The Saxons united, and many of their neighbours, the Frisians, joined them, and together they descended from Saxony into the Frank province of Chatti, plundering and pillaging as they went. They targeted Churches, and Frank religious monuments, evidencing their outrage at Charlemagne’s new laws that the King had enforced upon them. Their Pagan practices had been outlawed by Charlemagne as part of his grab for control over Saxony.

King Charles sent his cousin, Count Theodoric, with much of the Frank military, up against the Saxons, and the invaders were forced back. They retreated to Suntel Mountain, where they made camp in the overhang of the steep. The Saxons gathered around hastily constructed fires that smouldered underneath the mist and the drizzle, and they cooked up their dinners as they waited for their leader, Widukind, to announce their next move.

Ermenred farted to warm himself, and studied the pottage before him. He ignored the stench of burning green beech and concentrated on the mouth-watering odour of boiling roe deer that wafted haphazardly up to him from out of the pot. They had hunted and caught the beast as they had ascended the slopes of Suntel, and Ermenred now longed for the rich tender taste of dear between his teeth.

“Ik be ready,” advised a Frisian warrior, squatting there beside Ermenred.

“Ik be noht boilen de yeht, Osmear,” replied Ermenred.

“Saxon puritan.” Osmear spat his words through broken front teeth.

Ermenred ignored his companion’s taunt, and gathered his cloak about him against the gusty wind. He tightened it around the scale armour that was hidden beneath. The cold of the metal gave him little comfort at this juncture, but he knew that it would be invaluable come their inevitable battle with the Franks.

“Duu ward be thinken wi be de defeated here. Noht de victorious who be just de now sacken an burnen de Frank churches an towns!” Osmear spat. The other warriors who were gathered about Ermenred’s fire grunted their agreement.

Ermenred nodded his own concurrence while poking the pottage again. “But wi mussen be questionen Widukind. Hem be tellen wi Saxons an Frisians wi muss be breaken to de hills, den wi Saxons an Frisians muss be breaken to de hills,” he said.

“Abstainen duu complainen, Osmear,” added Herewulf, squatting on the other side of Ermenred. The bulky warrior belched agitatedly, and this seemed to quiet the others.

Ermenred passed the stirrer to Herewulf, and stood up. “Mi be settelen de talken by questionen Widukind hemself,” he said.

Osmear waved his arm. “Abstainen de grandesizen, Ermen. Siht down. Duu be grandesizen dat duu be de freonds, duu and Widukind.” But Ermenred ignored him, and made his way off in search of the Saxon warrior leader.

Widukind was not far away. He stood alone, to the east of the camp, hunched over, watching his black courser steed as it stood, untethered, but inactive.

“Ermen of Verden,” greeted Widukind as he spied Ermenred approaching.

“Widukind,” rejoined Ermenred. “Der be complainen amongst de men.”

“Mi be knowen dat, Ermen.”

“Du muss be plannen somethen. Whi duu noht be tellen de men?”

“Mi noht be knowen de plannen yeht, Ermen. Dat be whi. De twigs be tellen mi nothen.” Widukind waved at the branches that were strewn in all kinds of strange formations at his feet. “De horse, untethered, be tellen mi nothen. Odin noht be speaken to mi.” Widukind turned to face his friend. “Mi scouts be tellen mi dat de Franks who be bein lead by Adalgis, Worad, an Geilo, be chasen, but noht be warren. Theodoric be kamen by de River Weser. De Franks be waiten on hem, mi be thinken.”

“So, duu be waiten on hem also?”

“Mi be waiten for Odin to be tellen mi what wi be doin.” Widukind looked out into the mist surrounding the encampment. Ermenred followed his leader’s gaze. They had the incline, and the cover of the drizzle.

“Duu be thinken of battlen de now den? Taken on Adalgis, Worad, an Geilo before Theodoric be kamen?”

Widukind nodded, but then paused. Something caught his attention. Ermenred followed Widukind’s stare and found a shadow overhead. The caw of a raven reverberated down to them.

“Huginn an Muninn.” Widukind pushed his hand through his long matted hair, baring his scarred face to the wind and rain, as he observed two birds circling above.

“De craws, Huginn an Muninn,” Ermenred repeated more resolutely. “Der be warren kamen!”

Widukind grabbed hold of his courser, and with Ermenred beside him, hastened back to the main of the Saxon encampment.

“Ik be warren men!” Widukind cried. “On duu feet with weapons!”

“Der be no eaten de now den,” Osmear growled, as Ermenred rejoined his companions. “What duu be in de name of Odin speaken to hem?”

