The Carolingian Renaissance

[Nikolai]

Poor Remigius, this Hincmar will be the end of him.

 

[stnylan]

You know ... I feel a certain kindred spirit with Remigius, given a fair part of my job involves trying to gently explain to people (much more senior than I) that I don't know the future.

 

[The Kingmaker]

@Ultimatum357: Thank you for your kind words. I clearly find the Carolingians intriguing as well. I hope you enjoyed the update!

@DensleyBlair: Some characters are easy to despise. Let’s hope Lothar and Waldrada have their happy ending. In real life, he keeled over in 869, shortly after Teutberga decided she was tired of it all and wanted that divorce after all.

@Pied-Noir: Mean characters? Skullduggery? In a CK AAR? But jests and gibes aside, I do hope you liked it.

@Nikolai: Or perhaps Remigius may be the end of Hincmar! One never knows...

@stnylan: There’s many a true word spoken in jest. What’s the old saying about art imitating life? I have also experienced similar situations in my profession, so I do feel your pain.

 

[HistoryDude]

Well, that's interesting...

Lothar has marital troubles, and everyone wants to take advantage of them...

 

[The Kingmaker]

@HistoryDude: Yes, indeed. It seemed the matter was less about the marriage itself and more about how Lothar’s many rivals could use it against him.

 

[Hootieleece]

Carolingian's sound like a CK player's wet dream....now just have a few young heirs murdered and sleep with your niece....oh wait that's the Habsburgs a few centuries from now!

 

[Kurt_Steiner]

Too many Frances. Two must go.

 

[Capibara]

For some reason I didn't receive notification for the most recent update. Time to get reading!

 

[The Kingmaker]

@Hootieleece: Heh, well they’re certainly fun to play. At this point, they’re just a generation away from degenerating into a bevy of weak-livered heirs with bynames like “the Stammerer,” “the Child,” and “the Simple.” I intend to prevent that.

@Kurt_Steiner: My sentiments exactly.

@Capibara: I hope you enjoyed it. Please feel free to share your thoughts!

 

[Asantahene]

Oh yes! Oh yes! Count me the f**k in!

 

[The Kingmaker]

@Asantahene: Happy to have you aboard, old friend! You won't have long to wait. The new update will be live momentarily.

 

[The Kingmaker]

CHAPTER TWO: SLAVES OF FORTUNE

Music: Jarl Hásteinn​

1 April 867
Rothulfsheim, Frisia

The remaining villagers were huddled in a repurposed sheepfold, their hands tied. Those who had foolishly tried to resist were already dead, their bodies strewn about the village. Their blood mingled with the fresh falling rain to make little crimson rivulets in the muddy tracks that passed for roads there.

A young village priest, his hands bound like the rest, was attempting to console the peasant folk with muttered prayers in a dead language to their dead god.

The young and able-bodied were already being sorted from the old and infirm. A small number of the latter were slowly being culled into an empty goat pen.

The rain slowed to a light drizzle, which made Jarl Hásteinn’s task all that much easier.

“You miserable wretches are to be sold as thralls,” he barked, “Those of you who are worth anything, anyway.” The Frankish language felt strange on his tongue. “You’ll soon find a very different life in the slave markets of Jórvík or Heiðabýr. Or maybe snowy Holmgarðr? Those of you who are really lucky will end up in Miklagarðr or Serkland, where they like to cut off a man’s dangly bits, ha! Just be grateful that I have shown you this mercy in letting you keep your wretched little lives. Now do as you’re told, and don’t give me a reason to change my mind!”

The village priest caught Hásteinn’s eye. The Christian holy man was still whimpering his prayers in that strange language, deliberately trying not to catch the grizzled Norseman’s eye.

That sort of behavior only made him stand out more to Hásteinn. He smiled at the man. It was time for some fun. “You there, priest! What is your name?!”

Startled, the priest looked up at him. “Dag-Dag-Dagobert…” he stammered.

“Tell me, Dag-Dag-Dagobert,” said Hásteinn, “Can you cook?”

“N-no, lord,”

“Perhaps you know a trade then? Blacksmithing? Woodworking?”

“No, lord.”

“I thought not,” said Hásteinn, “Well, priest, I say your name is Dunga, because you are useless!”

His warriors chuckled at the insult.

“Now what’s your name?”

“Dagobert—“

Hásteinn smacked the man, not nearly as hard as he could have, but enough to draw a trickle of blood from his nose. Tears pricked at the corners of the man’s eyes.

