like the fog—inescapable, hungry, and cold. —

Chapter 2: Hunger and Rumor

By the end of March, the city’s granaries were nearly bare. Matthias watched as the ration lines grew longer, the loaves smaller. Children’s laughter had faded, replaced by the thin cries of the hungry. The council met daily in the Minster’s crypt, where candles guttered in the stale air and decisions weighed heavier than stone. Greta’s family bakery was shuttered. She found Matthias in the shadow of the cathedral, her hands wrapped in a ragged shawl. “My mother says we have only sawdust left to mix with the flour,” she whispered. “My father—he wants to try the river, to fish, but the Burgundians shoot at anyone who dares the banks.” Matthias hesitated, torn between duty and the ache in his chest. “If the Emperor comes, Charles will have to lift the siege. The council says Frederick marches even now.” Greta’s eyes held little faith. “We’ve heard such stories since autumn.” A bell clanged—an alarm. Matthias ran to the walls, heart pounding. Burgundian heralds approached under a white flag. Charles demanded surrender, promising mercy if Neuss yielded before Easter. The council refused. That night, Matthias wrote by candlelight, recording the city’s defiance. His pen scratched out words he barely believed. Hope flickered with each day, but the shadow of famine crept ever closer. —

Chapter 3: The Weight of Loyalty

April brought cold rains and no relief. The council grew fractious; whispers of capitulation drifted through the streets. Some argued that survival mattered more than pride. Others insisted Neuss must hold out for the Emperor. Matthias was summoned to the home of Mayor von Heinsberg, the city’s chief magistrate, whose beard had gone white since the siege began. “You are young, Matthias,” the mayor said, voice trembling. “But your records will one day tell the story of Neuss. Write the truth, not just the council’s words. Our choices weigh heavily, and history must know our hearts.” Matthias nodded, awed by the task. That evening, he walked the walls, listening to the enemy drums across the river. Greta joined him, her voice soft. “Would you leave, if you could?” she asked. He shook his head. “My father died in the last siege. My place is here.” “And mine,” she replied, voice trembling. “But I am afraid.” He took her hand, feeling the chill of her skin, and for a moment, the city’s suffering receded—two souls bound by fear, hope, and the gray mist of the Rhine. —

Chapter 4: The Siege Tightens

By June, sickness stalked the streets. Dysentery and fever claimed the weak. Matthias wrote the names of the dead in a ledger that grew heavier each day. Greta’s mother fell ill; the bakery’s windows were dark. The church bells tolled endlessly. Rumors surged—some claimed to have seen imperial banners on the horizon, others that Charles would breach the walls by midsummer. The council met in secret, torn between desperate hope and the gnawing hunger that threatened to undo them. One sweltering evening, a group of townsfolk burst into the square, shoving a gaunt watchman before them. “He would open the gate!” cried a woman. “He says Charles will spare us!” The council deliberated through the night. Matthias listened outside the door, his heart pounding. At dawn, the watchman was banished from the city, forced out the postern gate to face the Burgundians’ wrath alone. Greta wept for him, and for all of them. “We are starving, Matthias. How much longer can we hold?” He had no answer. The siege closed in, relentless as the summer sun. —

Chapter 5: The Sound of Trumpets

In late July, a horn sounded from the north. Word swept the city—imperial troops had crossed the Rhine. Emperor Frederick himself, accompanied by princes and knights from across the Empire, had come at last. Matthias joined a throng atop the battered walls, peering over the enemy camp. In the dawn light, banners of the Empire shimmered—black eagles, red and white stripes, the gold and black of Frederick’s standard. Cheers broke out, ragged and wild. Charles the Bold, undaunted, ordered his artillery to pound the city. Stones and iron crashed into the walls, but hope had returned. Greta clung to Matthias as the sky filled with smoke. “Do you think this is the end?” she whispered. “Either salvation or ruin,” he replied, eyes fixed on the imperial banners. Negotiations began. Charles feared a pitched battle; Frederick, cautious and politic, sought a settlement. For weeks, the armies glared across the Rhine, while Neuss waited, caught between giants. —

Chapter 6: A City’s Fate

In September, the Emperor’s envoys entered Neuss. The council convened in the Minster, Matthias at the mayor’s side, recording every word. The city demanded confirmation of its ancient rights and protection from Burgundian vengeance. Frederick promised aid, but his army was stretched thin. Charles, seeing his position untenable, agreed to lift the siege in exchange for safe passage. On a gray morning, the Burgundian banners withdrew, their soldiers sullen and defeated. The city bells rang for the first time in a year, their sound thin but jubilant. In the square, Matthias found Greta amid the crowd. Tears streaked her cheeks, but she smiled as the city rejoiced. “We survived,” she said, voice breaking. “Because we endured,” Matthias replied, his own eyes wet. —

Chapter 7: The Ink and the Memory

The city buried its dead, rebuilt its walls, and counted its scars. Emperor Frederick entered Neuss in state, confirming its privileges and praising its resistance. The people cheered, but the cost was written in every hollow face and ruined home. Matthias finished the chronicle of the siege, his hand aching but his heart full. Greta’s family reopened the bakery, their bread sweeter than he remembered. On a quiet evening by the river, Matthias and Greta watched the mist rise over the water. The city was safe, but changed forever. “We endured,” he murmured, voice low. “And we remember,” Greta replied, squeezing his hand. As the bells tolled across the city, Matthias knew their story would live on—in ink, in memory, and in the quiet, stubborn hope that had seen them through the darkest days. —