“De Franks be doin de speaken, mi be thinken,” glowered Herewulf from beside Osmear.

Ermenred ignored them both. He grabbed up his spatha from its scabbard just as a scout came out of the woods from the lower slopes.

“De Franks be kamen!” the scout cried. But his warning was too late. A shower of francisca axes hailed from out of the forest. An axe found its mark deep into the scout’s skull, while many other franciscas found their marks on those Saxons camped closest to the lower edge of the clearing.

Widukind’s warriors dropped to the ground and crawled and grappled their way through mud and water to their horses and defensive pikes.

A second volley of franciscas showered the Saxons as they scrambled together, and this was accompanied by the Franks’ war cry.

“Monjoie! Monjoie St Denis!”

The Saxon infantry grasped onto their pikes, and formed a line of defence. The mounted men lined up behind.

“Hold for Saxony!” Widukind ordered.

A third hail of axes came at the Saxons from out of the densely treed lower slopes. The Saxons brought up their shields and took on the barrage.

“Odin! Odin! Die Frank Puritans! Die!” they hollered.

Axes battered into wood, armour, and flesh. A number of Saxons fell, and screamed their agony as they collapsed. Those beside the fallen growled their rage and discontent. They ripped out the franciscan blades from their wounded companions, and they hurled the bloodied axes back at the forest.

The Frank horses could be heard as the beasts bashed their way through the last remaining undergrowth. They flooded out into the clearing like a torrent of water breaking its banks. They Franks charged their way up into the Saxon line.

“Hold them, Saxons!” Ermenred hollered, as he raised a pike in his hands. Herewulf and Osmear grabbed it with him, and together they dug the base of the weapon deep into the muddy earth. They held the point of the weapon high as the Frank horses charged the clearing.

The enemy faltered as their destriers’ balked at the pikes before them. The animals screamed their terror, and the Frank riders cursed their beasts, kicking and striking at them. They forced their frightened animals onwards and into the enemy, but their initial pace was lost, as was their composure.

The Saxons drove their pikes forward at the enemy’s beasts and skewered what animals they could reach. The impaled beasts’ reared in terror before the Saxons, the roar of these horses sending chills through even the most resolute warrior.

Frank infantry splashed up the slope to the aid of their failing cavalry. They hurtled another volley of axes hard into the Saxons.

“Heathens!” they hollered.

Widukind brought his mounted warriors into the fracas, and warrior clashed hard against warrior.

Ermenred and his companions dropped their pike and drew up their spathas, dispatching with vigour those Franks who had been thrown from their horses. But then those of the enemy still left mounted came at them, striking down their longswords with vicious accuracy. Ermenred was forced to defend and fall back, as did Osmear and Herewolf.

The Saxon mounted warriors forced their way through their own infantry to meet the remaining Frank mounted men. Saxon came up against Frank in a bloody mess of one on one combat.

Herewulf struck out with deadly accuracy at any of the enemy that was foolish enough to come at him, and Ermenred moved his sword fast, blocking the rabid Frank attacks that were directed at him. The Saxon infantry, having retreated a few paces, surged back at the Franks now that they had the support of their cavalry, and they screamed their conviction.

“Frank puritans! Usurpers!”

The Saxons had the advantage of the upper slope, but the Franks had the numbers. No sooner had Ermenred dispatched a moustached southerner, than another had taken his place. Charlemagne’s warriors dug in, steadfastly resisting the Saxon thrust. Blood mixed in with the mud and rain, and dead bodies piled up on the ground. Men from both sides struggled to keep their footing.

Ermenred, gasping desperately for breath, caught sight of Osmear in trouble with a Frank mounted attacker. He lurched to his companion’s defence and deflected the blow. But as he went to his friend’s aid, he let down his own guard, and a Frank warrior attacked him viciously to his chest. Ermenred screamed from the pain of the blow. Osmear drove his blade through the head of Ermenred’s attacker, leaving his weapon where it finished, embedded in the enemy’s skull. He crouched to his companion’s aid.

The Saxons fell back, threatened by the sheer number of Frank infantrymen coming at them. At Widukind’s instruction, they gathered up closer together, forming a more solid line of defence. Then the Saxons pushed back at the Franks, determined to overpower their attackers.

“Osmear, Ermenred! Kamen!” Herewulf shouted for his companions to return to him as he swung his great blade down hard into the neck of a Frank infantryman coming up at him. He cursed the enemy and spit on him as the Frank fell lifelessly into the mud. Herewolf looked about urgently for his companions, but could locate neither of them. “Ermenred!” he screamed again, louder. But still there was no response.

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