“You Christians are slow learners! I said your name is Dunga! Now what’s your name?”

“D-D-Dunga…?”

Hásteinn grinned, his face forming an unnatural rictus, his eyes wide. “Good. Now listen to me, Dunga. You are very lucky. You Christian priests are all unskilled. You waste all your time praying and chanting and scribbling. You make terrible thralls! You cannot dig or dredge or plow with those lily-white fingers! You are useless, are you not? That is why your name is Dunga, yes?”

The young priest’s teeth were chattering, whether from cold or fear Hásteinn neither knew nor cared.

“I have no time for useless priests. Unless they give good sport! Do you know what we Víkingar do with useless Christian priests?”

Hásteinn unsheathed a wicked looking seax at his belt and begin to toy with it, twisting the point of the blade on his fingertip.

A gargled sob escaped the priest’s lips and a large wet spot appeared on the front of his robes.

“Hah, Jarl Hásteinn!” laughed one of the Víkingar, “The little turd thinks you’re going to kill him!”

The other Norsemen all found this hilarious. They laughed uproariously while the poor priest quailed in their midst. Hásteinn himself gave a deep belly laugh.

With his unnerving grin still on his face, Hásteinn reached down, cut the priest’s bonds, and pushed him over into the muck.

“Go on, priest! No one is killing you today. Did I not say you were lucky? Run to your puny king and tell him the great Hásteinn is waiting for him.”

His robe now splotched with mud, the priest clambered to his feet. Blinking his eyes, he looked at Hásteinn incredulously.

“Why do you linger?” asked Hásteinn, becoming a little irritated, “Did one of my men break your legs when I wasn’t looking?”

The Víkingar laughed again at their chieftain’s gibe.

The priest still looked confused. “You… want me to tell the Frankish king to bring his army? To fight you? Why?”

“Because I am Hásteinn the Sea-King!” bellowed the Víkingr lord, “Hásteinn the Proud! Hásteinn the Mighty! Hásteinn the Soon-to-rip-your-ears-off-if-you-don’t-get-moving!” He growled at the priest and feigned lunging at him like a hungry wolf, only to stop at the last moment and laugh once again.

The priest did not need to be told a third time. Hásteinn watched keenly as the man scrambled south along the muddy road out of town, as fast as his legs could go.

Hásteinn was no longer smiling.

***​

4 April 867
Aachen, Lotharingia

King Lothar leisurely watched the steam rise, a stark contrast to the cold rain outside his bathhouse. In years past, it had been Charlemagne’s bathhouse, rebuilt as a part of his palace on the foundations of the old Roman thermae, and fed by the local hot springs there at Aachen. Why Charlemagne had treasured these soothing thermal baths was not difficult to comprehend. The warm waters were quite pleasant, and were said to have a palliative effect on all kinds of agues and rheumatism.

As for Lothar himself, he frequently enjoyed the joys of a simple bath after a long day of dealing with courtly intrigues. The more prominent members of the court were often granted access to the royal baths on occasion, but today Lothar had made sure he had the bathhouse all to himself. It was good to be the king.

The heavy bathhouse door suddenly creaked open, and two maidservants entered, one bearing a bundle of fresh washcloths and the other a tray with a decanter of wine and two golden goblets. Although Lothar had not requested these things, he did not object. Rather, he watched patiently as the two servant girls performed their tasks, their eyes carefully averted to avoid gazing upon the king in his state of undress. One of the serving girls then quickly returned to the door, opening it to reveal a third individual.

Waldrada the Golden-haired strode into the bathhouse confidently, with the kind of gait only seen from a person who knew they were exactly where they belonged. The would-be queen was barefoot, and wore only a gauzy, sleeveless linen gown, which was fastened at either shoulder with golden brooches.

Their heads still bowed, the two handmaidens hastened to attend their mistress, unfastening the brooches at her shoulders. The flimsy gown immediately fell to her ankles, leaving her milk-white skin quite bare. Taking one of the girls by the hand, Waldrada wordlessly, effortlessly slipped her lithe form into the inviting bathwater.

“Mmm,” she murmured appreciatively as she immersed herself in the comforting warmth of the water. The serving maidens took this as their cue to hastily excuse themselves from the room.

“You know, I did leave orders that I was not to be disturbed,” Lothar smiled.

“Am I disturbing you, my lord?” Waldrada smiled back.

“Never, beloved,” said Lothar, “This is merely… an unexpected surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure today?”

“When I heard that my lord the King desired some warmth on a cold, rainy day, I knew just the thing that would bring him the most comfort,” she answered. She gracefully slid one of her lean arms out of the bath and selected a goblet of wine. Taking a long sip, she smiled at him again over the brim. Lothar retrieved his own goblet but did not drink.

“Which is…?” asked Lothar.

“The Bible itself tells us it is not good for man to be alone, yes?” said Waldrada, moving ever closer to Lothar with each word, “So who am I to defy the will of God?”

“I know some people who have some very different ideas about the will of God,” said Lothar. His lips were smiling still, but the mirth had left them.

“Marriage is a holy sacrament, is it not, my lord?” Waldrada crooned, “What God hath joined together, let not man put asunder…”

“I do love it so when you quote scripture to me,” said Lothar, “Perhaps I should tell your uncle that you should give his next sermon.” With the king’s permission, Waldrada’s uncle Günthar had continued to serve in his office as Archbishop of Cologne, despite his excommunication. It had not made the Pope especially pleased. Then again, neither had Lothar’s decision to retain his mistress after the Holy Father had ordered him to take back his wife.

“You think the people would like the things I preach?” said Waldrada, snaking her arms around Lothar under the water.

“I know I do,” said Lothar. “You know, you’re right. I do feel much more comfortable.”

"I'm glad." Waldrada smiled and pressed herself up against him. Bringing her lips up against the king’s ear, she whispered gently, “I wanted to tell you, my uncle has a cunning plan to help us solve our little marital problem.”

Now that was interesting, and certainly not what Lothar had expected to hear from Waldrada’s lips in the middle of a steaming bath. Queen Teutberga had been a persistent problem that he had spent his entire reign trying to resolve.

“Indeed?” he asked, doing his best to both keep his voice down and mask his overwhelming curiosity. “And how does Günthar intend… No, don’t tell me. It’s better that I don’t know.”

“Then it shall by my little secret,” she whispered, playfully tapping him on the nose with her finger.

Waldrada was quite correct, thought Lothar. That knowledge did bring him comfort on a rainy day.

“Ahem.” The unexpected sound of a man clearing his throat startled both the king and his mistress-wife from their conversation.

It was Enguerrand, one of the royal chamberlains, a hunched, fawning man with a drooping mustache. Given the private nature of the king’s present situation, the man had pinched his eyes tightly closed and turned his head to the side.

“Goodness,” said Lothar, “How many times is my private bath to be interrupted today?”

“Begging your pardon, sire,” said Enguerrand, “But there is a pressing matter that requires your attention.”

“Please have Erchambald attend to it,” said Lothar, “The High Chancellor is more than competent to attend to even the gravest of emergencies.”

Enguerrand winced. “He’s the one that sent me, lord,” he answered, his eyes still tightly shut, “My lord, it’s the Northmen again.” Enguerrand was wringing his hands in embarrassment and worry, “They’ve been raiding all along the northern coasts, looting churches, burning settlements, and taking the people as slaves. The man called Hæsten leads them.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of him,” said Lothar, “He slew Robert the Strong in battle just last year. But I thought he was still raiding along the Loire? Well, clearly he’s moved on. Tell the High Chancellor to call up the lantweri from the surrounding counties to drive the heathens out.” At least a few thousand men would be guaranteed to answer the call. For a freeman to fail to answer the call to defend the realm without good cause was a capital crime in all four of the Frankish kingdoms.

“He has, my lord,” said Enguerrand, “He respectfully offers that the lantweri may not be enough, and your brother is too far to the south to be of any help.” Lothar and his elder brother Louis had long since patched up their differences, but the chamberlain spoke the truth.

“Indeed,” Lothar said sardonically, “His lands are unfortunately separated from mine by a little mountain range called the Alps.” What was more, Louis’ Italian kingdom suffered from the worst internal political struggles of any of the Frankish realms. “Bloody Lombards,” thought Lothar.

Enguerrand nodded lamely, his limp mustache drooping over the corners of his mouth.

“Wait a moment,” Waldrada interposed, “What is Rorik doing in the middle of all this?” That was a very good question. Hrœrekr of Dorestad--better known as Rorik to the Franks--was a Northman who had sworn allegiance to Lothar’s father. In turn, Rorik was ostensibly supposed to defend the northern coasts against his marauding kinfolk.

“There have been a few minor skirmishes, my lady,” answered Enguerrand, “But mostly he just keeps to his own stronghold. Until now, the other Northmen have refrained from threatening him directly.”

“Hæsten knows better than to provoke him,” said Lothar, “After all, what better weapon do we have against the Northmen than other Northmen? Do we not allow Rorik and his ilk to roost at the mouth of the Rhine for this very reason?”

“Y-yes, lord,” said Enguerrand.

“Tell Erchambald to have Rorik call up his entire warband and join forces with our levies. Rorik is to be given leave to plan the strategy, as he knows his own kind best. The marshal is to send word at once if he suspects any duplicity.”

“Yes, lord,” said Enguerrand, backing his way respectfully--albeit awkwardly-- out of the bathhouse. He hadn't opened his eyes even once.

“You seem very calm, given the circumstances,” said Waldrada, breaking the pregnant silence left in the wake of the chamberlain’s exit.

“I’m not going to let a little thing like a Viking raid put me into distemper,” said Lothar, “The Northmen we have with us always, but this we have not always.”

Waldrada squealed with delight as Lothar drew her to him beneath the waters.

***​

25 April 867
Dorestad, Frisia

Jarl Hrœrekr shook his head distractedly when one of his húskarls offered him a swig of mead. Unlike the berserkir, he preferred to keep his mind clear on the eve of battle, and battle was virtually all he and his men had seen for the past several days.

For the past two weeks, he and his men--along with their Frankish lapdogs--had done nothing but fend off Hásteinn’s raiding parties. At every ungarrisoned village, every unprotected monastery, Hrœrekr had made sure they were there first. There had been several skirmishes, but no major battles. The raiders had run off every time Hrœrekr had met them in force, suffering only scant casualties.

“The first rule for going í víkingr,” Hrœrekr remembered his father saying in years gone by, “Is to never get in over your head. Only kill those who need to be killed, and do not, under any circumstances, let your enemy goad you into a battle. That way, when you leave, the belly of your snekkja is filled with silver, and not your bloated corpse!” It was good advice, and following it had spared Hrœrekr from a good many massacres… and a few bloodfeuds.

By cutting off Hásteinn’s access to the low hanging fruit of the easy coastal targets, Hrœrekr had drawn him upriver towards the more heavily-defended settlements. After several of their raids were thwarted, Hásteinn’s men had to be growing impatient for plunder. Soon, enough would be enough, and Hásteinn would either have to commit to a pitched battle, or leave and seek greener pastures.

And Hrœrekr knew exactly where Hásteinn would come next.

“Hrœrekr of Dorestad!” called a voice, “Why don’t you come out and play?”

Hrœrekr looked down from the sturdy wooden gatehouse he had caused to be built. He had surrounded his stronghold with a double palisade wall with watchtowers at regular intervals. Through years of persistent effort, Dorestad had become his own private fortress.

“Is that you, Hásteinn?” Hrœrekr called back, “Why has a good-for-nothing veslingr like you come before the gates of Dorestad?

Hrœrekr could see a stocky, bearded man grinning up at him in the torchlight. He had dozens of men at his back, although Hrœrekr couldn’t get a good count in the dark.

“What don’t you and your men come down, Hrœrekr?” called the man who was surely Hásteinn, “We have something we’d like to show you!”

“I can see your axe-blades just fine from here, thank you,” answered Hrœrekr.

“That’s not very sporting of you,” Hásteinn feigned disappointment, “If you won’t play nicely and open your gates for us, we might just have to knock them down.” He beckoned to someone standing in the dark, and eight burly men came forward hefting a massive tree trunk which they had sharpened to a point.

“Is that supposed to be a battering ram?” Hrœrekr taunted, “Or are you just trying to impress the ladies? I guarantee they’ll be disappointed.”

“You wound me, Hrœrekr,” Hásteinn now feigned aggrievement, “It looks like we shall have to settle this man-to-man. I look forward to seeing you in Valhalla. You’ll have to save me a seat at Odin’s table, though. After all, you’ll be going there much sooner than I will!”

“Before you make any rash decisions,” said Hrœrekr, “You must allow us to show you something too.”

“By all means!” Hásteinn smiled.

Hrœrekr gestured to one of his húskarls, who blew three loud blasts on his hunting horn. At the signal, Hrœrekr’s Frankish reinforcements emerged from their hiding places on both of Hásteinn’s flanks, their spear-points gleaming in the moonlight.

“It would seem the stocking is on the other foot, is it not?” called Hrœrekr, “Now, are you sure you would not like to discuss this matter peacefully?”

Hásteinn glanced at both of his flanks, the color draining from his cheeks. “Why, I would like nothing more than that, my friend! Let us talk!”

At that, Hrœrekr ordered the gates opened, and he and his most trusted hirðmenn strode forward to meet with their conniving foe. The latter appeared to have ensured he brought the exact same number of men as Hrœrekr to the parley.

“Jarl Hrœrekr!” Hásteinn smiled and threw open his arms wide as though greeting a long-lost kinsman, “You are well-known to me. They sing sagas of the brave deeds accomplished by you and your brothers.”

Hrœrekr wasn't having it. “They sing songs of you too, Hásteinn,” he said, “Of how you are a thief, and a liar, and the son of a whore!”

“Ah, my reputation precedes me,” smiled Hásteinn, “What can I say?”

Hrœrekr recalled another of his father’s sayings, “Never trust a man who smiles too much.” He folded his arms and glared at the other Norseman.

Hásteinn simply blinked when Hrœrekr did not respond. “Why don’t we cut right to the matter at hand then?” Hásteinn said at last, “It would be a shame if we all had to kill each other here tonight. So I and my men would be only too happy to pack up and return home for a mere token sum in tribute.”

“You forget yourself, Hásteinn,” said Hrœrekr, “And you forget that I too am Víkingr. You know that a gift of gold or silver given to a Víkingr is just an invitation for him to return! No, we will not pay you tribute tonight. You should pay us tribute for sparing your lives!”

“What a pity that we left all of our treasure back with our ships,” said Hásteinn, holding out his empty palms.

“You’ve got several able-bodied men there,” said Hrœrekr, “I’m sure you can spare some of them to retrieve as much as they can carry.”

“And what of the thralls we’ve captured?” asked Hásteinn.

“What do I care what you do with the pitiful Franks and Frisians you’ve taken?” spat Hrœrekr, “Sell them, kill them, take them back to the Loire valley to plow your muddy fields.”

“Heh,” Hásteinn continued to smile, “I’m sure we’re very grateful. So in lieu of tribute, you’ll owe me a favor then? Is that how this plays out?”

“No,” barked Hrœrekr, “You’ll owe me a favor! For sending you home with your slaves, half your loot, and your good name intact. Or would you prefer to be known as Hásteinn Skít-breeches, who soiled himself when Hrœrekr of Dorestad surrounded him and handed him the worst defeat of his life?”

“I see your point,” Hásteinn wasn’t smiling any more, “A favor then? How will I know when you wish to collect it?”

“You’ll know,” said Hrœrekr, “Now get out of here.”

Hásteinn nodded. “Come on, boys,” he shouted, “Back to the longships.”

“So it is finished,” Hrœrekr mused, “Even more easily than could have been hoped.”

King Lothar could sleep soundly in his woman’s arms tonight... and tomorrow too, and the next night...

For now.

 

[hjarg]

Well, this is exceptionally well-written. Count me in!
And things seem not to be moving on Lothar's way. Wonder how it will turn out.

 

[DensleyBlair]

It’s good to be king!

Sending fire to fight fire was a good decision on Lothar’s part. Always good to have some tame Norsemen handy for such situations as these.

 

[Nikolai]

Well, this is exceptionally well-written. Count me in!
And things seem not to be moving on Lothar's way. Wonder how it will turn out.

I agree wholeheartedly. This is, as per usual, exceptional writing!

 

[stnylan]

Well that is a nice little piece of theatre - Haesteinn could do with a comeuppance now and then.

 

[guillec87]

subbed

 

[The Kingmaker]

@hjarg: Thank you very much. That’s high praise indeed.

@DensleyBlair: Pet Vikings are useful up to a point. We can’t have them going all Norman on us and wreaking havoc across Europe though. Just as in real life, that would be very bad.

@Nikolai: That’s most kind, old friend.

@stnylan: I couldn’t agree more. Out of all of the most infamous Norsemen, Hæsten really does seem like the sorriest piece of work to ever sail out of the fjords.

@guillec87: Thanks! Welcome to Francia! Or Lotharingia, at least, such as it is.

 

[HistoryDude]

Hásteinn seems cowardly, for all of his talk.

And, of course, the King is doing lovemaking. This is how dynasties are created, of course, but it is also how they die...

 

[The Kingmaker]

@HistoryDude: It hasn’t been mentioned in the story yet, but in 867, Lothar and Waldrada already have four illegitimate children together: a son and three daughters.